Tom Jones rocks it out in 1974. Points for the frilly shirt, the bouffy hair-preening, the rodeo champ-een belt buckle the size of a volkswagen and the marching band pants with the stripe down the sides.
Thinking about Tom and also about Sean Connery makes me hope we'll never hear a news story that either one has broken a hip. That just wouldn't be right, would it? On such a day our innocence would surely die.
How many drab fellows shifted uncomfortably in their Barcaloungers watching this broadcast in 1974, boiling with quiet rage as their wives breezed in from the pan of dirty dishes in the kitchen, squealing "ooooh! Tom JONES!" As years went by, he'd remember how Eunice seemed quite agitated at the mere mention of the Welsh crooner. As their twilight years came, he'd think, "sure, Eunice was married to me and hung around, but that was only because she couldn't have Tom Jones. I know who she really loved... *grouse* *grouse*..."
Smoke 'em if ya got 'em, I suppose.