Tom Jones kicks ass.

Those of you who know him only as some sort of tawdry, clownishly macho hipster leftover from Swingin' London, a panty-magnet for horny housewives, or a kitschy self-parody in the film "Mars Attacks" are missing out on one of the most powerful voices and exciting stage presences in pop music.

I weep for you.

I drove up to San Jose in the early evening to pick up Delilah Sheeza Lady (hereafter referred to as Delilah). We'd both been jonesin' for Jones for weeks now, ever since she'd had the serendipitous fortune of receiving the Villa Montalvo performance schedule in the mail, addressed to some previous and long-forgotten resident of her little rental bungalow. She'd quite rightly anticipated that I'd be hip to partake in the TJ Experience with her, and had procured tix to the show and the sumptuous Mediterranean buffet that preceded it. Both events were to take place on the grounds of the Montalvo historic winery, situated high above Saratoga in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains - without a doubt, the most beautiful concert venue in the Bay Area.

I arrived to find Delilah applying the finishing touches to her makeup and cantilevering her front superstructure into place. She's an expert in this sort of thing, and knows well the positive effect such plumping and primping has upon the kind of service that we were likely to encounter from any male (and possibly female) Montalvo employees at the show. I had no doubt that she was also entertaining fantasies of locking gazes with TJ during the show, whereupon he'd be certain to be hypnotized by her curvaceous sensuality amidst the hipless, breastless, anorexic waifs who typify the NoCal look that I've come to refer to as "Los Gatos Barbiesque," and would therefore whisk her away for a night of trysting in a limousine hot tub filled with mare's milk and rose petals. I couldn't help but wonder if she was also given over to that classic female fantasy wherein Tom Jones' car breaks down right in front of her house and he comes to the front door to ask to use the phone, interrupting her while she just happens to be preparing his favorite meal (Welsh Rarebit, perhaps?). In any case, I didn't ask.

After a few minutes she emerged from the powder room looking fabulous in a long, floral-print dress she'd procured the weekend before in Union Square. She was slightly bummed at having been unable to locate a suitable pair of gold shoes to complement her ensemble. Her frequent lack of shoe-shopping success was a fact she often attributed to the extreme competition provided by the veritable army of small-hoofed Asian women fighting with her over the limited stock of teensy footwear available in the Bay Area. However, she'd compensated quite nicely with a pair of elegant, black, open-toed shoes that revealed her painted pedestrian digits to good effect. I myself was lookin' pretty damn Continental in a hideously overpriced Italian shirt, simple black slacks, and a pair of black and tan Italian tennis shoes complete with bits of German sheep manure (ca. 1991) still clinging to the soles.

We set off for Saratoga, and managed to locate the correct road to the winery after several preliminary loops back and forth along Sunnyvale-Saratoga Rd. Despite the concert brochure's promise that the winery gates lay only 1/4 mile up the road, we found ourselves weaving along the twisty mountainside for several miles under a canopy of eucalyptus and oak. Finally, we emerged at the winery gates, parked, and headed onto the grounds in search of food, fun, and Tomfoolery.

"Don't worry about me if I wind up with Tom after the show!" Delilah teased.

I grinned and nodded back in agreement. I wouldn't worry.

Following a short scuffle at the entrance between the attendants and a couple of Asian ladies (with incredibly small feet, I might add) who had apparently been awarded free tickets to the show by mistake, we took a short walk over to the buffet. We plunked down our tickets and wandered through a cornucopia of hummus, antipasto, ratatouille, lemon chicken, and skewered mahi-mahi. After procuring a couple of glasses of Merlot, we headed over to the dining deck that looked out over the whole Silicon Valley in all of its hazy glory. We seated ourselves across from a foreign couple who appeared to be speaking Italian, although their low volume and my woeful knowledge of my Father's native tongue precluded a positive ID. As we dug into our chow, the male arose suddenly from the table to reveal a hideous pair of lime-green polyester shorts. Delilah and I looked at one another and nodded knowingly -- we were in Tom Jones Country now. We returned to the buffet to top off our fine repast with a delicious ricotta bread pudding and entertained each other with catty observations of the various Saratogan Power Matrons who were prowling the deck like overdressed harpies. One particular specimen in a leopard-skin wrap had me fighting the urge to get down on my knees and worship at the altar of her brute sociosexual power.

We cruised back over to the entrance and procured a couple of Tom Jones refrigerator magnets as souvenirs and then headed down to the concert. I noticed on my magnet that a small, white wriggly thing appeared to be emerging from Tom's ear -- I was briefly reminded of the indigenous lifeforms of Ceti Alpha VI. I reflexively reached for my hand phaser, but then noticed that it was just an air bubble.

Delilah had obtained pretty good floor seating about halfway back from the stage. The stage itself was set up in front of Montvalvo's old winery building -- a beautiful vine-covered stone edifice with carved oaken doors, festooned on either side with banners that featured some atrocious excuse for naive art. We ridiculed the banners for a few minutes until we felt better and then turned our attention to scanning the crowd that was rapidly filling up the empty seats. A high-pitched cry arose from the female attendees as Tom his own bad self was briefly glimpsed entering the winery building stage right. As the seats continued to fill up, I found myself wedged between Delilah and some bulky suit who looked like an RV salesman from Duluth. I resolved to sabotage the seating arrangements at my earliest opportunity.

As the western sun lowered and dusk crept across the scrubby mountainside, Tom's 6-piece band and 3 backup singers took the stage. After a brief intro, they launched into a smooth vamp in preparation for the arrival of Pontypridd's favorite son. The Welsh Tiger took to the stage scant moments later to squeals of approval and a smattering of tossed undergarments. Resplendent in a black tux, and an odd, curly hairdo that Delilah had dubbed "monkey hair", TJ opened with "Help Yourself" - an irresistible enticement for the small knots of women who were now heading towards the stage carrying panties, Welsh flags, and other unidentifiable, but soon-to-be-holy relics of Tomness. We noticed that the drum kit was surrounded by an array of clear plastic sheeting. Although it was clearly intended to provide sound separation for the audio tech, I dubbed it the "panty shield" as its usefulness in deflecting foundational garments soon became apparent.

The Jonesman quickly launched into a string of his old hits, and here I must admit my profound respect for any performer who can still deliver a tune straight after 30+ years. No reggaefied "What's New, Pussycat" or country-rock version of "Daughter of Darkness" for this randy tunesmith. Although nowadays Tom's midriff bulges more than the crotch of his mohair slacks, he left no doubt that his powers as a performer and vocalist are at their mature best. The perky Bossa Nova beat of "It's Not Unusual" remained intact, propelled along by the incredibly tight musicianship and finely-tuned dynamics of his Vegas-honed showband. By the time he peeled off his jacket during the second tune of the evening, he was already soaked with perspiration. I had been gleefully anticipating watching him perform a sweaty rubdown with a fan-proferred panty or towel, but by this time his security entourage was sternly forbidding any bum-rushing of the stage, much to the audience's vocal dissatisfaction.

The crowd itself was a humorous mixture of trailer-trash, rich society matrons, and nervous-looking husbands and boyfriends who were obviously looking to score brownie points with their Jones-o-centric girlfriends and wives. Surprisingly few nouveau-hipster or Vegas types were in attendance, although Delilah spotted a TJ lookalike in the stands and we both took notice of a Siegfried and Roy wannabe seated to my right. We were amused to see mothers passing the torch of Tom worship as they shepherded their innocent young daughters towards the stage clutching cellophane-wrapped roses. Personally, I was disappointed that these pop-cultural vestal virgins weren't being encouraged to toss tiny pairs of Xena: Warrior Princess Underoos at their hirsute idol.

The highpoint of the first set arrived with "Green Green Grass Of Home". Lulled into sweet reverie by the bucolic wistfulness of the first half of the tune, I found myself casting back to my parent's house in Denmark circa 1967 as we all sat in the living room listening to GGGOH on Radio Luxembourg, or watching TJ lipsync to the same on "The Old Grey Whistle Test." I found the little hairs on my neck still stood at attention during the song's chilling spoken-word denouement. A goofily out-of-tune crowd singalong of "Delilah" mixed in with extremely dynamic covers of "Hard to Handle" and "Leave Your Hat On" rounded out the first half of the show and Tom retired backstage. As the suit and his lumpy wife ambled off for a pee and a smoke, I quickly scooted the row of chairs to give myself some elbow room that would prove to come in handy later.

After a 30-minute intermission, the band once again returned to the stage sans Tom and performed a killer rendition of John Barry's classic James Bond theme. I could scarcely breathe, so filled was I with anticipation for what must surely be coming next. As Jones took the stage again in drier togs, the stage now awash in blood-red spotlights, my fondest desire was consummated with the mighty Sturm und Drang of the opening bars of "Thunderball." At this point, I was completely shaken and stirred in a most unBondian manner and felt an unusual desire to smoke a cigarette. However, I looked over at Delilah and knew that she had not yet been satisfied. The second half supplied its emotional high point with Leiber and Stoller's "I (Who Have Nothing)." As Tom ran the gamut of emotions and vocal ranges that the song demanded, we felt every nail of loss and denial hammered home by his anguished wailing for the woman he could not possess. As he finally stood and delivered "She's a Lady," I saw Delilah's hand reach reflexively for the black-lace panties she'd stashed in her purse before leaving the house. Would she do it? The seconds passed by like an eternity as I waited. Alas, she was panty-retentive. Perhaps she'd realized that there's just no point in tossing panties at a man unless you've just taken them off?

By the time he closed the show and departed the stage, it seemed as if every skeptic in the place had been totally Jonesified. A roar went up from the crowd as the hungry-beast audience demanded to be fed once again. Within minutes, he complied with a rousing encore of "Without Love (There Is Nothing)," following by a completely out-of-control cover of Lenny Kravitz's "Are You Gonna Go My Way?." By this time, even the RV salesman and his frumpy wife had risen to their feet and were jammin' to the beat in their own rhythmically-challenged way. The trailer queens and barbies were shaking their respective groove thangs, and even hesitant boyfriends and husbands had fallen under the mysterious spell of His Jonesness. He left the stage a second time, and did not return.