In 1998, the Observer was seduced by uber-crooner and ‘world’s least likely sex symbol’, Barry Manilow. In his 10th month on tour, Manilow was living in hotels, but not particularly happily. ‘What you really miss is your bathroom and your own stuff and your dogs,’ he told Harriet Lane, receiving her in a ‘ridiculous’ presidential suite stuffed with lilies, oil paintings, a four-poster bed, extravagantly swagged curtains and the odd taco crumb.
Despite the ‘Manilow magic’ he delivered on stage (a blend of ‘divine comic timing’, perfectly teased coiffure and ‘schmaltzy, agreeable tunes’), the ‘accidental king of camp’ was a reluctant performer. Born Barry Pincus, he had dreamed of being a studio musician or songwriter while working in advertising; he later became an accompanist and wrote jingles for KFC and pimple cream. His first record deal led to the ‘inconvenient’ discovery he had ‘a horror of going onstage’ and an early TV appearance made him so nervous he ‘temporarily lost his sight’. Acting classes helped with nerves, though live performance was still ‘not where I would choose to be.’
