I Went to a Tom Jones Concert and Here's What Happened

As the lights dimmed in the concert venue, my husband and I settled into our seats amid the perfection of a late-summer evening. The pre-concert buzz filled the air and heightened the excitement I was already feeling.

As with all concerts, there was an opening act — and we expected to be mildly amused by this one, which was none other than Tom Jones, the 1960s heartthrob known not just for his hit songs but for the legions of female fans who show up at his concerts and pelt him with their panties.

Jones is older now, and, on this night, so was his audience — me included. Among this snowy-haired crowd, bellies protruded over the waistlines of well-worn jeans. Bald heads and sensible shoes abounded. Hearing aids peeked out of ears, just above lobes adorned with silvery drop earrings.

I shouldn't have been surprised by the graying crowd since both of the artists scheduled to perform had their biggest hits during the Johnson Administration.

As Jones took the stage, his own gray hair curling in a soft halo around his face, I doubted any panties would be flying in his direction. He limped out, supported by a cane! Perhaps the price of decades of swiveling and panty catching?

He hobbled toward the front of the stage, and though it was definitely him, he looked a lot different than the Tom Jones I remembered, the one who even the seven-year-old me, watching on the black-and-white TV in my suburban New Jersey living room, had recognized as very handsome.

My parents loved him, too, which was saying something because my father, a professional opera singer, disdained most pop singers. But not Jones. My dad raved about his voice. Back then I didn't know the phrase "sex appeal," but I knew the guy had something.

Was this the same guy?

Let's be honest. Someone who hasn't seen me since the Johnson Administration would probably squint to make sure it was really me, too.

Turning 60 was exciting, but a few years into my new decade, I'm a little less enthusiastic about the march of time. I'm not happy with the age spots that now dot my face. I lament the crepe-y skin that sags on my legs and has suddenly shown up on my upper arms. My hair seems thinner and I have to ask people to repeat themselves more times than I care to admit.

I've always been known for my steel-trap mind, the one that remembers what no one else can. These days, though, I find myself forgetting my dog's name. And I miss my younger self, the one who danced till she dropped, who dreamed of an interesting career, marrying a handsome husband, raising a family and buying a beautiful house.

I'm lucky that those dreams have come true. I'm working on inventing new dreams now, which can be exhausting. Yet, on this night, just before our 35th wedding anniversary, I was happy to be out with said husband, enjoying a concert that was guaranteeing nostalgia. I shifted in my seat and tried to focus on the present.

The bouncy blares of the trumpet signaled the start of the show, and as soon as Jones opened his mouth, I immediately forgot his age — and mine. "It's not unusual to be loved by anyone," he sang. At 82, his voice was as strong as ever, and before I knew it I was up on my feet dancing in front of my chair.

The crowd went crazy for him, cheering, screaming and whooping. Jones received it graciously and then explained the cane. He needed hip replacement surgery — his second one, he said — and would be having it as soon as he returned to England. "And then I'll be hipper than hip," he quipped.

But in the meantime, he would sit down to perform the rest of his set. And what a set it was! He captivated the audience with plenty of familiar tunes, along with some I didn't recognize. And I couldn't believe it when suddenly panties were flying up to the stage!  

By the time he sang "Delilah," his popular hit from 1968, everyone was on their feet, including the woman in front of me — the one with a walker. To my surprise, she raised her hands up over her head and swayed to the music while singing her lungs out. She was clearly lost in the moment.

I began to imagine that she too was reveling in the memories that flooded her brain. Perhaps she could see herself glued to the TV screen in some apartment somewhere, curlers in her hair as she paged through a Tiger Beat magazine. Or perhaps Jones's dreamy baritone made her think of wearing mini-skirts and go-go boots. Or maybe it conjured images of her in a bucket-seated car with some guy on a steamy summer night.

With braces on her knees and graying hair on her head, it was hard for me to imagine her as that young girl. But as she swayed her hips back and forth, I knew she could.

And that's when it hit me: No matter how old you get, no matter the circumstances of your life, somewhere deep inside you lives the teenager you once were. You might not think about her much or even realize she's there. But buried in each of us is that person who wondered about love, dreamed of a future, and couldn't imagine that her skin would ever wrinkle, her joints would ever fail, or her idols would turn gray.

The realities of aging cannot be erased — but maybe they can fade a little bit if you're willing to drag yourself to an oldies concert and let the music of your youth wash them away.

I threw my head back and joined the euphoria. "Why, why, why Delilah?" I sang with abandon. "Forgive me Delilah, I just couldn't take any more." But I did I want more. I wanted more nights to feel like a teenager again. More moments of abandon, more experiences that bring tears to my eyes, more chances to be who I always was — a girl with dreams that are stoked by a heart-stopping, familiar song.

Jones is touring the country again this summer, and from the pictures I'm seeing on social media, I'm betting that Jones will be picking up some more panties from the stage. Because it looks like I'm not the only one who's realizing that What's Old is New Again, Pussycat!

Andrea Atkins 


Andrea Atkins is a freelance writer whose articles and essays have appeared in numerous national magazines and web sites. She and her husband raised their two daughters in Westchester County, NY, where they still live.  Read More