To wit: he writes the songs. Karyn tells me that the speaker here is not any single person, but music itself. How about that! I suppose it does make it easier to cut the guy a little slack, but it doesn’t make the lyrics any more poignant to me. Indeed, nothing will; I’ve never been moved by these paeans to longing and loss; the schmaltz (shmälts, n: rendered chicken fat, from the Yiddish) just doesn’t cure what ails me. But Karyn’s into it, and you gotta respect. We have a sort of live-and-let-live attitude when it comes to music, anyway, so I was there for the spectacle and the complacency-shake. What a mensch, huh?

Another myth dispelled is the one that characterizes Fanilows as dowdy, aging cat lovers. I don’t know from sociology, so I’m reluctant to speak on behalf of that many people, nor do I have any unkind words for the values people attach to cultural objects. I can tell you this: it was much easier to spot the Furries at Puffy Amiyumi last year. If I aimed high, I might claim that Manilow is neither subversive nor extreme, and it’s that mushy middle this crowd reflected. But you can’t prove a negative, and besides, why have peeps if you can’t tell who they are?

It was a traveling museum come through, a Fate Marable Showboat with a smoke machine. When the confetti settled and the lights came up, you weren’t sure if it actually happened. That said, I was genuinely moved by my wife’s enthusiasm, and by the faint whiff of piano-bar smoke buried deep in the songs’ DNA. Under all the Vegas bombast, the truck-driver’s gear changes, the stock video, you could still see an intent. That’s the beauty of Song — once it’s written, it stays written, while I get flabbier with every passing year.