DESPITE our perpetually being impelled to acts of wild-eyed

rock'n'roll enormity -- staying up beyond the Nine O'Clock News, casting

off our clouts e'er May be out, etc. -- we occasionally all need quiet

reassurance.

So step forward -- with measured tread -- the country legend whose

surname is Williams, but who is neither Hank nor Hank junior.

And none the worse for that. If your kinda country is a slow-talkin',

contented, self-knowin', undemandin' and downright kind kinda country,

kindly Don is your kinda guy.

Downhome silver beard. Grizzled cowboy hat. Baritone Texan charm. Gary

Cooper with guitar; signed on for the long haul. ''We're not movin' too

fast for ya, are we?'' Don deadpanned over the rim of his coffee cup,

perched on the high stool he quit but once (momentarily) in last night's

90 minutes.

Good bits? Till The Rivers All Run Dry, that West of Scotland aunties'

wedding-reception favourite. One song that almost broke into a canter in

which Don looked back pityingly over his life to a time when, as a

callow fool yet to be saved by marriage, he sometimes used almost to

break into a canter. Country Boy, wherein store-bought baubles fail to

impress.

And the audience singing You're My Best Friend, that ode to lasting

marital companionship. ''I wish I could dehydrate y'all, take you to the

next place I play and just add water,'' said Don. Dang, if I didn't

taste a tear.