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GUILTY PLEASURES A Guilty Pleasure is something you enjoy, but that others may consider beneath their dignity |
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GEISTER  |
MY GUILTY PLEASURE: TOM JONES! |
 Tom Jones belts one out at a recent concert. Note the open shirt and glimpse of chest hair. Be still, female hearts! |
If he ever knocks on her door, she'll melt away
of TheColumnists.com
With my writer's imagination and personality, I really don't have many secret or guilty pleasures. Feelings of guilt aren't high up on my personal list.
Yet I can safely say that if the fabulous Welsh balladeer Tom Jones ever shows up at my door, asking to take me away for a night, weekend, long lunch, or a tour of the city, I wouldn't hesitate to join him. That day will never dawn in this or any other lifetime. Naturally I'm safe in giving my prior consent.
My personal files of Tom Jones photos are sacred to me. I've used my most powerful long lens and professional quality film to take dozens of photos during his concerts. Tom Jones can't look anything less than wonderful on film or in real life. Using special film in an automatic SLR camera, available light can be down to a candle flame and you never need a flash. His last concert in Seattle gave me the opportunity to get close to the stage where I clicked away to my heart's content.
A few weeks ago the A&E cable channel presented a two hour Tom Jones concert and interviews from Wales. His voice is as powerful and compelling as ever. Wales has a long history of fine actors, singers and choir groups. Think Richard Burton, Charlotte Church and the Wales National Choir to name a few.
Jones' has an amazing vocal range. He can go from baritone, nearly tenor, and way down to deep bass, all in the same song. "The Boy From Nowhere" is the best example. If ever a lyrics arranger sets the listed ingredients on a cereal box to music and he records it, I'll buy it. He can sing it to the tune of "Delilah" for all I care.
He wrenches every poignant,
stirring, emotional nuance from "Memory," a song from
"Cats," the stage musical. None of his tapes or CDs
that I own have it. When he did it in a concert I attended, I
was entranced. I put aside my camera and sighed in private ecstasy.
He stole my heart, soul and mind. St. Rupert the Husband touched
my arm and asked me if I was all right. I looked at him and wondered,
"Who is this man and why is he talking to me?" Fantasy
had me in its grip.
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squealing Jones addicts. He does not appear to be drinking Milk of Magnesia. |
Elvis made some great music, the Beatles are responsible for the best lyrics of the 20th century. Big deal. So what? Tom Jones sang "What's New Pussy Cat," then gyrated to "Proud Mary," and I went from fan to slave. His TV show came on every Thursday night for a season in the 1970s. The women in that audience made Frank Sinatra's swooners look like amateurs. Everyone knew when that 60 minute time slot began, I didn't answer the phone, I didn't care if the husband and kids starved. A burglar could have smashed through a window demanding money and I would have tossed my car keys, cash, credit card and diamond ear rings to him without letting my eyes stray from the screen.
Tom Jones' voice, studly good looks, and gentlemanly manner to the audience were like magic 30 years ago. These qualities are unchanged, undimmed today. We Jones worshippers don't let age or time get in our way. Allegiance does that to us. Observe that phallic symbol belt he has added to his wardrobe. On stage that night, he'd bounce, the "symbol" would bounce and we women went wild! He's got it; he's still got it!
When I interviewed Patrick McNee, I was professional, never got off track. Being hugged and talked to by Phil Donahue didn't phase me. It was my destiny to meet and talk to Red Skelton. John Wayne and I shared table space, chatted for a time, and I was cool. But, put me in the same room, even a crowded room, with Tom Jones and I fear I'd embarrass myself giggling uncontrollably or breaking into tears of disbelief. A writing pad, pen, and armed with a list of questions might influence my demeanor. Or not. I'd risk it. Yeah, I'd risk it. If it ever happens and I sit there slack jawed, eyes glazed over, with gurgling sounds coming out of my mouth, you'll never see a word of it under my byline. Should I get an interview in this lifetime I'll write the perfect column, take the perfect photo, and he'll beg me to be his publicist and press liaison. Sure he will.
Dream on....dream on.
©2003 by Patricia J. Geister. The photos of Tom Jones were
taken by the author and are her personal property. All rights
reserved.
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