Not better for 86. Better, period.
There is a peculiar condescension we reserve for aging performers. We say they still have it, as though talent were a set of car keys they might have misplaced somewhere around their seventieth birthday. We applaud their stamina, marvel that they can remember the words and generously lower our expectations to accommodate the indignities of time. But Tom Jones didn't need anyone's generosity. He sounded phenomenal, and the most remarkable thing about his performance was how quickly I stopped thinking about his age whenever he opened his mouth to sing.
Between songs, the years occasionally announced themselves. Jones coughed. He cleared his throat. He sat for a lot of the performance. But as he explained to the audience, age wasn't entirely to blame.
A nasty bout of influenza had forced him to postpone both his San Diego and Los Angeles performances, and things had apparently gotten considerably more serious than a few days of bed rest. Jones revealed that he'd spent several days in an intensive care unit in Los Angeles and developed pneumonia along the way. Fortunately, as he cheerfully explained, the doctors had patched him up and gotten him back on his feet.
You would never have known what he'd just been through. The occasional cough was about the only evidence that this 86-year-old man had recently been hospitalized. The moment the music began, that extraordinary baritone came roaring back, rich, powerful and seemingly untouched by the ordeal. Whatever frailty might have appeared between songs vanished the instant he opened his mouth to sing. If this was Tom Jones recovering from influenza and pneumonia, I can only imagine what he sounds like at full strength.
Jesus Christ, Tom.
There is something delightfully absurd about hearing an 86-year-old man sing this stuff in 2026, particularly when the singer himself seems to be in on the joke. Jones appeared to chuckle a little during the performance, as though even he couldn't quite believe what he'd been getting away with for the past sixty years. And judging by the audience's reaction, nobody was particularly interested in making him stop.
And yet the song remains irresistible. That ridiculous, exuberant chorus, the orchestral swagger embedded in its DNA, the sheer theatrical confidence required to pull it off. Nobody else could sing "What's New Pussycat?" quite like Tom Jones, and perhaps nobody else should try.
His voice was enormous without being forced, seasoned without being diminished, capable of moving from a gravelly whisper to a full-bodied roar with an ease that bordered on the ridiculous. It wasn't the voice of a younger man preserved through some biological miracle. It was something more interesting: the voice of a man who has spent a lifetime learning exactly what to do with the instrument he was given.
A good whiskey doesn't become exceptional by pretending it was bottled yesterday. It becomes exceptional because of what time has done to it. The rough edges settle. The character deepens. What remains is richer, warmer, more complicated and infinitely more satisfying.
Tom Jones, apparently, is an 86-year-old single malt.
And the women are still losing their goddamn minds.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, panties were thrown. Actual underwear made its way toward the stage, perpetuating a concert tradition that has followed the Welsh singer since the days when his open shirts, tight trousers and volcanic performances were considered a threat to public decency. Watching this ritual survive into 2026 was both hilarious and oddly reassuring.
A good whiskey doesn't become exceptional by pretending it was bottled yesterday. It becomes exceptional because of what time has done to it. The rough edges settle. The character deepens. What remains is richer, warmer, more complicated and infinitely more satisfying.
Tom Jones, apparently, is an 86-year-old single malt.
And the women are still losing their goddamn minds.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, panties were thrown. Actual underwear made its way toward the stage, perpetuating a concert tradition that has followed the Welsh singer since the days when his open shirts, tight trousers and volcanic performances were considered a threat to public decency. Watching this ritual survive into 2026 was both hilarious and oddly reassuring.
One of The Shell's female ushers, who told us she'd seen Jones perform many times, offered perhaps the evening's finest observation. The women still throw their panties, she explained, but these days they're granny panties.
I laughed so hard I nearly missed the larger point.
Here was a man whose career began when John F. Kennedy was president, whose sexual magnetism became a running joke in popular culture decades before many people in the audience were born, and who could still provoke grown women into launching intimate apparel across a concert venue. That's longevity you can't adequately capture with record sales or lifetime achievement awards.
Jones seemed thoroughly delighted by all of it. He was funny, warm, charming and wonderfully comfortable in his own skin. There was no desperate attempt to recreate the sex symbol of 1965, no strained performance of youthfulness, no embarrassing insistence that the audience regard him as something he is not.
He was Tom Jones. At this point, that is more than enough.
And my God, the songs.
Consider "What's New Pussycat?," the Burt Bacharach and Hal David composition that became one of Jones' signature hits in 1965. Have you listened to those lyrics lately? Really listened? Because somewhere between the cheerful horns, the ridiculously catchy chorus and all those innocent-sounding references to pussycat, I found myself wondering how the hell this song ever passed for wholesome entertainment. Maybe my mind is just permanently in the gutter, but I suspect there's considerably more going on here than a man expressing his affection for a household pet.
I laughed so hard I nearly missed the larger point.
Here was a man whose career began when John F. Kennedy was president, whose sexual magnetism became a running joke in popular culture decades before many people in the audience were born, and who could still provoke grown women into launching intimate apparel across a concert venue. That's longevity you can't adequately capture with record sales or lifetime achievement awards.
Jones seemed thoroughly delighted by all of it. He was funny, warm, charming and wonderfully comfortable in his own skin. There was no desperate attempt to recreate the sex symbol of 1965, no strained performance of youthfulness, no embarrassing insistence that the audience regard him as something he is not.
He was Tom Jones. At this point, that is more than enough.
And my God, the songs.
Consider "What's New Pussycat?," the Burt Bacharach and Hal David composition that became one of Jones' signature hits in 1965. Have you listened to those lyrics lately? Really listened? Because somewhere between the cheerful horns, the ridiculously catchy chorus and all those innocent-sounding references to pussycat, I found myself wondering how the hell this song ever passed for wholesome entertainment. Maybe my mind is just permanently in the gutter, but I suspect there's considerably more going on here than a man expressing his affection for a household pet.
Jesus Christ, Tom.
There is something delightfully absurd about hearing an 86-year-old man sing this stuff in 2026, particularly when the singer himself seems to be in on the joke. Jones appeared to chuckle a little during the performance, as though even he couldn't quite believe what he'd been getting away with for the past sixty years. And judging by the audience's reaction, nobody was particularly interested in making him stop.
And yet the song remains irresistible. That ridiculous, exuberant chorus, the orchestral swagger embedded in its DNA, the sheer theatrical confidence required to pull it off. Nobody else could sing "What's New Pussycat?" quite like Tom Jones, and perhaps nobody else should try.
Then came "Sexbomb," a song that seems almost impossibly committed to its central metaphor. Subtlety has never been the point of Tom Jones' most suggestive material, and I respect that. After hearing it live, I informed Lady SanDiegoVille that I had discovered a new pet name for her.
I cannot promise it will be well received.
"You Can Leave Your Hat On" followed the same general philosophy, and hearing Jones deliver Randy Newman's gloriously mischievous striptease anthem with that unmistakable voice was an absolute pleasure. Somewhere between "Sexbomb" and "You Can Leave Your Hat On," it occurred to me that this man's catalog is essentially an elaborate, decades-long argument against behaving yourself.
And good for him.
But reducing Tom Jones to his sex appeal, his booming hits or his wonderfully ridiculous stage persona would miss the most interesting part of Tuesday night's performance. Because the same man who could make thousands of people laugh at the outrageousness of "What's New Pussycat?" could turn around and sing about aging, loss, regret and death with such emotional clarity that I found myself fighting back tears.
That contrast is what made the concert extraordinary.
Jones opened with "I'm Growing Old," a Bobby Cole song whose title alone tells you that this is not an artist interested in pretending time has stood still. Rather than hiding his age or treating it as an unfortunate footnote to the evening, he made it the very first subject of conversation.
There was something quietly radical about that choice. Popular music is obsessed with youth, and the concert industry is often even worse. Aging stars are expected to perform the soundtrack of their younger selves, preferably while looking and sounding as though the intervening decades never happened. Jones began by acknowledging that they had.
And then he sang beautifully.
Leonard Cohen's "Tower of Song" followed, an inspired selection for a man who has spent more than six decades occupying his own place in the musical universe. Cohen's writing has always understood that getting older is simultaneously a privilege, an indignity and a source of increasingly dark comedy. Jones brought a lifetime of experience to that material, and his voice gave the song a weight that no amount of youthful technical perfection could reproduce.
Bob Dylan's "Not Dark Yet" continued the meditation. It is one of Dylan's great late-career songs, a weary contemplation of approaching darkness that becomes more affecting the older its singer gets. In Jones' hands, it felt less like an exercise in interpretation than a conversation between two extraordinary artists who have lived long enough to understand what the song is really asking.
This was no conventional greatest-hits show. Jones moved through material by Cohen, Dylan, Randy Newman, Ry Cooder, Terry Callier, Bernice Johnson Reagon and others, assembling a setlist that revealed an artist still curious about music rather than content to live inside his own legend.
I cannot promise it will be well received.
"You Can Leave Your Hat On" followed the same general philosophy, and hearing Jones deliver Randy Newman's gloriously mischievous striptease anthem with that unmistakable voice was an absolute pleasure. Somewhere between "Sexbomb" and "You Can Leave Your Hat On," it occurred to me that this man's catalog is essentially an elaborate, decades-long argument against behaving yourself.
And good for him.
But reducing Tom Jones to his sex appeal, his booming hits or his wonderfully ridiculous stage persona would miss the most interesting part of Tuesday night's performance. Because the same man who could make thousands of people laugh at the outrageousness of "What's New Pussycat?" could turn around and sing about aging, loss, regret and death with such emotional clarity that I found myself fighting back tears.
That contrast is what made the concert extraordinary.
Jones opened with "I'm Growing Old," a Bobby Cole song whose title alone tells you that this is not an artist interested in pretending time has stood still. Rather than hiding his age or treating it as an unfortunate footnote to the evening, he made it the very first subject of conversation.
There was something quietly radical about that choice. Popular music is obsessed with youth, and the concert industry is often even worse. Aging stars are expected to perform the soundtrack of their younger selves, preferably while looking and sounding as though the intervening decades never happened. Jones began by acknowledging that they had.
And then he sang beautifully.
Leonard Cohen's "Tower of Song" followed, an inspired selection for a man who has spent more than six decades occupying his own place in the musical universe. Cohen's writing has always understood that getting older is simultaneously a privilege, an indignity and a source of increasingly dark comedy. Jones brought a lifetime of experience to that material, and his voice gave the song a weight that no amount of youthful technical perfection could reproduce.
Bob Dylan's "Not Dark Yet" continued the meditation. It is one of Dylan's great late-career songs, a weary contemplation of approaching darkness that becomes more affecting the older its singer gets. In Jones' hands, it felt less like an exercise in interpretation than a conversation between two extraordinary artists who have lived long enough to understand what the song is really asking.
This was no conventional greatest-hits show. Jones moved through material by Cohen, Dylan, Randy Newman, Ry Cooder, Terry Callier, Bernice Johnson Reagon and others, assembling a setlist that revealed an artist still curious about music rather than content to live inside his own legend.
His performance of "I Won't Crumble with You If You Fall" was particularly affecting, the song's tenderness and resolve seeming to acquire another dimension when delivered by someone who has experienced so much of what life can give and take away.
And "Lazarus Man," Terry Callier's extraordinary meditation on survival and rebirth, felt almost uncannily appropriate for a performer returning to the stage after illness. There is something powerful about watching an aging artist sing about endurance without turning the experience into a sentimental appeal for applause.
Jones wasn't asking us to admire his survival. He was giving us a reason to celebrate it.
Then, just when the evening threatened to become a philosophical seminar on the human condition, he reminded everyone that he could still raise hell.
His rendition of Prince's "Kiss" was tremendous, a playful, rhythmically charged reminder that great songs can survive the transformation from one extraordinary vocalist to another. Prince's original is all falsetto, friction and nervous electricity. Jones approaches the song from almost the opposite direction, with a voice that seems to rise from somewhere beneath the earth. The contrast is delicious.
"It's Not Unusual," "Delilah," "If I Only Knew" and the other familiar favorites delivered the expected rushes of recognition, but what impressed me was how little Jones seemed to rely on nostalgia to make them work. The audience knew the songs. Of course it did. Yet the performances had their own vitality, their own humor, their own unmistakable sense of occasion.
People began dancing in the aisles, which apparently alarmed certain members of The Shell's staff.
I love The Rady Shell. I have said so approximately a thousand times, and I will say it another thousand before somebody finally asks me to stop. But watching ushers attempt to discourage people from dancing during a Tom Jones concert was an oddly comical spectacle. The staff seemed to have wandered in from the town council in Footloose, deeply concerned that spontaneous rhythmic movement might undermine the social order.
Sir, this is Tom Jones.
A man is singing "Sexbomb" beside San Diego Bay, women are throwing underwear, and you are worried that somebody might dance?
I understand the practical concerns about keeping aisles clear, but there was something wonderfully incongruous about watching an 86-year-old entertainer inspire a small rebellion against the venue's rules of decorum. If Tom Jones can still get people out of their seats at 86, perhaps the appropriate response is to marvel at the achievement rather than immediately summon the dancing police.
The audience, for its part, seemed determined to enjoy itself. And Jones rewarded that enthusiasm with a performance that was lively, affectionate and often genuinely funny.
One of the evening's most entertaining moments came at the finale when he introduced Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Goode" with a story about Elvis Presley. Jones recalled a conversation between the two men during their years performing in Las Vegas, when Elvis reportedly identified Berry as the real King of Rock and Roll.
Think about that for a moment.
Tom Jones was telling us a story about something Elvis Presley said to him in Las Vegas.
Not something he read in a biography. Not an anecdote passed down through generations of musicians. An actual conversation he remembered having with Elvis.
There are very few people left who can casually introduce a song by recalling a personal exchange with Elvis Presley. Jones belongs to an increasingly small group of performers whose lives overlap directly with the foundational history of modern popular music. He doesn't merely interpret songs from that era. He knew the people who made them.
And when he launched into "Johnny B. Goode," that history suddenly felt gloriously alive.
The performance was exuberant, the kind of rock-and-roll celebration that makes it almost impossible to remain seated, regardless of what the ushers might prefer. Yes, I danced in the aisle.
And "Lazarus Man," Terry Callier's extraordinary meditation on survival and rebirth, felt almost uncannily appropriate for a performer returning to the stage after illness. There is something powerful about watching an aging artist sing about endurance without turning the experience into a sentimental appeal for applause.
Jones wasn't asking us to admire his survival. He was giving us a reason to celebrate it.
Then, just when the evening threatened to become a philosophical seminar on the human condition, he reminded everyone that he could still raise hell.
His rendition of Prince's "Kiss" was tremendous, a playful, rhythmically charged reminder that great songs can survive the transformation from one extraordinary vocalist to another. Prince's original is all falsetto, friction and nervous electricity. Jones approaches the song from almost the opposite direction, with a voice that seems to rise from somewhere beneath the earth. The contrast is delicious.
"It's Not Unusual," "Delilah," "If I Only Knew" and the other familiar favorites delivered the expected rushes of recognition, but what impressed me was how little Jones seemed to rely on nostalgia to make them work. The audience knew the songs. Of course it did. Yet the performances had their own vitality, their own humor, their own unmistakable sense of occasion.
People began dancing in the aisles, which apparently alarmed certain members of The Shell's staff.
I love The Rady Shell. I have said so approximately a thousand times, and I will say it another thousand before somebody finally asks me to stop. But watching ushers attempt to discourage people from dancing during a Tom Jones concert was an oddly comical spectacle. The staff seemed to have wandered in from the town council in Footloose, deeply concerned that spontaneous rhythmic movement might undermine the social order.
Sir, this is Tom Jones.
A man is singing "Sexbomb" beside San Diego Bay, women are throwing underwear, and you are worried that somebody might dance?
I understand the practical concerns about keeping aisles clear, but there was something wonderfully incongruous about watching an 86-year-old entertainer inspire a small rebellion against the venue's rules of decorum. If Tom Jones can still get people out of their seats at 86, perhaps the appropriate response is to marvel at the achievement rather than immediately summon the dancing police.
The audience, for its part, seemed determined to enjoy itself. And Jones rewarded that enthusiasm with a performance that was lively, affectionate and often genuinely funny.
One of the evening's most entertaining moments came at the finale when he introduced Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Goode" with a story about Elvis Presley. Jones recalled a conversation between the two men during their years performing in Las Vegas, when Elvis reportedly identified Berry as the real King of Rock and Roll.
Think about that for a moment.
Tom Jones was telling us a story about something Elvis Presley said to him in Las Vegas.
Not something he read in a biography. Not an anecdote passed down through generations of musicians. An actual conversation he remembered having with Elvis.
There are very few people left who can casually introduce a song by recalling a personal exchange with Elvis Presley. Jones belongs to an increasingly small group of performers whose lives overlap directly with the foundational history of modern popular music. He doesn't merely interpret songs from that era. He knew the people who made them.
And when he launched into "Johnny B. Goode," that history suddenly felt gloriously alive.
The performance was exuberant, the kind of rock-and-roll celebration that makes it almost impossible to remain seated, regardless of what the ushers might prefer. Yes, I danced in the aisle.
Berry's song dates to 1958. Jones was already a teenager when it was released. Nearly seven decades later, he was singing it beside San Diego Bay, still finding joy in the music that helped change the world.
What an extraordinary thing to witness.
But the moment that stayed with me most came during the earlier part of the encore, when Jones performed "One Hell of a Life."
The song, written by Katell Keineg, is a meditation on the astonishing privilege of having lived, on the people and experiences that accumulate across a lifetime, and on the strange realization that even an imperfect existence can be an extraordinary gift.
For someone like Tom Jones, the title seems almost comically inadequate.
This is a man who rose from a working-class upbringing in Wales to become one of the most recognizable singers on the planet. He shared stages and friendships with Elvis Presley, became an international sex symbol, recorded songs that have endured for generations, experienced unimaginable success, suffered personal loss and watched the entire music industry transform around him repeatedly.
He has lived through the British Invasion, psychedelic rock, disco, punk, new wave, hip-hop, grunge, the digital revolution and the streaming era. Entire musical movements have appeared, conquered the world and disappeared while Tom Jones continued being Tom Jones.
And now, at 86, he was standing beneath The Rady Shell, singing about what a remarkable life it has been.
Then he finished the song and exclaimed, with a joy that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him:
"And I'm still living one!"
I don't know whether he understood how profoundly those words would land with at least one person in the audience. I suspect he did. He has been communicating with audiences for more than sixty years, and there is a reason some performers become legends while others simply become famous.
I felt that one in my chest.
Because I've noticed something about the concert reviews I've written over the past year. They begin as attempts to describe music, but somewhere along the way they become reflections on aging, memory, mortality and the beautiful, bewildering experience of being alive.
I don't necessarily intend for that to happen. I go to concerts because I love music, because I love being out in the world, because I love sharing these experiences with others, and because there are few things more satisfying than watching somebody do something extraordinarily well.
But music has a way of getting past whatever defenses we bring into the room. A familiar melody can transport you to a version of yourself that no longer exists. A singer's voice can remind you of someone you've lost. A song you've heard a thousand times can suddenly reveal a meaning that wasn't available to you when you were younger.
And sometimes an 86-year-old Welshman can make you reconsider the entire business of growing old.
Earlier this year, I watched Paul Simon perform at The Rady Shell, and that evening became an unexpectedly difficult meditation on mortality. Simon's performance was often fragile and deeply introspective, the work of a remarkable artist confronting the limitations of time and the mysteries of what comes next. I left grateful for the experience, but also profoundly aware of how much disappears as we age.
Tom Jones offered almost the opposite perspective.
He wasn't denying mortality. His setlist was full of it. "I'm Growing Old," "Tower of Song," "Not Dark Yet," "Green, Green Grass of Home" and "One Hell of a Life" all confront, in different ways, the reality that our time here is limited.
But Jones seemed to approach that reality with an almost defiant optimism.
Yes, we grow old. Yes, people die. Yes, the body eventually begins making demands that the spirit would prefer to ignore. The years take things from us, sometimes cruelly and without warning.
But until they take everything, there is still life to be lived.
There are still songs to sing, jokes to tell, women to flirt with, people to love, memories to make and reasons to get out of bed in the morning. There is still the possibility that something wonderful might happen tomorrow.
And there is still the chance to stand beneath the stars in San Diego and sing your heart out.
That is a philosophy I can get behind.
"Green, Green Grass of Home" was another emotional highlight, its familiar story of longing and loss taking on extraordinary poignancy in the hands of a singer who has carried it through so many decades. Jones didn't need to overdramatize the material. His voice did the work, allowing the song's sadness to emerge naturally.
And the contrast between that performance and the joyous absurdity of "Sexbomb" was not a contradiction. It was the point.
A full life contains both.
We spend an enormous amount of time trying to make sense of existence, as though happiness and sorrow, seriousness and silliness, wisdom and foolishness must occupy separate compartments. But a genuinely rich life accommodates all of them. You can contemplate death and laugh at a dirty joke. You can mourn the people you've lost and still find somebody attractive. You can recognize that your time is running out and decide that tonight would be a terrific night to dance.
Tom Jones understands this.
Or at least, after watching him Tuesday night, I would like to believe he does.
What an extraordinary thing to witness.
But the moment that stayed with me most came during the earlier part of the encore, when Jones performed "One Hell of a Life."
The song, written by Katell Keineg, is a meditation on the astonishing privilege of having lived, on the people and experiences that accumulate across a lifetime, and on the strange realization that even an imperfect existence can be an extraordinary gift.
For someone like Tom Jones, the title seems almost comically inadequate.
This is a man who rose from a working-class upbringing in Wales to become one of the most recognizable singers on the planet. He shared stages and friendships with Elvis Presley, became an international sex symbol, recorded songs that have endured for generations, experienced unimaginable success, suffered personal loss and watched the entire music industry transform around him repeatedly.
He has lived through the British Invasion, psychedelic rock, disco, punk, new wave, hip-hop, grunge, the digital revolution and the streaming era. Entire musical movements have appeared, conquered the world and disappeared while Tom Jones continued being Tom Jones.
And now, at 86, he was standing beneath The Rady Shell, singing about what a remarkable life it has been.
Then he finished the song and exclaimed, with a joy that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him:
"And I'm still living one!"
I don't know whether he understood how profoundly those words would land with at least one person in the audience. I suspect he did. He has been communicating with audiences for more than sixty years, and there is a reason some performers become legends while others simply become famous.
I felt that one in my chest.
Because I've noticed something about the concert reviews I've written over the past year. They begin as attempts to describe music, but somewhere along the way they become reflections on aging, memory, mortality and the beautiful, bewildering experience of being alive.
I don't necessarily intend for that to happen. I go to concerts because I love music, because I love being out in the world, because I love sharing these experiences with others, and because there are few things more satisfying than watching somebody do something extraordinarily well.
But music has a way of getting past whatever defenses we bring into the room. A familiar melody can transport you to a version of yourself that no longer exists. A singer's voice can remind you of someone you've lost. A song you've heard a thousand times can suddenly reveal a meaning that wasn't available to you when you were younger.
And sometimes an 86-year-old Welshman can make you reconsider the entire business of growing old.
Earlier this year, I watched Paul Simon perform at The Rady Shell, and that evening became an unexpectedly difficult meditation on mortality. Simon's performance was often fragile and deeply introspective, the work of a remarkable artist confronting the limitations of time and the mysteries of what comes next. I left grateful for the experience, but also profoundly aware of how much disappears as we age.
Tom Jones offered almost the opposite perspective.
He wasn't denying mortality. His setlist was full of it. "I'm Growing Old," "Tower of Song," "Not Dark Yet," "Green, Green Grass of Home" and "One Hell of a Life" all confront, in different ways, the reality that our time here is limited.
But Jones seemed to approach that reality with an almost defiant optimism.
Yes, we grow old. Yes, people die. Yes, the body eventually begins making demands that the spirit would prefer to ignore. The years take things from us, sometimes cruelly and without warning.
But until they take everything, there is still life to be lived.
There are still songs to sing, jokes to tell, women to flirt with, people to love, memories to make and reasons to get out of bed in the morning. There is still the possibility that something wonderful might happen tomorrow.
And there is still the chance to stand beneath the stars in San Diego and sing your heart out.
That is a philosophy I can get behind.
"Green, Green Grass of Home" was another emotional highlight, its familiar story of longing and loss taking on extraordinary poignancy in the hands of a singer who has carried it through so many decades. Jones didn't need to overdramatize the material. His voice did the work, allowing the song's sadness to emerge naturally.
And the contrast between that performance and the joyous absurdity of "Sexbomb" was not a contradiction. It was the point.
A full life contains both.
We spend an enormous amount of time trying to make sense of existence, as though happiness and sorrow, seriousness and silliness, wisdom and foolishness must occupy separate compartments. But a genuinely rich life accommodates all of them. You can contemplate death and laugh at a dirty joke. You can mourn the people you've lost and still find somebody attractive. You can recognize that your time is running out and decide that tonight would be a terrific night to dance.
Tom Jones understands this.
Or at least, after watching him Tuesday night, I would like to believe he does.
I've said it time and time again, but The Rady Shell is a magical place. I don't know how else to describe it anymore. I've written about the architecture, the acoustics, the skyline, the boats moving across San Diego Bay and the extraordinary privilege of living in a city where such a venue exists. I've praised it so often that I sometimes worry readers will assume I have some financial interest in the place.
I don't. I just love it.
But what makes The Shell special to me has become something deeper than the setting. Every time I leave, passing Joe Dreamz on my way out, I feel enriched. Better off. More grateful. Somehow more fortunate to have been given this particular life, in this particular place, at this particular moment in history.
That is not something I can say about every concert venue, or even every concert.
There is a kind of happiness that comes from having a good time, and then there is something more lasting that comes from recognizing, while you're experiencing it, that you're having a good life.
The Rady Shell has given me that feeling repeatedly.
I've watched Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, the Beach Boys, Gipsy Kings, Jeff Goldblum, Mt. Joy, the San Diego Symphony and an extraordinary assortment of other musicians occupy that stage, each creating an entirely different experience beneath the same magnificent white canopy. Some performances made me laugh. Some made me dance. Some challenged my expectations. Others brought me close to tears.
And almost every time, I have walked away feeling a little more appreciative of the world than when I arrived.
Tuesday night may have been the most optimistic of them all.
Not because Tom Jones is 86 and still performing, although that is remarkable. Not because his voice remains so astonishingly powerful, although it does. Not even because he can still inspire women to throw their underwear at him, a feat that deserves its own category at the Kennedy Center Honors.
It was because he seemed so genuinely happy to be there.
There was no sense that he was enduring another contractual obligation, reluctantly reproducing songs from a career that had become a burden. He appeared to be enjoying the extraordinary privilege of doing what he loves, surrounded by people who were delighted to share it with him.
And perhaps that is the secret to aging well, if there is one. Not preserving youth. Not denying the passage of time. Not desperately trying to remain the person you were forty years ago.
But continuing to find reasons to be excited about the person you are today.
We are all moving toward the same inevitable conclusion. That much is nonnegotiable. The only real question is what we do with the time between now and then.
We can spend it mourning the years that have passed, worrying about the years that remain, or waiting for some imaginary future moment when everything will finally be exactly as we hoped.
Or we can live.
We can buy the concert ticket. Take the trip. Tell the joke. Kiss the person we love. Dance in the aisle, provided nobody from the Footloose town council intervenes. We can stop postponing happiness until the circumstances are perfect, because the circumstances are never going to be perfect.
And when the music starts, we can sing.
I walked out of The Rady Shell Tuesday night thinking about how much life Tom Jones has lived, how much he has witnessed, how many people he has entertained and how many extraordinary moments must exist somewhere in the accumulated memories of that magnificent voice.
But I also found myself thinking about my own life.
About how fortunate I am to live in San Diego. To share these evenings with someone I love. To have the health, freedom and opportunity to spend a Tuesday night beside the bay listening to one of the great singers of the last century deliver a performance that would have been extraordinary at any age.
About how easy it is to take these things for granted.
And about how important it is not to.
Tom Jones is 86 years old. He has lived through more than most of us can imagine. He has experienced the highest highs that fame and fortune can provide, endured the losses that no amount of success can prevent, and somehow emerged with his humor, charm, curiosity and extraordinary voice intact.
He knows the clock is ticking.
But Tuesday night, he didn't seem especially interested in watching it.
He was too busy living.
And as he reminded us with that wonderful declaration after "One Hell of a Life," he isn't finished yet.
Neither are we.
What a magnificent thing to remember on a beautiful night beside San Diego Bay.
What a hell of a life. Keep living it.
I don't. I just love it.
But what makes The Shell special to me has become something deeper than the setting. Every time I leave, passing Joe Dreamz on my way out, I feel enriched. Better off. More grateful. Somehow more fortunate to have been given this particular life, in this particular place, at this particular moment in history.
That is not something I can say about every concert venue, or even every concert.
There is a kind of happiness that comes from having a good time, and then there is something more lasting that comes from recognizing, while you're experiencing it, that you're having a good life.
The Rady Shell has given me that feeling repeatedly.
I've watched Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, the Beach Boys, Gipsy Kings, Jeff Goldblum, Mt. Joy, the San Diego Symphony and an extraordinary assortment of other musicians occupy that stage, each creating an entirely different experience beneath the same magnificent white canopy. Some performances made me laugh. Some made me dance. Some challenged my expectations. Others brought me close to tears.
And almost every time, I have walked away feeling a little more appreciative of the world than when I arrived.
Tuesday night may have been the most optimistic of them all.
Not because Tom Jones is 86 and still performing, although that is remarkable. Not because his voice remains so astonishingly powerful, although it does. Not even because he can still inspire women to throw their underwear at him, a feat that deserves its own category at the Kennedy Center Honors.
It was because he seemed so genuinely happy to be there.
There was no sense that he was enduring another contractual obligation, reluctantly reproducing songs from a career that had become a burden. He appeared to be enjoying the extraordinary privilege of doing what he loves, surrounded by people who were delighted to share it with him.
And perhaps that is the secret to aging well, if there is one. Not preserving youth. Not denying the passage of time. Not desperately trying to remain the person you were forty years ago.
But continuing to find reasons to be excited about the person you are today.
We are all moving toward the same inevitable conclusion. That much is nonnegotiable. The only real question is what we do with the time between now and then.
We can spend it mourning the years that have passed, worrying about the years that remain, or waiting for some imaginary future moment when everything will finally be exactly as we hoped.
Or we can live.
We can buy the concert ticket. Take the trip. Tell the joke. Kiss the person we love. Dance in the aisle, provided nobody from the Footloose town council intervenes. We can stop postponing happiness until the circumstances are perfect, because the circumstances are never going to be perfect.
And when the music starts, we can sing.
I walked out of The Rady Shell Tuesday night thinking about how much life Tom Jones has lived, how much he has witnessed, how many people he has entertained and how many extraordinary moments must exist somewhere in the accumulated memories of that magnificent voice.
But I also found myself thinking about my own life.
About how fortunate I am to live in San Diego. To share these evenings with someone I love. To have the health, freedom and opportunity to spend a Tuesday night beside the bay listening to one of the great singers of the last century deliver a performance that would have been extraordinary at any age.
About how easy it is to take these things for granted.
And about how important it is not to.
Tom Jones is 86 years old. He has lived through more than most of us can imagine. He has experienced the highest highs that fame and fortune can provide, endured the losses that no amount of success can prevent, and somehow emerged with his humor, charm, curiosity and extraordinary voice intact.
He knows the clock is ticking.
But Tuesday night, he didn't seem especially interested in watching it.
He was too busy living.
And as he reminded us with that wonderful declaration after "One Hell of a Life," he isn't finished yet.
Neither are we.
What a magnificent thing to remember on a beautiful night beside San Diego Bay.
What a hell of a life. Keep living it.
Originally published on November 4, 2026.
