Looks Like We Made It

Doesn't matter how you say it, just say the nice thing

By the time he closed with “Copacabana,” he was in his fourth jacket of the night — a sequined purple bolero number with a hot-pink lapel over a black shirt, and, not to bury the lede, gigantic wing sleeves bursting with turquoise, fuchsia and lime green feathers, like a carnival had exploded on his way to the stage. Because even his outfit changes build to a crescendo. One last triumphant Olé!, a bow, a wave to the crowd — and then, as the 50-piece orchestra kicked into a high-energy reprise of “It’s a Miracle,” confetti and streamers cascaded over the whole hall. He waved goodbye once more and hobbled offstage, just before Radio City’s colossal curtain descended.

Instead of stepping back out onto 51^st Street, we had super-secret instructions for what came next. Wristbands, a clandestine door, a bunch of wide staircases, like we’d been let in on some spy mission. Down, down, down we went, finally landing in what revealed itself as the fabulous Grand Lounge beneath Radio City — black walls, black-and-gold diamond-patterned carpet, columns, fine art, sculptures and 50-foot gold-framed mirrors. I checked my hair in about four of them. Priorities.

There were 50 or 60 of us milling around this massive opulent space, unsure of what exactly was going to happen — his entourage, a bunch of co-producers of his new Broadway musical Harmony, and the adorable leads of the show, who had performed a few songs during the concert.

He eventually emerged with his press rep, sans fanfare, and was instantly swarmed. I had dreamed of this day many times over the decades. Never did I envision the path that led to standing in this art deco palace below midtown Manhattan, about to place myself on the outer edge of the gaggle surrounding this pop icon.

I let nearly everyone else go first. I wanted the moment badly; I also kinda wanted 500 more people between me and it. There was a version of this where I just... didn’t. Simply stayed on the outskirts of the throng, let the crowd thin out, enjoyed a great view from five yards back, snapped a few pics from a distance, called it a night. I’d have savored that story for years — the night I hung out with him below Radio City. A perfectly good story.

But I had vowed that if I ever had the opportunity, I wouldn’t let it slip past. David was there, reminding me of my promise. Recalling his less-than-stellar track record with a camera, I handed my phone to someone I’d met about 90 seconds earlier and prayed: please, just get a picture, something, anything. And then I ran out of places to hide and there he stood. Ladies and gentlemen…Mr. Barry Manilow!

Fifty-some years of adoring somebody, and this was the first time I was standing close enough to see his gleaming blue eyes. Full-on butterflies. I had to remind myself to breathe.

To my abject horror, what erupted from my mouth was, plain and simple, word vomit. If you’d transcribed it, it would’ve read like a ransom note assembled by someone who loves Barry Manilow enormously and punctuation not even a tiny bit. Providence Civic Center…1978…very first concert ever…played the piano since I was six…love playing your songs…so many amazing concerts…somehow producing theatre now…thrilled and grateful to be part of bringing Harmony to Broadway.

Literally regurgitated 50 years of heartfelt memories and feelings, sounding like my Havanese pup when I “finally” return home after stepping out for, say, a manicure. At least Pippa has the sense to find a stuffed unicorn and shove it in her mouth to absorb her big feelings. Me, not so much.

This legend — face pulled tauter than a snare drum, hair perfectly highlighted, three weeks from turning 80 — just stood there and let me keep going.

Generally speaking, I don’t get rattled. I’ve chanted Hebrew in front of 1,000 people. I’ve conducted an orchestra in front of 2,600. Public. High-stakes. Nailed both. Face to face with Barry Manilow undid me in three milliseconds.

I don’t make a habit of chatting up celebrities. Spending so much time in New York City, I find myself crossing paths with famous people often enough, and my philosophy is that they’re usually just trying to enjoy the show or eat their spicy rigatoni or scoot to their dentist appointment like everyone else. But when it’s someone I truly admire, I have a quick, sincere line: I adore your work. Thank you so much for sharing yourself with us all. Phylicia Rashad. Victor Garber. Once, at intermission of The Color Purple on Broadway, I stood up to stretch and found Henry Winkler sitting directly behind me. He looked receptive, so I said it. He lit up, extended his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Henry. Thank you so much, that’s so kind of you to say” — and we talked for a few minutes about the show and the project he was working on. Sweetest man.

Barry was never going to get that tidy version. There was too much — a lifetime of memories and emotions tied up in his music — and once I started, the babbling wouldn’t cease. It was like the “before” scene in an ad for verbal Imodium.

To understand the why of it all, you’d have to go back to when I was nine or 10 — that’s when Barry Manilow got into my soul, and by 12, he owned real estate there permanently. Let’s be clear: there’s a whole category of women out there who consider him — his term, not mine — a “sex god.” Oh yes, full-on SQUEE! toss-your-panties-on-the-stage type of fans. For the record, that’s never been my jam.

My sixth-grade besties from Glen Hills Elementary School gave me the newly-released Even Now album for my 12th birthday. We’d already been singing and dancing to his albums at every sleepover for who knows how long by then. That skyline on the album cover, Barry in silhouette against the city lit up gold in front of him, forever emblazoned on my brain. A month later was my very first concert: Providence Civic Center, 1978, up in the nosebleeds watching this guy in a white jumpsuit at the piano. There’s a shot just like the album cover inside my souvenir program from that same night, with a caption about New York being where he goes to recharge. I was a little girl from Rhode Island who’d never really been anywhere, staring at those two pictures, imagining a glamorous New York City rhythm kind of life calling to me. I still have both — the program eaten away at one corner from an unfortunate battery acid leak from my electronic handheld Merlin game that cohabited in my teenage desk drawer, but now framed, protected, and proudly displayed. I also have the Live cassette from around the same era. I’d started playing the piano at six, but it took a few more years before I had the chops to play his music — and once I did, I never really stopped. Whatever else I’m inspired to play during a given hour at the keys, I always end with “I Write the Songs”— my signature way of closing out a piano sesh. Honestly what’s a better mic drop than a quintessential key change and big dramatic finish?

This man has basically soundtracked my entire life.

More than 25 concerts throughout the decades — Boston, Vegas, Great Woods, Lowell, Mohegan Sun, Radio City, Barclays Center in Brooklyn on his 72^nd birthday where they wheeled out a cake and had the crowd sing to him. I was lucky enough to marry a guy who eye-rollingly indulged me at first and then couldn’t help but evolve into a true Fanilow. Back in December of 2000, Barry did a run of shows at Foxwoods and we bought a table for three separate dates and dragged various and assorted friends and family. Some entered jaded and dubious about the Velveeta factor; all ended up converted — wowed by the talent and smitten by nostalgia. One night it was my parents who had a blast, and another it was our dear friends, Yvette and John. John hadn’t seen Barry since the 70s, and afterward, he confessed that as much as he enjoyed the show, the best part of the whole evening was watching me watch Barry. I’ve never forgotten that.

And for more than 25 years, Barry would mention it in concert — Harmony — this musical he and his longtime collaborator, Bruce Sussman, had created and dreamed of bringing to Broadway. He’d proudly share a heart-wrenching song or two from it, right there in the set, a little preview of something that might never actually open. The show was developed on stages in La Jolla, Atlanta, Los Angeles, and he kept highlights in his concert rotation, trying to manifest a Broadway run someday.

Then, in a turn of events I genuinely could not have written for myself, I became a Broadway producer. And in that very same handful of years, Harmony had an acclaimed Off-Broadway run and then announced a transfer to an actual Broadway theatre. His beloved musical. Twenty-five years in his back pocket, and here I was, suddenly a person who produces Broadway shows, right at the exact moment his was finally getting its shot. I don’t know what else to call that except a gift.

Did Harmony fit my producing strategy? Not hardly. I won’t get into the specifics — a whole set of criteria I run every potential show through, plus an ick factor that a lady would never dream of naming — but if it hadn’t been Barry’s baby, I would’ve given an immediate and resounding, “It’s a no from me, dawg.” But it didn’t matter. I didn’t want to look back one day and say I passed up the opportunity to help bring Barry Manilow’s pride and joy to Broadway. A chance like this wasn’t gonna come bopping down the road again.

Which is how I ended up in that jumble of people after the Radio City show — this co-producer meet-and-greet — having breathlessly expressed every bit of that out loud to the one person on earth who could actually grasp the whole scope of it. He’s undoubtedly heard versions of it all before — from hundreds of thousands of people, for 50 years. I know not one syllable made a bit of difference to him, and for all I know, he was daydreaming about a pepperoni, mushroom and cheese slice waiting in his dressing room. But that was never really the point. He thanked me — over and over — while I kept gushing.

Then, somewhere around minute two of uncontrolled blather, he just pulled me in — which I immediately and appreciatively understood to be the universal signal for okay, I’ve got it, you can stop talking now. It wasn’t a quick photo-op squeeze, it was an actual hug, pressed cheek-to-cheek, and then we stood together for another moment, our hands interlocked. Though it seemed as if there was no one else in the room besides Barry and me, my brand-new best friend managed to capture it all.

Gobsmacked and grateful is what I captioned the glory shot the next morning on social media, exclamation points flying everywhere. It’s still exactly the right description.

After that night, it was like something loosened. I ran into him again — a few times, actually — for Harmony gatherings, and once at an event at the Museum of Broadway. I was no longer an incoherent word volcano in his presence. I’d just breeze past with a “Hi, Barry.” He didn’t remember me specifically. I’m sure of that. Didn’t matter. I was in his outer orbit now, and that alone felt like a little miracle.

I would say to anybody, with all the love in my heart: take the chance and say the nice thing when you have the opportunity. And not just to celebrities. Tell people in your life what they mean to you, out loud, in the moment, regardless of whether it lands. I wasn’t standing there hoping to matter to Barry Manilow. I just didn’t want to walk away from that glorious space having passed up the opportunity to actually say the thing. I have the pictures. I have the indelible memory of those blue eyes. I have the Harmony Playbill with my name in it. I have no regrets.

If this made you smile, a comment or a like goes a long way — and if you know someone who’d enjoy it, please share it with them.