(ST. CHARLES, IL.) -- Everybody loves a manic depressive.

After being catapulted to superstardom by the Oscar-winning movie Shine, afflicted pianist David Helfgott embarked on an American tour that seemed to confound critics as much as it delighted its sold-out audiences. Last Saturday, Beach Boys founder and famous depressive Brian Wilson took his turn in the comeback spotlight. The results were equally delightful ... and confounding.|

On a sunny afternoon in semi-rural Illinois, more than 1,300 fans and industry insiders crammed into St. Charles High School's Norris Cultural Arts Center to witness the first-ever solo show by the man who has been hailed as rock music's greatest living composer.

The occasion was the taping of a live performance to be used as footage for a home video and VH-1 special, in conjunction with the release of Wilson's latest solo album -- dubbed Imagination (Giant) -- due in stores June 16.

"Welcome to St. Charles, the new surfing capital of the world!" quipped a local radio personality as the eager crowd awaited the arrival onstage of a musical legend, not to mention an unlikely neighbor.

Known as the architect of the "California Sound" with the Beach Boys, Wilson relocated to the quiet Midwestern town located an hour from Chicago more than a year ago with his wife, Melinda, and two daughters at the urging of friend and record producer Joe Thomas.

Looking nervous and vaguely disoriented, Wilson made his way onstage flanked by nearly two dozen musicians, including special guests Christopher Cross, Eagles member Timothy B. Schmitt, and fellow Beach Boy -- and onetime Wilson replacement -- Bruce Johnston.

As the familiar, bouncing strains of "California Girls" wafted out over the auditorium, the crowd -- which included sweaty, beaming Giant Records head Irving Azoff -- unleashed a spontaneous roar of surprise and elation. Wilson, seated behind a regal black piano, stared straight ahead, his blank demeanor recalling Dustin Hoffman's portrayal of an autistic savant in the popular film Rain Man.

"We love you, Brian!" shrieked one adoring female fan.

Throughout the nearly two-hour performance -- which saw the band run through each song twice for the benefit of the television crew -- Wilson sat quietly behind his Kawai piano, never directly addressing the crowd and barely acknowledging the tremendous adulation that flowed his way.

Although at times overshadowed by backup singers, both live and recorded, it was impossible to miss Wilson's plaintive lead vocal as he cruised through his familiar paean to female beauty.

In addition to "California Girls," the set list drew from some of Wilson's most famous Beach Boys material, including a devastating, set-closing "Don't Worry Baby," followed by an equally heart-rending acoustic encore of the haunted "In My Room" -- first recorded some 35 years earlier for 1963's Surfer Girl. The band also debuted several songs from the upcoming Imagination, including the island-tinged "South American," a song Wilson co-wrote with Jimmy Buffett, and the record's first single, "Your Imagination," a lushly-produced pop gem that recalls the work of '80s supergroup Asia.

At the conclusion of each number, Wilson offered a simple politician's wave, his rigid hand ticking off each of the room's four quadrants. "Thank you," he repeated in a dull monotone, his gaze locked in place. "Thank you very much!"

Musically, the afternoon seemed something of a triumph, despite the singer's lack of stage presence.

"It went off better than anyone expected," confided a source close to Wilson. "Performing has never been Brian's thing."

Speaking with friends about Wilson's detached demeanor, local disc jockey Marty Lennartz shrugged it off. "I think he was aware of every sound in the room.

"This show was like everything else with Brian," continued Lennartz. "Weird ... and great."

"I was worried, because I had heard all the rumors," said Wilson fan Gene Tynan, an accountant who had seen the Beach Boys some 16 years earlier. "This was way better than I expected."

For years, Wilson has publicly battled symptoms of depression, ranging from obesity to rampant drug use. His onetime devotion to controversial psychotherapist Eugene Landy -- whose now-discredited model of "complete care" came to include management of Wilson's finances and various credits for production, songwriting and even background vocals -- led many to speculate that the singer had completely lost touch with reality.

Emerging from the back door of the auditorium after the show, Wilson looked every bit the terrified recluse of legend, flanked on either side by concerned looking attendants. But when a handful of fans blocked his path to a waiting sport-utility vehicle -- piloted by wife Melinda -- the addled composer of some of the most famous songs in the history of pop music protested only briefly ("I can't ... I gotta go!") before surrendering to his fame.

Wilson paused briefly to sign several old Beach Boys record jackets thrust into his hands by onlookers, then broke free from the crowd and slipped into the passenger seat of the idling vehicle. After carefully clicking his seat belt into place, he rolled down the window to oblige a few more fans. As the vehicle slowly began to pull away from the curb, Wilson's tight-lipped expression belied neither happiness nor sorrow. With a final, perfunctory wave, he was gone.

"Brian Wilson has left the building," intoned a nearby fan. (Scott Hess)