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Why We Love George Jones
I know that road in Franklin, Tennessee. I've been down it many times.
And I know that bridge that George Jones hit, almost killing himself .
I lived there for a year when I was trying to make it in Nashville and
going to graduate school at Vanderbilt in case I didn't.
The Vandy doctors said he was at death's door when they brought him to
the hospital. Meet Mr. No-Show, Cousin Death. That was one appearance
we were all glad he didn't make.
The doctors also said they were amazed at "how deeply this man is
loved."
I suppose it wouldn't be completely out of line to ask why that should
be so. What is it about George Jones? Why do we love the old Possum so
much, assuming we do?
Never mind his singing, great as it is. Never mind the fact that his records
sound like beer tastes. His talent alone could never explain why we love
him. Lots of people have talent. We surely don't love him for his legion
of imitators, screwing up their foreheads and making funny faces trying
to sound like him. None of them do, of course. No one does.
I have my own theory. I think we love him because there is nothing anybody
can do to make him look good.
The other day I was looking at some photos of the young Bob Dylan. God,
was he beautiful. The very archetype of cool, hipper than anyone. Dylan's
not young anymore, but he's still cool. No doubt about it. Ask Soy Bomb,
the half-naked idiot who jumped onstage with Dylan at the Grammies and
drew nothing more than one raised eyebrow by way of response.
But look at a picture of the young George Jones, with that awful flat-top
haircut. He looks like anything but a star. He looks like a dog food salesman.
Fast-forward a few years through the picture album, and there he is wearing
blue leisure suits, like Jerry Clower without a gag. Oh, they 've done
their best to fix him up since then. You've seen recent pictures of him
wearing those hideous expensive sunglasses, the kind with the weird-colored
lenses. Why is it that the more some things cost, the cheaper they look?
(Somebody sold Carl Perkins a pair of those sunglasses, too -- another
man with nothing cool about him except everything, who looked like a barber
college dropout in blue suede shoes, but who could out-rock anybody on
earth, till the day he died.)
Roy Orbison could pose, all in black, holding his guitar, and he didn't
even have to open his mouth. Just the way he stood there said all you
needed to know about rock and roll. But George Jones looks like no one
ever even showed him how to hold a guitar, much less strike a pose, and
the disjointed, herky-jerky way he moves is more distracting than cool.
He looks like he feels anything but the beat.
Maybe we love George Jones because he has never known how to be anything
other than himself. (It has probably never even occurred to him to be
anybody else.)
Except a drunk.
That's why millions of people were concerned when it turned out that alcohol
was "involved" in the wreck. They know Jones is a recovering
alcoholic, who couldn't fool anybody in his drinking days, and they want
him to be sober. They want him to be himself -- a man who looks like a
thousand other guys you might run into at a union hall, a church supper
or an AA meeting.
And that's cool, too, the way people care. Come to think of it, there's
a lot that's cool about Jones. He may not look the part, but when the
Neville Brothers cover your songs, you know you're cool. When Elvis Costello
sings with you, you're cool (Costello also sang with Orbison). Like Dylan,
Jones has recorded in a bluegrass context with the great Ralph Stanley.
And if Ralph Stanley has ever even heard of you, man, you're way cool.
Stay sober, George. Get rid of that car phone. Keep singing. Do it the
only way you know how. Sing those lonesome heartbreak bottomed-out songs
of yours. Cause it would break a lot of hearts if you weren't here to
break our hearts.
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rebelangel
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by David Vest
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