Congratulions to the Possum, George Jones, for getting inducted into the Texas Country Music Hall of Fame. Listen, no one can belt out a country weeper like George Jones. Not Gram Parsons, not yer Merle Haggard. Hell, he burrows into the everyday traumas and banalities of romantic dissolution with a flair for the dramatic (and melancholy) that would shame longtime partner Tammy Wynette and bluegrass divas like Loretta “Fist City” Lynne and Dolly Parton. The way his smooth and honeyed baritone serves as a conduit for all of his built-up frustrations and personal torments – this is the fella, after all, who drove a lawnmoyer miles into town after Wynette flushed his keys down the toilet, so desperate was he to get completely fucking blotto – it’s amazing to me that this guy didn’t inspire the same suicide-watch concern that Ian Curtis did at his mordant peak. Have you ever seen the album cover of him sitting in an empty diner nursing a milkshake and heartbreak – even Morrissey wouldn’t dare to pull overwrought gambits like that! And yet Jones would still stride out onto the Grand Ole Opry stage, with his bizarrely coiffed golden hair, aviator shades, and a full-on denim suit, sing a set of absolutely devastated love songs belying incredible vulnerability, and still dare anyone to step outside for a fight. No wonder Elvis Costello loved this guy. Too bad it wasn’t mutual.

He’s coming to Florida in October. If he doesn’t blow off the whole tour….. oh man, I can’t even think about it.

Filed under: This Is Our Music