OK, it’s not really a competition, but a delightful booking coincidence brings two of America’s most beloved Joneses — after the fictional Indiana and Scene art director Elizabeth — to our fair city on the same evening. Just off Eighth Avenue, prowling across the stage like a woman half her age, you’ve got the indefatigable soul machine, Sharon. A few blocks over, sitting peacefully at her piano like a woman twice her age, you’ve got the lean, serene, undisputed AC queen, Norah. Fiery and funky, Sharon will get you up off of that thing and perspiring in no time flat. Norah, on the other hand, will dehydrate you too — only through the eyes instead of the armpits. (This is certainly an inappropriate time to make jokes about The Ryman flooding with tears, or “Norah’s Ark,” so let’s not and say we did.) Sure, there are plenty of piano-balladeers out there, but few hit those gut-level weeping triggers the way NJ does. It’s usually easy to hate beautiful people who act sad, but it’s pretty much impossible to hate Norah Jones. Damn you, Norah Jones and your beautiful, sad sadness! And while it probably won’t happen, it’s fun to imagine we’ll somehow get one of those only-in-Nashville moments, where the two Joneses find their way onto the same stage after hours, with Norah kicking out her piano stool and ripping into some deep funk with the Dap-Tones. One can dream.