Philadelphia Weekly

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On the cover of his new biography An Epic Life Willie Nelson stands in profile, hair brushed out of its trademark braids and left free-flowing, cascading down to his lower back over a denim jacket. His beard is snow-white now, and his skin is wrinkled like a sheet of newly unfurled paper that's lived in a wad at the bottom of your pant pocket for a decade.

At 75 (!) Nelson's hair is less red than it used to be, and he's a stranger no more. He has lived through the Great Depression, a nasty and public bout with the IRS, a battle with carpel tunnel syndrome, and will (presumably) live through the impending Great(er) Depression.

Additionally, he's unapologetically ingested approximately half the marijuana smuggled into the U.S. over the last half century. His magnificent warble is one of music's most recognizable, as is his guitar, Trigger, a Martin so weathered its trademark second hole has become as much a part of Nelson's signature look as his red bandana.

Nelson is cool personified. He is a man of unquestionable grace, a songsmith in the greatest tradition.

On Friday Nelson took the stage with friends at the Tower Theatre in Upper Darby. The show was no- frills, lighting as simple as it gets, the stage adorned with one single solitary (and huge) Texas flag hanging in the background. Nelson ran through the hits--"Whiskey River," "On the Road Again," "If You've Got the Money (I've Got the Time)," a heartwrenchingly transcendent version of "Always On My Mind."--and some covers ("Me and Bobby McGee," "Hey Good Lookin'"), and for close to two hours held the capacity crowd at Tower enraptured.

That crowd sang along to every word, and placed shots of whiskey at the foot of the stage as an offer to their country God, an American Icon whose name ("Will-ie! Will-ie! Will-ie!") they chanted mantra-like in unison throughout.

Nelson's understated show was in stark contrast to the sonic bombast of 62 year-old (!) Lemmy Kilmister and his metal renegades Mot�rhead the Friday previous at Electric Factory. Where Nelson's was a relaxing raft ride down the calm waters of a lazy river, Kilmister and Co. were navigating the treacherous white waters of an ocean in the throes of a Category 5 hurricane.

Mot�rhead's backdrop was the coat of arms currently serving as the artwork on their new brutal album Mot�rizer: A sword through a shield adorned with a monster skull (killed by Lemmy himself, no doubt), a few crowns and a bunch of medieval lions.

Kilmister has slept with an estimated 1,200 women, was kicked out of every druggy's favorite drug band Hawkwind for being too much of a drug addict, and once received fellatio while performing onstage. Additionally, he's unapologetically ingested approximately half the speed smuggled into the U.S. in the '70s. A good portion of which still seems to be making its way through the magma in his bloodstream.

At one point during Mot�rhead's hour-plus set, Kilmister took issue with something being hollered at him between songs. He invited whoever it was shouting the offense onstage, and threatened to beat his ass into a soft hillock of abused muscle and fat. And you know he could've, no matter the fan's size.

Nelson was more gracious, waving countless times at individual fans he seemed to know personally between guitar strums. He threw out a couple bandanas into the crowd to show his appreciation for their undying enthusiasm.

Kilmister seldom looked at the crowd, head facing ever upward, barking into his microphone angled in the uncommonly high position that's become his trademark.

Both Nelson and Kilmister represent the apex in their respective genres, and are the very definition of longevity in an industry whose products have a notoriously short shelf life. Both are examples that the premium on age in music isn't what it once was.

Kilmister has the uncanny ability to make you embarrassed you ever listened to anything but his catalogue. So too does Nelson.

They are the immovable object and the unstoppable force. And both prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, age ain't nothin' but a number.