The singer and composer Barry Manilow writes that he took three arduous years to produce his rather thin memoir (Sweet Life, Adventures on the Way to Paradise, 1987). I'm skeptical of his claim because his book has all the outward indications of the celebrity genre that might justly be called the "as-told-to's. It's written as a flow of "I did this, then I did that; I was great." The dullest prose; I don't think there's so much as a metaphor in the entire book. Gosh, I searched high and low for genuine feeling, for insight or learning, or for complexity of vision. No dice. How could such an unreflective, shallow being have achieved so much? Been so popular, so highly regarded, so famous.
I can't say that I'm very familiar with Manilow's music, but I'm pleased to learn that he produced Bette Midler's debut album, The Divine Miss M. "Delta Dawn" and "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" were midlife favorites that I've been pleased to revisit today (with the assistance of officious Alexa).
Brooklyn influence? Manilow seems to be a bit ashamed of his origins. At age 20, he moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan. "As we drove away, I said to myself, 'Good-bye, Brooklyn. Thanks for everything. I'm never coming back.' And I never did." The only clear evidence of his Brooklynity is that he named his beloved dog "Bagel."
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