For some reason, James Taylor is standing on his head. On a snow-dusted January afternoon in Massachusetts' Berkshires, Taylor and his 11-member band are taking a brief break from recording a new album of cover songs — they're gathered in a barn-turned-studio on his hilltop property, at the end of an icy, mile-long driveway. He's cheating in this feat of strength, leaning his feet against the wall of his vocal booth, but it's still an impressive sight: With minimal effort, he supports his wiry six-foot-four frame on his hands for a good 15 seconds, until coins start falling out of the pockets of his jeans. "Gravity is making me poor," he says, landing on his feet.

Gravity and time have otherwise been kind. Taylor is 60 years old, and despite a nearly two-decade-long heroin addiction that he kicked for good in the Eighties, he's in fantastic shape — an avid rollerblader and skier, in constant motion. (And he does a lot of those handstands, which he believes are a key to longevity, according to his wife, Kim.) He's dressed as if a ski vacation might break out any second: moisture-resistant mock turtleneck, a comfy-looking performance-fleece jacket, black Camper boots with brown laces. "God knows, for a long time I treated this body bad," Taylor says later, sitting in sunshine at his kitchen table.

He talks in professorial paragraphs, with a voice resonant and soothing enough to suggest that had the singer-songwriter thing not worked out, he could have read news for National Public Radio. "David Crosby always called his body his meat suit," he says with a laugh. "I always thought that that was how he treated it, too. But, you know, what kind of meat suit you get, and how it holds together — that's just luck of the draw. By some stroke of luck, I didn't end up with any of the diseases that my behavior should've given me. Or any of the other pitfalls — I should've died about five times. I was dead five times. So I've used up all of my chances. I have to take it easy now and keep fit, keep healthy."