Journale 7
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| Newsweek - 14 Februar, 2005 | |
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| Barry Hot At long last, Manilow plays Vegas. Isn't it time we gave the man some respect? The first time Barry Manilow played Carnegie Hall was in 1972, as pianist for the burgeoning cabaret star Bette Midler. It was quite a step up from the gay bathhouses they'd been playing to pay the rent. "I remember standing behind the curtain and hearing the audience roar," recalls Manilow, sitting in a bistro near his home in Palm Springs, Calif. "Bette and I just looked at each other, like, 'What is that?' It was so..." He stops, and laughs. "Wait a minute. Here I am telling you the story of my life, like anybody gives a s---. If they do, I'm amazed. Really, I am. I shouldn't be talking to NEWSWEEK right now, I should be playing a Chuck E. Cheese in Covina." You'd have trouble finding an American over the age of 20 who hasn't cracked a Barry Manilow joke - and that includes Barry Manilow. The operatic pop ballads. The questionable hairdos. The flouncy-sleeved jumpsuit. Manilow was the '70s. But he still sells 1.5 million records a year, just had a No. 1 single on the dance-club play charts (a remix of his 1978 "Copacabana") and is now preparing for one of the most anticipated openings in the history of Las Vegas: "Music and Passion," which kicks off at the Hilton on Feb. 23 and will run into 2006. Though Barry and Vegas seems like a long-overdue marriage, he had his doubts. "Believe me, I had to stop and think," says Manilow, now 58. "You see, I've always walked this fine line between having respect and being cheese. I worried that playing Vegas could push me over into the vat of cheese. But I will not allow it, I promise you that." It's his reputation as a master entertainer that's kept Manilow viable ever since the hits dropped off in the '80s and he started making non-commercial jazz albums. Last year his supposed farewell tour sold out stadiums across the country. "It must have been another generation that discovered me," Manilow says. "Or maybe they were brainwashed by their parents and wanted to see me before I died. 'Look, he's still breathing. Buy the ticket!'" Manilow has been performing ever since he was a kid himself. He was raised in Brooklyn by his mother, the daughter of Russian immigrants - his father, a truck-driver for a beer company, left shortly after Barry was born - and "a billion" cousins. Music figured prominently in the household. "If it had been another time and place, my mom could have been Ethel Merman," says Manilow, in his still-strong Brooklyn accent. "But she couldn't, so I did it." He went to Juilliard out of high school, got a job in the CBS mailroom and was married by 22. Four years later he'd left the dayjob - and the marriage - to jam in Manhattan's jazz clubs and cabarets. He started writing commercial jingles, landed a record deal in 1972 and hit the road on his first headliner tour. "I had no idea what to play," Manilow says, "so I put together a medley of my jingles. They didn't care what else I did - it was all about the Kentucky Fried Chicken/Dr. Pepper/Trident medley. Oh, and the big crowd pleaser: 'You deserve a break today.' I had the bad taste to do it, and they loved it." Manilow's 1973 debut was a jazzy record that didn't sell well. For his second LP, Arista Records president Clive Davis urged him to do more pop-friendly material. Manilow resisted, but finally Davis brought him a song and politely demanded he should do it - and "Mandy" went to No. 1. "It was the first time I actually turned pop radio on and listened," says Manilow. "What I heard was 'Boogie, Oogie, Oogie' and 'Kung Fu Fighting' - and then there was 'Mandy.' I said, 'Oh, my God! These people need me!'" Whether Manilow saved the decade or destroyed it is still up for debate. ("For every person who says they like me, there's another that's, like, 'Eew, him? ") But one thing's for sure: when you walk into a public space with the man, everyone knows who he is. Manilow tries to keep a low profile; he wears prefaded jeans and a plain black sweater, and prefers to stand in the corner of the hotel lobby. He speaks in hushed tones, though he laughs a bit louder than normal when he cracks jokes about himself - which happens about every 10 minutes. He insists he's happiest when he's behind the scenes. "I just backed into this beautiful career of a singing performer," he says, "but my heart is as a musician, arranger, producer and composer. Putting on makeup and an outfit and being charming to an audience is really hard work for me. If I never had to stand onstage again, I'm not sure how much I'd really miss it." Whether you take him at his word or not, performing has been his life, and in the Vegas show, he'll be tucking his old pop classics into a sort of musical storybook. (In fact, he's composed two musicals, "Copacabana" and "Harmony"; songs from both appear on his 2004 CD "Scores.") But Manilow promises there'll be no Cirque du Soleil characters onstage miming to "Mandy." "This show is more about storytelling," he says. "I played piano bars for years, so for one number, I take the audience to my old piano bar. I say, 'This could have been me, so go to one of those bars and put a $5 bill in their jar and tell 'em thanks from Barry'." He's got it backward, of course: piano men should thank Barry for writing all those songs that make their tip jars sing. But isn't it just like him ? By Lorraine Ali |
| Showbiz Weekly - 27 Februar, 2005 |
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| VEGAS' NEWEST MUSIC MAN BARRY MANILOW BRINGS HIS PIANO AND POP TO THE HILTON By Molly Brown Ask almost anyone their feelings about Las Vegas, and you'll get a song reaction. Either they love it or hate it. Ask almost anyone about Barry Manilow, and you'll get the same. "For every person who says they like me, there's another that's like, 'eew, him?'" said Manilow in Newsweek magazine. It was only a matter of time until Vegas, the town of neon, glitz and huge entertaiment productions, and Manilow, the man behind big ballads and sing-along hits, finally connected for Manilow: Music and Passion. And they connected in a big, big way. In December, Manilow and the Las Vegas Hilton announced a 24-week engagement. Having started on Feb. 23, and running well into 2006, Manilow is headlining the Hilton's famous 1,700-seat showroom where Elvis once reigned. The fusing of mega casino and mega talent seemed inevitable. Manilow, who began his professional career playing piano for Bette Midler in New York City's bathhouses, has become one of the most revered and massively popular songwriters and performers in America. From his breakout hit in the '70s, "Mandy," to his most recent success, a No. 1 hit on the dance-club play charts, the re-mixed "Copacabana," Manilow is still in high demand. So much so, his 2004 farewell tour sold more than 250,000 tickets in 22 cities. "On the last tour, I would joke with the audience that maybe they could just come over to my house," said Manilow in a Las Vegas press conference. "And from now on, they can." A veteran of more than 50 albums, Manilow was looking for a permanent home. After performing and traveling for more than three decades, he was ready to settle in one theater so his fans could come to him. Vegas, already a home to superstar singers like Celine Delon and Elton John, was the perfect match. What can fans expect from Manilow: Music and Passion? Well, Manilow's already mentioned penning a theme song for Vegas that he hopes will become Sin City's "New York, New York." But his show definitely has more of a low-key, sultry, smoky nightclub feel. "This show is more about storytelling," he said in Newsweek. "I played piano bars for years, so for one number, I take the audience to my old piano bar." Audiences won't see Cirque du Soleil - like feats, either, though there are dancers and a backing band. Music and Passion focuses on Manilow's strength - the music. While there is a healthy dose of hits, like "Mandy" and "This One's for You," Manilow mixes it up with new songs every night, too. And if audiences are really lucky, they'll get a double dose of a song that begs to be performed in Vegas - even if it is set in another locale. "Copacabana" now has two versions - the original and the new dance track featured on Manilow's 2004 album, Scores. "It rocks the house," said Manilow in Palm Springs' Desert Sun. "It's the last thing you would think of at a Barry Manilow concert, but every night it just rocks the house." Las Vegas Hilton, 9 p.m. Wed., Thurs. & Fri., 7:30 & 10 p.m. Sat., (702) 732-5755 "FOR EVERY PERSON WHO SAYS THEY LIKE ME, THERE'S ANOTHER THAT'S LIKE, 'EEW, HIM?" --- Barry Manilow, Newsweek |
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| Times 1985 |
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| by Ron Gluckman Barry Manilow is a one-in-a-billion singer who admits a bit of bemused bafflement at his own immens success. He's the singer the critics love to hate. Yet the singing reviews matter little to legions of adoring fans who buy Barry's albums by the bundle. "I get my press clippings and foolishly read them all," says Manilow, who will perform tonight and Monday at the Georg M. Sullivan Arena. "The criticism really doesn't matter. The bad reviews don't hurt and the good reviews don't help," he adds. "the public makes up its own mind and that's my review." Manilow has greater difficulty explaining his enormous appeal. He commands the kind of hysterical following that surrounded Sinatra and The Beatles. He says the idol worship is touching, but bewildering. "The thing that really amazes me is that it's lasted so long," says the singer. "It really surprises me, this sex symbol stuff. I don't take it that seriously. It's amusing. Sometimes I go on stage knowing my voice is not sounding its best. They scream even when I'm off. They must be seeing something, but what, I can't say," he says with a healthy laugh. Manilow - known for his gala stage productions and lush arrangements - shuns the trappings of stardom when he leaves the stage. Even on tour, he tries to steer clear of the hoopla that always follows him. During a tour of England in early 1982, Manilow sold out five shows at the Royal Albert Hall. An estimated 500,000 people battled for the 21,500 seats. Nearly 300 policemen were required to control the mobs gathering to greet Manilow. The scene was described by British Daily Mail as "a fervor scarcely matched since the heyday of Presley and The Beatles." The rest of the London papers all carried headlines on the "Manilow Mania." Manilow says the Teen Beat-treatment "makes me uncomfortable. I've never been very comfortable with all the attention, the grapping, the hysteria. It's there a lot and I've never liked it," he adds. "I got into it for the music, not the hair or the clothes." Still, Manilow does attract a decidedly different following than the typical pop star. His audience tends to be older and better-educated than the average music listener. "Basically, I appeal to the same people I'd appeal to if I wasn't in the public eye," he offers. "These people are the kind of people who would be my friends. I can tell from the letters I receive. They're articulate and tend to be sensitive. They're not just after jumping my bones." A New York native, Manilow's musical education started with accordian lessons at the age of 7. He attended New York College of Music and Juilliard. |
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| Daily News 1985 |
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| by Donna Freedman This was to have been a Barry Manilow interwiev, but Barry Manilow isn't talking. Not now, anyway; he's much too busy, the promoters say. Maybe so. Or maybe he just winced at the thought of yet another interwiev. After all, so many past stories of cheap shots about the man and his music. Mr. Manilow, is it true you took all your music lessons in an elevator? Mr. Manilow, what's it like to be the musical equivalent of macaroni and cheese? Mr. Manilow, what makes you think the whole world really sings your songs? "I've never been fashionable. I've never heard anyone say they like my music," Manilow once said. "I have this image of people closing the doors and pulling the blinds and then putting my records on really soft, or putting earphones on so no one will know they're listening to me." But Manilow had 28 straight Top 40 hits, you say. True. But go out on the street and try to find 26 people who will admit they like his music. Barry Manilow is like Spam: Hormel sells millions of cans a year, but no one - except maybe Mr. Whitekeys - talks much about eating it. Even if you like Barry Manilow, it's not cool to admit it. He's so... wimpy. Barely Man Enough, say giggling heavy metal fans and mellow '60s types. The prince of polyester pop. Mostly he sings about love. "Even now... I can't believe it still could hurt so bad," he'll moan at the piano. Or, entreating a lost love to come back: "Oh, Mandy... I neeeeeeeed yooooouuuuuuu!" Maybe that's why Manilow has been cannon fodder for years for music critics, social commentators and newspaper columnists. His hits, they say, are as quick as instant mashed potatoes - and just as bland and formless. He writes the songs that make reviewers cry. Audiences, however, cry for a different reason. They love Manilow's music, and they pack concert halls and stadiums across the country to hear it. His lyrics make them cry tears of genuine emotion, and they don't much care what critics think about it. Manilow may care what the critics think, but he's gotten used to them. He's well aware that every time he puts his head on the line, critics' fingers tremble on the guillotine rope. "I never think of my music as romantic. I think if I thought of it that way it would come off even more cloying and saccharine than the critics already say it does." "I think of it as passion. I think of it as reality. I try to give these songs as much dignity as I can." The music industry has long recognized Manilow's ability; among other awards, he's received an Emmy, a Grammy, a Tony and an Academy Award nomination, and the American Music Award for Top Male Vocalist three years in a row. Why, then, does he meet with such universal disdain among critics? "Sometimes I think I'm not cocky enough for them," Manilow has said. "I just throw it out there without couching it at all. I yell, 'I MISS YOU, COME HOME.' I don't think the critics are comfortable with that. They'd rather hear some guy sing, "Take it or leave it." It isn't easy being the guy everyone loves to hate. And it's a double bind: Not only is he panned by critics, he's often caught too tighitly in the search for the Big Hits. And for an accomplished musican - Manilow trained at the New York College of Music - that's frustrating. "Every year it gets harder and harder to write what feels good... But there are still a few songs that are just my babies, that come from the heart. I always slip one or two on every album. "That's why I write the songs the stuff I care deeply about. |
| Bravo, Germany - 1978 | |
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| Mit seinen rassigen Tänzerinnen zog Barry auf der Bühne eine Riesenshow ab. Kein Wunder, daß seine Germanytour ausverkauft war. "Dabei kannte mich doch vorher kein Mensch", wundert sich der schüchterne Entertainer und vergißt, daß Songs wie "Mandy" und "Copacabana" auch bei uns ein Hit wurden! Fast jede Show von Barry Manilows Deutschlandtournee begann mit 30 Minuten Verspätung - und das hatte einen besonderen Grund: Der Superstar aus America war nervös. "Ich leide unter schrecklichem Lampenfieber", verriet Barry Manilow beim "Magazin"-Interview, "obwohl ich seit über zehn Jahren auf der Bühne stehe, habe ich vor jedem Auftritt Angst. Ich muß mich allein in meine Garderobe einschließen und Jogaübungen machen, bis ich mich vor das Publikum wage." Trotz Verspätung wurde der US-Sänger bei jedem seiner ausverkauften Konzerte stürmisch umjubelt. Bereits in den ersten Minuten - wenn er im Straßbesetzten Jeansanzug lässig auf die Bühne schlenderte und den Welthit "Mandy" anstimmte - gewann er die Sympathien im Sturm. Eingebettet in die Las-Vegas-Perfektion seines Orchesters und der drei singenden Tänzerinnen, strahlt Barry Manilow schlaksige Schüchternheit aus. Die Knie leicht eingeknickt, den Oberkörper zurückgelehnt und die Augen geschlossen - so brachte er seine Superhits wie " I Write the Songs", "Could It Be Magic" und "Even Now". Zwischendurch erzählte er mit rasend schneller Schnodderschnauze von den Stationen seiner Karriere: Wie er 1967 bei der Plattenfirma CBS Briefe sortierte und nebenher das Musical "The Drunkhard" schrieb, wie er zusammen mit US-Star Bette Midler 1972 als komische Nummer in einem New Yorker Saunaklub auftrat und wie er jahrelang als Alleinunterhalter in Pianobars herumtingelte. "Ich war und bin nichts anderes als eine lebende Musikbox", beklagt sich Barry Manilow humorvoll, "warum habe ich nur nichts vernünftiges gelernt." Während der tempogeladenen 2-Stunden-Show zieht sich Barry Manilow blitzschnell dreimal um, tanzt Rock'n'Roll, steppt und schafft sich bei seinem aktuellen Hit "Copacabana" so sehr, daß die hellblonde Mähne klatschnaß ist. In Amerika gilt Barry Manilow schon seit drei Jahren als einer der besten Entertainer. Mit seiner Germanytournee hat er jetzt auch bei uns den Durchbruch geschafft. Bald wird man den Sänger im Kino bewundern können. Barry Manilow: "Ich drehe im Februar meinen ersten Film - eine Parodie auf die John-Travolta-Welle!" Wenn er sich mit seinem weißen Schlapphut, Marke Chigaco-Ganster, ans Klavier hockt und fröhliche Witze macht, ahnt kein Mensch, daß Barry vor jedem Auftritt tausend Tode stirbt. Soviel Lampenfieber hat er! by Gerald Büchelmaier | |
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| Well, that's what he says. The trouble is his critics won't agree. They were at it again last month during his sell-out concert tour. And Barry Manilow - or Concorde Hooter, Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Softie, according to which critic you read - is up to his bitched - about ears with the carping his massive success has brought. "I like the man I've become," he says. Jo Weedon and Sally Pearce report on the Manilow magic and Barry himself looks back on the life that's inspired his latest hit album. We should, as always, get his nose out of the way. The nose that's launched a thousand quips. "I know I'm an odd-looking fellow," says Barry Manilow. "But I don't really think it's funny when people say I'm ugly or call me Concorde Hooter. Now they're having a go at my ears. I think: 'oh, come on, I've taken enough.'" He's right, of course. There isn't another singer in the world who's had to contend with so much personal abuse. If it isn't his appearance, it's his songs. If it isn't his song, it's his image. If it isn't his image, it's his success. At times it seems that only three types of people like Barry Manilow - bank managers who know a solid gold investment when they see one; an army of incredibly loyal fans, constantly sighing all over the world, and Manilow himself. To the rest, he's a convenient target for sniper fire. Despite (perhaps because of) the fact that he's sold 35 million albums and 30 million singles. Despite the fact that he commands fees of £ 750,00 a week in places like Las Vegas. Despite the fact that concerts - like the ones in Britain last month - sell out in what seems like seconds. Manilow is fair game for everyone who hates success. Because he's romantic, gives people what they want, is so middle-of-the-road you expect to see him in the Highway Code, and is all three, unashamedly. The sniping began as soon as he started amassing commercial triumphs. When he attracted modest audiences in the New York clubs of the Seventies, he received rave reviews. "As soon as there were queues round the block to see me, I got the worst notices ever - for the same act," he says, throwing despairing hands in the air. Now, he says with a quiet smile, the Americans, who last year voted him top male singer "know better." It's just the British who wage war. But Barry Manilow is not the ogre we Brits like to believe. And he's not ugly either. He's lean, fit and tanned, with a smile of disarming charm. That, of course, is what the other side of the great divide, his millions of fans, see and appreciate. "They like me because I'm safe," he's said. "I'm a pretty normal guy who has no problems with drugs, booze or dozens of different girls. And what's more, I'm happy, dammit! You know what they say about people with big noses - they've got big hearts." "Maybe that's why people criticise me so much - because I don't do anything nasty. But being a nice guy is being a nice guy and I'm not going to turn into a rat." The only shortcoming he'll admit to is an addiction to swearing. "So I'm not the choiboy people say I am," he points out. "I really am a little tarnished. Maybe I should rough up my image a little. Maybe I do spend too much time combing my hair and dressing up. Perhaps I shouldn't shave for a while." But then he stops to consider and adds: "But I'm not the rugged type. I like the man I have become. I'm proud to be a solid upstanding citizen." His admirers, too, like the clean-cut, non-aggressive image, which stops provocatively short of a swivel of the hips. In the unlikely setting of Blenheim Palace last year, over 400,000 of them paid £ 15 to see him - many from a very long distance - at an outdoor concert. It's hardly likely that the Duke of Marlborough would have trusted any other pop idol's fans to take over his elegant pile for the afternoon. Much of the secret of Manilow's wide appeal - mostly among women - is his totally misleading little-boy-lost look. Manilow the artist and business man is, in fact, anything but lost as he personally runs his own large corporation. But still the image persists. After his double-act appearance with Mrs. Thatcher on Michael Aspel's TV chat show this summer, she approached him in the hospitality room with the motherly greeting: "Oh my dear boy, you must have spent a fortune on that suit and it's all lop-sided. Let me straighten it out for you." And Princess Diana acknowledged his air of vulnerability when she met him after a concert in the Royal Albert Hall. "You ought to get married and have someone look after you," she told him. There have been recent rumours of a relationship between Barry and Dana Robbins, one of his backing singers. Marriage and Manilow, however, don't have a particularly strong relationship. He tried it once when, at 21, he married his childhood sweetheart, Susan. It only lasted a year, then Susan went off to become a hippy in California. He had a 12-year live-in relationship with Linda Allen. Today, however, just two beagles share his £ 5 million mansion in California. It's an appropriate setting for a man whose phenomenal success makes him one of the wealthiest of his profession. He obviously appreciates the luxury after the poverty of his New York childhood, when his lorry driver father abandoned his mother when Barry was just two. (Naturally, the relationship between mother and son is particularly strong - Mrs. Manilow came to Britain with Barry on his tour last year. The critics catp about that, too.) "I came from nothing," he says proudly. "Growing up in Brooklyn mage me street-wise. I don't know if I could have handled all this if I'd had a different upbringing. It's helped me not to take success too seriously. If I stopped selling records or tickets I wouldn't die." Nor would he have to go back to the type of menial job he was doing when lack of money forced him to leave school without the benefit of a college at a television studio that his workmates persuaded him to give up his job to develop his talents at the New York College of Music. After his studies, the studios offered him a job directing music for local shows and writing jingles. Nightclubs, however, were his favourite milieu and, one night, he teamed up with the outrageous Bette Midler and became her musical director. The divine Miss Midler describes them as "two Jewish egomaniacs." But despite their clash of wills, their musical association lasted two years until Manilow launched his own solo career. It was, amazingly, only nine years ago that his first hit, Mandy, rocketed to the top charts all over the world. Since then he's had 25 consecutive hits. He can be seen on TV this Christmas. But the ritzy life of a top performer is not his idea of fun. "I still fell isolated from show-business in many respects," he says. "I regard show-business as going to movie premieres, to parties with celebrities and hanging out with agents and performers. I don't do this kind of thing." However, he is going to star in his own film, "Copacabana," due to start production in February. "I die at the end," he reveals. "My critics will love it." Perhaps, if he were seen to be revelling in his stardom, people would be less cruel about him. But the only luxury he would enjoy, he says, is writing more music for himself, rather than for commercial success. "I'd love to say: **** it, this one is just for me and people who like great melodies, he says, indulging in this favorite vice. But don't let his critics know he swears - they might start to like him. "My fans like me because I'm safe," says Manilow. He was safe enough to play Blenheim Palace last year. "It was an incredible exerience" |
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| 'My advice - don't ever give up on a dream' by Barry Manilow "Two a.m. - Paradise Cafe" is the name of my new album. The Paradise Cafe is a fictitious place but I've been there many times, in many cities. I have played in so many piano bars in my career, there was a time when I felt as if I'd never get out them. The problem wasn't that I hated working in piano bars. On the contrary. The problem was that I loved working in them. I could have stayed a piano player in a bar forever and probably been pretty happy. I'm one of those piano players who can play just about any song anyone requests, and even though I wasn't singing professionally then, I managed to sing them, also. When I was behind that piano bar, I was Mr. Personality. I was cute. I had an echo chamber on my microphone, so I was Frank Sinatra, too! Of course the trith was that I was none of those things. But I had 'em all fooled, and fooled myself, as well. There was one bar I will never forget. I was 22 years old, and had just got divorced from my wife of one year. Getting divorced is the lowest. I don't recommend it. When it was done I ran from New York, the apartment... everything. I took a job as piano player for a girl singer. When I walked into the club, I felt numb We had been on the road for about three months when she was offered a job in the musical "Sweet Charity." We decided she should take it because it paid well and since the show was winding up in Chicago, we made plans to meet there. I found myself an agent and waited for a call as pianist in a bar in Chicago. Hal, the agent, called and sais that before he could book me there, he'd have to try me out in a smaller town. I tried to tell him he should just trust me, that I had done this kind of thing dozens of times, but he didn't buy it. Truth was I had never played solo in a piano bar. So Hal booked me into a piano bar in Kankakee, Illinois. The Little Corporal Lounge is in a shopping mall, the clientele is local and they usually get roaring drunk. They had put me in a dismal motel across the street from the Lounge, and I was nervous, I had never ever done anything like this in my life. I had always worked in the backround; behind the lead singer, never, ever as a soloist. I put on my new tuxedo in this dreary motel room, slicked back my hair and walked to the bar with my attache case filled with music. The piano was on a platform behind the bar, so I could look down at all the people drinking and they could talk to me and request tunes. When I walked into the club on that first night, I felt numb. I had never felt quite so numb. It was like being in a coma with none of the advantages. I climbed up to the piano as if a dream. When I sat down on the piano stool, I found it was too low and I couldn't see anybody, so I asked for a bar stool. I still sit on a bar stool when I play piano. As far as the customers were concerned, I was invisible. I remember starting off with Meditation, a bossa nova. Very timidly. It was as if I weren't there at all. Nobody looked up. Nobody reacted. Somehow I got through the first hour set. When I returned after my break, there were a few people around the piano and they were complimentary. I was surprised. But then the strangest thing started to happen to me. Every time I went back to the piano, I felt a little stronger; when I left it I became invisible. By the end of the evening, I was joking with the patrons, playing as they sang, and I even sang a few songs myself. But then every time I left the piano, I became invisible again. At the end of my first week there, I would walk into the place feeling invisible, climb up to the piano, click on the spotlight with my foot, and I would become attractive, worldly, witty. Woman started coming on to me, guys bought me drinks. I realised that the piano player is always the most attractive person in a place. By the end of my two-week stand at the Lounge, the transformation would begin in my awful little motel room. There I'd stand in front of the mirror, like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, combing my hair, putting on my tux, changing from Invisible Barry to Barry Manilow at the Keyboard, like it said outside the club. The next week I landed the gig in Chicago, discovered a blow dryer and never looked back. After that, I played in piano bars around the country on and off for about five years. The hours were crazy, but I always enjoyed it. I'd make friends with the waitresses and the bartenders and we'd always wind up doing favours for each other. The longer I could keep a crowd around the piano, the more tips everyone would make. I remember one time in New Jersey having a crowd three deep around the piano and the owner had to turn the lights on to get the crowd to leave. I'd haunt the music stores each day looking for the latest sheet music to learn. When I played in Chicago or New York, showbusiness friends of mine would drop in to wherever I was and do impromptu sets. But it was always after midnight that was the most fun for me. I'm a people watcher, and I loved watching everyone late at night. It quietened down and, by then, most of the customers were into their own things. Usally a few couples were necking in the corner booths. Some people were a little too loaded to stand up, and a few customers were still around the piano either listening to me, or into their own thoughts. That's when I would be able to play and sing the songs I enjoyed the most: "Here's That Rainy Day," "Willow Weep For Me," "Where Are You?" I waited for some sort of inspiration to hit As my career started to take off, I stopped working in piano bars. I moved further and further away from the people, the atmosphere, the music. Everything started to speed up - records, television, concerts, tours. When I came back from a year long tour in 1983, I was exhausted but very happy. We had sold out nearly all the shows in the United States, Japan, Europe and Australia and, of course, there was that incredible Blenheim experience. The Greatest Hits Volume II had just been released and was bulleting up the charts followed by "Read 'Em and Weep." The only problem was I felt like I was at the end of a phase in my life and I didn't know what to do next. So I decided not to do anything and wait for some sort of inspiration to hit. I retreated to my house in Palm Springs, cancelled my subscriptions to the show-biz trade magazines and turned off the radio. I forced myself to lie on a lounger in the sun. It was very hard to do. When you're used to working all the time as I am, it's hard to stop. I paced, I read, I learned tennis, I organised my photos from the tour. I was always doing something. After a while, I felt my motor begin to slow down, and for a few months, I actually stopped. My mother called a few weeks later and asked what I was doing. I told her, "Nothing." She said, "Good." Then she said, "What do you miss?" I thought about it a while, and it was music that I missed. But not the travelling or the music that I had been involved with for the past 10 years. I just missed music in general. So I got out some old jazz albums. Carmen Macrae, Sarah Vaughan, Gerry Mulligan, Stan Getz, The Modern Jazz Quartet. Great music. Great performers. The little buzz of an idea began to creep up on me during those few months that I was trying to relax, and within two months the concept of 2:00 A.M. - Paradise Cafe was born. Sometimes you have dreams that are so important to you, but you don't reach for them for fear you'll fail. Well, I am here to tell you not to give up. Start with the little dreams first, but don't stop at the big one. It usually all starts with one little voice saying, "Wouldn't it be great if..." And most of us usually answer, "Oh, but that could never be." That's exactly what happened to me in Palm Springs on that quiet Februrary day. "Wouldn't it be great if I could write the music to an entire album? Wouldn't it be great to work with my favourite people again? Wouldn't it be great not to have to worry about fitting into the top 40? Wouldn't it be great to work with Gerry Mulligan? To structure songs in uneven ways? To arrange an album so that it never fades out, so that all the songs blend into one another? To take a chance? To dare to fail? Working on this album with the musicians I've always admired was probably the biggest thrill of my musical career. Gerry Mulligan, Mel Torme, Sarah Vaughan, Mundell Lowe, Shelly Manne, Bill Mays and George Duvivier are the best in their fields. Finally getting to compose and arrange an entire album was a dream come true. It's so strange that I chose to name this fictitious place Paradise Cafe because while I was making this album, I have to say that I was as close to paradise as I've ever been. The music, my co-writers, the musicians, the atmosphere were as close to a perfect experience as I can imagine. It's also curious to think that making this glorious album parallels experiences I had when I was starting off in the music business. When there was no pressure, when I had no idea what the future held, when the rent was only $100 a month. Now I realise that was paradise. And for a fleeting moment, I felt it again. I don't think I'll ever be the same. Stilletto Ltd, 1984 |