Knickers to the BBC!
JAN MOIR sees Tom Jones’ delirious fans deliver their verdict on his sacking from The Voice
The sun is setting over the Lincolnshire Wolds as Sir Tom Jones takes to the stage at the Market Rasen racecourse. The veteran singer walks on without introduction or fanfare, bows politely to the audience and starts singing. he continues to sing until the stars come out and a waxing moon rises in the clear western skies. And then he sings some more, his lusty baritone sounding as compelling as ever, as if he had freshly gargled with smoked treacle.
how does he manage to keep doing it at his age? Tom’s longevity and his richly preserved vocal chords are one of the miracles of the modern entertainment world.
‘I am 75 and I feel fantastic!’ he roars on Saturday night — and the audience roar their approval right back. Despite everything that has happened recently, he appears to be in good spirits.
Three days earlier, Jones had been shocked to be summarily axed from the BBC1 talent show, The Voice. Though he has been a judge and mentor since its launch four years ago, Sir Tom received only 24 hours’ advance notice that he was being replaced by Boy George.
On his Facebook page he criticised the BBC over its abrupt decision to drop him, without ‘consultation or conversation of any kind’. While adding that he supported ‘creative change’, he pointed out that ‘being informed, as a matter of duty and respect, is an important part of creative relationships. This substandard behaviour from the executives is very disappointing’.
One can see his point. No one had suggested to Jones that he might not be coming back, nor flagged up a warning that the three months he had put aside to take part in the show might be superfluous to needs. Yet despite his dismay and ire at the situation, tonight’s show must go on.
Up on the stage in the middle of the racecourse, the burly Jones superstructure is wrapped in a cobalt jacket, black shirt and trousers. From some angles he seems to be all chest, standing in front of his nine-piece band on his sturdy, pit pony legs.
Under the glare of the lights his hair and beard are bleached into an aureole that surrounds his craggy features like a white dandelion.
AS he grabs the mike, there is a rich glint of gold on his wrist and his dark eyebrows form permanent arches of surprise. he rocks on, undiminished, full of vigour and intent. It is only after his fourth song, a bluestinged rendition of a song called Tomorrow Night, that he talks about the BBC row. ‘I’ve got a book coming out,’ he tells the thousands of fans. ‘That is going to be interesting now,’ he adds, with a note of warning in his voice about what his new autobiography might contain.
The crowd cheer at this before Jones goes on to cryptically refer to the situation and the troubled relationship he now has with BBC executives.
‘There will be no more Saturday night fights for me,’ he says. ‘Maybe for Jeremy Clarkson, but not for me. Not at the moment.’
Then he launches into a song called Raise A Ruckus, with lyrics that promise mayhem to come. Clearly, we have not heard the last of this.
This show is part of a series of events presented by the Jockey Club Live organisation. They take the form of a day at the races at one of their well- appointed courses, followed by a big name concert. Kylie Minogue and the Kaiser Chiefs are among the other acts who have topped racing bills at these family friendly events.
Tonight, about 14,000 have paid around £30 a ticket for an afternoon of sport and an evening of Tom.
To say it has been a popular draw would be an understatement — this is the biggest crowd the famous Lincolnshire racecourse has seen since the war.
The going was firm to rough, with lots of pitchers of Pimm’s, lovely dresses, turf-unfriendly heels and enough brightly coloured hats and fascinators to make it look as if a pandemonium of parrots had escaped in the enclosures.
As Tom thundered though a tasteful reworking of Delilah, thousands of feathered hats bobbed along. From the stage, it must have been like performing at a giant wedding.
earlier in the day, Market Rasen itself had been buzzing with excite- ment. Sir Tom was clearly the biggest thing to hit the town since t he 2008 earthquake, which measured 5.2 on the Richter scale and damaged the church spire.
On the main street, The White Swan had a blackboard outside declaring it was ‘Sir Tom’s favourite pub’, though it seems doubtful our boyo had ever put a foot inside.
Across the road, a lingerie shop called Undies and Overs had a poster in the window advertising a special offer that summed up the mood: ‘Ladies! Ladies! Your Last Chance To Buy Knickers To Throw At Tom Jones: £1 a pair.’
Shop assistant Rita hubbard told me she had sold ‘oooh, dozens of pairs’. She also supplied the felt tip pen for customers to write their names and telephone numbers on the pants and even stapled on more complicated messages.
One lady insisted on attaching an invitation for Mr Jones to attend her 50th birthday at a hotel in Louth. ‘It’s just a bit of fun, but it’s gone viral,’ cried Rita.
Back at the show, Jones performs a sultry rendition of Sex Bomb and unhooks a solitary button on his jacket before crooning You Can Leave Your hat On.
This is enough to prompt a flurry of knickers, but the days when Tom would pick them up and use them to mop his brow have long gone.
Instead, he politely ignores them, as if they were something a much- loved cat had dragged in. he just gets on with the show.
‘Oh yeah,’ he growls, now and again. ‘There’s lovely!’ he cries, spotting a Welsh flag in the audience, his accent gloriously intact decades after he left his native Pontypridd for ever.
Throughout the day, fans had expressed their anger at Jones’s treatment by the BBC. ‘ Disgusting,’ was the most common response, with some claiming that without him, The Voice would not be worth watching.
Others wanted to see him reinstated as the top judge. No one was keen on Boy George, whose pop career had crashed into ignominy and drug- fuelled disasters. Seven years ago, he was convicted of assaulting and imprisoning a male prostitute.
‘I think it’s just awful,’ said hayley Bateman, a teacher from Grimsby. ‘It has taken diversity to a whole new level.’
I know what she means. It’s hard to believe a heterosexual male who had been sent to prison for beating up a prostitute and imprisoning her would be allowed anywhere near a show that’s popular with children.
Or be allowed anywhere near a BBC show full stop — but there are different rules for Boy George.
The BBC have said they only told Jones at the last moment because they did not want the news to leak. And that no promises had ever been made to anyone on The Voice team.
MAYBe so, but there are millions of people out there who don’t pay their licence fees to see the BBC treat Sir Tom Jones like that. After all, he is a dignified gentleman, a long and hardy traveller on the entertainment road.
On his live tour, he could easily get away with a lazy canter through his five decades of hits, performed to a pre- recorded backing track. Instead he puts on a thoughtful and sophisticated show, mixing songs from his newer, blusier repertoire with carefully reworked favourites.
It is really something that he can sing Green Green Grass Of home 48 years after he released it and still make it sound fresh. he is a class act. After all, his is the voice that elvis Presley envied, he is the man who has been reinventing and making himself viable to new audiences for five decades.
he is a coalminer’s son, a boy from nowhere, a knight of the realm, a great respecter of music and musicianship. he is not a nobody. he’s Tom Jones. And I think he deserves to be regarded with a little more respect — especially by thirdrate middle management types trying to save a doomed show.
And so say all of us. In Market Rasen, anyway.