It’s not unusual
At one point last night Carla turned to me and said, “You know, we’re on the younger side of the age demographic here by at least five years.” Mind you we both turned 70 last year. But that didn’t keep me from immediately agreeing with her and wondering if five years was enough, given the number of people being helped down the aisles, using canes and walkers, or sporting the motorized scooter units that Papa used to favor.
It was a Tom Jones concert. THE Tom Jones of decades-long international fame, with the crooning baritone so irresistible that women forever and a day have been known to throw their panties at him from the audience. To that point, I clearly remember a family dinner table conversation in the late 60s. At the time, Jones was riding the crest of his early top 40s fame. Mom was a huge fan, and Tom Jones came up during dinner. Talk quickly turned to how women threw their panties at him on stage. And how we kids—boys—thought it was ridiculous. I mean why on earth would you take off your underwear and toss them at some singer? Scream, yes. Go crazy, you bet. But throw your panties? We all turned to Mom, who suddenly had become thoughtful.
Finally, she said, “I’d throw my panties at him.”
Immediately, all hell broke loose at the table. Our young reptilian minds had been rent asunder like bags of popcorn exploding in the rain. Mom, who had taken care of us as suckling babes, suddenly going all biblical harlot on us and fessing up to the idea of throwing her panties at some Welsh singer. The thought was—how shall I say it—unthinkable.
Skivvy projectiles aside, Jones has had a remarkable career. He’s sold over a million albums and is the oldest person to ever have a number one record. His amazing voice is one of a kind, instantly recognizable for its intensity, color, and power. But there’s more. Jones is also a consummate musician and singer, able to croon a ballad as well as anyone. And when called for, he can bring the goods like nobody else. Exhibit “A” the theme to the movie Thunderball, my favorite James Bond movie title song by far.
The concert itself, like so many here in the high desert, was at a casino on reservation land. In this case, the Route 66 Casino, about 18 miles west of Burque Flats just off I40. I’d seen the place before on various drives and marked it was one of those regardless of location, if you build it, the idiots will come things. It’s definitely that. In fact, when we first got to the venue, Carla turned to me and quoted from Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The bit about Las Vegas is what the entire country would look like had the Nazi’s won WWII. Curiously, I had the exact same thought only seconds before. Great minds and all.
Entering the casino was to be instantly plunged into all that is excessive about humanity. Zillions of kilowatt hours squandered on garish lighting, slot machines, and the like. Otherwise, ticket scanning was quick and easy. Once inside, a plethora of theater people were there to point us to our seats, where we found my brother Terry waiting, sporting a Tom Jones T-shirt.
At a quarter past the hour, Jone’s band came on stage and started into some intro music. Then, a smallish guy ambled out from stage left with the hesitant gate of—well, an 84-year-old guy. It was Jones, and he walked slowly to a table/bench center stage and then turned to face his adoring fans—who were going nuts. Remember the opening comment about the age demographic of the audience. It was spot on, so odds were there would be no panty tossing on this good night. After all, Depends don’t have the same aerodynamic properties as a thong twanged like a sling shot. More like an awkward launch, a short trajectory, and finishing off with a wet BLAT. Eww.
After basking in the holy glow of longtime fandom for some seconds, Jones quieted the crowd and sat back on the table/bench with microphone in hand. Immediately, the keyboard player struck up the introductory chords of the opening song I’m Growing Old. I know this, by the way, thanks to a quick google of the 2025 tour set list. In seconds, the crowd was absolutely silent, and all my concerns about Jones still being able to sing at almost age 85 were quickly dispelled. After a phrase or two, his voice locked into a zone and the legendary baritone was there in force.
Jones wasn’t the first octogenarian pop music legend I’ve seen. In the fall of 2018, my friend Bob bought tickets to see Petula Clark at the historic Napa Theater. At the time, any memories of Clark I had were distant flashbacks to her 60s hits, including Downtown and Don’t Sleep in the Subway. However, unlike the ubiquitous Jones who had managed to stay in the limelight, Clark’s star had faded over time, relegating her to playing with a small combo in regional theaters.
After getting a glass of wine from the bar (it was Napa, after all), Bob and I took our assigned seats at a table not far from the stage. Then, at the appointed hour, a youngish guy appeared from the wings leading an old woman. Only to witness the two of them slowly making it up the stairs to the stage, and eventually to the mic in front of the band’s set up. It was Petula, aging raspy voice and all. However, as soon as the band struck up the first song, Clark’s demeanor started to change. She grabbed the microphone and everything about her morphed—and she could still kind of sing.
I should note that it was also Petula’s birthday that day. She was turning 85. When she announced that to the crowd, there was the expected applause. And many probably joined me in thinking, what the hell was the woman doing playing beat gigs at age 85? Still, Petula put on a good show. Her two hits were especially well received, as were her stories about hanging with various movie stars, all long dead.
Back to last night. The show was damn good, far beyond expectations. Jones and his band played 20 songs, including hits from the 60s like What’s New Pussycat, Delilah, Sexbomb, If I Only Knew, and Green, Green Grass of Home. Throughout, Jones sang like only he can. In short, he’s a genetic freak—a mutation. Not only does he still have an amazing voice, he’s had an amazing voice for over 60 years. Somehow, he’s managed to take care of that voice despite belting out tunes in thousands of concerts over a lifetime.
On the way home, Carla regaled me with Jones’s personal life. How he was born in 1940 in Wales, and early on worked construction and in a glove factory (reminds me of the SpongeBob episode about a glove convention). At age 16, Jones got his girlfriend, Melinda Trenchard, pregnant. They married in 1957 and a son was born shortly after, making him just three years younger than Carla and me. Then Jones started singing in local clubs. He got his first number one hit in early 1965, followed by many more. However, Jones stayed married to Trenchard until her death in 2016. But there’s a catch. Like some pop stars, he was a serial philander. At one point in the 60s, he reportedly slept with as many as 250 groupies a year. Not sure about you, but that factoid seriously creeps me out. Way too much sharing of alien microbiomes.
In the end, the concert was a grand spectacle. That rare time when a legend of popular music who’s old enough to own multiple walkers was still able to bring their A-game. Which is remarkable. After all, when you’re 85, you’re old no matter what. But if you’ve somehow won the genetic lottery like Jones, you’re still around and able to maneuver in a quasi-normal way. But make no mistake, for most people at 85, life is filled with doctor’s appointments and a lot of time spent on preventive maintenance. Even for a pop star, the road is long and the pavement can be a bitch. But if you’re going to complain about it, you may as well sound as good as Tom Jones.
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I spilled coffee alll over myself reading about your mom saying that she would throw her panties at Tom Jones. I was also thinking that my mother would also, even though she never said so. She was a huge fan of his.
Great post!