One waxes weary of the mythos and begins to wince at the parched mention of pickup trucks, faded jeans, half-warm beer and your warm and tender body close to mine. "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys," the first cut here, is no less silly than, say, "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be CPAs." Of course, the formula has become quite profitable to Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson and others. As Jennings said a few years ago of the country-music establishment. "They get on a hot horse and ride it till it's dead." Time changes everything.

What are Jennings, one of the greatest singers alive, and Nelson, one of the greatest writers alive, doing stringing daisies in the Luckenbach afternoon? Why are they singing the worst song Kris Kristofferson ever wrote ("The Year 2003 Minus 25")? Is it possible to die of terminal poignancy?

There are pleasant moments here. "Pick Up the Tempo," that hymn to profligacy, is always a joy. "It's Not Supposed to Be That Way" is still the best song to listen to before cutting your wrists. Lee Clayton's "If You Can Touch Her at All" is one of the finest mystery-of-women songs I've heard in a few months.

When will there be another Honky Tonk Heroes from Jennings, another Red Headed Stranger from Nelson? How long can people who own the bank pretend to be outlaws? Where is Jerry Lee Lewis now that we need him? Answers forthcoming. (RS 261)

NICK TOSCHES