You could be forgiven for not realising Kris Kristofferson was ever a singer-songwriter. In recent years, his recording career has slid from public view, partly as a result of declining sales, partly as a result of the 70-year-old's continued membership of country music's awkward squad: 2003's Broken Freedom Song was released on a tiny indie label - the Nashville establishment's intolerance for concept albums about the manifold evils of George W Bush having been long established.
Performing live for the best part of two hours, alone save for a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar, a harmonica and, rather incongruously, a bottle of isotonic sports drink, is certainly one way of restating your primary purpose. You have to admire his bravery, but then a certain kamikaze spirit seems to mark Kristofferson out these days. He dispatches his best-known track, Me and Bobby McGee, three songs into the set, and turns his second best-known, Help Me Make It Through the Night, into a dashed-off joke about his advanced years. These are the actions of a man who knows his catalogue contains a surfeit of fantastic songs, not all of which date back to the early 70s. In the News, from his recent album This Old Road, virtually vibrates with rage about the Iraq war.
The back-to-basics approach suggests Kristofferson is keen to follow the example set by his friend and collaborator Johnny Cash. Old age rather suits him. Well into his 30s before fame struck, Kristofferson's songs always had a gnarled, regretful quality: the women are invariably slinging their hook - usually leaving only a lipstick trace on the pillow; the men are invariably drunk, getting drunk, or at the very least, strongly considering the option of getting drunk. Sunday Morning Coming Down is so acute in its depiction of thick-headed hungover remorse that it makes you wince in sympathy - evidence of his ability to take a country music cliche and sharpen it with unique observation.
At one juncture, Kristofferson whips out a handkerchief. "You sure paid a lot to come and watch an old fart blow his nose," he deadpans, safe in the knowledge that his audience are getting more than their money's worth.
· At the Royal Albert Hall, London, tonight. Box office: 020-7589 8212.
