It was, I think, 1968 (allow me a year or so's grace, either side). I was about 9 (you do the math); my brother 7. As a family, we'd sit down to watch The Tom Jones Show, in glorious monochrome. It was a fascinating sociological study. A well-built man, with uncontainable mojo, gyrating, while powering through ballads and up-tempo numbers. This, amidst screaming women, who hurled various items of intimate apparel. No wonder the highest-paid entertainer in the world was smiling. Back then, he was on top of the world. He still is. What's more, at just shy of 70, he's still at the very top of his game. The hair might've lightened, but the voice is as thunderous as ever. If not moreso. Sir Tom was the only man by whose live presence Elvis felt threatened. That, in itself, is arguably the tribute to end all tributes. And one can still see why even The King felt threatened.
At Sydney's god-awful entertainment centre, a concrete-and-steel travesty, in every sense (architectural, acoustic, atmospheric), and a profound insult to the paying public, Jones triumphed over the venue's inherent and inexcusable, dark ages adversities. For one night only, the South Welshman, once known as Thomas Jones Woodward, became a New South Welshman, and his blues roots were as strongly in evidence as you might expect, undiminished by his grey ones.
Those lungs show nary a hint of the TB that saw him confined to bed, for a year, as a kid. And it was a time in which he steeped himself in the blues, R & B, and R & R, via the blessed Beeb. In time, he was able to forfeit his career as a builder's labourer, and forge a loyal local following, as frontman for Tommy Scott & The Senators, a beat group (as they were then known) which, under the dab hand of producer Joe Meek, laid down a few tracks. Segue to It's Not Unusual gathering momentum and shortsighted record companies finally seeing the light. The rest, of course, is explosive pop history.
And it was that very song which got possibly the biggest reaction last night from an overwhelmingly, ahem, mature, full house, as nostalgic as Tom himself seems to be about it. And why not? After all, it was the song that plucked him from relative obscurity and shuttlecocked him into the stratosphere. Apart from Tom, there was a brilliant 10-piece band, state-of-the-art (but not at all gimmicky, overdone, or overly distracting) lighting and fantastic electronic backdrops. In fact, collectively, it was a work of live performance art; one which piled the crowd into the time-machine it was dying (almost literally, given the gerontological dinosaurism) to climb aboard, to instantly transport us back to the 60s. It's easy to forget minor trifles of the era, like the civil rights struggle, or Vietnam, when one hears an upbeat, escapist pop classic. That's its 'if only', utopian appeal: 'it's not unusual to be loved by anyone', unless, of course, you happen to be, say, black, Muslim, Indian, poor, disabled, or mentally ill. And for that reason, as well as its integrity as an optimistic, middle-class vision of life in which our biggest problem is romantic jealousy (a fate saving us from the cynicism I've just invoked), it's a song which stands the test of time; a lot of time, having been released in 1964. it was, possibly, the first indie hit: the BBC declined to play it, and it got to number one, in very short order, on the back of pirate airplay. Another interesting sidelight: it was co-written by Gordon Mills, Jones' first, longstanding manager (his son, Mark, took the reins after Mills' untimely demise, in '86), a fellow Welshman, harmonica-player and enthusiast; a rare breed of which the world could always use a few more.
So luck, pluck, being plucked and 'the voice' have propelled him through numerous career phases, to a warm, early autumn evening in not-so-sunny Sydney, where he showcased his pipes, in the worst possible venue for doing so. I say that because my recollection of the EC is having vocals vanish, whether it be Jimmy Barnes' or Sting's, in this reverberant, trumped-up, highrise shearing shed. But Jones' people ensured the sound was as good as it gets, so many, if not most lyrics could be made out. But it still takes a helluva voice to rise above ten flatstrap genius musos in a bouncy echo chamber. Jones effortlessly proved not even TB, or throat cancer, can halt an unstoppable force of nature, a vocal blast-furnace which can be clearly and loudly heard, even in such circumstances, a metre off mike. He doesn't move as much or as fast as in his heady, puffy-shirted, hairy-chested physical prime, but he looks incredibly good: fit, tanned, robust; only the grey hair gives away the taint of advancing years. He can still kick higher than I, at 20 years his junior and he can dance a bit, including some hip-hop moves, stylised to suit.
The audience was perplexed by one or two songs which were full-on dance music: this wasn't exactly your typical, throbbing, ecstasy-fuelled rave; more like a couple of anti-coagulant Panadol before bedtime. At least I got off on it, 'though in trying to again reinvent himself to stay relevant and alive in the charts, this move tends to squander his primal commodity, since dance music can be sung by far lesser mortals, given enough reverb. But tracks from his new album, most of which have been co-written by him, are impressive. It's not rude or churlish to say surprisingly so, given he's come to composition so late in the game. Maybe this is where his future lies. His son has proved savant in blazing the trail typified, in the early stages, by his cover of Prince's 'Kiss' (as valid as the original) and, later, by fun outings like 'Sex Bomb', but maybe Jones senior should be left to his own creative devices for the next big move. Just a thought. His latest album '24 Hours', is definitely worth getting your hands on if songs like the title track (a solemn, if somewhat MORish homage to a man's final hours, it seems) and, especially, the deeply personal 'Never' (a reverent ode to his muse, cued by stained-glass backdrop), are any indication.
Jones' stage presence is a fascinating paradox: there's the almost gymnastic swagger and unshakeable confidence embodied in his voice, but far less time was spent 'rapping' with the audience than, perhaps, I expected. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's even a bit shy. For the most part, and apart from a few glint-in-the-eye, pithy, self-mocking wisecracks (like 'they say memory is the second thing to go', or dismissing profuse perspiration as a 'hot flush'), he just got to it, packing punch after punch, into a bout that lasted, on my count, at least 2 very solid hours.
What didn't we hear? Not much, I don't think. Happily, pretty much all the aniticipated, feelgood faves. 'What's New, Pussycat?' was spectacular, but practically everything else was too. There were no discernible flatspots and, believe me, being the fierce, tall-poppy-tearing critic I am, I was l looking and listening out for 'em.
'Green, Green Grass of Home', even while being aware of its probably contrivance, still managed, I confess, to eke a tingle. 'Leave Your Hat On' saw the ladies present glisten, I'm sure: one could almost feel the heat. And, despite sweating profusely himself, Mr Jones saved theatrical removal of his jacket for the lyrical cue therein. despite nicking 'Grass' from Jerry Lee and 'Hat' from Cocker, and notwithstanding the cut-through success of the latter, Tomboy manages to make these songs, and countless others, all his own: he inhabits them utterly, filling every nook and cranny, to the point he owns them, and might as well have written them himself. The epic & irresistible 'Delilah' is another case-in-point: it soared to the rafters. Paul Anka-penned 'She's A Lady', with its sassy, psychedelic flavouring, rocked. And opening with 'Sugar Daddy', a more contemporary, made-to-measure number by Bono & The Edge, was a good move. He does great justice to Otis Redding's 'Hard To Handle'. 'Mama Told Me Not To Come' wasn't alone in sounding as tight and slick as on record, with all the illicit innuendo intact.
Almost as entertaining as the man on stage were the enclaves of hens (hey, I never claimed astute observance of political correctness), throwbacks to cutaways in Jones' 60s TV outings; spellbound. It's too, too condescending and downright chauvanistic, I s'pose (any residual cred as a snag will be completely blown), to characterise it as 'cute', or 'sweet', but they're sentiments that spring to mind, nonetheless. Even the predictable spectacle of bras and panties tossed at the stage still has an ironic, disarming innocence about it; blissfully oblivious to any notions consistent with those of the feminista. The only danger for Tom is, as his audience gets older, the underwear may grow inexorably larger, replete with incontinence pads. We're talking more your Bonds Cottontails than Elle. My witty comrade even suggested a still greater hazard: the soft cotton or silk missiles being supplanted by rather more injurious hardware, as in dentures.
He looks almost as good as ever. He sounds every bit as good as ever. If not even better. Support, David Campbell, may not have been hitting the hyperbole button overly hard, in repeatedly describing Jones as the world's greatest-ever entertainer. (He's pretty damn good himself; engaging the audience thoroughly, and enthusiastically, with his eclectic clutch of songs and good-natured patter, in front of a hot-as-Hades band, he was a pinup warmup.) Tom Jones is an incredible man. And an incredible singer. He's not Nelson Mandela, or anything. (But then, just perhaps, neither is Nelson, if you know what I mean.) But if there were a Nobel gong for Bloody Good Time, any adjudication would have to have TJ top o' the list. Maybe even The King is looking down, musing, 'lawdy, mama, I got out just in time!' Even Elvis knows Tom Jones is one cool cat.
TOM JONES
AUSTRALIA TOUR 2010
Saturday 27 February Hunter Valley
A Day On The Green, Bimbadgen Estate
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
Sunday 28 February Brisbane
A Day On The Green, Sirromet Wines
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
Wednesday 3 March Sydney
Sydney Entertainment Centre
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
Thursday 4 March Wollongong
WIN Entertainment Centre
Ticketek 132 849 or www.ticketek.com.au
Saturday 6 March Clare Valley
A Day On The Green, Annies Lane
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
Sunday 7 March Yarra Valley
A Day On The Green, Rochford Wines
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
Monday 8 March Launceston
A Day On The Green, Josef Chromy Wines
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
Thursday 11 March Melbourne
Rod Laver Arena
Ticketek 132 849 or www.ticketek.com.au
Saturday 13 March Rutherglen
A Day On The Green, All Saints Estate
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
Sunday 14 March Swan Valley
A Day On The Green, Sandalford Wines
Ticketmaster 136 100 or www.ticketmaster.com.au
