Kris Kristofferson: pop and country's semi-tough veteran

His songs reflected rapidly changing social and sexual mores of the '60s with a sophistication and honesty that Nashville hadn't embraced previously -- and rarely does today. "My favorite country guys are the same ones I've always liked: Willie and Merle and John Prine. . . . It just got to where I couldn't identify with most of what I would hear on the country charts," Kristofferson says.

The establishment resisted at first, but Johnny Cash bestowed the imprimatur of country music acceptance on Kristofferson through his hit recording of "Sunday Morning Coming Down" and by introducing the young songwriter to a national audience on his hit TV show.

In their way, Kristofferson and Was are on a path paralleling the one Cash took late in life with producer Rick Rubin, ditching the elaborate production typical of their major-label recordings.

"A few years ago after Kris played South by Southwest," Was says during a break, "he started playing live solo, and when I saw him, I thought, 'This is the way to do it, instead of him being hidden behind a lot of big production.' It's how we did the last album. The way he plays his songs the first time, just him and guitar, tends to be the closest to the way they end up."

Kristofferson found it liberating, if intimidating, to step out of his musical comfort zone. "I carried a band for about 30 years," he says. "Playing solo means I can make a mistake without causing a train wreck."

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Weighing life

This more intimate approach lets Kristofferson keep things where he likes them, closer to the bone.

Ain't it kinda funny

Ain't it just the way, though

Ain't you getting better

Running out of time

Running out of time isn't the image projected by Kristofferson, who looks maybe three-fifths his age. He's quick with a hearty laugh and remains movie-star handsome -- ridiculously so -- with his salt-and-pepper hair and slightly scraggly beard. The onetime Golden Gloves boxer is still physically fit in a faded black denim jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans, into which he regularly stuffs his weathered hands.

Reminders of the limited nature of life on Earth crop up regularly, in conversation and in the new songs. When Bruton, a fellow Texan a dozen years Kristofferson's junior, shows up about an hour into the proceedings, he walks into the darkened studio with the aid of a cane. He confesses to feeling less than in his prime, having undergone several rounds of chemotherapy for throat cancer since 2007. Earlier this year, he had a particularly rough bout, from which he's bouncing back, albeit more slowly than he'd like.