Tom Jones

When Tom Jones sings, halter tops evaporate, skirts melt, and panties are vaporized. When he looks at you, he’s not just looking at you, he’s not just flirting with you, he’s not just undressing you—he’s fucking you with his eyes. If there are 5,000 ladies in a given audience, if all 5,000 of those ladies don’t want to service Tom Jones backstage—or, short of that, under a linen-clothed table at Morton’s after the show—then those women must be gay. Either that, or Tom Jones has failed miserably in his quest to seduce every last woman on the planet, irrespective of age and predilection. He is a crooner, and the sultriest of crooners at that. His balls smell like Aqua Velva, his chest hairs like musk. He lifts free weights and has a steak for dinner, every night. He is the essence of man. He is irresistible, so don’t even try to resist him. Paramount Theatre, 911 Pine St., 467-5510, $67.50–$75. 7:30 p.m. MIKE SEELY

Fri., May 30, 7:30 p.m., 2008

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