As I’ve mentioned once or twice before, I am a life-long fan of Barry Manilow. Some might say his music is just a bunch of silly love songs, or simplistic, or even sappy, and I don’t think I have an argument for any of that. Except, of course, to say, “So what?” I’ve got nothing against sappy, and I’m not looking for my musical diversions to crank up my brain power. And as for silly love songs, heck, even Paul McCartney agrees that there’s nothing wrong with them, and who wants to argue with Sir Paul?
Anyway, it’s Barry’s birthday today, so I thought it only fitting that I should say yet again how much I enjoy his music. The part that’s astounding to me, though, is that the man is no 70 years old. Can you believe that? Seventy. Somehow, against all logic, that makes me feel like I must be a hundred. He’s a generation ahead of me, so he’s not my contemporary, but hearing his age makes me feel very old for some reason. It seems like I’ve been listening to him all my life. And, really, he released his first album when I was only ten years old, so he has been around for most of my life. Add to that the way that listening to someone’s old music makes them seem frozen in time, and you can understand my amazement at the man’s true age.
Also, it was only a year ago the last time I saw him in concert, and while he might not be zipping around the stage quite the way he was thirty or forty years ago, I promise you that he also was not looking like a near septuagenarian. I was worn out just watching him and seat-dancing along with the music. Which now makes me think that I’d really like to see him again. My friend, Kim, and I have seen him many times before, and I’d hate to see the tradition end. A quick web search reveals that he’ll be performing in my neighboring state of Texas in just a couple of weeks. I wonder if Kim is up for an impromptu road trip?
Anyway, happy birthday, Mr. Manilow. Thanks for the music and the memories, and here’s hoping that you’re still making both for a long time to come.