Journale 24
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| Graffiti 1988 |
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| Barry Pincus - the man they call Manilow. From the backstreets of Brooklyn to the baths of Manhatten to the top of "the business," his tale is the stuff of American dreams. But Manilowmania has always been a doubleedged proposition. Should Barry be loved - or leathed? And is he really as hopelessly ectomorphic as he seems? All questions answered... Barry Manilow is back - on the road for two years with a spectacular stage show, on TV soon (early March) with an hour long special, on the printed page with a book, Sweet Life: Adventures on the Way to Paradise, and on the radio with his latest (18th) LP, "Swing Street." A collection of standards ("Summertime," "Stompin' At The Savoy," "Stardust") and originals ("Brooklyn Blues," "Hey Mambo"), featuring guest performances from the likes of Kid Creole, Gerry Mulligan, Stan Getz, Diane Schuur and Phyllis Hyman, Swing Street is a rollicking return to the music of the '50s ('80s style), and an impressive followup to Barry's earlier foray into the '40s, 2 A.M. Paradise Café. Reached in Florida, Barry, 42ish, was calm and talkative after "a great gig" the night before. We join the conversation in progress... You've got lots of interesting people on your new album. What, for instance, was it like to work with Kid Creole? Great! He's a friend now. I was a fan of his since he was Dr. Buzzard. Remember Dr. Buzzard and the Savannah Band? Vaguely... They were a big disco group that were able to blend '40s and '70s. When I was making "Swing Street" I had trouble mixing the '40s type swing stuff with the modern stuff. So I called Kid Creole up and said. 'Let's talk,' and we became real good friends; we did the Tonight Show a couple of weeks ago, and we might be touring together in Europe. I would love nothing better than to get him some exposure so he gets the major audience he deserves. What he needs is a hit record, although I know that 'Hey Mambo' is not anywhere near the quality and calibre of stuff he is capable of doing. But maybe it will get him just far enough in the public consciousness that they'll discover what I know about him. Like 'Endicott' should have been HUGE, and 'Lifeboat Party.' And all of that. Who do you enjoy listening to these days? Well, my favorite singer is Tom Waits. He's a guy who sticks to his guns. I've always been impressed and moved by him; I saw his show in New York, it was brilliant. And his B&W movie, Down By Law - that was great too. And, hmmm, who else... Sting! I can't get him off my record player. The new album? Yeah. I just love it. I love the slow songs more than the noisier ones. I think he did them for the radio. There's a nice version of Hendrix's "Little Wing"... Ohhhhh... just great! He's really an inspiration. Is there anybody else you'd like to work with? Oh yeah. But if I do, they won't be people that are really big, they'll be people that are more... underground. Like, did you ever hear of a group called Flash in the Pan, from Australia? Yeah, they did a song called "Driving All Night" or something like that... Oh, man, this is another great group that broke up... |
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| THE OLD SONGS You had 25 consecutive Top 40 hits. Are there any that you particularly like, or, conversely, any that make you cringe when you have to perform them? None of them makes me cringe. I mean I'm proud of the work that we did; I think we made some great sounding records. Maybe some songs are better written than others, but that's really just a matter of opinion. I have a special fondness in my heart for 'Mandy,' because it was the first one, and even now it still gets to me. I'm still proud of the arrangement we came up with on "Weekend in New England"... I can give you an anecdote about each one of them... I fought tooth and nail not to do 'I Write The Songs' because I thought everybody would think I was on an ego trip, but Clive insisted and it turned out to be huge; 'Copacabana' was the biggest hit I ever had, and it was also the biggest surprise, because we didn't write it to be that kind of hit. I mean, I don't know if I could get through another year of singing 'Copacabana' all the way through, but in the present show we do a medley and we give enough time to each song so anybody who came to hear them doesn't feel cheated. The State of Pop Music Today Do you listen to a lot of pop music on the radio? I never enjoyed pop music, really. I didn't know about pop music until I found myself on the radio stations that played it. I was a jazz buff... classical music was what I gravitated toward, and R&B. Other than that I was a musical snob, until I found myself with this job of having to be on the radio. And between Clive Davis and my old producer Ron Dante I learned how to make hit records. It was a great job - still is - but even today I don't really listen to pop radio. But what I do hear seems to be... stuck in a rut. It's all a matter of drum machines. You know, you can get real spoiled with synthesizers. You put the drum machine on and you put a wonderful setup on any one of the synthesizers and everything sounds just great. But then you strip it down and it's not really a good song at all. It's just a groove. And it doesn't work for me. It's gotta be in the song. The old, old songs Do you think young people are coming around to appreciate some of the old standards - Sinatra, Tony Bennett, big band stuff? Well, I think the music is always there; it's always going to hit a button. People are always going to hit a button. People are always asking me if I think big band is going to come back - the older guys are always hoping I'm going to say yes - but I don't think so. But if you do stuff well there's always a market for it. I like to think of "Swing Street" as a contemporary swing album... and maybe it is, you know, hip. I think it is. Frankly, I've gotten a huge reaction on this album... it's comparable to anythyhing I had in the Top 40 area. So maybe it is a hip idea. I don't know. I didn't do it for that. I did it because I love it. Period. That's it. Bad Money Managment Is "Swing Street" selling as well as you would like? I tell you, I don't know. I didn't ask; I don't care. The reason I'm curious is because there was a story that you were broke, or at least a little low financially. Yes, well, I'm fine now. I didn't do this for the sales. I tell ya, I haven't even asked. It's a platinum album in my heart (laughs). So the people handling your business tell you you're financially solvent? Yeah, thank God. It was rough there for a while. I mean no one was more surprised than I was to find myself with $ 11,000 after having sold more than 50 million albums! What do you think happened to all the money? Bad investments. I didn't stay on top of it. I trusted people that I shouldn't have trusted... they weren't crooks, but... What did they invest in? Just bad investments that needed to keep being invested in before they paid off... if they ever would have. You know, it was impossible, unless you were Trump. The music business is like a constant roller coaster ride, and I had people that didn't understand that. Listen, it was a good lesson for me to learn. The Dark Time I understand you had sort of a dark time around '85, when you were writing "Sweet Life." Was it an actual nervous breakdown? No... no, no, no. It wasn't a nervous breakdown, but it was very introspective and it was not pleasant. I sat and I did not want to do another project until I finished that book. I was alone, by myself at the word processor for about 18 months. Everyday. But I don't think I would ever have felt as good as I do now if I had not gone through that period of introspection. You also underwent primal scream therapy in the '70s. How did that differ? Well, that was a whole other thing. That was me coming from a very, very uptight Jewish Brooklyn middle-class background, where I was raised to be a gentleman and wear a tie. Then, in a nutshell, I met Bette Midler (laughs), who gave me a shove in another area. I was very envious of her uninhibitedness and her freedom to express herself, and I couldn't seem to get there myself, so... I found myself in primal scream therapy. In '85, though, it was me thinking about what I really wanted and what I never wanted and all of the temptations that were there... all of the money dangling in front of me saying 'Come on, if you do this you can make this kind of money... if you play these rooms... if you go back on tour... if you make another album... if you make another TV show.' And I just didn't want to do it. I had to find out what I really wanted to do was make an album like "Swing Street." You also went on a weight program. How did that go? Well, I'm not Charles Atlas, y'know, but I'm not the skinny weakling that used to get sand kicked in his face. I have a Paramount gym in the basement of my house and I had a trainer come three times a week to torture me for a couple of hours. You know, I always tried weight programs, but I never had enough discipline to go to a gym. I would pay a couple of hundred bucks for a lifetime membership and then never go back after the second time. And then I got this gym and tried to do it myself but I still couldn't force myself to go down into the basement. But then, when I found this company that, you know, sends somebody over... I did it (laughs). So what are you weighing in at now? I didn't put on too much weight. I put on muscle. When you do it right you don't have to gain weight. I'm up to 150 Ibs. now, at 6 feet. So I still don't weigh much, but at least it's real solid now (laughs). |
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| Personal Life And The Media How's your mother, Edna, doing? She's doing great, thank you. We had a little scare with the cancer thing (Edna was operated on for lung cancer), but she's back, working in a hospital with kids who have AIDS. And she put a little night club show together and she sings. She has a good time. And your dogs Biscuit and Bagel? (laughs) Well, Bagel went to the big dog kennel in the sky a couple of years ago, but Biscuit is okay. What kind of dog is she? Little Biscuit? She's a beagle. I was wondering... you don't hear much about your personal life. I don't know, I never really thought about it, but... I was wondering if... you are gay? Well, I'm not. No, no, I'm not. I've been married and I'm going with a girl right now. You know, I've never really been comfortable with being a celebrity and all that goes with it. I'm a musican. I'm a singer. I'm an entertainer. If anyone wants to talk about that I'll be happy to do it. I've just always been uncomfortable with people poking around and trying to get into my pants, y'know? The press always wanted to do that. And I've always told my press agents not to include that information in my press releases... I've told them I'll talk about the music. I'm uncomfortable talking about my private life: it's BORING. It's so boring that the only way anybody can get anything out of it is to make shit up. Otherwise it's not interesting. But there is a significant other in your life? Yes, there is a significant other in my life. Do you live together? Yes, we live together. Do you want to give her first name? No. Okay. I guess a lot of people feel the media is getting way out of hand with this kind of thing. What do you think of the whole Gary Hart fiasco? I think it stinks. And it's getting worse. But I tell you something, I understand it. Because when I turn into a normal person it's sort of interesting to read this shit! And I hate myself for it! (laughs). So I understand it, I just hate it when it happens to me! The Social Manilow Do you go out much on the paty circuit? No, I'm not really into that. I never have been. I'm always uncomfortable in a crowd. I'm not good in cliques. I either have to be the leader or I'm the geek in the corner, but I've always had trouble being somewhere in the middle. I must say I don't have many close friends - I have one, though, her name is Nina Foch, she used to be a movie star in the '40s. She's about the only person that I can go to with my problems who has sort of 'been there.' She can say, 'Ah yes, when I was with Louis B. Mayer I had the same problem.'(laughs). Are you the kind of person who was picked on a lot as a kid? Well, I think I felt like the guy who was always being picked on, though I don't think I really was. It's funny... I betcha everybody had a different impression of themselves than everybody did around them. You know, the handsome guys thought they were misfits, yet the people around them always thought they were snobs. I always thought I was the shy loner, but when old friends call me they tell me that I wasn't perceived that way at all! The 'King Of Shmaltz' VS. The Critics I understand that your life was changed when you first heard Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain? Yeah, that was back in '64, when I was young, very young - when my musical tastes were being formed. That's why when I found myself being called The King of Shmaltz and the King of The Middle of the Road... I mean, I didn't even know these expressions! I had no idea what this was! I was much more into Gerry Mulligan, I was going to be Dave Brubeck, I was going to be playing the piano in some bistro in Paris. That was my goal. So this whole thing came as a surprise to me. I guess it must have been kind of a shock when the critics jumped on you, when you found yourself symbolizing something that many people disliked intensely... I think I still do symbolize that. Have you learned to live with it? It bothered me at first because I didn't think they were really understanding. I didn't think they saw the real me. They were seeing this stuff that even I was uncomfortable doing! But they were crucifying me as a person, and I kept wanting to yell, 'Wait a minute! You don't know the whole story here! I'm doing great work, but that's not all of it!' But it's impotent rage for years and years but after a while you just either... you know finally I ended up with the Paradise Cafè album and everybody came around. All the critics said 'Now that's more like it.' But I didn't really care at that point. It was nice to hear it, but I didn't really care. I cared what I thought and I cared what the fans thought but I didn't care what the critics thought. Because they hadn't spent enough time looking. The Manilow Audience Do you have a clear idea of who your audience is? We were thinking of putting you on the cover and we were wondering... I don't know, Alastair, I just don't know. I look out into the audience and it's different they're children, they're teenage girls... and then there's the letters. It's always been like that, except for the very beginning, when I made the cover of "Teen Beat" and "Tiger Beat" and all that shit. But other than that it's been a pretty consistent blend of all ages; so I don't know where they're coming from. I mean, I like "Graffiti," it's very nice. It's a hip magazine and I too was puzzled as to why you were interested in putting me on the cover... Have you ever had any trouble with fans who are overzealous? Yeah, but I don't really want to call them fans. Because the fans I've learned to like are people who enjoy music and are into the work that I do. Then there are other people, you know, they're into my garbage, they have binoculars across the hill from where I live, they're giving me death threats... We keep a little file, a little bin, we call it the looney bin. Any letters that seem a little off centre go into the looney bin. So one of these days if you find me shot dead in the street you'll know where to start looking (laughs). The Future So you're on tour for a couple of years. What's in store after that? I really don't know... I'm thinking about it right now. I'm gonna have to rely on Clive and Arista; I think it's always good to solicit advice. I mean, we're gonna do a Christmas movie with CBS, a Christmas album, that's easy, I can figure that one out. But another pop album, man, I really don't know. I've never been really good at figuring out what to do next, I gotta tell you. I mean, I got a shitload of songs that sound great to me, and we'll see how they turn out. I mean, I have to do what feels good to me. I have to believe that if I love it here will always be somebody out there who will love it. I don't know if there will always be 15,000 people in Boise, Idaho, who will love it, because an entertainer only gets that a couple of times in a lifetime: when he's on the way up, and when he's on the way... comeback or something. But most careers level off at a certain point, then it's really up to the artist to please himself. That's what I'm up to right now... and I think I'm enjoying my life and my career right now more than I've ever enjoyed it. Will you be coming to Canada soon? Oh definitely, eventually. I love it there, nice area. What are ticket prices for the show? Gee... I don't know! I honestly don't know. I think it's... I tell you, I don't know! |
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| BARRY MANILOW - THE STORY by Phil Dellio Nobody polarizes music fans faster than Barry Manilow. At the peak of his popularity in 1977, he was simultaneously the biggest selling pop vocalist in North America and a man whose severest critics split into camps of those hating him, those really hating him, and those who drove cars over cliffs every time one of Barry's songs came on the radio. Even now, in 1988, the idea of putting Barry on the cover of "Graffiti" led to the most heated debate in the magazine's history; when the smoke cleared there were three resignations, a stereo tossed through a fifth floor window, and an actual fist fight between assistant graphics coordinator Winona Schlepp (a longtime fan) and vid-crit Peter Payne (a confirmed Barryhobe). It was at this point that I was called in to make some sense of the situation. Surely there must be a way to separate fact from conjecture, history from rumor, common sense from inflamed passions, flotsam from jetsam, oil from water, and come up with a picture of Barry that would present the man as he really is: neither genius nor villain, but a modest, likeable guy who takes pride in his music and his ability to make people feel good. With that in mind, I grabbed a copy of "Sweet Life," Barry's new autobiography, and set out for an encounter with the abyss. When, I wondered, did the world lose all perspective about Barry? For the first few years of Barry Alan Pincus' life, nobody had any opinions on him whatsoever. Well, his family liked him all right - mother Edna, Gramma Esther, Grampa Joseph (Barry grew up without a father) - but for the most part he was able to hop, skip and jump through the streets of Brooklyn with nary a raised eyebrow. According to Barry, the first major turning point came when Grampa Joe "took me to Times Square, found a 'Record-Your- Own-Voice' booth, plopped his quarter into it, and said, 'Sing, Barry... sing Heppy Boidday to your cousin Dennis, Barry.'" The timid Barry declined, so Grampa Joe seized the microphone and ripped through a spirited rendition that Barry couldn't get out of his mind for days. When Barry was given his first musical instrument, an accordion, he quickly cooked up a version of "Heppy Boidday" that put Grampa Joe's to shame: "I'd sit and squeeze out melodies on the accordion and Gramma would actually stop her cleaning or cooking and sit and listen to me." Although the meals and vacuuming henceforth went down the drain in the Pincus household, Barry has his first fan. At 12, Barry was bar mitzvahed; he used the opportunity to revert to his mother's maiden name, Manilow (rhymes with 'slow and low'), and Barry Allan Pincus was never heard from again. Mr. Barry Manilow's musical education took a quantum leap when Willie, his mother's new beau, bought him a transistor radio for his 14th birthday. This led to Barry's discovery of "Symphony Sid," host of a three-hour jazz program on WEVD: "I found Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderly... I tried playing some of this new music on my accordion, but it sounded silly." Frustrated by his inability to invent "free polka," Barry turned to a new instrument: "Playing the piano that September afternoon was the moment my life began. It was my mother who gave me life, but it was that piano that gave my life direction." Grandiose sentiments for a guy who'd just learned how to play "Three Blind Mice," but nonetheless the ivorytinkling Barry was now ready to take on the world. High school passed rather uneventfully: "I never got into trouble, did my homework, got average grades, and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life." Along with friends Larry and Fred, Barry conducted some early experiments in the field of group harmony; unfortunately, possibly because the name "Barry, Larry, and Fred" made people queasy, the boys were turned down by Ted Mack's Amateur Hour. Come graduation, even though Barry's teeth had finally been "released from jail," he was still but a shadow of his future self: "I look at my high school yearbook picture and I don't recognize that guy... he sure isn't me. We all looked alike in those pictures, too." Hmmmm... no wonder Barry, Larry and´Fred had lots of "dates, parties, and girlfriends to keep us busy." Suddenly, like a pit bull unmuzzled, things started happening for Barry: he enrolled in City College, wangled a job in the CBS, Barry was married to his high school sweetie, Susan. Within two years at CBS, Barry was bumped upstairs from the mailroom to the position of log clerk: "I'd sit in a room, for about eight hours a day, and watch four television screens at once... my job was keep track of everything that happened." Clearly the position had nothing whatsoever to do with logs, so Barry chucked the lumberjack jacket Gramma bought him and settled in for a lengthy career at CBS. Faster than you can say "Captain Kangaroo," though, the direction of Barry's life again changed course: "The true passion in my life was music... the plans to climb the corporate ladder to some imagined executive position were bullshit." Foreseeing a what-makes-Barry-run life of purgatory, the panic-stricken Barry dissolved his marriage, hooked up with aspiring singer Jeanne Lucas as an accompanist, and began knocking 'em dead at Manhattan hot spots like the Duplex, the Living Room and Charlie Bates (the latter operated by Norman's kid brother). The dynamic duo were next invited by a promoter to take their show to a Holiday Inn in Richmond, Indiana. Under the impression that this would entail wearing a turban and worshipping cows, Barry hedged: "I asked everyone I knew for advice... I was so desperate, I actually wrote a letter to the 'Playboy Advisor' in Playboy magazine, which they published months later" (spiced up, no doubt, with a few references to depraved midgets and live chickens). Forward into the future - waking one day with a cry of "Indiana wants me!" , Barry quit CBS and hit the road with Jeanne. Richmond turned out to be nowheresville, but Bar and Jen shopped their act around for a couple more years before calling it quits in a blaze of glory: an engagement at New York's prestigious Upstairs/Downstairs club, launching ground for Ruth Buzzi, Jo Anne Worley and other giants from the world of comedy. For the next little while Barry freelanced as a vocal instructor, teaching young singers everything he knew and sending them out into the world. Those of you who've seen "The Boys From Brazil" will want to draw your own conclusions at this juncture in our story. One day a student of Barry's dragged him along to an uptown audition, where Barry was introduced to a whole other world: "The stairway widened, the music got louder, and I saw colored lights, lots of mirrors, and flocked wallpaper... there were lots of men swimming or eating or walking and talking and most of them were stark naked." No, Barry hadn't stumbled onto the set of Ken Russell's latest flick, but rather the notorious Continental Baths, where phrases like "fourth and long" were the spice of life. Bored with the Socratic life, Barry decided to stay on as house pianist at the Baths, an experience that brought him into contact with moral questions that had plagued mankind for centuries - age-old stuff like, "Have you ever seen a thousand naked men with party hats on?" It was during Barry's tenure at the Baths that the next thunderbolt in his life struck: "Suddenly, out of the barber shop/dressing room on the side of the stage came a whirling red-haired dynamo! She shouted, she screamed, she kicked, she flailed her arms and legs." Shazam, Charo! - no, Linda Blair! - no, Bette Midler, the Divine Miss M!!! Although Barry and Bette went together like frosted flakes on pizza, their boundless respect for each other's talents paved the way for a wildly successful collaboration. Bette sang, Barry arranged, prudes cowered, gays converged, critics cheered, and before long you couldn't trade your sister for a ticket to soldout engagements at the likes of Carnegie Hall. Following a Grammy Award for The Divine Miss M., Barry seemed ready to bask in the radiance of Bette until the swallows came back to Capistrano. But a shrewd pair of ears at Bell Records caught wind of a demo tape by Barry, and he was quickly summoned to a meeting inside the Bell empire: "When you walked off the elevator there framed colorful posters of their famous artists such as Tony Orlando and Dawn and Vicki Lawrence hanging on the walls staring at you." Realizing this was no fly-by-night operation, Barry said goodbye to Bette and hello to... Ronald McDonald? Yes, concurrent with his fledgling career as a contemporary song stylist, Barry heeded the call to celebrate the joys of fishburgers - and chicken, and cola, and Band-Aids, and just about anything else you might have found lying around Graceland after an evening of action-packed fun circa 1973. Barry the jinglemeister was suddenly all over the radio dial, which made for a smooth transition to what turked just around the corner: "Mandy," Barry's number one record from 1975 about a girl who gave without taking, or took without faking, or faked without feeling, or did something or other that inspired Barry to pour his heart out plop into the lap of America. And that was it, I think, the encounter with the abyss we've been searching for - from "Mandy" onward, which more or less encompasses EVERY RECORD BARRY'S EVER MADE and EVERY RECORD BARRY WILL MAKE FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, he became a subject of contention that will never, in our lifetime, be adequately resolved. So let's doff our thinking caps for a moment, and simply wish Barry good luck as he approaches his 13th year at the top and 42nd birthday to boot. As he himself once put it, "Commitment justifies living." |
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| TV Guide 1985 |
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