Parade shooter charged
February 2, 2016
Gilbert Bergeron
February 3, 2016
Several years, several pounds and several gray hairs later, Barry Manilow returned to town Friday.
The pounds and hair were mine, not his. Nope, Barry Manilow is a walking testament to plastic surgery and Botox. Had he not pulled up his 1975 appearance on “The Midnight Special” – the one where he wore the tight, sequined baby blue sweater and belted out an emotional rendition of “Mandy” – the audience would have been hard pressed to prove the Brooklyn crooner had aged at all.
But, collectively, we fans hadn’t faired as well.
Pulling into the Superdome parking lot was like time traveling … forward … to a foreign future. White-haired ladies anxious to relive years’ gone by speed-walked toward the Smoothie King entrance. These Manilow devotees were en route to welcome their leader’s return.
I was among them, my 22-year-old in tow. I guess it was a last-ditch effort to rekindle the “Magic” and revisit one of the better moments of my youth.
On Oct. 8, 1973, just shy of a month before my entrée into teen status, I saw Barry Manilow at the New Orleans Municipal Auditorium. We splurged for good seats; tickets were $6. (Good seats to Manilow’s show Friday were $146.75.) Babysitting helped pay my way.
A gaggle of us packed into Barbara Roll’s mom’s station wagon, feverishly singing “Mandy” at the top of our lungs. It was my first concert.
Friday night, I was wishing my friend’s mom was still around with the station wagon. She could have dropped us at the door and saved me the traffic headaches and extra $15 spent on parking.
For his part, Manilow sang all of his hits. For our part, the crowd swayed, waved our complimentary green glow sticks and belted out the choruses in unison.
By night’s end, my daughter and I joined the masses, gleefully singing “Copacabana” en route to the parking lot. So what if Manilow fans have their hairdressers on speed-dial. So what if some of ‘em don’t have their original teeth. So what if many were wandering the parking lot trying to remember where they’d parked their cars.
For a brief while, on a clear night in the Big Easy some 42 years later, we’d returned along with Barry to revisit childhood. Driving away, I was left with the realization. Just like Barry, looks like we made it.
