The waltz and George Jones. One gone as of a couple days ago, and the other nowhere, being shown the door in popular music.

That George Jones (who had been booked to perform at the Northern Lights Theater in Milwaukee in September) lived to the ripe age of 81 wasn't his fault. He spent a lot of his life trying to end it with alcohol, cocaine and serial heartbreak. In that last department, he gave as well as he got – his singing was a painful pleasure that millions endured repeatedly. It must be that real hurt is still more appealing than the kind of feigned fun a lot of popular music is trying to sell.

One of the great voices of the 20th (and part of the 21st) century, Jones had a special affinity for that lopsided and soon-to-be obsolete rhythm, the waltz. It probably only seems all his songs are in the key of G and in 3/4 time, but you would swear. His voice, which sounds vulnerable and wounded, probably needs the prettiness of a waltz to make it bearable.

One of his best came from a very unlikely source, James Taylor. Listen to "Bartender's Blues," a song he wrote specifically for Old Possum Eyes, and savor his uncanny delivery of this weeper – it's so good you might even be able to forgive Taylor for inventing the whole singer/songwriter genre.

In many cases a good song wasn't always found by his producer, Billy Sherrill. He probably knew that an average one sung by an instrument that good would be lifted up to higher stature and on those occasions where the writer really did his job, the sublime was a mere chip shot. Sherrill sweetened the tracks to the point of toothaches with strings and creamy background vocals. It's a far cry from George's early Starday hits that had a lot of spit and grit to them, but he applies just the right topspin to the lyrics to make you forget just how far uptown you've been dragged.

Listen to "Picture of Me Without You," and try to decipher whether it is the words, the melody, the rhythm or the singer. Does it matter? Probably not, but turn on the radio now and search for that feeling now. The landscape seems to be missing some of that sincerity and directness. There's enough irony and – if you travel too close to the commercial center of radio – way too much auto-tuning. Join me in a prayer that we have reached the saturation point in that particular sonic fad.

George Jones led a sad life. He drank and he sang about it. He lost at love and sang about that too. He might have sensed he was fodder for his own mill – he was no dummy – but he seemed okay with that. Is there any other way to make great country music? He did it exactly the way Hank Williams did, but lasted 50 years longer – some kind of endurance record. Had he died young, his reputation would be at least equal to Williams – as it is, every living country singer, at one time or another has said they would sing like him if they could.

Performing "He Stopped Loving Her Today" (yes, he could also sing the heck out of songs in 4/4) at the Grammy Awards, the band stopped for the last line. The camera zoomed in close as Jones twisted his face around and bent the melody around the way only he could.

It seemed like an invasion of privacy, an intrusion at the scene of a unspeakable tragedy and if it wasn't true, he should have also won an Oscar that night. Good singing is good acting and both need to be drawn from a deep well of experience. In George Jones' case, you sensed that the well was bottomless.

Rest in peace, George. You've got wings now, but you always sang like an angel, anyway.