Crushing on Barry Manilow
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It’s 1977, and my sister Debby’s song, “You Light Up My Life,” has just spent 10 weeks at #1 on the Billboard Top 100 chart. What am I up to? I’m 18 years old, living at home under the guise of a gap year, and I have mercifully graduated from Marymount High School, a college-prep situation, with a hard-won 3.0. I have no idea what my next step will be, and truthfully, I’m not sure if it’s even my decision. My mom has ideas. She has hinted that I may be interested in attending a Bible training school next: Youth with a Mission. I’m unsure and frozen.
I knew that my morning devotionals at the breakfast table, my concert tours with the family, and our strict dating codes had created plenty of noticeable space between my classmates and me, so I contemplated how I might pose myself in the high school tableau; let's just say it didn't come easily. Or quickly. Or ever, if I’m honest. Interpreting my mom's fears and values about how to behave when one is alone with a boy was tricky, and my father both gently, and urgently, laid a breadcrumb trail to an awareness that there could be danger in those waters, white-water rapids I might not be able to handle. What rapids? Why?
Post high-school, with time on my hands and a need for diversion, I work out at the parent-provided gym. I tan by the pool. I watch Turner movies in the middle of the day, and I develop a crush on Barry Manilow. A huge crush. Living large in the late seventies.
I became aware of Manilow when his anthem of love and longing, “Weekend in New England,” was released in November, 1976, and I had unabashedly taken to battering my turntable needle, up and down, the old school version of replay. Every member of my family and household knew, and I didn’t care.
(Sung with whisper-tones while playing piano)
Last night, I waved goodbye, and now it seems years
I’m back in the city where nothing seems clear.
but thoughts of me holding you bringing us near
And tell me, when will our eyes meet, when can I touch you...
When will this strong yearning end...
And when will I hold you again?
His voice commingled sincerity and warmth with a touch of musical theater; I guess I just leaned in.
I had only been marginally interested in “Mandy,” before my Barry fandom. Casually cycling through my personal musical jukebox, I cozied up to styles that seemed mutually exclusive: Dan Fogelberg, Boz Scaggs, Jackson Browne, The Eagles, Linda Ronstadt, Emmylou Harris and Billy Joel. At some point, I had Yellow Brick Road (Elton John) memorized. I also obsessed about the Beatles, and sacrilegiously, Kenny Rankin’s version of “Blackbird.” We don't have to be musically monogamous, but I never developed a niche when it comes to what kind of music I liked. And then came the Copacabana brouhaha and my fixation on its creator.
What was it about that look, that person, that demanded my attention? My fealty?
And what is it about today that moves me to take a look under that particular hood?
At 18, I had become more than marginally interested in the idea of love, the passion and heartache, the conflict and resolution. The drama. Barry used setting, plot lines and characterization to amplify the emotional ride. It worked for me, anyway.
Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl
with yellow feathers in her hair, and her dress cut down to there…
She would merengue and do the cha-cha
and while she tried to be a star, Tony always tended bar
across a crowded floor, they worked from 8 till 4.
They were young and they had each other, who could ask for more?
I consumed “Copacabana” like I did Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. Those old movies filled my cup with joy and wonder, but for me, they were also slightly investigative; what’s this romance thing all about? Exploring non-threatening versions of romantic story lines...well, I guess it diluted the anxiety of inexperience. As it turns out, I was the last to leave home, and the last to find love.
Once, I sang a song of his in my Catholic school mass because it struck me as both a love song and a prayer. “I Am Your Child” was the first ever previously-recorded song that I plunked out on a keyboard to sing on my own. It's spoke to me of devotion and belonging. I think that's when we first made friends, Barry and I.
I am your child
Wherever you go You take me too
Whatever I know, I learn from you
Whatever I do, you taught me to do.
I am your child.
Maybe, this song introduced to me, my becoming-self, that love is love, whether it’s romantic, friendly, or spiritual. All I know is that the song touched my heart, and I had needed to hear it. And it was Barry who sang those words to me.
I accepted that our tastes weren't exactly aligned, especially in wardrobe. However, he felt like home to me in a way that even now I can't explain. The timber of his voice, the squinty smile lines in his eyes
He felt like someone I'd known my whole life, and his music approached me like a friend coming to stay for a few days, to sit at my table for coffee and conversation. I often wondered if he had that effect on others? And I wonder how my friend is doing now?
I'm hanging around my house on the weekends after enrolling into college with Bambi legs. I have no idea how to behave outside of the environment that has nurtured me for years, an environment that has both protected me, and isolated me, from the kind of relationships someone might have outside of church. In other words, I know I won’t find a lot of people who speak the language of my childhood. My life has been a montage of concert stages, celebrities, Network TV variety shows, and a whole lot of respect for, and interest in, the Gospel of Jesus Christ (still true). I’m figuring things out. My dad stays close, and tries not to ask too many questions as my peer group is shifting (barely, but a little). Also, he is aware that Barry and I have a thing going on.
This morning, my father steers around me through the kitchen with piles of mail and video cassettes in hand, and heads to the back door where he can jump in his car and go to the office, running late, as usual. In a hurried tone, he says, quickly but gleefully, "By the way, honey-bun, last week, Barry Manilow moved in across the street." He waits for my jaw to drop, and then he adds, "Wanna to make some cookies, and we can drop them off this afternoon?"
I'm too stunned to answer, but I quickly shift through the rolodex of the three or four different kinds of cookies I've tried to bake in the past, and of course ,I land on Toll House chocolate chips cookies. I mean, what's better than that to say welcome to the neighborhood?
Hours later, with a warm plate in my hand, and my father as my presenter, I knock on Barry Manilow’s front door. With a knocker.
A handsome gentleman named Matthew opens the door, surprised to have unexpected visitors. He smiles. Friendly.
My smooth father takes the lead as I feel a threatening drop of sweat trickle down my thigh.
Pointing to the cookies, my dad, slightly tongue-in-cheek, says, “Hello! We heard Barry had moved in across the street, so we thought we’d stop by and say, welcome!” Congenial as always.
“That’s so nice of you, Pat,” he acknowledges, reaching out for a warm handshake. “Let me run in and let him know you’re here.” Gulp. And the door closes, almost. Not latched.
It’s been maybe two minutes, and the door opens to Barry, smiling and bright-eyed. “Hi, Pat, and…?”
My father jumps in, making the earth-shaking introduction, “This is my youngest daughter, Laury.”
With an enthusiastic nod, Barry opens the door wider and shakes my hand. “What a great surprise, come in!”
He leads us into his cushy elegant living room, and we sit on his cushy, elegant couch. I'm an exuberant mess, but I've learned how to fake it having had years of talking to strangers in awkward situations, even on TV.
Yes, I baked them myself. I’m smiling, and nodding as small talk ensues, and mostly, I’m elated to find he's so gracious, even though there's a bit of a feeling that we just went backstage after his concert - is it me?
We chat, we laugh, and I let the cat out of the bag that I knew every word of way-too-many of his songs. I may have even told him about singing, “I Am Your Child” at my high school mass with tears welling up in my eyes. I’m unsure whether that part of the story really happened.
The surprising exchange conjured up a different time in history when people could knock on doors just to say hey, or to drop off a pie, or to extend some friendly hospitality just across the street.
And the thing is, I knew. I knew before I baked for him, from listening to his music, that he was this guy. Welcoming, warm, hospitable, kind. His eyes do smile. I'm still crushing on that part of him, and it's (clearly) not about chemistry or compulsion.
Partly, it's that first song I learned how to play on the piano that created a bridge for me between my church friends and the rest-of-my-life friends.
Mostly though, it was feeling human accessibility from someone who has every right not to be accessible. To withdraw, to shelter, to fear the unknown or the unexpected stranger.
A person like that deserves to be put on a pedestal.
I appreciate you visiting me at Least Famous. If you come back to read future posts, you’ll find a thread of memoir woven together with personal narrative essays. And, please take a minute to subscribe and comment. Makes my day!
Laury, this whole post is a delight! I can relate, subbing Barry for Barry (i.e. Gibb), up until getting to bake cookies for him! I love that he was every bit as gracious and kind as you had hoped. Such a lovely story.
You met Barry! Oh wow. Your story makes me like him even more.
I remember I was twelve and for my birthday they got me a portable battery operated record player along with money for 4 albums: Barry Manilow, Bee Gees, Karen Carpenter, and Neil Diamond.