|
Name: BarryNet Articles & Reviews Date/Time: 8/2/2019 10:59 PM Subject: Learning to love Manilow
Times-Union, 02 August 2019 If you had asked me before Saturday night if I'm a Barry Manilow fan, I would have laughed and referred you to my sister Betsy. She's the fan. She's the one who's loved the man madly since age 6 or 7 and knows every single lyric to every single song. Maybe, if you'd pressed me, I might have admitted to hearing the guy on Top 40 radio as a kid. (It was the 70s! What choice did I have!) Maybe I'd have confessed to getting a little weepy whenever I heard that snippet of Chopin in the opening bars of "Could It Be Magic." But a Fanilow? Me? Nah. That's Betsy, my dear, sweet, beautiful Betsy, who's developmentally disabled and just about the most complete human being you'll ever meet. Wise, loving and curious about the world, she's been in my life for 43 years and she's a gift to all who know her. On Wednesday she turned 53. When I was asked to help her celebrate with a trip to hear Barry at Broadway's Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, I checked the calendar, worked out a few kinks in the schedule and said yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. [She] adores him the way she adores purple, hearts, butterflies, chocolate and rocks -- only more so, because purple, hearts, butterflies, chocolate and rocks don't sing particularly well, and they aren't particularly handsome and sexy, which Barry is and always will be to Betsy. On the train down Saturday afternoon, we talked about him. We talked about her favorite shows on Animal Planet ... We talked about her parents... Pat, who died in 2013. Dan, who has a terminal blood cancer. His partner Margaret, who loves Betsy and comprehends her passion for Barry, came up with the idea of a birthday trip to hear him and split the cost of tickets with Dan. Before we left, he shoved a wad of cash in my hands to cover anything and everything else. The goal: for Betsy to have the time of her life. She did. So did I. Standing at the theater marquee beforehand in head-to-toe purple, Betsy looked up at his image with a gaze bordering on rapture. Once inside, taking her seat in the mezzanine, the gaze turned tense with expectation. She'd heard Barry live a few times before, but never this close in a setting this intimate. "Are you excited? Nervous?" I asked. "I think a little bit of both," Betsy replied. The curtain was a pulsing, brilliant violet. Good sign. Then it opened, and the man himself appeared. He [was] dynamic with a voice that belied his 76 years and a breezy showmanship that swooshed the night along. He wore sparkly suits. He sang sparkly songs. He told stories about his childhood that Betsy knew by heart. And as he cranked through his hit list, the pair of us sang along -- belting out the lyrics to "Mandy," "Looks Like We Made It," "Can't Smile Without You" and all the other exquisitely schmaltzy Barry tunes that I can no longer claim not to love. He even started in at the piano on "Could It Be Magic," then blitzed into a Donna Summer disco version in a purple suit with purple backup singers and a purple projection above. Betsy and I sang together, whooped together, beamed and waved our arms together. I have rarely seen a human being happier than my sister on that night. I looked over and felt nothing but joy and gratitude. For her. For everything in my life that brought me to this moment with her. For, well, Manilow. The value of any artwork is inevitably subjective; that's the beauty of it. Critics can expound on its aesthetics and pass judgement all they like, but its ultimate worth is a matter of quirk and impact. Art matters to us because it's subjective, because it's personal, because it reaches down and socks us in the gut in ways we can't explain. Watching my sister's beautiful, blissed-out face as she listened to Barry in the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, I understood at last why she loves him so. It's because his music is so transparent in its embrace of all that matters to her: Romance and melody, sincerity and love. Always love. There's no ounce of cynicism in his music or his lyrics, no apology for trading in emotions that others malign as mush. After the concert, we started heading off to the subway when, just shy of the street corner, I stopped and looked back at the theater. A small mob had formed around the stage door. "Let's go over," I told Betsy. "Why?" she asked. But as soon as she saw the shiny black vehicle parked out front, she knew. Taking my sister by the hand, I led her through the throng. We wiggled our way a little closer, then a little closer, then a little closer still until, about three rows deep, the wall of people became impenetrable. But we could see the door. We could see the musicians and backup singers as they emerged from the door. Were Barry to emerge, we would see him, too. "We HAVE to," Betsy asserted, and I agreed. So we waited. After about 15 minutes, I checked my phone and did the math -- still time to zip down to Penn on the 1. After 20, I thought, OK, so we'll Uber instead. After 30, I started getting antsy. At 40, I called it. "Betsy," I said. "Betsy. I'm so sorry, but we're gonna have to leave. We don't want to miss our train." "OK," she agreed, but I could see her disappointment. "One more minute," I said. "Just one." Twenty seconds later, he appeared. "Barry! Barry!" Betsy yelled. "Barry! Barry!" I yelled. "Amy, take a photo! You need to take a photo!" "I'm trying! I'm trying!" I said, hoisting my phone over the mob's collective heads and snapping blindly. Then the singer ducked into his limo, and whoosh, he was gone. Betsy's grin just about broke her face. "You saw him!" I told her. "You saw Barry up close!" "I did," she confirmed with a delighted, magisterial calm. Somehow, her grin grew even wider. We checked my iPhone. Yep, got a pic — Manilow's head in profile. Woot, woot! Documentary proof! We high-fived. Buzzed on Barry, Betsy and I walked to the corner and caught our Uber to Penn, humming and singing his tunes along the way. He writes the songs that makes the whole world sing. He writes the songs, he writes the songs. OK, I give up. I'm a fan.   
|