Janis Joplin Said She Only Did It Because It Was Him — Tom Jones Never Forgot What Happened Next

In 1969, Tom Jones was one of the biggest stars in the world, not just in music, in the world. The Welsh coal miner’s son who had gone to number one in 1965 with It’s Not Unusual, who sold out arenas on both sides of the Atlantic, who was so famous that women threw their underwear at him during concerts, which sounds like a joke, but was not a joke.

He had a network television variety show. This is Tom Jones. It ran in America from 1969 to 1971. The guests on that show were the biggest names of the era, The Who, Joe Cocker, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Stevie Wonder. Tom Jones did not need anyone to come on his show. Everyone wanted to come on his show. Except Janis Joplin.

Janis Joplin did not do variety shows. She had made this clear. Variety shows were for the mainstream, for the parents, for the people who watched television on sofas instead of going to concerts. She was not a TV act. She was a force. Then Tom Jones called her. Or reached out somehow. And Janis Joplin said yes. “God bless her.

” Jones remembered decades later. “She said to me when she came on, look, I don’t do variety shows. I’m only doing it because it’s you.” So she saw through it. This is the story of what happened when she walked onto his stage, December 4th, 1969. The This Is Tom Jones Show, London. Tom Jones was 29 years old. He was at his commercial peak.

His show attracted a split aud.i.ence, young people who wanted to see the rock guests, older viewers who came for Tom. He was the bridge between the two worlds. Janis Joplin was 26 years old. The Cosmic Blues Band was her backing group, the new band, the one she had left Big Brother for, the one that was struggling to find its footing.

The reviews had been mixed. The year had been hard. She walked onto his stage. She was wearing what she always wore, the feathers, the beads, the boa, the everything. There was no costume change for television. There was no toning it down for the mainstream aud.i.ence. This was what you got when you got Janis Joplin. Take it or leave it.

Tom Jones took it. They sang Raise Your Hand. The song had been written by Al Bell, Edd.i.e Floyd, and Steve Cropper, the soul writers who gave the world Knock on Wood and half of the Stax Records catalog. Janis had made it part of her live set. She had sung it at Woodstock earlier that same year. It was a song that suited her, demanding, physical, the kind of song that asked the voice to go somewhere most voices couldn’t follow.

Tom Jones had a voice that could follow. This was not always obvious from his television appearances, where the smoothness could obscure the power underneath. But he was a former coal miner’s son from the Welsh valleys. His voice came from the same place Janis’s voice came from. Not from training, not from technique, but from something that had been there before the music and would be there after.

When they started singing together, something happened that neither of them had planned. Jones began to rise. The controlled performer, the smooth television host, the man who had given the same polished show thousands of times, started reaching for something he didn’t usually have to reach for, because she was going there.

And the only way to stay in the room with her was to go there, too. Tom Jones hit notes in that performance that nobody who worked with him regularly had heard him hit before. One viewer later commented, “Tom Jones hit an F5 in this performance. That is the highest note I have ever heard him sing.” Janis Joplin got him moving.

She had a policy about aud.i.ence participation. She mentioned it on the show, almost in passing. “I make it a policy not to tell anyone to sit down. That’s to encourage everybody to stand up.” The This Is Tom Jones studio aud.i.ence sat down for variety shows. They applauded at designated moments. They watched.

After about 30 seconds of Raise Your Hand, they were on their feet. This was not a thing that happened on This Is Tom Jones. This was a Janis Joplin thing happening on a Tom Jones stage. He was not prepared for it. He was delighted by it. She was not doing anything she wouldn’t have done at any show. This was just Tuesday for Janis Joplin.

At the end of Raise Your Hand, something else happened. Tom Jones tried to hug her. She stepped back, pushed him away lightly. The body language of someone who appreciated the performance, but maintained her own space, her own terms. She had come on his show because it was him, but she had not come to be part of his show.

She had come to do what she always did on whatever stage was available. He understood. “God bless her.” He said. “She saw through it.” He meant she saw through the artifice of television, the formula of the variety show, the calculation behind the booking. She came anyway. She did it her way anyway. She made it better anyway. And then she declined to be folded into the usual end of segment embrace.

She had her own thing. It was not compatible with being someone else’s guest. The performance was broadcast in America on December 4th, 1969. Families watched it on sofas in living rooms across the country. The parents who watched for Tom Jones saw Janis Joplin for the first time. The young people who watched for the rock guests heard a voice that stopped them.

One viewer remembered it 50 years later. “Remember when this was live on the Tom Jones show? My mom loved him and Janis, too, like we all did. When they did this duet, my whole family was up and dancing, jumping up and down in the living room, except for my dad, who just sat drinking his beer, laughing, and enjoying the whole scene.

” That living room, those families on their feet, the dad in the chair with his beer, laughing. That is what the performance did. It made families get up from sofas in living rooms and jump up and down in 1969. That is Janis Joplin doing on a television variety show what she did everywhere she went. Tom Jones was asked about Janis Joplin throughout the rest of his career.

He always mentioned her the same way, with the specific warmth of someone who had been surprised by something and was still grateful for the surprise. “God bless her. She saw through it. She came anyway. She made it better.” The clip has been on YouTube for years. It currently has 14.7 million views. The comments are almost entirely from people in their 60s and 70s remembering where they were when they saw it.

The living rooms, the jumping up and down, the parents who loved Tom Jones discovering that a girl from Port Arthur, Texas could shake the room just as hard. One of the top comments, “Those who have experienced Tom Jones in person know what a powerful singer he is. But Janis was in a different league altogether that night. He adjusted. He rose.

And for of what those two voices could do together was something neither of them could have done alone.” Here is what this story asks you. Have you ever done something you said you’d never do because the right person asked? Janis Joplin did not do variety shows. She had principles about it. She had reasons. The format was wrong for her.

The aud.i.ence was wrong for her. The context was wrong. Tom Jones asked. She said yes. And 14.7 million people have watched what happened when she walked onto that stage. “God bless her.” Jones said. “She saw through it. She saw through the format and came anyway. She saw through the mainstream calculation and did it her way anyway.

And she made a family in a living room somewhere in America jump up and down on a Thursday night in December 1969 while the dad sat in his chair with his beer and laughed. That’s who she was. That’s what she did. On any stage, every time.” Subscribe. The next story goes somewhere nobody has taken you before.

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The Real Griselda Blanco Was The Most Dangerous Cocaine Queen Behind ‘Griselda’ Series – YouTube Transcripts: September 3rd, 2012, 6:15 in the evening. Metalene, Colombia, the Cardiso Butcher Shop on 29th Street. Griselda Blanco walked out carrying a slab of meat wrapped in white paper. She was 69 years old, stooped, gay-haired, a grandmother in flat shoes. The motorcycle came from her left, two riders. The passenger raised a 9mm. He fired twice. One round entered her skull above the left ear. She dropped onto the sidewalk beside her pregnant daughter-in-law. Blood pulled into the gutter. The motorcycle vanished into traffic. The whole hit took seconds. This wasn’t just another cartel hit. The woman bleeding out on that meddling sidewalk had been linked to more than 200 murders. She’d helped build the Miami cocaine pipeline before Pablo Escobar was a household name. She’d buried three husbands, motherthered four sons, and earned a nickname that terrified men twice her size. The black widow, Ladrina, the cocaine godmother. And here’s the part that mattered most. The motorcycle drive by killing that ended her life. Her own gunmen were among the first to make it famous. This is the story of how a poor girl from Medeline helped build a cocaine empire on Miami concrete. how she outkilled most of the men around her during the deadliest decade in American crime history. How she made enemies of cartels, federal agents, and her own family. And how her own methods finally circled back and put her in the dirt. But here’s what the documentaries gloss over. Griselda wasn’t just a drug dealer. She was an architect. She helped draw the blueprint that the cartels who came after her, Escobars included, would follow. And for a brief blood soaked window in the late 1970s and early 80s, she moved cocaine into the United States on a scale few of her male rivals could match. You have to understand where she came from to understand what she became. Griselda Blanco Restrepo was born February 15th, 1943 in Cartahena, Colombia. When Griselda was three, the family moved to Medelene into a hillside slum. No running water, no electricity, dirt floors. Children ran the streets like packs of dogs. According to her own later associates and the lore that surrounds her, Griselda was picking pockets young. And by her former lover’s account, at 11, she allegedly took part in kidnapping a boy from a wealthy neighborhood, demanded ransom, and when the family didn’t pay, shot him. 11 years old. Allegedly, she survived by hustling, prostitution as a teenager, forged paperwork. By her early 20s, she’d taken up with her first husband, a document forger named Carlos Trujillo. They had three sons, Dixon, Uber, and Oswaldo. The marriage ended the way most things in her life ended with Carlos gone. Some accounts say she had him killed over a business dispute. Others say he died of cerosis. The accounts genuinely vary. What’s clear is that by the early 1970s, Griselda was a mother of three with a growing taste for the trade and for violence. Then she fully partnered with Alberto Bravo and everything scaled up. Bravo was a mealene smuggler with ambitions bigger than his territory. They married. They moved cocaine north. At first, it was a few kilos at a time, hidden in the false bottoms of suitcases. But Griselda saw something the men around her didn’t. She thought industrial. By the early 1970s, she and Bravo had set up shop in Queens, New York, Jackson Heights. The Colombian neighborhood that would become the beach head for the South American cocaine invasion. This is where Griselda’s genius started showing. She hired a designer in Medolene to make custom bras and girdles with hidden compartments. Each one could carry up to 2 kilos. She recruited women, stewardesses, tourists, housewives, grandmothers. They flew commercial from Bogotaa to JFK wearing the merchandise on their bodies. Customs barely looked twice at middle-aged Colombian women in modest clothing. The operation ran for years, moving steady volume into New York and feeding the city’s exploding appetite for the drug. But that’s not the crazy part. The crazy part is what she did with the money. She didn’t bank it the way the Italians laundered theirs. She buried it in coffee cans, in safety deposit boxes under fake names, in the walls of safe houses across Queens. The cash piled up faster than she could hide it. Then came the indictment. April 30th, 1975. A federal grand jury in the Southern District of New York charged Griselda Blanco and 37 others the result of an early DEA operation called Banshee. It was one of the biggest cocaine cases US prosecutors had built to that point. By the time the indictment came down, Griselda was already back in Colombia out of reach. She left behind safe houses, bodies, and a half-built empire. But she also left behind a blueprint. The Queen’s operation became the model for everything that came next. Back in Colombia, things got ugly fast. Griselda and Alberto Bravo were sitting on millions in cash and accusing each other of skimming. In 1975, they met outside a Bogota nightclub to settle accounts. According to multiple accounts, Griselda pulled a pistol and shot Bravo. His bodyguards opened fire. She caught a bullet in the stomach. When the smoke cleared, Bravo was dead along with six of his men. Griselda survived. She walked out holding her stomach with one hand and took control of his share of the business with the other. Husband number two, buried. Here’s the thing about Griselda that nobody quite understood at the time. She wasn’t running from anything. She was building toward something. By the late 1970s, she’d married her third husband, Dario Sapulvida. She’d had a fourth son, Michael Corleion Blanco. Yes, she named her child after the Godfather character, and she’d moved her entire operation to a new city, Miami. Miami in the late 1970s was a sleepy retirement town. Pastel hotels, shuffleboard, a police department that wasn’t ready for what was coming. Griselda saw all of it. the geography, the Cuban exile community, the endless coastline, the lazy federal presence. She set up in a mansion in the wealthy suburb of Pinerest and she went to work. This is where Griselda became something new, a woman running a paramilitary cocaine army. Let me break down how the Miami operation worked because the mechanics matter. Step one, the opportunity. Miami had three things no other American city had. Direct ocean access to Colombia, a large Latin American immigrant population that gave her foot soldiers cover and a banking sector hungry for cash deposits with few questions asked. Step two, the muscle. When Castro emptied his jails and let roughly 125,000 Cubans sail from the port of Marielle in 1980, a small but violent minority had criminal records. Griselda recruited some of the hardest of them, killers, enforcers. She paid them, gave them apartments, cars, and women. Step three, the structure. She built cocaine cells across Miami Dade County. Each cell handled a different function. Importation, cutting, distribution, collection, enforcement. No cell knew what the others were doing. Step four, the money. At her peak around 1979 and 1980, Griselda was moving an estimated 3,400 pounds of cocaine per month into Miami. At the height of her operation, that translated into as much as $80 million a month. Step five, the problem. Griselda enjoyed killing too much and it would eventually destroy everything. Because here’s what made her different. Pablo Escobar killed for business. Carlos later killed for territory. The OOA brothers killed when they had to. Grisel de Blanco killed because she liked it. Her gunman helped pioneer the modern point blank motorcycle hit. Before Griselda’s cruise, cartel killings leaned on parked cars, ambushes, kidnappings. Her people put shooters on motorcycles in pairs. The driver weaved through traffic. The passenger fired through car windows at stoplights. By the time witnesses processed what they’d seen, the bikes were three blocks away. Her enforcers, the pistols, are credited with some of the first of these motorcycle assassinations, a method that became a hallmark of the cartels who followed. Between 1979 and 1982, Miami Dade County experienced what people later called the cocaine cowboys era. The murder rate climbed to the point where the medical examiner’s office was so overwhelmed it reportedly leased a refrigerated trailer just to store the bodies. By the early 80s, Miami led the nation in homicides, and a significant share of those killings traced back to one woman. The Dayland Mall shooting. July 11th, 1979. A liquor store called Crown Liquors beside the mall in South Miami. 2:30 in the afternoon, shoppers everywhere, children, families. Two of Griselda’s gunmen walked in carrying machine pistols. Their target was a Colombian cocaine dealer named Herman Jimenez Panesso. They cut him down along with his bodyguard, Juan Carlos Hernandez. By the time they walked out, two men were dead. The storefront looked like a war zone, and they were gone. They fled in a van police later nicknamed the war wagon, its sides lined with weapons and bulletproof vests. The day land hit shocked America. It was the moment the country realized something new had arrived. Open warfare on American soil, machine guns at a shopping mall, and the woman behind much of the bloodshed was sitting 45 minutes south. But that’s not even the worst of it. In 1982, Griselda’s men went after a rival named Jesus Castro. They opened fire. They killed Castro. They also killed his two-year-old son, Johnny struck by a bullet meant for his father. According to her former enforcer, Jorge Ayala, who later testified against her, she wasn’t bothered by it. By his account, she said the boy would only have grown up to be like his father. Here’s where it gets darker. Because while Griselda was building this empire of blood, her personal life was unraveling. Her third husband, Dio Sapulva, wanted out. He wanted to take their son, Michael Corleion, back to Colombia and live a normal life. Griselda refused. So, Dio kidnapped his own son and fled to Bogotaa. Griselda allegedly put a bounty on her own husband’s head. In 1983, a team of Sakario cornered Dario in Colombia. They posed as police officers, pulled him over, and shot him to death in front of his driver. Michael Corleó was returned to Miami. Griselda raised him as though nothing had happened. Husband number three, buried. By the mid 1980s, the pressure was building. The DEA had hunted Griselda since the 1975 Queen’s indictment. Agent Bob Palumbo had been tracking her movements through informants, wiretaps, and financial records for years. He knew she’d left Miami. He suspected California. He just couldn’t prove it. She’d moved to Irvine, California, a quiet suburb. Lawns, white picket fences. She rented a house under a fake name and told the neighbors she was a widow. She lived with her sons and ran her operation by phone. She thought she was invisible. She wasn’t. February 17th, 1985, around 5:30 in the morning, DEA agents and Irvine police surrounded the house. Bob Palumbo was there. He’d waited years for this. They breached the door. Griselda was asleep in a back bedroom. She didn’t resist. She just looked at Palumbo and said in English, “You got me.” The arrest took minutes. She was extradited to New York to face the 1975 indictment. And here’s a detail most retellings get wrong. There was no guilty plea in New York. A jury convicted her at trial in the summer of 1985. The judge sentenced her to 15 years in federal prison and fined her $25,000. And here’s where most stories would end. But Griseldas didn’t because while she sat in federal prison, Miami prosecutors built a new case against her in the mid 1990s. Three murder charges, including the death of 2-year-old Johnny Castro. The death penalty was on the table and the star witness was her former chief enforcer, Jorge Rivy Ayala. Ayala was ready to testify. He had detailed knowledge of dozens of hits. He could put Griselda on death row. But here’s where it gets unbelievable. While in protective custody, Ayala carried on phone sex with secretaries from the state attorney’s office. They got caught. The scandal blew up the case. With its star witness compromised, the state offered Griselda a deal. In 1998, she pleaded guilty to three counts of secondderee murder and was sentenced to 20 years to run alongside her federal time. She dodged the electric chair because the prosecution couldn’t keep its own witness under control. Griselda served her time. By 2004, she was released and deported to Colombia. She was 61 years old. The empire was gone and so one by one were her older sons. Dixon, Uber, and Oswaldo had all followed her into the trade and all three were killed reportedly in retaliation for the violence she had caused. Oswaldo was gunned down outside a Medeline nightclub in 1992. The exact dates and circumstances of Dixons and Uber’s deaths were never clearly documented, but both were dead before their mother. Only Michael Corleó survived. He eventually settled in Miami, got into reality television, and built a lifestyle brand around the family name. Back in Medí, Griselda lived quietly. She rented a modest place. She kept a low profile. By some account, she’d become a born-again Christian and said she was tired, that she just wanted to be with her grandchildren. Some people believed her. Most didn’t. You have to understand in the cocaine business there’s no retirement. There are only enemies you haven’t met yet. And Griselda had spent 40 years making enemies across two continents. Take your pick. September 3rd, 2012, 6:15 in the evening, Griselda walked into the Cardiso butcher shop on 29th Street in Medelene. Her daughter-in-law, 7 months pregnant, was nearby. Griselda bought meat for dinner. She walked out into the dusk. The motorcycle came from her left. Two riders, black helmets. The passenger raised a 9mm. He fired twice. One round hit her in the head just above the left ear. She was dead before she hit the pavement. The motorcycle accelerated into traffic and vanished. Police recovered the shell casings. They never identified the shooters. The case remains officially unsolved. The cocaine godmother killed by the same kind of hit her own gunman helped make famous motorcycle. Two riders head shot at close range. The exact method that had terrorized Miami three decades earlier. What did 40 years of bloodshed actually produce? Let’s count it. Grisel Blanco has been linked to somewhere between 200 and 250 murders. Her organization is estimated to have moved tens of thousands of kilograms of cocaine into the United States across her active years, a flow worth, in today’s terms, well into the billions. She generated enormous tax-free profits. She buried three husbands and three sons, and she died with almost nothing. The cash was gone, the properties were gone, the respect, the fear, the empire, all of it gone. Her legacy isn’t the money. It isn’t even the body count, though the body count is staggering. Her legacy is the template, the cellular structure that compartmentalized risk. The use of women as smugglers to exploit law enforcement’s blind spots. The motorcycle assassination, the willingness to kill anyone, including children, to send a message. The cartels who came after her, Escobar included, inherited and refined those methods. Bob Palumbo, the DEA agent who finally caught her, has called her one of the most dangerous criminals he encountered in decades of federal law enforcement and said the male cartel bosses looked tame by comparison. Here’s the truth about Griselle Delanco. She wasn’t a feminist icon. She wasn’t a misunderstood mother. She wasn’t a victim of her circumstances. She was a calculating, sadistic operator who happened to be a woman in an industry that didn’t think women could do what she did. And she used that underestimation as a weapon. She moved more product than most. She earned more cash than most. And when the end came, it came the way she’d always known it would, on a sidewalk, two riders on a motorcycle. The method she’d helped perfect used against her with precision. She lived by the gun. She built an empire with the gun. And the gun, in the end, owed her nothing. If this story pulled you in, hit subscribe. We drop a new mob and cartel breakdown every week. Drop a comment below. Who’s the next cartel figure you want us to cover? We’re reading every reply.

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Janis Joplin Said She Only Did It Because It Was Him — Tom Jones Never Forgot What Happened Next

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