There are childhood memories that frame innocence and ice cream, care-free days of Scooby-Doo and Cootee shots.
And then there are childhood memories that prove you were just a freaky, weird kid – memories so embarrassing you want to steal your own lunch money and cram yourself into a locker voluntarily. Reluctantly, I offer the following memory only because it connects to a larger story that will not require wedgies. Maybe.
It was 1976, and I was 8. Someone had given me a toy yellow car, a Studebaker that stretched 10 inches. One day, I was pushing the car down the walkway and caught myself singing the drippy, love-gone-wrong weeper “Weekend in New England” by Barry Manilow.
It gets worse.
In my imagination, Barry and I were best buds, driving around in the Studebaker discussing how he wrote the songs that made the young girls sing. I would push the car down the sidewalk and watch it careen off the curb, prompting Barry and me to laugh and laugh and laugh.
Two things of note:
Barry Manilow was my favorite singer.
I suffered greatly because Barry Manilow was my favorite singer. My brothers – Aerosmith fans with fringes of Foghat – were horrified to find Manilow records on the turntable and used a slingshot to show their disdain. Barry’s face on the cover of “Even Now” sustained nasty forehead scars and a substantial hole in his left cheek.
Why did I love Barry Manilow, the Grammy-winning balladeer of sappy songs and occasional sequins? Easy. Her name was Lauren.
She often wore a white Cookie Monster sweatshirt and was the cutest girl in the neighborhood. At age 8, I was smitten and ready to woo. But I did not know how to woo, really, until I heard Barry croon about … well, in retrospect, most of Barry’s hits described heartbreak and loneliness (Mandy kissed him and stopped him from shaking, but he sent her away).
Barry’s pleading swells provided the perfect soundtrack for my relationship with Lauren, and by “relationship” I mean the “relationship” she would have shunned had I had the nerve to speak with her about a “relationship.”
And before you say, “Oh, Dave, maybe she would have liked you if you spoke to her,” to which I would remind you that Barry Manilow was my imaginary friend at that time.
I moved on from Barry in later years, embracing 1970s music that did not merit slingshots. There was a tragic Bee Gees phase before Van Halen rescued me in 1978. I retain a fondness for 1970s music, particularly Billy Joel, The Police, and Peter Frampton.
I hid my Manilow affinity for many years until one day in college, the lovely young woman I was trying to woo noted the upcoming Barry Manilow concert. The bad news: The concert’s love songs made her sad about a recent breakup. The good news: She got over the breakup and eventually married me.
Fast forward to October 2024. I was driving our youngest daughter, Caroline, home from UCF and told her we now had a three-month satellite radio subscription. We are a Swiftie family, thus I told Caroline to find the Taylor Swift Channel on satellite radio.
But Caroline, like many adults in their early 20s, is an old soul. One morning when she was in middle school, I went to wake her up and heard her alarm go off: It was playing The Beatles’ “A Day in The Life.”
As we were driving onto the interstate from UCF, Caroline declined the Taylor Swift Channel and asked if we could play the ‘70s Channel.
HELL YEAH!
More notably, she knew the lyrics to every song. As God as my witness, she sang along to Shaun Cassidy’s “Da Doo Ron Ron,” a song my Cookie Monster-loving Lauren loved in 1977.
My guess is she knows some Barry Manilow songs, too, but I am afraid to ask. No matter. What’s old is new again, and Caroline’s command of ‘70s music makes my Manilow-in-a-toy-Studebaker story less horrifying.
Good music is good music. Even when it is not. In 2003, I interviewed Stan Lynch, the original drummer for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame). I was writing a story about guilty pleasures, and I asked Stan about songs he loved but was reluctant to profess.
Stan said he never apologizes for the things he likes. There are no guilty pleasures in music.
I think about that a lot, as I find myself listening to things a 56-year-old schlub typically would shun. That does not include Barry Manilow, as some memories are too painful. I still love Barry and his impact on my life, but, frankly, I cannot forgive him for what he did to Mandy.
All the same, I agree with Stan Lynch: Never apologize for music you love. Even if it makes you the weirdest kid on Burlington Avenue.
