Is it Hot in Here or is it just Tom Jones?

I’ve had 16 hours to process what I’m about to say. Sixteen hours to wrangle the swirling emotions and scattered thoughts into something coherent.

Turns out, sixteen hours isn’t enough.

Not even close.

How long is enough when you’ve just witnessed a living, breathing, hip-thrusting heartbeat increasing icon? A day? A week? A sabbatical in Wales? I don’t know. I just know I don’t have a month to soul-search, so I’m diving in anyway.

Because we’re not talking about some flash-in-the-pan, one-hit-wonder in rhinestones and backup dancers. We’re talking about Tom Mother F*ckin’ Jones.

He performed at a casino on the edge of Albuquerque last night—a fun place with a surprisingly stellar venue. I’ve seen other concerts there and the space is solid: intimate enough that you can see facial expressions, but large enough to make some real noise. Plus, you’re hard pressed to find a bad seat.

The DH and I arrived at the venue and found our seats. Sure, there were plenty of silver-haired lovelies in the crowd, but to my delight—and mild shock—there was also a healthy showing of young, pretty girls in hoochie shorts. Because Tom MF Jones.

While the DH went off in search of water, the man seated next to me struck up a conversation. He was from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and had seen Tom MF Jones last year. He said it was so mind-blowingly good that he traveled to Albuquerque just to see him again. We both fan-girled over Sir Tom until the DH returned with the requested hydration.

The lights dimmed. The band took their places. The crowd started to scream. And then…

He appeared.

The man. The myth. The silver-throated legend. Tom Mother F*ckin’ Jones took the stage.

Now, I’m not going to even try to sugar coat it—the man will be 85 next month. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous he’d show up looking like a wax figure of himself wearing Wayne Newton’s spare face.

But, nope. Not in the slightest. Yeah, he walked like a man whose joints have been through eight and a half decades. He was a little shaky, a little slow. And I tell you true: NOBODY CARED. He took his place at the microphone to thunderous applause.

And opened with “I’m Growing Old.

Dear Baby Jesus in a manger…his body might be 85, his hair silver, his movements slow, but that voice? When he began to sing he was anything BUT old. If you brought a blind person to the concert, a blind person who had no idea who Tom Jones was, there is NO WAY they would think that voice was coming out of an 85 year old man. And then they’d call you a liar and berate you for gaslighting the blind.

‘Cause what came out of his mouth was not an old man’s warble. There was no hesitation, no wavering. It was TOM MOTHER EFFIN’ JONES. Full bodied. Soulful. Commanding. A study in what singing well for 60 years sounds like.

He sang for over two hours straight. No breaks. No backup singers. No auto-tune. No lip-syncing. The man didn’t even take one sip water. He just sang.
And he didn’t miss a single damn note.
Not one. Nothing flat. Nothing sharp. Just pitch-perfect power. Sure, the voice was older, deeper, more lived-in, but it was richer. Fuller. Like a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle Aged bourbon that’s been waiting for decades to blow your ever-lovin’ mind.

At one point, I seriously considered buying a pair of hoochie shorts, myself. Not because I could pull them off—I have it on good authority from my full-length mirror that those days are behind me—but because it felt like the proper tribute to Tom Jones.
Like lighting a candle in church. But with Daisy Dukes.

Because even at 85, Tom MF Jones has got it going on. He’s not doing Vegas lounge thrusts or air-humping a mic stand. He’s not trying to make you believe he isn’t turning 85 next month. He just stands there, sings about love and loss and longing, and suddenly you’re clutching your chest and whispering, “Is it hot in here?”

And I said that. Out loud. In public.

I also strongly considered throwing my panties on the stage. Unfortunately, I was seated too far back—and let’s be honest, I don’t think Tom Jones would be impressed by my white cotton Fruit of the Loom panties.

But the urge? The urge was real.

This man, Tom MF Jones, has more charisma than I have Advil in my glove compartment. It’s not manufactured. It’s not performative. It’s just baked into his DNA, along with that voice that can still melt steel—and apparently, me. He’s been singing for 60 years, longer than I’ve been alive, and the command of his voice is incomparable.
Seriously.
NOBODY can do this.
Well, except Tom Mother F*ckin’ Jones.

When the final note rang out and he took his well-earned bow, the crowd leapt to their feet. We weren’t just applauding a concert—we were worshiping at the altar of a living legend. I, for one, was stupid emotional.

As we made our way out of the venue, people around me looked dazed and euphoric. Some wiped away tears. Some were already Googling his next tour stop. I was just trying to figure out how to legally adopt an 85-year-old Welshman or at least get him to record my voicemail greeting.

I don’t know what kind of pact Tom MF Jones made with the universe to keep that voice, that stage presence, that essence, but I do know this: the man is a once-in-a-lifetime talent. And seeing him live wasn’t just a concert—it was an experience I will never ever forget. A soulful, sexy, undeniable reminder that passion doesn’t age. A true talent, if nurtured and revered, doesn’t fade. It ROARS.

If you ever get the chance to see him, go. Run, hobble, hitchhike, rent a Rascal scooter if necessary. Just go.
Because Tom Jones isn’t just “still performing”…he’s reminding the world what a real performer looks like.

Of course he is.
He’s Tom Mother F*ckin’ Jones.