There was an uneasy moment when Gary first referred to Barry's Brooklyn roots. "He is, without doubt," he said, grappling for the appropriate superlative, "one of the biggest stars to emerge from that part of New York." This didn't sound that impressive. But Gary had come to praise Barry, not bury him. "Could it be magic?" he asked. "It most definitely is," he answered, "when it comes from the pen of Barry Manilow."
All the same, this was a curiously apologetic celebration. It didn't actually let anyone have a go at Barry, but the guests sounded like defence witnesses. "It's sort of embarrassing to reveal you're a fan," remarked one - and that was Manilow himself. A Times reviewer was wheeled out to tell how surprised he'd been to enjoy a Manilow concert; and Gloria Hunniford (why?) explained that, though Barry once took criticism badly, he'd now developed a sense of humour - although how he'd survived without one, working with Bette Midler for four years, beats me.
Bette met Barry when he accompanied her weekly gigs at a men's Turkish baths. She said she'd thought Manilow's melodies were great but "there was something about the lyrics I couldn't quite get a handle on" - fair comment on the man who rhymed "Her name was Lola" with "she was a showgirl".
Bette was a big influence. But it's to Barry's stepfather that the world owes most thanks. Thank you for leading your 13-year-old stepson to a piano but, more importantly, thank you for consigning his accordion to the dustbin of history.Reuse content