IF SHE LIKES depressing rock," says the guy behind the ...

KES depressing rock," says the guy behind the table, "then this is awesome." If the gal in question is the girlfriend of the shopper at the WFMU Record Fair, though, it's more likely that she just finds rock depressing. It's always the typical refrain at this thing: Rock is good, but it can damage plenty of lives. I even decide to retire my usual routine of collecting favorite overheard quotes after the 300-pound guy says to his 400-pound brother, "We really listen to punk rock differently."

It's not so much that the quote is pathetic. I'm more depressed at the idea that there's some kind of truth to that statement, and that I'm dangerously close to understanding it.

Fortunately, the week gets better. There's a screening of the unexpectedly fun Van Helsing—aka W. Bush, in which a man who can sense evil has to cope with idiot villagers who believe that vampires will settle for only eating a couple of mortals each month. I've also forgotten that Paul Williams is beginning a two-week stint at Feinstein's at the Regency through May 15. Now, there's a man who provides some true redemption to rock damage.

Consider how the classic songwriter opens his set with "I Won't Last a Day Without You" and quickly cites it as one of his "codependant anthems." It's an old line, but what is so rare as a songwriter who goofs on his biggest hits? I'm expecting a reference to his recovery from addiction next, and Williams doesn't disappoint as he screws up his second song by failing to mount a stool Perry Como-style. "These days," he notes, "the stools are higher and I'm not."

Unlike when I saw Jimmy Webb at the Rainbow Room, my suit actually costs more than what others paid for the night's tickets—but not by much. Still, Feinstein's a relative bargain for an evening with an important and chatty figure like Paul Williams. There's not a bad seat in the absurdly intimate house, but I'm still pretty disgusted that a lowlife like myself rates such prime real estate. Maybe I'm strategically seated so that the 63-year-old Williams will see someone in the audience who's actually younger than the headliner. This crowd is made up of my preferred peeps, anyway. Williams is the kind of guy who makes references to Percy Helton instead of Paris Hilton, and I'm happy to join my elders as they nod in recognition.

Besides, I'm entertaining some early senility myself. I'd ordered the "Paul Williams" prix fixe dinner—"half portions," says its diminutively deprecating namesake—and have become distracted by the plate of berries and sorbet at meal's end. The phrase "Blueberry blue/Strawberry sad" has gotten stuck in my head. I can't quite remember who wrote the lyric. It might be from Donovan, or maybe Brian Protheroe. Something still has me convinced it's a Paul Williams line. Isn't he just the kind of songwriter whose works would start nagging at you during dessert?

I guess that could include the possibility of Jimmy Webb, whom Williams credits for having originally lured him back to performing by telling him of Feinstein's a few years back. Williams gives lots of people credit throughout the night. He's unique like that, constantly invoking his co-writers by name. Williams is also unique—alongside Webb—in that he's one of those rare Losers Lounge icons who still does great work.

That's led to a fairly decent mainstream revival. Williams has a cameo in The Princess Diaries 2, and co-wrote the theme to Raising Helen with Carole King. More importantly, one of his best songs is about to get a proper showcase with an upcoming DVD titled I'm Going Back There Someday—which is one of many gorgeous compositions Williams managed to write while being a self-declared pathetic drunk.

Williams can afford to bring down the mood at Feinstein's with his recent "It Might Not Be Today," a big brooding number reminiscent of Johnny Cash—except, of course, Williams has never put his name on a song that he didn't write, or forced other songwriters to give up a share of their publishing.

His generosity is further marked by his surrendering the stage for the New York debut of Carol Welsman, a blonde bombshell who provides Williams with a bust-to-height ratio he probably hasn't enjoyed since opening in Vegas for Raquel Welch. Welsman's a classic cabaret singer—which is certainly appreciated in light of Diana Krall's new album—and sounds exactly like what you'd expect from a woman whose latest album is entitled The Language of Love. Her classic stylings are honestly appreciated, which is another reason why I'm grateful to be part of an older crowd.

I was actually expecting to end up in a press section full of the usual hipster hacks whose mere presence signifies that an event isn't worth covering. Instead, I'm close enough to smell the money of some powerful people who seem to be Williams' regular local fanbase. There's also genuine beatnik comic royalty in the person of John Byner, whom I'd never have noticed if Williams hadn't lapsed into a Truman Capote impersonation. "Why am I doing this?" he asks. "Oh, yeah—Byner's here!"

Coincidentally, I'd just been writing about Byner the night before. It's a good night for coincidences. I'd earlier seen Robert Duvall in the lobby of the Regency, but it doesn't look like he's in town to see his old co-star from the 1966 bomb The Chase. Williams will later mention the film onstage, although he isn't surprised that Duvall doesn't make the show.

"He was responsible for my first time ever playing music onscreen," Williams recalls at the champagne reception afterward. "Robert saw me playing guitar at the side of the set, and he dragged me over to the director, Arthur Penn, and he said, 'You gotta see this.' That's how it was decided that my character would be playing a guitar. But I'll bet that Robert Duvall doesn't have any idea that the young kid in that movie was Paul Williams."

That mystery lyric, incidentally, turns out to be "Blackberry blue/Strawberry sad." Williams has to sing the entire song to himself before he finally remembers the tune as "Flash" from 1975's Ordinary Fool album.

"That's another one that nobody remembers," Williams adds, but he really just means that it's one that he forgot. Williams has, in fact, quite literally forgotten more of his own modern classics than most songwriters could hope to compose. In that same spirit, I remind him of the closing tune to the 1976 tv movie Griffin and Phoenix: A Love Story. I have to add a line, but he's soon singing an essentially complete rendition. I feel like I've wrangled a better show than Byner and the millionaires got to see. That's the second time I've gotten Williams to sing that Griffin and Phoenix song, too. He's gonna go back there someday and kick my ass.