In the Spring of 1975, having recently separated from Sonny but still very much in the midst of a divorce, Cher debuted her own variety show for CBS, which quickly decimated the competition over at ABC (“The Sonny Comedy Revue”). In the same way that it was no surprise that “The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour” was a hit between 1971 and 1974, it was no surprise that Cher would trounce her charming, diminutive ex on the small screen. Further, it was no surprise that, having resolved their legal differences, Sonny and Cher reunited in 1976 — not as husband and wife, but as co-hosts of “The Sonny & Cher Show.”

Today, Cher survives as an LGBTQ icon and as the proprietor of Los Angeles’ latest ice cream craze, Cherlato. But, during her nearly sixty year career, she has also been the seller of one hundred million albums, the winner of a Grammy and an Oscar, and the only musician to have ever scored a number one hit in six consecutive decades. Everything about Cher has always been different — her voice, her hair, her nose, the way she talked and moved and the choices she made. But, during the Seventies, almost nothing she did could surprise us — her singularity and, more so, her supremacy was well established.

And yet, on March 16, 1975, during episode five of “Cher,” the former Ms. Cherilyn Sarkisian blew our goddam minds. In a single show that featured our titular host giving up smoking, covering a Better Midler number, improvising with Lily Tomlin and reciting a Rudyard Kipling poem, nothing really prepared us for the grand finale — Cher joining The Jackson 5 for an ecstatic, five song medley.

The bombshell was not Cher out-singing sixteen year old Michael — after all, her voice was a force of nature, far more powerful than Michael’s infectious high end. It was also not her slinky sequin dress, which just barely clung to her six foot (in platform heels) frame. Nor was it her triangular, afro wig, which looked ridiculous, and ridiculously amazing, and which now presents as ill-considered cultural appropriation. No, the real revelation — the mind-blowing thing that followed a series of eye-popping moments — was Cher dancing. Not only did Cher hang with The Jacksons, who were (among other things) professional dancers. Not only did she manage to make all those sharp angles and long appendages move in unison. Not only did she look like the only person on stage having a good time. But, she very nearly kept up with Michael, the other star in the frame and the person who would go on to become the biggest Pop star in the universe. Cher (mostly) matched Michael step for step, culminating in a brief robot sequence that, many years later, became the object of memes and viral video obsession.

Cher has always been a lot — that’s both her shtick and her appeal. But for those six minutes with Michael, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and Marlon, she was more than a lot. She was much too much. To be clear, I don’t mean that as a (sexist) insult — I am not suggesting that she was or is difficult. To the contrary, I mean that she is unfathomable — that it is impossible to imagine somebody who looks like her and sounds like her and moves like her and acts like her all at once.

Michael, for instance, could not act and was perennially, maybe pathologically, de-sexualized. Prince and James Brown each had more musical talent than Cher, were both acrobats on stage and were sexual dynamos. But — let’s be honest — neither The Purple One nor The Godfather of Soul could act. Neither men had the “can’t take my eyes off you” screen presence of Cher. Neither, for example, looked the way Marvin Gaye looked. Meanwhile, Marvin couldn’t move (or certainly act) like Cher could (much less like Prince or James) move.

Despite their cinematic aspirations, The Beatles couldn’t act (or dance). And while Madonna could hold the screen and could certainly dance, her singing leaves more than a little to be desired. Cher’s closest equivalent might have been Diana Ross, who could do it all but who always appeared too self-contained, too self-serious to dance and laugh the way Cher did. So, maybe the best comparison would be Elvis, with his big ole voice and his hip shaking and stage banter and Hollywood stardom. After all, it was Elvis who, once upon a time, could not be shot below the waist on TV. It was Elvis who was, for a time, much too much.

And yet, ultimately I don’t think it is The King or Miss Ross who is most comparable to the unfathomable, 1975 robot Cher. No, I’d argue that the most Cher-like person was the guy who hosted her (and Sonny) on his own variety show in 1969 and who then, seven years later, shamelessly flirted with her when he appeared on the second incarnation of (divorced) couples’ show. The guy who, in his own right, sold over a hundred million albums, won a Grammy and a Golden Globe, inspired women (and men) to hurl undergarments his way and whose formidable baritone was tonally similar to The Queen of Camp’s contralto. Yes, to my mind, the other Cher was Thomas John Woodward — or Tom Jones to you, me and anyone else who had a pulse in the 1970s.

Like Cher, Tom Jones had a teeny tiny waist. And, like Cher, Jones loved to show some skin. Both were unafraid of tight pants. Both hosted popular TV programs — Jones’ popular show from 1969 through 1971 being somewhat of a precursor to Sonny and Cher’s. Both had famous marriages (Jones’ for its mystery and longevity, Cher for its popularity) and perhaps more famous relationships outside of their marriage (Cher with Greg Allman, David Geffen and Gene Simmons and Jones with Mary Wells and, apparently, two hundred and fifty fans per year). Both are known for their iconic voices, while neither is proficient on any instrument. But, more than anything else, the thing that bound Jones and Cher was the thing that happened when they put it all together — the voice, the body, the moves, the attitude, the screen presence, the sex appeal. It was their unfathomable “toomuchness.”

For Tom Jones, this toomuchness became his thing — a wry acknowledgement that suggested prodigious talent, but perhaps more so, prodigious masculinity. He was nicknamed “Tiger” by his female fans, a nod to his semi-ferality. But, decades removed from his youthful prime, it can be hard to recall that time when the obsession with Tom Jones’ was both intense and intensely un-ironic. There’d never been a Soul singer, much less a Pop singer, whose voice was so deep and so forceful and so precise and whose “Rs” rolled the way the Welsh Tiger rolled his. And while perhaps not formally innovative or critically admired, “It’s Not Unusual” and “Delilah” sounded unlike everything else on the charts for one simple reason — Tom Jones’ voice.

Jones’ superstardom, however, was based as much on his performances as on his vocal gifts. His toomuchness resided only partly in his larynx. It was also, and especially, evident everywhere else. And at no time was his toomuchness so on display as it was during his televised performance of “Treat Her Right” in 1969. The segment starts out innocently enough — Jones standing in front of a big band and facing a studio audience, consisting exclusively of eighteen to thirty-six year old women. Tiger starts the number with a mic in one hand and a slight wiggle of his hips. As he begins to sing, he accepts a handkerchief from a young woman in the front row, who he thanks with a kiss. Next, he dabs his forehead and returns the hankie, while he shakes his way through the first half of the song, kissing two more audience members (squarely on the lips) along the way.

But that is barely the beginning. Because, seventy one seconds into the performance, the horns bust in and Jones lets loose. Decked out in a tailored three piece, black suit with a blue, wide collared shirt unbuttoned ever so slightly, the singer twists and jumps, shaking his hips and neck wildly in all directions. Meanwhile, he keeps perfect pitch, alternating between his famous lower register and a delirious higher end that harmonizes with the squeals of his audience. The two minute and twenty second performance is perhaps not as technically impressive as Cher’s Jackson 5 medley, but it’s similarly jaw dropping. Jones looks like he is going to catch fire and take flight. It’s the moment wherein his toomuchness threatened to explode — when voice, waist, legs, hips, shoulders, arms, smile, talent, attitude and, undoubtedly, pheromones coalesced to produce something that was previously unimaginable and certainly unsustainable.

By 1972, “This is Tom Jones” was canceled and its host was mostly off the Pop charts. Whereas Cher transitioned from Pop start to small screen mainstay to big screen A-lister and, then eventually, back to Pop star, Jones followed his buddy Elvis to Las Vegas and never really left. His standing as an elite singer was eclipsed by his reputation as an aging, passé ladies’ man. His big collars, and half bare chest and flared pants suggested that his toomuchness had become his outoftouchness. He’d devolved from Soul belter to Vegas crooner — from virile Welshman to aging sexpot.

Simultaneously, he was market corrected by a new breed of sensitive singer songwriters — James Taylor, Jackson Browne and their cohort. And then by the stadium rockers — Robert Plant, Lindsey Buckingham and the like. And finally by Glam, Disco and Punk. Elvis died in 1977, leaving Jones and Englebert Humperdinck to carry a flickering torch in a past prime version of Las Vegas. As sales dried up and venues shrank, Jones tried his hand at acting but nothing panned out. 1979s “Pleasure Cover” pilot, which featured Jones as a debonair conman, was both a wretched failure and the end of the line for his dual threat ambitions. At the end of a decade that had started out so promising, the once young Welsh stallion had been put out to pasture.

The antidote for his gauche toomuchness was, in a sense, obvious — he needed to become notquitesomuch. And so, in 1981, Tom Jones selected the vocation that his baritone voice and his middle-American last name seemed best suited for — Country music singer. There had been some precedent for outsiders succeeding in Nashville. Olivia Newton-John had some success. Anne Murray had more. And eventually, Shania and Keith would knock down the city gates. But, back in ‘81, there were very few examples of men who were not born in the Southern United States thriving in Country Music. On the other hand, Nashville was evolving, responding to the Outlaws (Johnny, Kris, Willie, Merle & Waylon) and to the influence of Mainstream Pop. As a result, the charts were much more Kenny and Dolly than George and Patsy. Bigger hair. Bigger collars. Some flare in the pant ankles. More exposed chest. It was the year of “Lady,” “Coward of the Country” and “You Were Always on My Mind” — songs that one could easily imagine Tom Jones having a go at. Moreover, the history of Country music of full of hypermasculine, deep throated men. Men like Tom Jones — just less Welsh.

After spending the second half of the Seventies with EMI, Jones moved to Mercury Records, who’d rehabilitated Jerry Lee Lewis’ career by helping him turn from early Rock outcast to Country Music pillar. Jones’ debut for Mercury, entitled “Darlin’,” was the first and the most successful of a series of records targeting his new market. The album’s cover sports a photo of the forty year old crooner in a brown cowboy hat that looks more like a safari hat, and a suede jacket with fringe that exposes a solid hunk of chest and an ample tuft of hair. Jones looks fantastic, but he looks more so out of place, as though he was rushed into wardrobe and asked to don a costume without sufficient context, minutes before a photoshoot commenced.

While “Darlin’” was by no means a hit — it failed to return Jones to his early Seventies Gold status — it did scratch the edge of the album sales charts and, moreover, produced three top forty Country radio singles. Compared to Rock and Roll, and before Americana, Country music always had tighter boundaries. There are Country Ballads. There’s Country Swing. There’s Outlaw Country. And there’s Contemporary Country. These well defined borders were an asset for Jones — they provided structure for his toomuchness.

In some territories, “Darlin” was entitled “The Country Side of Tom Jones,” a name which made plain the fact that the singer had other, more familiar sides that were not Country. It was also a more generic title than “Darlin’” (which is itself pretty generic and totally “Country”) — one that promised listeners exactly what they expected: a famous voice performing songs in a genre that was well understood. And, for the most part, the record delivers precisely as advertised. Eleven songs, most of which are straight-laced Country ballads or mid-tempo Contemporary Country numbers, and all of which are played in the manner of the time — spare arrangements, vocals out in front, lots of strings for the heart and occasional horns for the hips.

If you simply removed the vocals, “Darlin’” would sound a good deal like any one of the Kenny Rogers albums from the same era. But once Tom starts singing, the differences are glaring. For one thing, while the basic arrangements do slightly constrain Jones’ instrument, he still sounds out of place — too strong and too Welsh. There’s never been a Country singer with a voice as big as Tom Jones.’ “Lady Lay Down,” which was a number one Country hit for John Conlee just a few years earlier, typifies Jones’ difference. It’s a supremely professional performance — spare piano, delicate strings, polite guitar. But something is just off. There have been rich baritones and bold balladeers, but Jones’ voice is a tsunami. Even when he tries to modulate, it consumes everything. It sounds like Vegas swallowing Nashville.

In that way, “Darlin’” sounds less like a Kenny Rogers (or John Conlee) record than it does like a “Comeback Elvis” album. Jones’ dear friend and hero blended Country, R&B and Gospel better than anyone ever did (save perhaps Ray Charles). And throughout this album — and throughout his career for that matter — Jones sounds more than a little like Elvis. His version of “But I Do” takes young Elvis out of Sun Studios and drops him into an episode of Sha Na Na. It’s early Rock and Roll reimagined and repackaged with a heaping tablespoon of nostalgia. “One Night,” however, is a triumph. Elvis’ version is breathy and wild. And while Jones is not quite so successful, he can out-croon and out-belt even The King. Jones lacks the humanity of Elvis’ voice — his lungs are mighty to the point of being supernatural. But this is a case where his bravado works because it contains both affection and humor.

While the majority of the album — and all of its first half — is dominated by middle of the road Country fare, the back half of “Darlin’” is more varied. “A Daughter’s Question” is a dewy-eyed divorce song, designed to tug at your heartstrings while it offers you a handkerchief. Its sentiment is unearned, in part because of how Jones oversells it. Seemingly tired of Nashville, “Darlin’” closes with two half spoken, half sung Welsh reveries. But right before those two tracks, he takes on “Dime Queen of Nevada,” a wild and weird Lee Hazlewood number, complete with mariachi horns, congas and timeless couplets like “No one gambles harder/Than the dime queen of Nevada.” With the exception of “One Night,” it’s the first time that Jones’ sounds like he's having a great time. And it’s the only time that he sounds truly comfortable — far from Nashville and further from Wales, back in Vegas.

In 1987, right before Tom Jones returned to the Pop charts with “Kiss,” Cher scored her own number one hit with “I Found Someone.” And then, two years before Jones’ “Sex Bomb,” she did it again with “Believe.” Today, Sir Tom Jones’ formidable head of hair is almost entirely white. He’s tan in ways that Welshmen are not. But the deep lines on his face suggest the life of a miner’s son more than that of a Pop star. He still regularly performs in Vegas and his voice is, amazingly, still intact. Though he nearly detonated the airwaves in 1969 and though he sang and flirted shamelessly with Cher more than once in the years that followed, Tom Jones was never quite as much as Cher. His toomuchness was not quite at Cher’s level. But, even being next to her — on the same stage years ago and in the same sentence still today — is not such a bad place to be.

by Matty Wishnow