event Barry Manilow

The sappy style of Barry Manilow doesn’t really translate to a fun concert unless the entire crowd gets dumped via Twitter. He writes the songs that make the whole world sing, but they’re often whiny songs unfit for bedroom accompaniment. Even a Lothario would find it impossible to get busy next to an iPod playing “Can’t Smile Without You.” How many people are willing to suffer through an hour of feeling like crap just to get to “Copacabana”? Even for all the toe tapping that song brings, it’s still kind of a bummer. The song’s subjects get hit with chairs and killed. Beneath the bongo banging, it’s the same old Manilow dilemma: a song too silly to be considered art and too morbid to be considered pop.

The sappy style of Barry Manilow doesn’t really translate to a fun concert unless the entire crowd gets dumped via Twitter. He writes the songs that make the whole world sing, but they’re often whiny songs unfit for bedroom accompaniment. Even a Lothario would find it impossible to get busy next to an iPod playing “Can’t Smile Without You.” How many people are willing to suffer through an hour of feeling like crap just to get to “Copacabana”? Even for all the toe tapping that song brings, it’s still kind of a bummer. The song’s subjects get hit with chairs and killed. Beneath the bongo banging, it’s the same old Manilow dilemma: a song too silly to be considered art and too morbid to be considered pop.

The sappy style of Barry Manilow doesn’t really translate to a fun concert unless the entire crowd gets dumped via Twitter. He writes the songs that make the whole world sing, but they’re often whiny songs unfit for bedroom accompaniment. Even a Lothario would find it impossible to get busy next to an iPod playing “Can’t Smile Without You.” How many people are willing to suffer through an hour of feeling like crap just to get to “Copacabana”? Even for all the toe tapping that song brings, it’s still kind of a bummer. The song’s subjects get hit with chairs and killed. Beneath the bongo banging, it’s the same old Manilow dilemma: a song too silly to be considered art and too morbid to be considered pop.