| David Vest | |||
| Why We Love George Jones | |||
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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. Check out The Cannonballs Time magazine has online coverage of George Jones here and here. |