Good Things Come to Those Who Work and Wait

How was I going to live without the singer who saved me?  Having truly taken the last train from Tom Jonesville into Realityworld was like going into foreign territory.  It might as well been Mars.  Cold turkey – letting go of The Voice, the voice of the singer who saved me from self-destruction and slowly led me to maturity was not easy.  Tom Jones is essential to my story, and I had to use everything in my power to help myself let go: prayer, positive thinking, psychology, distraction, distance, and even exploring other music, from the Doobie Brothers, to Steely Dan, Stevie Nicks, Nicolette Sheridan, Carly Simon, Paul McCartney, and Michael Jackson.

As I said goodbye to Tom in 1979 and hello to a new decade – the 80s with big hair and even bigger shoulder pads – the men who were available to me were still not so desirable.  Why couldn’t I like the guys who liked me?  Why couldn’t I go for the church guy who was “a catch and looking for someone to marry,” according to Mommio.  Or the co-worker who already owned his own home, (a plus in Daddio’s eyes), and kept asking for a date despite being turned down?  

Jones Backstage in Vegas

  

Life continued on without Tom.  I took a trip to France and was a standout due to the naturally genetically smaller stature of the French.  One street performer was so impressed with my height that he ran over and said something like, “Je vous mange du feu.” (loose translation: I eat the fire for you) and plunged a stick with a ball of fire down his throat!  I sat with Roudin’s “The Thinker” and pondered if true love would ever find me. 

Shortly after returning from France, I attended a friend’s wedding with the knowledge that her mother told my mother that she was going to sit me at a table with a “really tall” guy friend.  First, involving the mothers is generally not a good idea.  Second, it was a speed-dating version of a blind date, except speed dating hadn’t been invented yet.  Since the bride had never mentioned this uber-tall gentleman, I questioned the validity of a love connection, but would be polite for the sake of our friendship. 

Tom Jones from the lens of T.H.

  

When Mommio, Daddio, and I arrived at the wedding, a tall, dark, and handsome man took my mother’s arm in his and ushered us to our seats.  The voice inside my head was screaming, “Lord, have mercy!  Is this the man I’m supposed to meet?” Mommio was almost in a trance and tried to ever so indelicately nudge my sides with her elbow and give me The Look, as in, “He is so tall, dark, and handsome.”  Whoa, whoa, whoa, settle down ladies!   Mommio and I had to shake it off, refocus, and delight in the bride and groom.  

After the lovely wedding we drove to a country club for the wedding reception.  As I excitedly found my way to the assigned luncheon table, I saw the man the bride set me up with at her wedding.  He was tall.  Maybe 6-foot-six.  But hold on Bridezilla!  This is not the tall, dark, and handsome stranger who ushered us into the church.  And long before the cake was cut it was very clear that the very tall man at my table was more in love with himself than I could ever be. 

Quintessential Jones from the Lens of T.H.

Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome was at the bridal table, and not intended for me.  And Joe Schmoe was at my table fully infatuated with himself.  The bride’s matchmaking was a colossal failure, and I went home feeling dejected.  Okay, so maybe I went home and played Tom Jones’ “Without Love” (song by Clyde McPhatter) and felt a little lovesick.  It was just a glimpse, but there was something.  There was something. 

When I told my spiritual mentor at the time about my wedding blind-lunch date who turned out to not be Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, she flippantly said, “You should call that young man and ask him to a concert.  My boys love it when girls invite them to something special.”  Interestingly enough, I had purchased two tickets to a George Benson concert that I was going to go to with Rose.  

Would Rosie be willing to give up her ticket so I could invite the tall, dark, and handsome stranger to the concert?  Did Rosie think I was crazy?  Probably.  But, of course, being the incredible friend she was, she did the typical girlfriend self-sacrificing give-up-whatever-for-the-guy thing and gave up her ticket for Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome.  (“Rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer.” Jean de La Fontaine) She helped me pick the perfect outfit, get ready for the date, and it altered the course of my life.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Me and Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome

  

I had chased my Tom Jones hopes, dreams, and goals, but those were during non-thriving circumstances.  I had been an achingly sensitive, bullied, withdrawn young girl living in Tomjonesville.  How does a more outgoing and mature young woman in Realityworld invite a total stranger to a concert?  I used my “Tom Jones skills” and reverted back to what I did when I was younger and called Mr. G. in order to see Mr. Jones.  I wrote down what I wanted to say as if it were a script.  That way my anxiously quivering voice might not be so noticeably awkward.  I had a plan and a script, and all I needed was the man’s name and a telephone number.  Good grief, I didn’t even know his name.   

Since the bride was on a long honeymoon, I tested the waters, so to speak, with her mother.  Fortunately, the mother of the bride knew his name; unfortunately she didn’t have a telephone number.  I had to wait several agonizing weeks before I could call the bride and ask for Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome’s digits.  We had commiserated over life, love, and men many times, so she was more than delighted to give me the 411. 

He cooks! What girl wouldn’t want a heart-shaped pizza made just for her?

I recently uncovered a very old memory box during Garage Hog’s Day 2012 (The nine torturous days it took to clean out our garage from top to bottom, and in which every day seemed like we were living the same day over and over and over again, until one day the work, the purge, and the donating were done and we were completely renewed.)  In the memory box I found the hand-written script I used to invite Mr. Tall-Dark-And Handsome to the concert.  He later told me that he said “Yes” long before I gave him a variety of “outs” in case he didn’t want to go out with a total stranger.  He said I sounded somewhat nervous and that I “just kept talking” (i.e., read the whole script without a pause or a breath). 

A funny thing happened on the way to finding another naughty boy… I found a nice one.  Part and parcel of low self-esteem is a belief in not feeling worthy of being valued, but once you begin to value yourself, it shifts how others perceive you.   As I look back, I can’t help but think that a common denominator in the men I was attracted to might have been that they thought they could turn the innocence of one who was absolute in her determination to stay that way.  It was always a dance we played, the innocent and the naughty – three steps forward, two steps back, one-two cha-cha-cha.  And we never really got anywhere.   

Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome was nice, kind, thoughtful, funny, intelligent, and treated me with respect. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T find out what it means to me.”  (“Respect” lyrics by Otis Redding)  Oh, Aretha, you know of what you sing!  And I was finally ready.  I had worked through the ugly and bad parts of my life, had developed and matured slowly, and was finally ready for the good.  Key word here is work.  Whether we like it or not, we all have to work on something.  There are a myriad of paths and tools to help us on our journey in life.  We have to reach out and try them and identify what works for us as individuals. 

Sailing and Fireworks

Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome was such a gentleman that he called to suggest we go on a date several weeks prior to the concert, “Just to get to know each other.”  He showed up driving a black and gold GM Firebird with the popular T-tops of the 80s, and we have been together ever since.  For years we’ve laughed about what might have happened if he drove up in the pea-green Ventura he originally came out to California in instead of that sexy black beauty.  I still like to tease him and say our story might not have turned out the same way, but truth be known, I would have fallen madly in love if he had hitchhiked all the way from the Midwest to LA.   

Snow White and Long Tall Sally gave way to Toots, Popsicle Toes, and Bebe.  And now, several decades of anniversary years later, Bebe is the nickname that stuck (a silly reference from a funny Greek mythology movie which, I think, starred a very young Harry Hamlin).  Love, real, genuine love was in the air and it encompassed more than the sun, the moon and the stars.  It was grounded on earth and was felt through the core of my being.  There were fireworks beyond what I could imagine.  “I had a vision, it was real to me/ Like a new song and my heart sings/ Just like the striking of a lightning ball/ I feel the power of a miracle/ I can see the fireworks/ I can see the fireworks/ I can see the fireworks.” (Lyrics by R. Kelly)  

Fireworks Beyond What I Could Imagine

I found that I became more my real self.  My experience of genuine love is that it made me a better person.  His hopes, dreams, and goals became as important as my own; sometimes they superseded mine.  My hopes, dreams, and goals became as important as his; sometimes they superseded his.  Together we discovered our life’s rhythm.  

This is not to say that life has always been perfect, as a young couple in love or now as an older married couple.  Oh, no.  Life is not perfect.  With or without love, life is fraught with challenges.  But love can make the burdens lighter.  Love can comfort us when we feel lost or inconsolable.  Love can help repair damaged parts that seemed irreparable.  Love can help us laugh when we’ve lost our sense of humor.  And love can make the heart sing, sing, sing even when we don’t have the “gift of the golden voice” of the singer who saved me (“Tower of Song” lyrics by Leonard Cohen, Tom Jones’ CD, Spirit in the Room, released in Great Britain). 

My husband introduced me to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Leo Kotke, and Leon Redbone, Lyle Lovett, Peter Gabriel, Robert Palmer, Michael Franks, Santana, and other artists.  Together we explored classical music.  However, I was truly not prepared when my two worlds, Tomjonesville and Realityworld, collided one summer night as I found myself at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa, watching my new husband watching Tom Jones perform, and watching my new husband watching me watch the singer who saved me.  

How the heck did this happen?  I remember being a newlywed, feeling madly, crazy, ga-ga-in-love with my husband.  And one night, shortly after our honeymoon, he came home from work, proudly smiled, handed me two tickets and beamed while saying, “I got us tickets to see Tom Jones.”  WHAT?  I was shocked.   

In retrospect, I see it as a loving gesture.  However, at the time it just seemed… awkward.  True Love is taking me to see my unique version of First Love?  I thanked my new husband and told him how wonderful and generous he was, and basically held my breath until the whole thing was over.  Whew… The memory of the concert is the only Tom Jones concert that is a bit of a blur.  I remember where we sat and the intensity of emotions I felt for my husband – true love.  And seeing Tom for the first time in concert in more than a few years, (remember, I had to go cold turkey), was like seeing a familiar old boyfriend – except he wasn’t.  Tom Jones was the singer who saved me. 

Tom Jones, The Singer Who Saved Me

 

I really wanted my husband to have an appreciation for the vocal talent of The Voice, but it was years down the line before he had an appreciation for the power of a transitional object and how I survived my youth through my personal brand of Singersavedme Therapy.  As I have shared my story and my more enlightened understanding of my trip to Tomjonesville with my husband, friends, and colleagues, they have encouraged me to share my long, circuitous coming of age story from an anxious, insecure teen to a mature young woman and how the singer factored into this transformation.  

I discovered, later in life, that I have an ability to sit with others and hear their life stories.  My own struggles have enabled me to be present for those who need a listening ear and a receptive heart; someone who is fearless in the presence of their sad, difficult, often traumatic stories.  Ironically, I have worked with bullies and victims of bullies; those who lack self-esteem and those who have an over-riding excess of confidence; those who struggle because reality is too difficult; and those who struggle just trying to find reality. 

What we all have in common is our humanity and how we survive the challenges that arise from the human condition.  How we deal with the human spirit is what tests and proves our mettle.  As a teenager I dreamed that singer Tom Jones would fall madly in love with me and save me from the bullies of the world and subsequently, myself.  His accessibility fueled the fire that motivated me to do both mundane and exciting things I didn’t believe or imagine I had the courage to do.  What happened along the way was that I slowly matured into a young woman who found self-confidence, peace of mind, love, and joy.  Would I have found peace, love, and joy without singer Tom Jones?  I will never know, because he is and always will be… the singer who saved me.  

“I was listening to everybody, everybody/Sayin’ be like everybody else/Oh, you’ll see/I gotta be me/And there ain’t nobody just like this/I got to be me/Oh baby, hit or miss…You’ve got to believe/Baby hit or miss/You’ve got to believe, in yourself/Don’t listen/Nobody else/You’ve got to believe, in yourself/You’ve got to believe/You’ve got to believe/ You’ve got to believe in yourself…” 

“Hit or Miss” (Lyrics by Odetta, sung by Tom Jones in Spirit in the Room)   

The End

Post Script:  Thank you to my precious family, without whose support I would not have written my story.  And an extra thank you to my husband for his technological expertise, without which this memoir blog would not exist.  

Any and all photographs and images which are reproduced must be credited with Singer Saved Me.  Thank you to the many TJ fans whose photographs made the blog so, so seventies in Tomjonesville!  

The Final Hurrah with Tom Jones, My Object of Transition

Just when I thought I was going to grow up for good and let go of my, well, what was it?  What could I call it?  I simply did not understand it in my teens or my twenties.  Was I addicted to singer Tom Jones?  Was Tom my crack cocaine?  I always had an innate need to understand things, and I just didn’t understand.  I didn’t know what it was.  

It was more than appreciating and loving the sound of Jones’ voice.  It was more than being a fan.  It was more than a flirtation.  It was more than an attraction.  It was more than a dream.  It was more than a fantasy.  What I learned decades later while earning a Master’s in clinical psychology is that Tom Jones played the important role of being an object of transition for a sensitive young girl who needed something, someone to help her make it through the night… and day, which turned into days, then weeks, months, and years. 

All Grown Up Compared to the Teenager in the Post “Be Careful What You Wish For” – Backstage Greek Theatre June 1978

Tom became my safe port in a storm of bullying, my go-to-guy from just plain insensitive people.  They sent me into withdrawal which, combined with my sensitive nature, led to agoraphobia.  He gave me hope that someday a caterpillar could become a butterfly; he gave me courage to do things I would do for no one else.  

The Voice became my voice, expressing every emotion I felt – hurt, pain, and sorrow to love, joy, and hope.  I carried it with me everywhere.  I never imagined that Jones’ accessibility would lead to transitional emotional growth.  He had a transformative effect on my life.  That’s right, Sir Tom Jones!  You grew me up in a way no one would ever dream or imagine… except maybe a therapist and object relations’ theorists. 

My Last Ticket To Tomjonesville, 1979

After I put all of my life in Tomjoneville in a big brown packing box and carried it to my garage with eyes moist with tears, ready to give it all up – cold turkey – I found myself invited right back into that world.  And I couldn’t say “No.”  Yet, I was beginning to acknowledge, ever so gently to myself mind you, how limited that world had become.  My sights were resetting and my vision of what might be possible in my future began to hope and dream beyond Tomjonesville.  I could see a future far beyond what my delayed development and all that it entailed could see in those early young years.  But Jones was at Knott’s Berry Farm to tape a TV special and his management liked to pack the house with fans and friends, so like a TJ Trooper, I asked Rose to join me for two nights of potential adventures. 

As I dressed for the venue’s first night in my jeans and tube top – oh, hold on, I must digress!  Who invented the tube top?  Wikipedia, authority of all things pop culture and beyond, claims it was “invented by American World War II veteran Murray Kleid,” a womens’ accessories manufacturer in New York City.  Why am I not surprised it was a man?  It was a hot fashion statement in the 70s, but I wonder how in the world I had the nerve to wear a tube top?  It seems like such a dangerous piece of clothing, if you could even call it clothing.  It was just a small band of elastic-like cloth, kind of like a fabric cuff for breasts.  The tube top fell into the small amount of attention-seeking clothes I only wore around the singer, like the hot pants jumpsuit I wore in Vegas, which was retired the moment I returned from that trip. 

My ritual of getting dressed for any TJ show involved listening to The Voice blaring on the stereo, and I distinctly remember pausing when I heard Tom sing “(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don’t Want To Be Right” (song by Percy Sledge).  The lyrics, “And am I wrong trying to hold on/ To the best thing I ever had” were messing with my mind.  Was I wrong in trying to hold on to the best thingI everhad? 

“Come Hither, My Luv.”

My mother intuitively knew he was the best thing in my life for a particular period of time.  I am so very grateful she knew.  She knew and I survived.  However, my new goals of love, marriage, and family – things I never dared dream about until after the singer provided me with a corrective emotional experience, because I was so sure I was too tall, too skinny, too undesirable, too sensitive, too fearful, too immature, too this, and too that – now fought with my life in Tomjonesville.  What was a six-foot-two, eyes-of-blue, everybody-sees-this-gal kinda girl gonna do?  What I always did when Tom Jones came to town.  I would make myself known. 

Even though my best friend Rosie and I never made it to Las Vegas like we had planned, we did manage to drive to Knottsberry Farm in style.  We zipped up to Buena Park, home of Knott’s Berry Farm, on the gritty, jam-packed 5 freeway in a cinnamon-red Mercedes Benz 450 SL.  We laughed out loud as we reminisced about the wild and wooly Tom Jones limo chase in our not-so-distant past (see The Tom Jones Limo Chase posts, Parts 1 & 2).  And then we felt guilty and a bit embarrassed.  Shame on us.  I might have even sung Shirley & Company’s “Shame Shame Shame”:  Don’t stop the motion/If you get the notion/You can’t stop the groove/’Cos you just won’t move/Got my sun-roof down/Got my diamonds in the back…I say shame, shame, shame, yeah shame on you.  (Written by Sylvia Robinson) 

I must admit some of the Knott’s Berry Farm taping is a blur because as excited as  I was to see Tom Jones perform, I was also going through a deeply personal process.  I remember we had good seats and a good time both nights.  And the best part of being at a taping of a TV show is that there are breaks, and when there are breaks Tom pauses and chats up the audience.  “Hellooo Mr. Jooones,” was my mental note to his notice, and the next thing I knew we were engaged in that typical Tom Jonesian silly/funny “Come hither, my luv” banter.  

Of course, when the singer kissed me stage-side, I felt the earth move, but it wasn’t an earthquake.  I felt the stars tumbling, but there weren’t any falling stars.  I was still inside Knott’s Berry Farm, and I realized that being in Tomjonesville would always be exciting.  My emotions ran amok.  I realized this thing, this thing I didn’t understand, could go on forever.  When the first night’s taping was over, Rosie gushed about how much fun it was.  As usual, I was good at hiding what I was really feeling and joined in the goodtime talk even though I was completely distracted by my inner world.  As we drove home in the darkness we both agreed how wonderful it was that we could do it all over again the next night.  In the words of the yet unborn Britney, “Oh baby, baby.” 

Sleep was a stranger that night because years of emotions and attachment to Tom Jones completely overwhelmed me.  He had been like a secret companion since I was sixteen; someone I saw only occasionally, but carried with me everywhere.  I actually sat in bed and read old poetry and lyrics I had collected that evoked or expressed the myriad emotions I felt about loneliness and rejection, the results of being bullied, and the saving grace of the singer who saved me.  Would I ever forget “In Loneliness” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:  Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal show, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness and a silence.  Jones was that voice in my darkness. 

Then there was Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen,” which so beautifully, yet painfully, sings to adolescent angst:  To those of us who knew the pain/ Of Valentines that never came/ And those whose names were never called/ When choosing sides for basketball/ It was long ago and far away/ The world was younger than today/ When dreams were all they gave for free/ To ugly duckling girls like me.  Ah, the need to be known and loved. 

In the romanticism of the late night hours and raw emotional thankfulness for Jones and his place in my life, I was still able to recognize I was no longer withdrawn and painfully lonely.  I had begun to build a small circle of friends, genuine friends with whom I am still close to today.  I had worked through some of my problems, though not all.  I had conquered some fears and gained some confidence.  It made me feel sad and almost nauseous, but I knew what I had to do.  If I wanted to continue to grow as an individual, to grow as a woman, to follow my heart and reach for the next set of goals, hopes, and dreams, I truly did have to take the next train out of Tomjonesville.   And not look back. 

Being with Rosie always gave me courage; she was/is a brave and adventurous person.  But on our way to Knott’s Berry Farm the second night, I realized I had to put on my emotional high-heeled sneakers and give her a good time, even though I recognized that night of Jones’ TV taping would be my final hurrah with my then unknown object of transition.  So off Rosie and I sped to that fateful night, slowing only for traffic in our dashing two-seater Mercedes – because (put on your best Atlanta Housewife Phaedra Parks’ voice) everybody knows, if you want to hang with the rich and famous, you have to look like the rich and famous. 

First Night On-stage Kiss

 

The venue was packed, and Jones was quintessential Jones – delivering on cue, exciting the crowd, and singing like the legend The Voice became.  When we left Knott’s Berry Farm, Rosie had no idea I was in the throes of a TJ crisis, vacillating between wanting to stay where I was, safe and more comfortable with who I had become, or letting go and moving toward the person I wanted to become.  I was thankful for the changes.  I was no longer that child-like, odd-girl-out misfit.  Older, happier, more independent and self-accepting, though far, far from perfect, I had reached the proverbial fork in the road.  

The singer who saved me had served his purpose.  With deep gratitude and a heavy – or was it a heaving – heart I realized Tom Jones, the man, was no longer going to play a part in my future.  I had to detach.  In the wee small hours of the morning, the earth, the sun, the moon, and the stars aligned and serendipity followed.  Now in the heart of Bel Air, home and stomping grounds of TJ, I had my moment.  In the warmth of the balmy darkness as Tom pulled my head close to his, I found myself silently saying goodbye forever… as I kissed the singer who saved me.          

It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over

As time went on and the more I got out into the world, the more I wanted to be loved by a man.  A real man.  A man I could see every day.  A man with whom I could develop a genuine, reciprocal relationship.  The desire was there, but it wasn’t so easy to let go of youthful dreams.  I was torn between wanting more Tom Jones and wanting more of a real life.  So I kept one foot in Tomjonesville and one foot in the real world.  Backstage calls were juxtaposed against guys who just liked to hang out. 

I had begun to bring appropriately aged, single men into my life, but I have to admit, it was always awkward when a young man unexpectedly found himself at my place and I hadn’t eradicated the one or two framed photographs of me and Mr. Jones from the premises. ” Are you kidding me?” was not an uncommon comment.  Tom Jones always proved to be a mood buster, a date buzz kill.   And, if I was drawn to the singer, was it intuitively obvious that I would be attracted to the tall, dark, and bad?  Too many a girls with low self esteem have “Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?  Bad boys, bad boys” running through their lives like the theme song from Cops.  Was I going to be one of those girls?  (“Bad Boys” song by James Alex, Larry Summerville, Jr., Melvin Watson, Lauren Evens, and Mike Busbee & Ian Lewis.) 

The ever-present autograph signing session.

 

Despite the fact that being at the Bel Air Hotel was the first true reality check that smacked me in the face and verified my slow but sure developing maturity, I wasn’t quite ready to give up the pursuit of the dreams and goals that led me, step-by-step, to singer Tom Jones.  While I was able to get out of my agoraphobic comfort zone of my parents home, live on my own, work, and grow emotionally in many ways, part of my comfort zone became Tomjonesville.  Part reality and part fantasyland strangely became my next safe place.  

Despite the fact that I met and was around many different and interesting people – Mr. G., whom I will never forget as the first gatekeeper to Tomjonesville, God bless him, as he is no longer with us, Tom’s son, Mark Woodward, bodyguard Dave Perry, Big Jim Sullivan and other musicians, a disc jockey from KVCR, and a multitude of fun, serious, and generous Tom Jones fans, a groupie or two, as well as Engelbert Humperdink fans, and Elvis fans – this wild and funky world became my little microcosm, and I was hesitant to leave it.  I mean, really, who wants to walk away from a handsome, sexy, superlative-voiced superstar? 

The superstar with a hint of his son in the background.

I had given up the idea of me and Mr. Jones falling madly in love with each other, but the possibilities that lurked after these meetings still made me dance toward, and back away, toward and away, toward and away.  My time in Tomjonesville felt like a long version of Baby’s time at the Catskills in the movie “Dirty Dancing.”  It was my very own coming of age story, in which I went from being an awkward, giggly teenage girl to a fully developed, grown-up woman.  Pardon the expression, but “I had the time of my life,” and the problem was, I couldn’t leave the Catskills – I mean, Tomjonesville. 

Mr. Greenfield - the gatekeeper to Tomjonesville.

So, I checked with my partner-in-TJ-crime, Rose, and we decided we would go to Vegas together.  Vegas, baby!!!  Rosie had never seen Jones perform in such an intimate setting, and I was excited to share the experience with her.  However, Rosie had no clue what my real plan was.  In fact, she will be reading it here for the first time.  This was going to be the Final Hurrah:  Rose and I would go to Caesar’s Palace, and while there, I would avail myself of all of the opportunities that were available to me the last two times I was in Vegas, sans Elvis, because everybody knows, (now I can’t use the phrase ‘everybody knows’ without hearing “Atlanta Housewife” Phaedra Park’s voice), when Elvis is in town there is no other game in town.  And instead of running like the Arctic wind across the Nevada desert, my final goal was to become that long, tall drink of water to quench the thirst of the singer.  I vowed to myself that I would not run like a six-foot-two Chicken Little.  This Vegas trip was going to be A-M-A-Z-I-N-G because I had matured, and reconsidered what I wanted. 

Then the first domino fell.  Rosie canceled because she couldn’t afford our trip, even though she was working two jobs.  But it was cool.  It was okay.  I could go to Vegas by myself.  In fact, it would be better to go alone.  I knew what I wanted and how to make it happen.  Oddly, I no longer heard Snow White’s voice singing, “Some day my prince will come.”  I no longer heard the little birdies that used to chirp in my head, gently driving me forward to my goal. 

In fact, as the date got closer, I began to have a few panic moments.  Uh oh.  I thought I had all of those panic feelings in check.  Then I heard from an older TJ fan, who was very close to a card-carrying TJ groupie.  In all her wisdom, she set the second domino in motion, by writing, “Don’t go to Vegas.  You’re too young and have too much going for you to get caught up in that kind of thing.”  She actually had the nerve to tell me, “Get on with your life.”  It was like a bucket of ice-cold water in my face.  It was completely sobering.

Jones and Dave Perry the ever-present mate and muscle, if needed.

 

Then the third domino fell.  I knew she was right.  And the rows of dominos in the Last Hurrah fell like the sound of a hammer in my sensitive young heart  – bam-bam-bam-bam-bam!   I realize the only reason my mother didn’t freak out when I told her I was going to Vegas by myself was the fact that that she knew me so well that she trusted I would not go.  Mommio was insightful.  She just patiently waited it out, knowing that any real connection to the real man in Tomjonesville fought with my true self, my values system, and my ultimate goal of finding true love and creating a family.    

There I was in my twenties, belatedly facing the death of my teenage fantasies, so I did what any teenage girl might do.   I got out all of my Tom Jones paraphernalia and revisited the goodies one last time.  I lovingly looked through all of the photographs, newspaper clippings, programs and hotel menus I had collected over the years.  I held his tie, which for at least a year smelled like Tom, and listened to Jones’ LPs on my 1970’s stereo as I went through years of memorabilia.  It felt like a break-up.  Or a wake, because I distinctly remember some tears intermingled with Stoffer’s mac and cheese and chocolate ice cream during this mourning phase.   

Jones plaintiff version of the song, “Tired of Being Alone,” (song by Al Green) danced in my head like the black swan.  It was my party and I cried because I wanted to.  So I cried.  And cried.  I put all of my Tom Jones things in a big brown packing box and ceremoniously carried it to a corner in the garage.  I was going to have to learn to live TJ-free.

Guitar man, Big Jim Sullivan.

  

And then I got a call saying, “You have to go to Knottsberry Farm.  Tom is taping a special there for a couple nights.”  Maybe it wasn’t over… with the singer who saved me.  

Elvis on stage at Tom Jones' show at Caesar's Palace September 1973.

              

 

Ode to Jones The Voice

I am quite jealous that the British version of “The Voice” with The Voice is currently being taped in England and I cannot jet across the pond and somehow inveigle my way into the audience.  Oh, hold on!  Stand down Snow White!  Sit still before you go all watusi on the page Long Tall Sally!  The days of inveigling your way into Tom Jonesville are days gone by.  (Oops, pardon the open reality check.)

Jones has mentioned that when he was growing up in Wales, it was common practice to attach your profession to your name, and I so want to honor Jones The Voice, because he played such an important and unwitting role in saving me when I was a young girl at risk.  Tall, thin, teased and bullied, I withdrew from the world and found comfort, solace, and at times, my life’s blood, through the voice of singer Tom Jones.

Just by having and sharing The Voice, Jones served a far greater purpose in my life than my teenage dreams could have ever imagined, and I know that I am not alone.  Others have revealed poignant stories regarding how The Voice has affected their lives.  What I didn’t realize in my youth was that it was actually The Voice that carried me through the challenges in my life – not the man to whom I felt so attached.  It was always The Voice that soothed my fervor brow; it was The Voice that took me from the depths of despair to thoughts of hope; it was The Voice that led me from high anxiety to moments of courage.

Tom Jones Always on the Go - 1973

I like to look through a psychological lens in object relations theory, which focuses on one developing a psyche (our conscious/unconscious mind; our ego strength, or sense of self) in relationship to others.  As an infant, we look to our mother to create a safe, consistent, nurturing environment, and without that sense of safety, that infant can perceive the world as not a safe place, and can develop a hypersensitivity to the outside world.  Along the way to maturity, I hit a big bump in the road, and my own natural sensitivity and already tentative sense self, or weak ego strength, was completely knocked off-kilter by bullying at school.   My extraordinary height for a young girl in the 60s & 70s, and naturally thin body during a time when anorexia was truly considered a disease and not a positive fashion statement, made people feel uncomfortable.  The incessant need for strangers and others to constantly comment on my physicality only added salt to the self-conscious wound.

We all need something outside of ourselves to attach to, or connect with, that can help us cope with life’s uncomfortable, or difficult, or anxiety-producing challenges.  An infant turns to its mother for that sense of safety.  Where do you go when you are older?  You go to religion and a Higher Power, philosophy or psychology, literature, art, or music.  You turn to people for comfort – family, friends, teachers, mentors, religious figures, counselors, therapists, etc.  Everyone thought Michael Jackson was weird to call his son Blanket, yet it ever to gently speaks to Jackson’s deep attachment needs.  What helps people calm and contain their fears and anxieties?  Trust and faith in something greater than themselves.  Beautiful things in which they can relate, such as lyrics or the sound of music.  Some people relate to the awe-inspiring beauty of nature.  Some find calm and comfort in the feel good feelings that come from exercise.  Others find feel good feelings through connecting to other people; some find it in tattoos or other ways to objectify their feelings.

There is an endless list of possibilities of people/places/things to which you can attach that help transition you through the good and bad times in your life.  My family religion was ever-present in my life experience during my youthful challenges, but The Voice came along and gave me something that was outside of the religious realm, and became an intricate part of my personal journey and salvation.  I attached to The Voice.

The Voice became my warm, fuzzy security blanket that I could access at home, in the car, and carry with me in my head.  As I got older and stronger, The Voice translated into the rhythm of the beat and strength in my step.  The Voice became, as I mentioned in posts so long ago, my motivating mantra at a time when I really just wanted to melt into the floor or disappear into my room – or someplace else – forever.  The Voice provided me with my very own Singer Saved Me exposure therapy, which I didn’t even know about or understand at the time.  It was The Voice that got me outside of myself long enough to put my mother’s goals into place, and eventually set my own goals, take the steps to work toward them, and actually achieve them.  And each goal required leaving the house, interacting with people, and stepping outside of my personal fears.

Jones Backstage at the Palladium - 1973

Why that voice?  Why did I attach to that voice?  Reviewers, producers, and musicians have written, or spoken, a bazillion-and-one praises and accolades regarding The Voice, which have spanned over the course of decades.  I would not presume to describe Tom Jones’ voice in a new, unique way.  I just know that The Voice can take you from rock and roll to a Cappella, from to pop to blues, or from light opera to country.  Jones’ voice is extraordinarily versatile, and perhaps, that is the greatest gift of The Voice.

If you are very, very talented, have a variety of very, very astute people helping you along the way, and are very, very lucky in the entertainment industry, you might be able have a long career sprinkled with peaks and valleys.  It is easy to remember Jones’ peaks – the hit records, the TV show, the huge fan-filled stadiums like Madison Square Garden and the LA Forum, and the 40-plus years of packed houses in Vegas.  Yet, something I found endearing occurred a long time ago in the late 80s or early 90s – I haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact date.  I was driving my minivan, (a long, long way away from a Porsche chasing a limousine), on Harbor Boulevard in Orange County.  It’s not the nicest area, and in fact, you might find a “lady of the night” wandering around in the middle of the day, and like a diamond in a brass ring, I suddenly saw the name “TOM JONES” on the sign of a small, local club that was known to have everything from punk to metal, Willy Nelson to Hall & Oates, and a lot of local unknown singers, bands, or cover bands.

Tom Jones Wax Model at Madame Tussauds in London

As soon as I got home, I called the venue out of curiosity.  “Excuse me, Galaxy Theatre, is singer Tom Jones, the Welsh singer Tom Jones, the superstar Tom Jones, THE Tom Jones actually going to perform at your club?”  The ticket person said, “Yes, ma’am.”  Oh Lord, have mercy.  I was in shock.  Tom Jones was playing at a small, local place in the OC where mostly unknowns, sprinkled with a few famous players play?  Oh Lord, have mercy.  I immediately called my mother to discuss how on earth he could have possibly ended up there.  I asked, “Why would he play there when he has played for the Queen of England?”  It boggled my mind.  How could he play there when he has played at the big Pacific Amphitheatre in the same city?  It was a puzzle that I tried to piece together.

After a few days in a disgruntled conundrum, I got it.  Of course, I told my mother, it is all about the singing.  It had to be about the singing.  I believe the reason Tom played a small, unknown venue during a valley in his career was because, despite what people think about the man who had worked for years to reach superstar status, was because the singing was more important than the ego, money, or status.  If I am correct, for The Voice, it is all about the singing.  Perhaps it is that love, that passion, that need to sing that is the key part in his multiple resurgences over a long, long career – he has never stopped singing.

I didn’t get to see The Voice at the Galaxy Theatre, because, at that point in time, “I” had turned into “we,” and in our lives the price of a TJ ticket was the cost of a new tutu and ballet slippers – and the ballerina in my life was my #1 priority.  But, I keenly remember the shock of seeing Jones’ name on the Galaxy marquee, and keenly remember the moment I realized that Tom Jones knows who he is and what he’s accomplished – he simply must sing, as it is his life’s blood.  The Voice… is the singer who saved me.

The Tom Jones Limo Chase – Part 1

First, let me say that if I were young girl today, I would not chase a pop star in a limo, nor recommend it to anyone.  I am talking about a different time and place, the mid-70s in the 20^th century, when there was nothing really like the massive numbers of paparazzi or citizens stalking celebrities like there are today. Infamous photographer Ron Galella was just beginning what we now know was his relentless pursuit of Jackie O.  There were not dozens of photographers lurking around bushes and chasing after celebrities such as Britney Spears or Kim Kardashian.  TMZ didn’t exist and Harvey Levin was just an unknown student prepping for the bar exam with the dream of being a lawyer.  

Ready…

It also wouldn’t be wise to chase a limo today because of the pure and simple logistics of traffic in Los Angeles.  I used to love LA as much as Randy Newman, but honestly, the traffic is so bad now that recently, we figured it would take a half hour to get to Trader Joe’s from Brentwood, and a half hour to return; that’s one whole hour of drive-time just to get some fresh fruits and veggies.  I also wouldn’t recommend chasing anyone in a limo in this day and age, because it is a different time and place in the world.  It feels more dangerous than “the good old days.”  

When I was in my early twenties, however, when it came to Tom Jones, I always heard the good angel on my right shoulder saying, “No, no, no”; but the little devil on my other shoulder was singing, “Wild thing/ You make my heart sing/  You make everything groovy/ Wild thing.”  (“Wild Thing” lyrics by Chip Taylor.  Pop culture note:  Chip Taylor is the stage name for James Wesley Voight, brother of actor Jon Voight and uncle of Angelina Jolie.)  

As I matured through the university I discovered I was more intelligent than I thought.  It had never occurred to me that I could actually survive a difficult course load that required considerable critical thinking and writing skills.  Success in college helped with a modicum of confidence, and eventually, after I graduated I got my first real job as a part-time proofreader; that led to becoming an editor in an educational publishing company.  It was a good job for someone like me.  I could hide behind a desk and the written word, rarely having to interact with the large number of employees.  I often felt like I was “pretending” to be an adult, because I was constantly struggling with my personal issues.  Trying to resolve them through my limited knowledge, using prayer on one hand, and beginning to utilize biographies and self-help books and on the other.   

Set…

It became time to take flight, so-to-speak, and one of the most difficult parts in leaving home was negotiating with my mother regarding Duchess, our sweet silver-tipped Persian cat.  Duchess had been my best friend for nearly a decade and I didn’t know if I had the courage to actually move out and live on my own without her.  Duchess and I had slept together every night since she was twelve-weeks-old; she was my buddy and confidante; she had been with me through the tears, the fears, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and was the keeper of every secret I had.  She knew all about my Tom Jones mantras, and I was grateful when Mommio was willing to let go of Duchess in order to get rid of me.  I say that with tongue-in-cheek, although being an anxiety-prone, agoraphobic late-bloomer, I was long overdue in leaving the safety of the nest.   

My secret Tom Jones mantras enabled me to push through my failure to launch, as I told myself, “If I am going to make Tom Jones fall in love with me, I have to leave home,” and “If I am going to make Tom Jones fall in love with me, I have to become independent,” and “If I am going to make Tom Jones fall in love with me, I have to grow up and face my fears.”  Yikes.  The motivation for my maturity was linked to this entertainer whose voice, the Voice, comforted me, energized me, made me feel strong, made me feel womanly, and enabled me feel whatever I needed to feel.  I was slowly beginning to develop a sense of self through my own, private, singer-saved-me therapy.  I was even beginning to walk with a beat in my step.  

When I finally flew the coop of my parent’s home, I moved to the same street as my mother’s best friend, and began to get close to her daughter, Rose, who was living with her for a while.  Rose and I had known and skirted around each other’s families for years, but now, as adults, we were beginning to click.  To be truthful, I think some of her family and all of my family thought she was, for lack of a better word, a “mercy” friend; a person who is loving and caring to the extreme of befriending a poor soul like me at that point in my life.  (Remember, most people knew me as that tall, skinny girl who hid at home.)   

Rose and I clicked on many levels – humor, common interests such as love of the entertainment world, love of pop/rock music, love of home, issues of the spirit, politics, etc.  We shared thoughts and feelings, saw the best in each other, talked about our own foibles and failings, supported each other through the good times, and loved each other through the most difficult times.  Rose had a free spirit and independence that I so admired and desired.  She had studied acting, traveled the world, lived and worked in foreign countries, and taken the helm on a large sailing yacht in the Caribbean.  She liked to go sailing with my dad and me, and most importantly, Rose liked Tom Jones. 

Let’s Roll!                       “This is Tom Jones” Fan Club

Mommio no longer attended TJ shows due to chronic ill health, so Rose was the perfect addition to Tom Jonesville.  On one occasion, when Tom was back at the Greek Theatre, and I had already seen him on and off stage, Rose and I were driving out of the parking lot after a show.  Out of the blue, a limousine pulled out of the parking lot near the theatre where we were parked.  We were pretty sure it was Jones.  Who else would it be?  We looked at each other, looked at the dark limo, looked at each other again, and simply followed it out of the driveway.  We didn’t plan it.  It presented itself to us and it was just too tempting.  Too tempting!   

Like the Pied Piper calling to us, the limo wound its way out of the Griffith Park area as we followed Jones in our little stick shift Porsche 912.  We were travelling at an even pace and there really was no chase at this point.  We just assumed we’d be going on the freeway when we left, because that was the way we came. Because I always panicked when it came to driving freeways, Rose was the designated driver and I became the lookout during the chase.  I would carefully watch the limo and double-check the safety of our movement, saying things like,  “Okay, Rose, hang back, not too close,” and “They’re turning right on Los Feliz.  Put on your right-turn signal, and we are good to go.”   

The further away from the Greek Theatre we got, the more the traffic opened up and the speed picked up.  Oh yeah, baby, the speed picked up.  We sped up North Western Avenue with our little Porsche easily able to keep up with the behemoth limo like the flippin’ tail of the whale.  We surmised that we were heading into the heart of the “action.”  Were we headed to a private club (private disco/dance clubs were very popular during the 70s, with Rose being a card-carrying club member in an LA dance club), or a restaurant like La Scala, a favorite of Tom’s, in Beverly Hills?   Or, perhaps we were headed to his home in Bel Air, or the nearby Hotel Bel Air, a frequent hangout of Jones and many other celebrities (and a favorite place for my own family celebrations throughout the years). 

At this point, the driver had to know we were following them.  Are they used to this?  It was such an impulsive act and we were so intent on being safe during the Tom Jones limo chase that we hadn’t even discussed what we would do once we got to a location.  And then it happened.  As soon as I saw the sign, “Sunset Boulevard,” I knew.  “Rosie,” I shouted, “We’re goin’ to Bel Air!  We are going to Bel Air!”  

Wallingford, CT

 

Our powerful engine revved up and down, depending on the speed at which we followed the smooth, long, ride that carried the superstar.  We continued to flirt with the leviathan limo with blackened windows that could have swallowed up our little, orange Porsche like krill.  We didn’t know exactly where in Bel Air we were going yet, and we certainly didn’t know what we would do when we got there, but we were impetuously and inappropriately chasing… the singer who saved me.    

 

The Long Maturing Road

As I was walking – no, crawling – on my long maturing road, I moved from a junior college to a university and switched majors from Communications to English Literature.  Why?  I was afraid to drive the freeways.  Embarrassing to admit back in the day, but it was true.  Anxiety regarding driving the freeways actually changed my entire college path.  I had transferred to a state college with a forty-minute drive on the freeway, but on the first day of school, I had a panic attack, and realized I couldn’t force myself to meet the challenge; when it came to fight or flight, I was a flight risk.  So, with a lot more shame than embarrassment, I ended up transferring to a university with a mere fifteen-minute drive from home to classroom… on streets.  At the time, it was just another seemingly paralyzing, shameful reason as to why I was stuck in a place of arrested development; and another reason why I felt so insecure and would find myself escaping into Tom Jonesville, a place I went to whenever I needed a boost or a release for my many emotions.

Tom Jones - Do we like the striped short-sleeved sweater?

Most people thought my fear had to do with actually driving on the freeway, or a fear of getting lost, which I have to admit, not wanting to go outside a 5-mile radius beyond my home tended to confirm that theory.  However, the biggest reason I didn’t drive the freeways had more to do with the fact that I got severe migraines, which were often triggered when driving.  I would be cruising along and suddenly, the glint of sunlight off of a chrome bumper would temporarily alter my vision and I would see spots and lose part of my vision.  Once the spots showed up I would inevitably have a “light show” in my eyes, followed by temporary, partial vision, and a severe, debilitating migraine headache.  I would end up in bed and stay in a dark room for one or two days.  The pain of these sick migraines was severe and debilitating and lasted for years. 

Because we didn’t go to doctors, I didn’t know what that visual problem meant, and so, in my ignorance, I was afraid that I was losing my vision.  My mother and I would pray, and pray, and pray over this lurking fear of blindness.  I had so many lingering fears regarding my sight and the horrible pain and sickness of a migraine that it interfered with my ability to live my life freely for years.  In my limited world, fear of losing my vision while driving also translated to fear of driving any distance by myself on freeways.  What would happen if I had to pull over and wait for an hour on the side of the freeway to get my vision back?  What would happen if I became sick on the side of the freeway?  Good things don’t happen to girls alone on the side of a freeway.  I would focus on every news show that featured a horrible story about a woman on a freeway.  As usual, my inability to contain my fears always led to catastrophizing.

Tom Jones, 1972 - The striped sleeveless sweater?

At this point, my father, who did see doctors, took me to his ophthalmologist.  The surgeon was shocked to find out that I feared losing my vision, and was quickly able to identify the lights and loss of vision as a migraine “aura,” which can precede a migraine for up to 60 minutes and can include blind spots, fine lines that float across your field of vision, spots that move or shimmer, and flashes of light.  I cannot describe the relief that came with the news that I wasn’t facing blindness.  It was as if I had been living in the Dark Ages, and a man from the future came back to share his knowledge.  (Side note: These migraines can still occasionally knock me off my feet, though in the late 80s I began to use medication to help with the pain and limitations they imposed on my life, and it made a huge improvement in the quality of my life.) 

Speaking of my father, I have to honor how he always moved heaven and earth for me to see Tom Jones.  In fact, I honor all of the men – the fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, uncles, and male friends – that were patient and accepting of all of us women who danced around Tom Jones for years and still do, and made them change their plans, spend money when maybe we shouldn’t have, attend concerts, let us control the TV clicker on certain nights, listen to albums or CDs over and over again, drive us long distances, etc.  For me and Mommio, any trips to our mountain cabin were planned around TV Guide and had to occur either before or after any TJ television shows or specials; Dad just accepted it as “girl rule” and part of his lot in life, as these were the old days, before Beta, video, or DVR.  (Today, can you imagine such a life?) 

Due to my fear of driving the freeways, Daddio would always drive me up to whatever L.A. box office was selling TJ tickets, because I could get better tickets than places like Ticketron offered.  He also gave me the tip to show my photos with Tom to “improve the odds of getting better tickets.”  He was a keen writer, due to the fact that he went to law school, (though getting his law degree was interrupted by the war), and when I was really young and trying to promote “Tom’s Booster’s” fan club, he taught me everything about being specific and checking for details, and how to edit, edit, edit.  He was a great salesman and businessman, and Daddio was probably the one who told me to have a “cheat-sheet” in front of me when I made calls to Tom’s management in order to prompt me what to say.  It actually helped assuage my nerves, and is a life lesson I’ve used for years.  Daddio always had more confidence in me than I had in myself, saying repeatedly, “You can do anything you put your mind to.”  I never believed him, until I met Tom Jones.    

Near the end of his life, my father took me out to a little restaurant on Balboa Island in Newport Beach.  After lunch we would always walk around the Island, admire the beautiful and charming homes, and check out the sailboats and “stinkpots” in the bay.  He was struggling with his short-term memory this summer, more so than ever before.  He forgot three times that we had already ordered our lunch, but was able to describe, in detail, the way his childhood bedroom looked, the first car he got when he was 14-years-old, and what he ate on board ship in the navy during World War II. 

Neither of us knew this would be our last lunch alone together, or that in a mere three months he would be gone.  Out of the blue, he asked, “Judi, was I a good father?  Was there something I could have done better?”  For me, just asking that question was the very answer.  There were so many ways he was a good father that I could write a blog about this tall, handsome man who wore a bow tie, seemed to know the answer to everything, was generous beyond words, and always left me with a kiss on the cheek, saying “I love you, my sweet,” or “Keep your powder dry.” (This is a “Be prepared!” reference that comes from the old days when you had to carry a satchel of dry gun powder to place into your gun when it was necessary to shoot, and meaning you have to be careful with your resources and use them when you need them.)

Tom Jones, 1973 - Or the plaid three-quarter-sleeve sweater?

I have to admit that among the many things I told him I was grateful for was his willingness to pave the way on my long trip to Tom Jonesville.  Like my mother, he knew it was important, but unlike my mother, I don’t think he understood why.  But that was the beauty of my father; even if he didn’t get the why, he simply understood it was.  While we ate lunch, I reminded him about the time he drove me up to my sister’s place to see Tom in L.A., and a few days later, after I seeing him on and offstage, Dad was supposed to pick me up and take me home.  Suddenly something came up in his business and he couldn’t pick me up; mother was ill and couldn’t pick me up; and my neither of sisters could get me home.  I was afraid of going on a public bus system with so many strangers, or in a taxi with only one stranger (on the verge of an anxiety-ridden agoraphobia attack). 

For some reason that neither one of us could remember, I had to get home.  What did he do?  Daddio sent me home from LA to Orange Country in a six-seat passenger airplane.  There was twenty-something me, scared-to-death to be with five very serious businessmen heading home from a long day’s work in L.A.  I was able to manage my anxiety because I was actually flying on a TJ high.  Daddio and I both laughed out loud remembering all of his enabling of my Tom Jones shenanigans.  I thanked him from the bottom of my heart, because by then I was managing my life-limiting migraines, fears of driving the freeways, and oh-so many other things that in my teens and twenties I didn’t dream possible during my Tom Jones days.  We both laughed it off, but I will be forever grateful that he supported me 100% in the long maturing road that included… the singer who saved me.

Tom Jones Reality Check – Part 2

Should I stay or should I go?  That was running through my head at warp speed sitting on the sofa with Tom Jones in the backstage mobile home at the Universal Amphitheatre in ’73.  I didn’t have much time to think it through.  Tom was wearing a leather jacket.  Was he going to stay or was he going to go?  Would it be right to separate from the fan I came with?  Was it selfish of me?  Was it safe for me to stay alone, and safe for the other fan to go alone?  Would that be breaking an unspoken fan code?  If you come backstage together do you have to leave together? 

Should I stay or should l go?  Cell phones weren’t even invented yet, so how on earth was I going to let my sister know that I would be staying?  She was waiting for me back at the parking lot.  How would I get back to her place in LA?  Would a ride be provided?  Would I get a taxi?  Was there a phone in that funky mobile home?  I was not yet wise to the ways of… well, what was it?  Changing from fan to groupie?  Oh, heck no, I thought, I am not a groupie.  Remember, groupies are gone in 60 seconds. 

Should I stay or should I go?  Within seconds, I realized my goal was unchanged.  I was going to get close to Tom Jones so that he could see all of the wonderful qualities I expressed that no one else could see.  (Distorted thinking.  Of course there were people in my life who saw good, positive qualities in me.  I just couldn’t accept it because I didn’t believe it.)  Then, Tom would somehow magically fall in love with me, just like when the handsome Prince falls in love with Snow White and they live happily ever after. 

Tom Jones – Universal Ampitheater 1973

Should I stay or should I go?  I did not stay.  I believed that jacket meant he was going to go, and I didn’t want to “party” with a bunch of musicians and hangers-on.  There was only one person I wanted to hang onto, and if he wasn’t there, there was no reason to be there.  Besides, if I had ditched my sister, my family would have called 911 and let the bloodhounds loose. 

Of course, after I left, I privately, anxiously ruminated over whether I made the right decision.  Did fear make the decision for me?  What if this was the time and place that Tom Jones fell in love with me and I blew it again?  And why, oh why, did I have to ask about Snow White?  I loved being called Snow White.  I must admit that it made me feel special, and I did feel like I was waiting for my prince to come kiss me and break the evil spell I was under.  The spell of self-consciousness, self-doubt, and sometimes, even self-loathing.  I loved being Tom Jones’ Snow White until I asked him the questions that I wished I’d never asked once I heard his answer:  

“You’ve called me Long Tall Sally, which I get.  But, you’ve called me Snow White a few times.  I’m kind of curious.  Where did Snow White come from?” 

I wished I had never, ever asked that stupid question.   When Tom told me he called me Snow White because I made him feel like a “dwarf,” he recognized, in that split second of my mortification, that his comment was more hurtful than cute or funny.  Given my limited ego strength, it was hard for my brain to compute his honesty, and that it really said more about him than me.  At the time, however, it was still too close to the teasing and bullying I experienced.  I was still too tender and still too sensitive. 

Jones always took me away from my issues.  I always felt like his extraordinary confidence trumped my extraordinary height.  But this time, my question about the nickname opened my personal can of worms that slithered all over my fears and anxieties to strangle any shred of self-confidence I had in that moment.  As I look back on those photos with Tom Jones, (see post Tom Jones’ Reality Check), I see a young girl who didn’t see or feel her own beauty.  I see a young girl who heard from a grandmother, “Number One Sister is pretty.  Number Two Sister is beautiful.  And you, Number Three Sister, you are (imagine a painstakingly long pause) different.”  I see a young girl who heard from adult strangers, “You’re different,” and from children, “You don’t belong.” 

Handing Over the Tie

Why did that girl allow others to be the barometer of her feelings and confidence? I felt so lacking in normal human connections that I sought after a superstar to find some kind of super connection.  That Jones was so accessible is still amazing to me.  (NOTE TO MUSICIANS AND SINGERS:  Lesson 101 – How to Build A Fan Base, by legendary singer and icon, Tom Jones.  Be accessible to your fans.  They will follow you into the future.)  I was not a stalker, errr… welll, I do have some funny stories about a limo chase or two, but that is still to come…  And is it really stalking when you kind of, sort of know the person and kind of, sort of know where they/you might be going???  But, I digress. 

One of the biggest flaws in my pursuit of Tom Jones, and that I’m sure everyone on the face of the earth would have told me except that I kept it a secret, was looking to him for validation.  As I look back I realize that I was always looking to someone, everyone – my mother, my father, my sisters, my church, Tom Jones, and later, friends – for validation.  I was looking for someone outside of myself to give me what I could not give myself – confidence.  In that small, private moment when Tom whispered something in my ear, he validated me from an external standpoint, and so the confidence was fleeting and dependent upon his feelings and words in that moment. 

On-stage Banter

In that moment, he took me from painful to pleasurable feelings in the blink of his eyes.  But the validation was external, fleeting, and short-lived, which explains why it fueled the fire to keep me in Tom Jonesville for years to come.  I was always trying to connect and then reconnect to my object – Tom Jones, The Voice of energy, comfort, and emotional expression, the worldly and famous superstar – who, by finding me attractive and loveable, would allow me to believe that I was worthy, significant, and that all six-foot-two-inches of me had a place in this world.  (Another distorted belief.  Even though my religion told me I had innate value as a child of God, I didn’t feel it.  Even though I believed that all human beings had innate value, I still didn’t feel it.  Let’s face it, I was still a sensitive, tortured soul.)   At twenty, I knew I still wasn’t the woman I needed to be for Jones to fall in love with, but I was much closer than the hypersensitive 17-year-old, the gawky 18-year-old, or the awkward 19-year-old.  I was getting a little more mature, a smidge more talkative, and able to reveal a tad more of my personality.  While outwardly I may have looked like a young woman who had her act together, inwardly I still had a lot of work to do. 

Not long before the Amphitheatre performances, which I attended on multiple nights, I had a class in which 50% of our final grade was based on oral presentations.  I spent weeks begging my professor to allow me to write a lengthy paper in order to avoid standing and speaking in front of the class.  Nonetheless, I had to do the oral report, and my face flushed, my voice quavered, and my whole body quivered from start to finish.  So, how did this same girl gather the courage to run up to the Universal Amphitheatre stage, ask Jones for his tie, and be kissed by him in front of over five thousand people?  It was the sheer magnetism… of the singer who saved me.

Six Degrees of Separation

Home from Vegas, I vacillated between feeling “safe” and kind of “crazy.”  It had been a trip of highs and lows.  The lows involved Mother feeling ill, and me being afraid to venture out beyond the pool and showroom due to anxiety-ridden character flaws (that’s what it felt like at the time, but it was actually a distorted belief).  The highs being feeling like a caterpillar hidden in a cocoon, yet somehow able to briefly transform into a butterfly in order to be near to, listen to, and interact with Tom Jones, my transitional object (unbeknownst to me at the time). 

I lived for the adrenaline of those moments, yet my life was mostly made up of “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to school we go” moments.  Yep, Snow White (AKA: Long Tall Sally) was schlepping books and charting a course for the future.  I really didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I just knew I needed to work on my motivating mantras.  I needed to be better.  I needed to grow (not physically, since six-foot-two was more than ample, thank you very much).  So my motivating mantra became, “If I work at being around people and learn how to better handle myself socially, then I’ll be able to get Tom Jones fall in love with me.”  In the meantime, it was not unusual, (pardon the unoriginal play on words), to listen to Jones’ albums in order to regulate, moderate, or accentuate my mood and emotions.   

Bright lights backstage – Westbury Music Fair, NY

In iconoculture, the culture of celebrity, there is a belief that everyone is just six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon.  But, Mommio and I found ourselves a loose six degrees of separation from Tom Jones one Sunday morning in the 1970s.  Let me explain these very wide degrees of separation: 

First degree:  We resided in Orange County, California.  Actor John Wayne left the more liberal lifestyle of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, in Los Angeles County, for the more conservative Orange County in the 60s and 70s.  John Wayne was so revered that they named Orange County Airport, the airport we flew in and out of in order to see Tom Jones perform, John Wayne Airport.   

Second degree:  Wayne was probably the most famous and revered celebrity who lived in Newport Beach.  He had a beautiful home in Bayshore, a private community along Newport Bay, in Newport Beach, California.  We also lived in Newport.   

Third degree:  Wayne’s beautiful wife during the 60s & 70s attended our church. We rarely saw Mr. Wayne.  I think we saw him once at church, and once at our local Savon, and you could not miss him due to his size.  He was one of the few men who was actually taller than I – a rarity – and he appeared to be as tall as they claim his 6-foot-four-inch frame was.  He was a big, brawny man, and you could not miss his voice; it was deep and uniquely, unmistakably John Wayne.   

Forth degree:  My mother’s uncle married a lovely lady who lived next door to John Wayne.  She, too, attended our same church, and they became “couples” friends.  They shared meals and evening card games in their beautiful homes until the Waynes’ separated.  We heard many times that the Waynes were gracious and fun hosts.   

Fifth degree:  Our family knew the John Wayne house only from the outside bay view, as my father was a lifelong sailor, and we regularly sailed by their notable home.  It was a large, white ranch-style, one-story home with impeccable landscaping and a stunning view of the Newport Bay basin.  Most exciting to see, and keep tabs on over the years, was Wayne’s 136-foot yacht, “The Wild Goose,” moored within Wayne’s sight in the bay.  It was the biggest “stink-pot,” (that’s sailor slang for a boat powered by an engine and not a sail), in the bay.  With its huge, painted white hull and varnished teak trim, it was known by the locals as the floating Taj Majal.  It was well known that Wayne would use it for family outings and that celebrities and other dignitaries also enjoyed its capable size, crew, and accommodations. 

Do you think TJ cruised off of Catalina Island…

Sixth degree:  After church we would often go to Richard’s Market, a local, individually owned, top-of-the-line supermarket at the base of Lido Island in Newport Beach, for our customary Sunday grocery shop.  The owner of the grocery store, who knew almost all of his customers by name, also just happened to go to our church, and was always friendly and chatty.  One Sunday, as we were purchasing our groceries, Mr. Richards pointed over to the next check-out stand and, said to me and Mom, “That’s the crew of ‘The Wild Goose.’  They’re taking someone you know somewhere.”  We were a little confused.  “They’re taking a special someone out.”  Still not getting it, we just looked blankly at him.  He then asked one of the men purchasing items, “Can you tell them who you’re taking out?”  The man looked a tad chagrined, but said, “Sure.  We’re goin’ out on a cruise with Tom Jones and guests.  We’re preppin’ the galley and stockin’ up on supplies.”  My heart skipped a beat or two.  Mother and I looked at each other as if we were in on a secret.  So many questions we wanted to ask, but we were, for lack of better words, good girls.  We didn’t grill the Goose Crew.  We didn’t need Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, and it would be decades until Richard Castle and detective Nikki Heat were created.  Besides, we were smart enough to know the most important part of the who: Tom Jones!  We did not have to sleuth out the what because we were told it was a cruise.  We didn’t know where, although we could surmise it would be either to anchor off of Catalina Island for a short cruise, or the coast of Mexico for a longer cruise.  We could guess when, because the supplies included fresh groceries, so it had to be soon.  It didn’t take a detective to determine the Why was for R & R, (rest and relaxation), because why else would anyone go on a cruise?  And we were told the How, as they would be cruising on “The Wild Goose.”   

As much as we wanted to pry and ask a million questions of the Goose Crew, we wished them bon voyage, and watched them as they went on their merry way.  Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum… or in Tom Jones case, a bottle of  Dom Perignon.  And that, my friends, is irrefutably stretching the six degrees of separation between me and Mom and Tom… the singer who saved me.

…or do you think the Superstar cruised to the coast of Mexico?

“Hello. Is that Snow White?”

The Tom Jones fire was alive, but the next trip Mommio and I took to Vegas was not  exactly the trip we planned.  We flew in on a Hughes Air bright banana yellow jet, (what was Howard Hughes thinking?), and went back to Caesar’s Palace.  Mother wasn’t  feeling well, so we went straight to the hotel room so she could lie down before we went to the Friday night dinner show.  As we dressed, I was nervous, because my mother was my rock, my right hand, my wing-woman so-to-speak.  Even though I was now a grown, mature-looking 20-year-old, I depended on her like I depended on Tom Jones – only lots, lots more.

All performance photos – Ceaser’s Palace, Las Vegas

In my family we kept all of our physical ailments private, so no one really knew that both Mom and I suffered from chronic, “sick” headaches.  Mom was determined to make it to the first show, so we put on our make-up and our evening gowns and headed downstairs for the dinner show.  In the elevator, we ran in to some of Jones’ musicians.  This was in the old days when he traveled with bandleader, Johnnie Spence, guitarist “Big” Jim Sullivan, well known from Jones’ TV show, other key players, and a rather large orchestra.

Mother, being extremely friendly and sociable, asked the musicians if they played for Tom, and struck up a light and friendly conversation with them.  “Where are you boys from?”  “How long have you been playing?”  The trumpet-player took an interest in me, and said, “I’ll look for you after the sets this weekend.”  Mom and I giggled after he left, both of us knowing full well without having to say it, that she would never, ever, for a moment, consider letting her underage daughter go out with a musician in “Sin City.”  Remember, Vegas in the 70s was not the family friendly Vegas of today.

What the trumpet player didn’t know, and what Mother didn’t know, (or did she?), was that I only had eyes for Tom Jones.  I mean, come on, when Tom Jones is the first man you have ever kissed, and you meet him when you are a teenager, why wouldn’t you think that maybe you had just an itty-bitty, eensy-teensy, tiny-winy little chance?   Helloooo, silly girl, because he was Tom Jones?  Because he was a superstar?  Because he was married?  Because I wasn’t in his league?  Because I was so young, so tall, so shy, so sensitive, so anxious, so…  Oh, puhleeze!  That didn’t stop me.

Onward, to the pre-show routine of slipping Jesse the maitre d’ a few “dollahs” to get close to the stage.  We ate the preliminary meal, and Mother chatted the preliminary Tom-chat with our table-mates, such as “Have you seen him perform before?”  I sat quietly.  Getting to the foot of the stage at Caesar’s Palace was the culmination of another year’s worth of motivating mantras that pushed me beyond my comfort zone.  My goal was to look and act “normal,” rather than like the girl who hides in her house, and only crawls out in order to go to college and church and a few other designated “safe places.”  My goal was to get to this time and this place where I could believe, even if for a moment, that when Tom Jones sang “She’s a Lady,” he was looking at and singing that song to me.  (Weren’t many of us smitten fans thinking that?) 

Mother and I were equally enthralled when Jones jumped onto the stage.  Jones and The Voice were like the Pied Piper to me, at once hypnotizing and energizing, and I found myself standing and asking him to autograph the blank page of my photo album (currently seen on my blog home page).  Where did that courage come from?  He teased me a bit, in a good way – a kind of a playful, flirtatious way.  No bullying from Tom Jones.  He made me want to say to all of the bullies, “See, this man finds me attractive.”  Hmmm… a recurring theme of finding self-worth through attachment to someone considered special.

This first show was the perfect way to start our TJ Vegas trip, but as soon as we got back to the hotel room, Mother went to bed for the rest of the weekend.  Uh oh.  This was big trouble for me, because I was petrified to do anything independently.  We kept the curtains drawn, the lights low, and had room service for the rest of our stay.

Mommio encouraged me to go out to the huge Caesar’s Palace pool the following day.  What was a normal activity for everyone was a challenge for me.  There was a lot of anxiety around leaving the safety of the hotel room; fear of going in the elevator by myself; fear of getting lost in the huge hotel (and it’s even bigger and better today).  Once I found the pool, there was fear of getting a towel from the pool boy.

Then came the ultimate nerve-wracking experience of taking off the cover-up to reveal the endless skinny girl legs. This was decades before Bethenny Frankel coined the Skinnygirl brand name and being a skinny girl became a good thing.  I tried to act normal and relaxed while sitting in a chaise lounge in a bikini.  But, I’m sorry, I wasn’t relaxed in my body when it was covered from head to toe, let alone, sitting in a bikini by myself poolside.  I don’t think there are too many people who feel relaxed in a little bikini.  Well, maybe Tom Jones.  But he was exceptionally fit and trim – and a bit of an exhibitionist.

The not so shy, Mr. Jones

I was not going to go to the second night’s shows in Vegas because Mommio was still sick, and I was too timid to go to a show by myself.  She kept encouraging me to get dressed “just to see.”  Mothers.  That’s how they lure you in to doing things you think you can’t do.  So I got dressed in my kelly-green “hot-pants,” a little one-piece jersey jumpsuit, (it was the 70s and short-shorts, as they are now called, were “in”), and black patent boots, that had to be “taken in.” That’s right, my legs were so thin that Anthony the cobbler had to take out inches on each side of both boots.

I was so nervous and self-conscious that much of the night seemed like an out-of-body experience.  Throughout the evening I had mini-panic attacks, but I was getting better at not letting anyone see what was going on in my body or my mind.  I managed to pay the “toll” to sit down front. People probably thought I was aloof, even though I was actually nauseous with fear and probably would have started crying if anyone had tried to engage me in real conversation.  There was anxiety due to not having my designated “safe” person with me.  Anxiety due to all of the attention I was getting wearing the very “hot” hot-pants.  And anxiety related to being completely out of my element; the outside didn’t really match the inside.  I was a faint-hearted young lady, and not the sexpot I had dressed to portray.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is… Tom Jones!”  The moment he began to sing, all of my fears melted.  I didn’t know it at the time, but the sound of his voice was my “relaxation response” that Herbert Benson describes in his book, The Relaxation Response.  All of the tension in my body dissipated.  His power on stage seemed to act as a defibrillator on my weakness; a magnetic force that allowed me to breathe in Tom Jones, breathe out Tom Jones, and feel stronger.  I felt a degree of confidence I normally didn’t feel.

After Jones’ hello to the audience and a corny joke, (I think all of his fans love his cute, corny jokes), about how Las Vegas reminds him of his youth in Wales because, “When you work in the coal mine you don’t get to see much daylight, (pregnant pause), and it’s the same thing here.”  Then, from out of the blue, while he was hydrating his throat with his own drink, Tom Jones asked the table, my table, “Everything alright?”  How’s Snow White treating you?  She okay?”  I got the impression he was talking about me, and as shocked as I was, I gave out a vibe in a whatever Lola wants, Lola gets manner that told him I knew what I wanted, and it was him.  Then he raised his glass, looked directly at me, and said, “Cheers,” with a twinkle in his eye.

After he sang “She’s A Lady,” Jones again drank from his own glass, again looked at me and said, “Hello.  Is that Snow White?”  Now I knew he was talking about me.  “That she is that,” he continued.  Could he hear the Disney song waltzing through my brain?  Did he know he was my Prince Charming?  What would have happened if I had burst into singing “Someday My Prince Will Come”? (Song by Larry Morey and Frank Churchill.)  Forget my previous nickname – Long Tall Sally – I became Tom Jones’ Snow White during this Vegas sojourn and thereafter.  The dwarves asked their lady if she was a princess, and when Jones called me Snow White, I felt like a Princess with a capital “P.”

As I stood up to continue the conversation, he said, “It’s you again.”  This time I pulled out my photograph from the Greek Theater (seen in the post “Be Careful What You Wish  For”).  “I remember,” he said.  “I remember everything.  Well, (pregnant pause), nearly everything (audience laughter).”  As I handed him a pen, he asked, “What are you shaking for?  You were shaking last night, as well (more laughter).”  I was in Seventh Heaven before the kiss, which brought the house down with roars and cheers.  Despite a little shaking, I  realized I had made an impression on Tom Jones, the man whose voice had been my comfort and joy for years.

Now that Jones has been forthright about his less than perfect ways, and documented them in his song called “The Road,” from his CD, 24 Hours, I will, for the first time, admit that I had “heard” from the more groupie-side of his fan base, that sometimes someone was invited backstage on behalf of Jones.  A trusted Jones employee, whom I will call The Getter, would deliver the invitation.  As I left, still in the thrill of what my youthful mind saw as on-stage flirting, I saw him – The Getter – and he was looking at me, heading my way.

I panicked.  I started shaking.  I could barely breathe.  My chest was pounding – this was a full-blown, gale-force panic attack.  My endless legs, barely covered by my little hot pants and knee-high boots, automatically bolted, while my waist-length blonde hair fluttered in the wake of the speed at which I moved.  Forget Tom Jones, forget all of my hopes and dreams – I could not get up to the safety of the hotel room and my mother fast enough.

Of course, Mommio immediately wanted to know everything, and in my breathlessness I shared everything that went on.  Everything, except the come-hither-I-am-woman vibe I put out, and the incident with The Getter.  I knew that if I told anyone about those things, especially my mother, my Tom Jones concerts, future backstage visits, and the mere possibility for me to somehow get him to fall madly in love with me would have been immediately shut down.  Kaput.  Over.

As I lay in my hotel bed that night at Caesar’s Palace, I was so disappointed in myself.  I spent the dawn hours chastising myself for my childishness.  I couldn’t believe I ran.   But, I wasn’t ready.  I had enough insight to know that while the outside appeared to be sexy and sophisticated, I was far from being that Cosmo girl I was trying to depict.  I was still extremely immature, very naïve, and dare I say, innocent?  In fact, if I wanted to  hang with Tom Jones, I needed to get an education by reading Cosmopolitan magazine, or maybe even Sex and the Single Girl by Helen Gurley Brown.  Unfortunately Sex and the City author  Candace Bushnell was still a blink in her parents’ eyes.

I wondered how could I yearn for something so much, yet literally run from it?  Then it dawned on me.  Maybe the Getter wasn’t coming for me.  Oh no.  What was I thinking?  Tom Jones flirts with every female from age 5 to 95.  Maybe The Getter was going toward a celebrity or a business acquaintance that Jones was inviting backstage.  Oh no.  Alone in my bed I felt foolish and embarrassed.

There I was, a flesh and blood, 6-foot-two-inch blonde Snow White, muddling through a humdrum world surrounded by dwarves and dreaming about Prince Charming.  The Disney-animated, short brunette Snow White got her Prince Charming.  Even though I ran like the wind at twenty-years-old in Vegas, I still wanted my prince to be… the singer who saved me.

Gypsy Singer

What struck me upon meeting Tom Jones for the first time in 1972 was that he was easygoing, casual, and, well, affable.  Not the expected, “I am lion hear me roar,” sex machine that had been described over the years.  When he sings, he sings without an accent, but when he speaks off-stage, he speaks with a Welsh accent.  He was just so darn real, life-size, and human off-stage.  On-stage, when Jones takes the stage, the star and The Voice become larger than life.  The largest venue I’ve seen him perform is the Los Angeles Forum, and I discovered that even in the large arenas, Jones was always bigger than his biggest venue.

“This is Tom Jones” Fan Club

What would it be like, to be a singer who is able to take command of a stage and an audience?  What is that feeling that singers feel?  Is it love?  Joy?  Adulation?  Acceptance?  Oneness with the audience?  Power? Is that what Tom Jones longed for when he was a young prepubescent boy stricken with TB and stuck at home alone?  Is it what he yearned for when he got his first real taste of popularity singing in the local Welsh pubs?  Is that what he felt when he claimed his fame and fortune?  Is it enough to fill you when you are on the road 24 Hours?

24 Hours is a critically acclaimed CD that preceded Jones’ recent Praise and Blame, with many songs co-written by Jones.  Some of the songs in 24 Hours are autobiographical and reflect the challenges a family deals with when a singer travels the road for a living 24/7.  There was much buzz about the ode to his long-time wife in “The Road,” by Tom Jones, Iyiola Babatunde Bablolla, Armando Manzanero, Lisa Rachelle Green, and Darren Emilio Lewis.  You have to know Jones and his story to get the connection to “Seen That Face” by Tom Jones, Iyiola Babtunde Babalola, Nicole Louise Morier, and Darren Emilio Lewis, which describes the recognition of pain on a child’s face when you leave him.

Whatever that feeling is that singers get, they get hooked on it like crack, and follow it through the gypsy lifestyle with its infamous sex, drugs, and rock and roller-coaster, which takes its toll on anyone who enters the golden gates of fame and fortune.  The life of a gypsy singer is fraught with struggles. It is the struggle of breaking into the industry.  Then there is the struggle to stay at the top. There is also the struggle to ride the ebb and flow of a career in the music industry, which eats you up and spits you up as fast as it can; or as fast as the gifted one can self-destruct.  And family members are along for the ride.

Jones with son, Mark. “This is Tom Jones” Fan Club

The most insidious loss for anyone involved with a gypsy singer is the difficulty of maintaining intimate family relationships, because it always starts out with the intention of being a positive thing for the family.  Tom Jones’ story is no different.  He had a wife and a child by the time he was 17-years-old and he knew he had talent.  The goal was to support the family.  “I started singing in clubs about the time he [son, Mark Woodward, who kept Jones’ surname; Jones is Tom’s mother’s maiden name] was born, so I wasn’t around him much.  I went to London in 1964, and my wife would come to see me, but I didn’t see my son unless I went back to Pontypridd.  I wanted to, but I was very preoccupied.  From 1965 I started going to America a lot – the records were as big there as here [England].  I didn’t have time to be in Wales, but I thought as long as I was sending money home it was okay.” (“Relative Values: Tom Jones and Mark Woodward, by Bridget Freer, The Sunday Times, UK,12/8/02).

What about the wife and child?  Where do they fit in?  How do they live a family life at home without that gypsy singer?  Once the struggle is over, is it all glamour and riches?  Is it lonely?  How do you live your life without the love of your life around?  Who do you have intimate relationships with (and I don’t mean sexual intimacy, I mean close, sharing, relationships).  And who does the gypsy singer become intimate with?  The gypsy singer becomes close to the gypsy roadie family.  And, like it or not, they do go “lookin’ for love in all the wrong places.”

(“Lookin’ for Love,” written by Wanda Mallette, Patti Ryan, and Bob Morrison.)

“This is Tom Jones” Fan Club

How do you participate in the family’s emotional needs while sustaining them financially as a gypsy singer?  This is how the young Jones family did it, according to Bridget Freer’s 2002 interview with Tom and Mark:

TOM:  “Mark’s had a life most kids haven’t had with their fathers.  We became closer as men than we did when I was a teenager and he was a little boy, and that was through working together.  We got older together…

“When the money started rolling in from “It’s Not Unusual,” I bought a house in Shepperton and said: ‘Now we can have Mark with us.’  That was 1966.  I enjoyed going to pick him up from school…  The mothers would be:  ‘Oooooh, there’s Tom Jones!…

“He was a shy child.  He spent a lot of time in his room listening to music.  Later, there’d be six-month tours; it affected him more than I realized.  He came out for school holidays wherever I was, and always seemed fine.  But one night, when he was 15, we went to a restaurant and he was very quiet.  Linda said: ‘He’s missing you a lot now.’  We talked it over and she said: ‘Do you think he could travel with you?  I said:  ‘Yeah, as long as it’s okay with his school’…”

MARK:  “Me and my mother were alone a lot.  She felt the strain, but she couldn’t go with him because I was in school.  I missed him.  It came to a head when I was an adolescent.  I got depressed, and my parents didn’t know what to do.  It was only the three of us – three young people.  It was a big decision, but I left school and went on tour with him.

All my working life has been in my father’s business.  I never wanted to do anything else.  I was a roadie first, and whenever somebody got fired I learnt their job.  Tom let me have a lot of input.  I would never call him Tom to his face – that would feel weird.  I call him Tom to a third person.  I couldn’t say: ‘Would you book my daddy?’

He never gave me the father-son talk.  I had to learn from experience.  I was with grown-ups 24 hours a day…  He wasn’t a 55-year-old guy in a suit coming home from his nine-to-five, laying down the law: he was in his thirties, with a very unusual lifestyle.  My mother too – we all had an unusual lifestyle.  That made them more sympathetic to me…

Soon after Gordon Mills, Tom’s manager, died, Tom said: ‘Are you willing to take the reins?’  I hesitated, because it’s all well very well having an opinion, but as manager, if a business decision went sideways it would fall on my shoulders.  But it made sense:  I was a 29-year-old, road-hardened kind of fellow, and as soon as I had my own family, I decided I couldn’t carry on travelling…  I felt more qualified than ever to be his manager.”

The Jones family dealt with their family issues as best they could, and in the end, it kind of worked out for them.  In the 70s, however, most people raised eyebrows and reporters cast aspersions over the fact that Tom Jones allowed his underage son to travel with him.  I remember thinking, in my teens mind you, that their family decision was brilliant.  I was totally enmeshed with my own mother, and so I believed I understood a child’s need, a son’s need, to be with his father, even though the gypsy lifestyle is unhealthy.  It was also my teenage thoughts that made me believe that somehow I could possibly make Tom Jones fall in love with me and fit in with that crazy gypsy lifestyle.  I discovered, years later, that the brain isn’t fully developed until the age of 25 – Duh…  (Oops, pardon the weak Charlie Sheen reference.)

“This is Tom Jones” Fan Club

At one point, my mom sort of half-joked, “You should flirt with Tom’s son!”  Mother was right.  I should have been interested in Tom’s son, who was only four years younger.  We surely had more in common.  We were closer in age.  Mark was shy; I was shy.  Mark felt uncomfortable at school; I felt uncomfortable at school.  Mark spent a lot of time in his room listening to music; I spent a lot of time in my room listening to music.  Mark had a family of three; since my sisters left home I had a family of three.  Mark was depressed; I was anxious.  Helloooooo… conversation starters!  His whole life was wrapped up in press and public relations and I was studying PR.

Mark eventually married and gave Jones a daughter-in-law PR person/manager and both Mr. and Mrs. Jones a grandson and granddaughter.  Jones was only 41 when he became a grandfather.  Whenever I had the opportunity to speak with Mark Woodward, I have to admit, I choked.  I was better with older people, and he was probably better with older people; neither one of us realized that we were the youngest kids around who might have had something in common when we were within arm and ear’s reach.  Besides, Tom Jones was providing a deep psychological purpose for me – I just didn’t know it at the time.  All I knew was that in order to make this gypsy singer fall in love with all six-foot-two-and-scared-of-her-shadow-me, I had to figure out a way to get over my fears… for the singer who saved me.