The Double Life of Bryan

''I'm not afraid of being thought of as someone who is associated with film music,'' he insists. ''Why not? If it's a good song, what does it matter?'' Adams does acknowledge that his harder-driving tunes of late picked up far less airplay than the movie ballads because ''rock radio changed so much, and our last album had the sound of the late '80s, not the sound of what was happening at the beginning of this decade. The songs that we could get played were the songs that were slower; that's what people gravitate toward.''

Kamen admits some concern: ''I think his manager would prefer us never to do another ballad! He's worried about his legitimacy as a rock & roller.'' (For the record, Adams' manager publicly professes no such concern.) ''But rock & rollers have a great crooning tradition to live up to — like Roy Orbison, or even Hank Ballard — and Bryan sings 'em like nobody else.''

If there's such a thing as a carefree control freak, Adams may be it: Sting, who shared vocals with Adams (and Rod Stewart) on ''All for Love,'' describes him as ''a perfectionist who seems to know exactly what he needs to complement that amazing voice,'' but also ''great fun to be around.'' This 36-going-on-19 thing is not an act. Bonnie Raitt, another recording partner, is astounded that ''guileless, but very savvy'' Adams has been making records and touring for 16 years ''without losing his boyish enthusiasm. He totally lives for rock — still.'' And it doesn't hurt, she laughs, that her Opie-with-an-attitude pal will ''look like that when he's 80.''

Don't ask Adams to choose between the delinquent swagger of ''Hey Honey — I'm Packin' You In!'' (to name one of his fist-pumping anthems) and the deathlessly grown-up romanticism of his soundtrack hits. ''I've always sort of done a combination of the two,'' he says, sipping tea in his kitchen. ''I remember seeing Elton in the early '70s and being so impressed by the fact that he could do 'Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting' and then do 'Your Song.' I use him as sort of my role model, because I think it makes for an incredibly moving concert, bringing people up and then shifting moods.''

As much as he tries to give both sides equal play, Adams' cockiness may come easier than his tender devotion. He heads into the console-packed living room to check out a freshly minted guitar solo on a tune called, with characteristic subtlety, ''I Wanna Be Your (Underwear).'' The song kicks off with a wah-wah emulation of a wolf whistle, then delivers a series of double (single and a half, really) entendres: ''I wanna be your lipstick, when you lick it/I gotta be your razor, when you shave...'' He looks back over his shoulder, hoping to catch a reaction, grinning impishly. So all those prom-ready power ballads haven't taken it out of him after all: Bryan Adams' dude-rock virility is alive, well, and, um, unshriveled.