James Taylor returns to the Mann Center in Philadelphia for the 22nd time

“The secret of life is to enjoy the passage of time,” James Taylor sang from the Mann Center stage Friday night. The 76-year-old singer-songwriter's message seemed more thoughtful than it did in 1977 when he originally recorded it, but for 2.5 hours, Taylor did everything he could to help the enthusiastic crowd enjoy their time together.

More than half a century passed in a flash during an opening video that edited together performances of one of Taylor's earliest songs from his career, “Something in the Way She Moves.” He began fresh-faced and long-haired, grew and lost a mustache, cut his hair and lost it again, offering interpretations that evolved from youth to middle age while the smooth, mellow voice remained remarkably consistent. Taylor strode onstage to record the final verse seamlessly live, a bit more crackle in that smoldering campfire voice, but retaining the ability to imbue a near-whisper with rich emotion.

Taylor recalled playing the song to Paul McCartney and George Harrison during his audition for Apple Records. “George liked it so much he went home and wrote it himself,” he joked, referring to the Beatles guitarist who had copied the title phrase for his own “Something.”

A leisurely cover of Buddy Holly's “Everyday” followed, before Taylor took his seat to perform 1970's “Anywhere Like Heaven.” An earlier glance at the perch led to a shrugging joke about his doctor's warnings that he was “having trouble moving my chair,” the first of several references to his advancing age over the course of the show. After removing his jacket a short time later, a shout from the audience of “take everything off!” was met with a sly promise to pull his teeth.

The subtle power of Taylor's timeless songwriting broke the “oh, crap” illusion at several points, nowhere more so than on a rousing “Sweet Baby James,” which was received with an enthusiastic, long standing ovation. The show was billed as “An Evening with James Taylor and His All-Star Band,” and the seven-piece ensemble and trio of backing singers delivered on that promise. Pianist Larry Goldings' haunting accordion was crucial to the mesmerizing magic of “Sweet Baby James,” while veteran drummer Steve Gadd brought a sharp-edged bounciness to “Country Road.”

Taylor not only warmly introduced the musicians, but also shook hands or hugged each of them.

The hour-long first set ended with the “meaningless” 1988 song “Sun on the Moon,” a bit of silliness that led into a brief intermission. The second half was full of hits, a chatty “Carolina on My Mind” followed by the cheery “Mexico,” carried by Luis Conté's percussion and the horns of Blue Lou Marini and Walt Fowler. Taylor fought his way through the blues pastiche, bouncing merrily around the stage and making theatrical faces while wielding an electric guitar for the only time in the show. (“We were in Amish country earlier,” he said, his expression serious, “where they still use the old horse-drawn guitars.”)

It may be a parody, but Golding's organ solo and Michael Landau's guitar pyrotechnics were still exciting.

“Fire and Rain” followed, the ubiquity of which did not change the song's raw pain and hard-won resignation. The set ended on a celebratory note with the crowd standing to their feet for “Shower the People” and “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You).” A three-song encore culminated in an a cappella number of “That Lonesome Road” featuring Taylor and his backing singers.

Friday's concert was Taylor's 22nd appearance at the Mann, more than any other artist, starting with the venue's inaugural season in 1976. He made no tribute to that landmark from the stage, but promised that the uninviting city referenced in “Anywhere Like Heaven” should not be Philadelphia. “It's Pittsburgh,” he confided to loud applause, before adding, “Unless we're in Pittsburgh, then it's Los Angeles.”

Taylor introduced two songs written by Carole King and recalled that “Up on the Roof” was first performed, if not written, in Philly. That Drifters classic inevitably led to “You've Got a Friend,” which Taylor first heard in Philly, just 12 hours after it was written. He immediately ran to his guitar, not knowing, as he wryly noted, that his destiny was to play the song “every night for the rest of my life.” It could be worse, he added. “Your hit could be a novelty song like 'Monster Mash' or 'Disco Duck.'”

Throughout the evening, Taylor played the avuncular host, poking fun at his age or sharing brief memories of classic songs. The windy, unseasonably cool late August night did the rest—dark clouds threatened but never became a storm—as the autumnal, star-studded backdrops were projected onto the screen behind the band, but the singer's dry humor and unassuming charm effortlessly transformed the Mann stage into a veranda and the tightly packed crowd into an intimate gathering of friends enjoying the passage of time.