Post 11: It's A Miracle!

“Life’s a song, sing it” Mother Teresa
Meanwhile, amazingly, the Cleveland Barry Manilow Fan Club grew by leaps and bounds as Barry’s hits kept coming. We collected modest membership dues. We created membership cards and sent out newsletters.
The Fan Club made me realize I had abilities and people skills I never dreamed possible. I discovered I could write and organize. These activities became a ray of sunshine during this period of personal darkness. Involvement in the club took my focus away from my family’s sorrows and onto something that gave me a sense of life, fun and hope. I felt as if a life-preserver had been thrown to me. The music that many critics loved to ridicule burrowed into my soul. I wore out the Barry Manilow’s albums and cassettes as I listened to the music. Barry’s music inoculated me against the depression that had taken up residence in our home. The music and fan-friendships created a salve that seeped into every hurt and brought me comfort and laid the foundation of the healing that would emerge over time.
Barry came to the Blossom Music Center in August of 1976 – three months after my brother Chris’ death. In the midst of all the preparations, I felt as if Chris himself were pushing me back into life and music. We managed to get special preferred seating for the club. I baked Barry a cake, in the shape of a piano. After the show, Sharon, her mother and I were invited backstage.
I don’t think I managed a word. I was petrified and focused on not puking. Yet Barry was kind and sweet to a couple of 16-year-olds. He loved the cake which he cut with a comb. We got a picture together, which has turned out to be the only concrete memento I have of my journey with Barry. However the goodness of the experience would also help me push ahead through the dark and uncertain days, and continue to seek life and hope.
Inspired by “Could it be Magic?” I took piano lessons at The Cleveland Music School Settlement for two years. In the end, I didn’t get very far beyond Bach’s Minuet in G and similar pieces. I faithfully sat down to practice and mom would bellow from wherever she was in the house:
“What the hell! Scales again!”
I inherited Chris’ guitar and would pick a few chords then stop. I couldn’t go further. The amnesia had settled into my very fingers.
Our Fan Club continued to grow and friendships developed. Before the time of email and texting, members would call and write and let each other know what magazine was featuring articles, what radio station had Barry-a-thons, or we would keep each other posted if there was a TV special coming up. Fan-friends would share which albums they liked best. The “rare” Barry Manilow I was appreciated by those who considered themselves true connoisseurs.
Some were talented at scouring magazines and getting the latest clippings. In the Cleveland Club it wasn’t a competition, it was more about camaraderie, which I suspect is true for many of Barry’s Fan Clubs to this day. Fanilows helped each other’s collections and passed on tips. More than that, as time passed, we discovered the person behind the “fan face.” Our newsletters (of which of I have none, you know what I did to them) every month featured a member and shared what they did and what their interests were.
Even my mom got into the fun: She would open her office on Saturdays, buy us doughnuts and hot chocolate, and we’d crank those newsletters out in a production style. We were a close group. Even to this day I’m in touch with a few of the ladies from the Fan Club.
Fanilows were fun. Who thought that waiting in line for tickets at 5 am, with the cold Lake Erie wind stinging your face, while singing and laughing would be such a blast? The group could talk for hours over the merits of which song was our favorite non-hit: “Sandra,” “I Want to be Somebody’s Baby,” “Jump Shout Boogie,” and “New York City Rhythm” were the top contenders.
I even visited New York City with a few older club members in their twenties. (New York City was revered by some Cleveland fan members as a Mecca of sorts). My mother even let us use her car. We drove Interstate-80 all night and got to New York City early in the morning. Before doing sightseeing we visited with Barry’s management office and spent time with a very gracious administrator who had Barry on the line at one point during our visit. The only down side was that we became acquainted with the New York City institution of Alternate Side Street Parking. My mother’s car was towed and we had to spend the rest of the morning retrieving it from New York’s Finest.
It is no major surprise that fanilows are predominately female. Although we all know the boyfriends, husbands and male friends are there just to “help out,” they were as die-hard as the rest of us. It’s just that male thing. Unless you are spitting tobacco juice, inked up with some serious tattoos, looking like a good old boy, you are not getting the boys to sing along.
They were there though. Back then, you could see them struggling, twitching their throat muscles, clapping ever so off beat, as if to say, “I’m not really into this, I’m just doing this for you, babe.” You see them tightly clutching the armrest of the chair like they were holding on to the railing of the observatory deck of the Empire State Building in the face of a 50-mile-an-hour-headwind. If you looked really close, you could also see them during “Mandy” or “Even Now” taking those deep gulps of air through their nose to pull in the snot so no one will notice them tearing up. I just wanted to reach out and pat them on the arm and say, “Don’t worry, bro. We got you covered. Your secret is safe with us.” Things are different nowadays. Today the guys are out there, hooting and hollering, clapping and cheering, crying, nothing holding them back now. You’ve come a long way, muchachos.
Even back then I observed several constellations among the fan-clandom:
Fabilows: The best. They become friendalows. These are the folks who are there for you thick and thin. You need help with anything? Just give a call. Fanship is an extension of friendship. We discovered ways to support each other beyond just surfing for tickets and articles and tidbits of news about Barry. These people will bring you chicken soup and scotch when you are sick. They will watch your pets when you are on vacation. These people know how to hide the dead body and have the shovel in the trunk.
Fanatilows: These folks are scary serious. Their lives revolve around Barry Manilow. They go to as many concerts and Barry sightings as their time and credit card limits allow. Their real full-time job is collecting memorabilia and they have rooms turned into shrines in their homes, and eventually their homes become museums. Like Torah scholars they are devoted to committing to memory the Manilow canon – and not just the lyrics, but all the public appearance utterances the Revered One has spoken. They seek out whatever photo ops, selfies, photobombs they can. Because of their endeavors, I am sure there are now certificates in the High Holy Order of Manilowhood that initiates pursue to deepen their knowledge of all things Barry. In addition to a grueling study of Barry’s discography and career, a dissertation is required on the evolutionary factors of Barry’s music. I’m sure this program also necessitates pilgrimages to significant places in Barry’s life and career such as Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Upstairs at the Downstairs Club (Manhattan), the Ansonia in Manhattan where the Continental Baths were housed, Juilliard, Palm Beach, CA, the Las Vegas Hilton, etc. etc. For extra credit visit Radio City Music Hall, the Royal Albert Hall in London, Blenheim Palace and other galaxy appearances.
Familows: This is the couple/family package. They went in more for the silly stuff, although the parents like the excuse to nuzzle and coo at the romantic songs and the kids reciprocate while mimicking vomiting motions.
Funilows: They represent the zany wing of the fanilow world. They dress up like Barry. Or they wear crazy t-shirts. They bring silly signs. They are unabashed exhibitionists. They go through entire dance moves to “Bandstand Boogie,” “Jump Shout Boogie,” “Hey Mambo,” and the piece de resistance – “Copacabana (at the Copa).” They have it scripted – hand motions, dancing like they’re in a conga line, perfected pathos in mime, and then that dreaded head huddle at the end followed by that spooky voice-from-the-grave warning “don’t fall in looovvvvvvveeeee.” And please do not get them going with the “Very Strange Medley.” Otherwise, you will have the kids from the familows pretending once more to barf all over the place.
Then there are simply the Lost Ones.
You can find them in just about every group. In this instance Barry is their lost soulmate. Barry is in danger from a CIA operative. Barry needs to hear the latest super hit being transmitted by ascended masters from a distant planet. You just wanted to drop a little Sominex in their Pepsi, but since this was the era before 9-1-1 and cellphones, we would do as they say on the airplanes, take note where the nearest exits are and run like hell if things got hairy. Most Lost Ones are just looking for a sympathetic ear. Still. I’ve learned to sit near an open door.
Just in case.
Notes:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/838305.Mother_Teresa?page=7
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
[email protected]
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
Meanwhile, amazingly, the Cleveland Barry Manilow Fan Club grew by leaps and bounds as Barry’s hits kept coming. We collected modest membership dues. We created membership cards and sent out newsletters.
The Fan Club made me realize I had abilities and people skills I never dreamed possible. I discovered I could write and organize. These activities became a ray of sunshine during this period of personal darkness. Involvement in the club took my focus away from my family’s sorrows and onto something that gave me a sense of life, fun and hope. I felt as if a life-preserver had been thrown to me. The music that many critics loved to ridicule burrowed into my soul. I wore out the Barry Manilow’s albums and cassettes as I listened to the music. Barry’s music inoculated me against the depression that had taken up residence in our home. The music and fan-friendships created a salve that seeped into every hurt and brought me comfort and laid the foundation of the healing that would emerge over time.
Barry came to the Blossom Music Center in August of 1976 – three months after my brother Chris’ death. In the midst of all the preparations, I felt as if Chris himself were pushing me back into life and music. We managed to get special preferred seating for the club. I baked Barry a cake, in the shape of a piano. After the show, Sharon, her mother and I were invited backstage.
I don’t think I managed a word. I was petrified and focused on not puking. Yet Barry was kind and sweet to a couple of 16-year-olds. He loved the cake which he cut with a comb. We got a picture together, which has turned out to be the only concrete memento I have of my journey with Barry. However the goodness of the experience would also help me push ahead through the dark and uncertain days, and continue to seek life and hope.
Inspired by “Could it be Magic?” I took piano lessons at The Cleveland Music School Settlement for two years. In the end, I didn’t get very far beyond Bach’s Minuet in G and similar pieces. I faithfully sat down to practice and mom would bellow from wherever she was in the house:
“What the hell! Scales again!”
I inherited Chris’ guitar and would pick a few chords then stop. I couldn’t go further. The amnesia had settled into my very fingers.
Our Fan Club continued to grow and friendships developed. Before the time of email and texting, members would call and write and let each other know what magazine was featuring articles, what radio station had Barry-a-thons, or we would keep each other posted if there was a TV special coming up. Fan-friends would share which albums they liked best. The “rare” Barry Manilow I was appreciated by those who considered themselves true connoisseurs.
Some were talented at scouring magazines and getting the latest clippings. In the Cleveland Club it wasn’t a competition, it was more about camaraderie, which I suspect is true for many of Barry’s Fan Clubs to this day. Fanilows helped each other’s collections and passed on tips. More than that, as time passed, we discovered the person behind the “fan face.” Our newsletters (of which of I have none, you know what I did to them) every month featured a member and shared what they did and what their interests were.
Even my mom got into the fun: She would open her office on Saturdays, buy us doughnuts and hot chocolate, and we’d crank those newsletters out in a production style. We were a close group. Even to this day I’m in touch with a few of the ladies from the Fan Club.
Fanilows were fun. Who thought that waiting in line for tickets at 5 am, with the cold Lake Erie wind stinging your face, while singing and laughing would be such a blast? The group could talk for hours over the merits of which song was our favorite non-hit: “Sandra,” “I Want to be Somebody’s Baby,” “Jump Shout Boogie,” and “New York City Rhythm” were the top contenders.
I even visited New York City with a few older club members in their twenties. (New York City was revered by some Cleveland fan members as a Mecca of sorts). My mother even let us use her car. We drove Interstate-80 all night and got to New York City early in the morning. Before doing sightseeing we visited with Barry’s management office and spent time with a very gracious administrator who had Barry on the line at one point during our visit. The only down side was that we became acquainted with the New York City institution of Alternate Side Street Parking. My mother’s car was towed and we had to spend the rest of the morning retrieving it from New York’s Finest.
It is no major surprise that fanilows are predominately female. Although we all know the boyfriends, husbands and male friends are there just to “help out,” they were as die-hard as the rest of us. It’s just that male thing. Unless you are spitting tobacco juice, inked up with some serious tattoos, looking like a good old boy, you are not getting the boys to sing along.
They were there though. Back then, you could see them struggling, twitching their throat muscles, clapping ever so off beat, as if to say, “I’m not really into this, I’m just doing this for you, babe.” You see them tightly clutching the armrest of the chair like they were holding on to the railing of the observatory deck of the Empire State Building in the face of a 50-mile-an-hour-headwind. If you looked really close, you could also see them during “Mandy” or “Even Now” taking those deep gulps of air through their nose to pull in the snot so no one will notice them tearing up. I just wanted to reach out and pat them on the arm and say, “Don’t worry, bro. We got you covered. Your secret is safe with us.” Things are different nowadays. Today the guys are out there, hooting and hollering, clapping and cheering, crying, nothing holding them back now. You’ve come a long way, muchachos.
Even back then I observed several constellations among the fan-clandom:
Fabilows: The best. They become friendalows. These are the folks who are there for you thick and thin. You need help with anything? Just give a call. Fanship is an extension of friendship. We discovered ways to support each other beyond just surfing for tickets and articles and tidbits of news about Barry. These people will bring you chicken soup and scotch when you are sick. They will watch your pets when you are on vacation. These people know how to hide the dead body and have the shovel in the trunk.
Fanatilows: These folks are scary serious. Their lives revolve around Barry Manilow. They go to as many concerts and Barry sightings as their time and credit card limits allow. Their real full-time job is collecting memorabilia and they have rooms turned into shrines in their homes, and eventually their homes become museums. Like Torah scholars they are devoted to committing to memory the Manilow canon – and not just the lyrics, but all the public appearance utterances the Revered One has spoken. They seek out whatever photo ops, selfies, photobombs they can. Because of their endeavors, I am sure there are now certificates in the High Holy Order of Manilowhood that initiates pursue to deepen their knowledge of all things Barry. In addition to a grueling study of Barry’s discography and career, a dissertation is required on the evolutionary factors of Barry’s music. I’m sure this program also necessitates pilgrimages to significant places in Barry’s life and career such as Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Upstairs at the Downstairs Club (Manhattan), the Ansonia in Manhattan where the Continental Baths were housed, Juilliard, Palm Beach, CA, the Las Vegas Hilton, etc. etc. For extra credit visit Radio City Music Hall, the Royal Albert Hall in London, Blenheim Palace and other galaxy appearances.
Familows: This is the couple/family package. They went in more for the silly stuff, although the parents like the excuse to nuzzle and coo at the romantic songs and the kids reciprocate while mimicking vomiting motions.
Funilows: They represent the zany wing of the fanilow world. They dress up like Barry. Or they wear crazy t-shirts. They bring silly signs. They are unabashed exhibitionists. They go through entire dance moves to “Bandstand Boogie,” “Jump Shout Boogie,” “Hey Mambo,” and the piece de resistance – “Copacabana (at the Copa).” They have it scripted – hand motions, dancing like they’re in a conga line, perfected pathos in mime, and then that dreaded head huddle at the end followed by that spooky voice-from-the-grave warning “don’t fall in looovvvvvvveeeee.” And please do not get them going with the “Very Strange Medley.” Otherwise, you will have the kids from the familows pretending once more to barf all over the place.
Then there are simply the Lost Ones.
You can find them in just about every group. In this instance Barry is their lost soulmate. Barry is in danger from a CIA operative. Barry needs to hear the latest super hit being transmitted by ascended masters from a distant planet. You just wanted to drop a little Sominex in their Pepsi, but since this was the era before 9-1-1 and cellphones, we would do as they say on the airplanes, take note where the nearest exits are and run like hell if things got hairy. Most Lost Ones are just looking for a sympathetic ear. Still. I’ve learned to sit near an open door.
Just in case.
Notes:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/838305.Mother_Teresa?page=7
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
[email protected]
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.