Fresh Air - Barry Manilow

Episode Date: December 8, 2023

Barry Manilow recently broke Elvis' record for performances in Las Vegas, and he has a new Broadway musical called Harmony. He spoke with Terry Gross in 2002 about his hits of the '70s and '80s and writing advertising jingles early in his career. Film critic Justin Chang reviews the new film Poor Things, starring Emma Stone and Willem Dafoe.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This is Fresh Air. I'm Dave Davies. Barry Manilow is one of the most successful pop performers of the 70s and early 80s. He had 25 top 40 hits between 1974 and 83, including Mandy, I Write the Songs, Trying to Get the Feeling Again, Looks Like We Made It, Can't Smile Without You, Copacabana, and I Made It Through the Rain. Now, at the age of 80, he's got a musical on Broadway titled Harmony. Manolo wrote the music and his longtime collaborator Bruce Sussman the lyrics. It's based on the true story of the Comedian Harmonists, an all-male group who were

international stars in Germany before World War II, but the group was banned by the Nazis. Here's a bit of the title song from the musical. Harmony, did we have harmony? But that's just about all we had. Suddenly, a little harmony, and the poverty's not so bad Then we were Poor as ten in Berlin We were Patches on our pants

But we are Personally When you're in harmony You're in a trance Others went marching Not us We dance Before Manilow started writing and singing pop songs, he wrote commercial jingles, and he was Bette Midler's first music director. He stopped recording his own songs in the 80s, but he continued performing, and in September he broke Elvis'

record of performances in Las Vegas. When Terry spoke with Barry Manilow in 2002, he had a new album of original songs titled Here at the Mayflower, and he had released Ultimate Manilow, a best-of compilation. Let's begin with one of his hits. You know I can't smile without you I can't smile without you I can't laugh and I can't sing I'm finding it hard to do anything You see I feel sad when you're sad. When I picked up your Ultimate Manilow record, the Greatest Hits record,

I looked at the songs on the back and I thought, well, I know that. I know that one. Don't know this one. Don't know this one. But when I played it, I realized that I knew the ones that I didn't think I knew. I just didn't remember them by title. Oh, I have insinuated my little self into your brains over the last 20 years. But that's the thing.

I mean, you know, your songs were everywhere. I mean, they were on the radio, they were on TV, they were in stores and probably in elevators. I mean, they were just all over. Oh, I'm sure they were in elevators. I'm sure they were in elevators, yes. No, it's true. And, you know, I hadn't even listened to these records. You know, I sing them nightly, but they're not, you know,

they don't sound exactly like the old records did. And I actually, somebody was playing it, and I actually listened to it, and they all sound pretty good. I mean, you know, Weekend in New England sounds pretty good, even, you know, all these years later. What are some of the most unusual places you've heard your songs? That's a great question. Some of the most unusual places. Well, you know, well, I must say that, you know, I have heard it in restaurants and unusual places. I don't know, you know,

in big stadiums. Sometimes they do do it in big stadiums. And and, of course, in boutiques and karaoke bars. That was pretty awful. Tell me a karaoke story. It was some very bad singer trying to do I Write the Songs. It was really – I had to leave. What were you doing there in the first place? Why were you in a karaoke bar? I didn't know it was a karaoke bar.

It was a Mexican restaurant and suddenly somebody got up and sang. I hope they didn't know that I was there. That's really funny. So somebody was singing what, I Write the Songs, did you say? I Write the Songs, yes. It was lovely. Actually, the karaoke part wasn't bad, though. The track that they sing to wasn't bad.

The funny thing about I Write the Songs, you know, people associate that song with you because you recorded it, but you didn't write I Write the Songs. I did not. And I knew it was going to get me in trouble as soon as Clive showed up. My hit record experience is all, I give the credit to Clive Davis, who was the president of Arista while I was there. And when I went on to Arista records I really knew nothing about pop music at all my first single was could it be magic you know a song that I based on a Chopin prelude and it came in at eight minutes long so what did I know about pop music so you're supposed to have a three-minute record but when

Clive started to work with me he actually actually taught me the ins and outs of how to have a hit record. And he would submit songs to me so that I would arrange and produce and sing these outside pieces of material, even though I considered myself a songwriter. And I Write the Songs was one of the ones he gave me. And I knew I was going to get in trouble if I accepted this, because first of all, I figured everybody was going to think that I was screaming about how I write all the songs in the world. What does he think he is, Burt Bacharach? And then, you know, I didn't write I Write the Songs, but Bruce Johnson of the Beach Boys wrote it. And when I sang it, I knew what he was trying to get to. He's saying the spirit of music

is really the creator of everything, you know, of all composers' work. And I believe that, too. I believe that when I'm writing, I have nothing to do with it. I'm just taking dictation. I loved that idea, but I didn't think anybody listening to I Write the Songs would really understand that. And I was right. Most people actually thought that I was singing about myself. And it didn't seem to bother anybody either, but it's true. I didn't write I Write the Songs. Are you sorry you recorded it? Oh, no, no, no. I think over the years, I think people really get a big pleasure out of it.

Why don't we hear a little bit of I Write the Songs? I write the songs that make the whole world sing. I write the songs of love and special things. I write the songs that make the young girls cry. I write the songs, I write the songs. That's Barry Manilow, and it's one of his hits that's included on the new CD, Ultimate Manilow. You did a lot of the arranging on your songs. I mean, before you were even a singer, you were an arranger and music director.

Talk a little bit about the kind of production you liked on your records, on your podcasts. I like emotional productions. I like to take a listener on a trip. I don't like... You know, a lot of the records that I hear are like one feeling. They start with a groove, and three minutes later, nothing has happened except a groove.

I've never been able to do that. Some of them I like that kind of thing, and a lot of people do it very well today. But that's not my thing. I really like for your heart to start to beat a little faster, and I like to make you have goosebumps now and again. I like to convey the passion that I have for my music to you, the listener. And that's what I have always loved, and that's what I've always done with my arranging.

I've always started it on one level and tried to take it someplace so that by the end of the song, you've gone somewhere with me. Let's talk about your early musical life. Your first instrument was, I think, accordion? I'm sorry. What happened?

I'm sorry that it was the accordion. Oh, you're sorry that it was the accordion. Oh. Yeah. Why do you have to apologize? Yes, I'm guilty. Yes, I'm guilty that it was the accordion. Oh, you're sorry that it was the accordion. Oh. Yeah. Why do you have to apologize? Yes, I'm guilty. Yes, I'm guilty that it was the accordion.

Well, the accordion is like the hippest instrument now. I don't have to tell you that. Not when I played it. Not when you played it. The whole Lady of Spain bit? Yeah. I think every Jewish

and Italian boy cannot get out of Brooklyn, New York unless he learns how to play the accordion. There's a guard at the Brooklyn Bridge and you have to play

Lady of Spain before you can go over the bridge. Everybody I knew played the accordion badly. I happened to, you know, because I was more musical than the rest of my friends, I kind of got through Havana Gila and Lady of Spain, and I actually entertained my relatives. You know, they just thought it was the greatest thing. It really wasn't the thing that turned my musical motor on, I can tell you. But you're right. There are people who play the accordion and actually make it sound good. I was not one of those people. Did you sing when you played?

No, I never sang. I didn't sing until I started making records. I never really thought of myself as a singer. Singing was for other people to do.. Singing was for other people to do. Performing was for other people to do. I was, if I was going to have a career in music at all, it was going to be as a musician. And that was it.

No, I never sang. Now, you said that your stepfather introduced you to jazz, to music that you really loved. Tell us about how he introduced you to the music you fell in love with. Well, when my mother remarried, the three of us moved into a little apartment still in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. And he brought with him a stack of records that I had never heard of before. Records that included people like June Christie, Chris Connors, Dan of before, uh, records that were, uh, uh, included, uh, people like, uh, June Christie, Chris Connors, Stan Kenton, uh, lots of Broadway, uh, musical, uh, soundtracks, uh, a lot of jazz,

Chet Baker, Jerry Mulligan, um, some classical music, uh, and, um, I'd never, you know, I'd, I had never been, uh, exposed to that kind of thing. thing. I was raised for the first part of my life by my mother and my grandparents, who were all very musical, but not in the musical world. But Willie was. And I devoured this stack of music. I memorized every note from every overture, every lick that anybody sang or played. And it was really the beginning of my musical passion for what wound up to be a career. But had I not been exposed to that at the tender age of like 12 or 13, I really don't think I would have gone into the music business. I wouldn't have

known what to do. How did you ditch the accordion and start playing piano? Actually, he did it. He convinced my mother to buy a spinet piano. And so we got a spinet piano in our little apartment, and they pooled their money together and gave me piano lessons. And I began to love making music more so than I ever did before. Was jazz playing something that you picked up by ear or something that your teacher was actually able to help you with? No, it was by ear. I think jazz, you can't be taught jazz.

You listen to it and then you do your own version of it. But for me at least, I needed to know the rules of music. I needed to know the rules of music. I needed to know the language of music, and that's what the lessons were so handy for. How do you think listening to jazz during your formative years affected your songwriting style? Well, you know, it always pops up, no matter what record I make or what song I sing, the influence of jazz and swing is always lurking somewhere underneath

every song I write or perform. And here at the Mayflower album, it's very obvious in this bebop song that I wrote called Freddy Said. It could have come right out of the 40s, the Cab Calloway thing in the 40s. And it's an adorable song on here at the Mayflower. Why don't we hear it?

And this is Barry Manilow from his latest CD here at the Mayflower. Going up! Freddie's got the dirt on everybody on the street Don't know how he does it, but he isn't to the street Everybody says it always winds up being true He's got something on everyone, maybe even you Freddie knows, oh yeah Freddie goes, oh yeah That's Barry Manilow, one of his new songs from his latest CD here at the Mayflower. Now you've said that when you were in college, you expected to have a pretty conventional life,

get married, get a good job, live in the suburbs. What changed your mind and made you pursue music? It was coming out of my ears, and it just wouldn't leave me alone. I tried everything not to follow this muse that would not leave me alone. Because coming from where I come from, a four-floor, six-flight walk-up where people were just struggling to make the rent every Friday, That paycheck every Friday was the most important thing. That's what I learned. There was really no way that anybody would take the risk and go into the biz, show biz, the music biz.

Just the most important thing was security. So no matter how much I loved it, and I played in jazz bands, and I won the best musician award in high school and all, it never dawned on me that I was going to make a career out of it because it just was too risky. But I just kept getting these offers to do things musically. I got a job at CBS as a log clerk, first as a mailboy, then I was a log clerk when I was jotting down times of television commercials. And I had this, you know, this regular nine to five life plotted out for me. But whenever I'd play or arrange for somebody, you know, I would keep getting these offers to go further than just my nine-to-five job,

and I finally took one. And I took a chance, and I left CBS, and I never looked back. When you first started working professionally, I think it was in more of a supporting role, working like you had an act with a woman singer. I think Jeannie was her name? Yes.

And so you did some arranging for her, you were the pianist, you sang some duets with her, but it was kind of, it sounds from your book like it was a kind of supporting role. Did you see yourself as being like a supporting role type of character in music? Well, if I saw myself at all in music, and like I said, it was so risky, I never even dreamed about even that. But if I were to imagine myself in the music business at that time, it would have been in a supporting role as an arranger, as a pianist, as a producer, as a songwriter. Those were my goals. Those were my dreams. Those were my fantasies.

That one day, if I ever took the risk, that's where I would wind up. And so my first professional engagement was as an accompanist for many, many singers, and Jeannie was one of them. Your most famous position in a supporting role was as Bette Midler's accompanist and music arranger, and this was in the era when she was playing at the Continental Baths, the gay steam bath in Manhattan. How did you meet Bette Midler? She was one of the dozens of girl and boy singers that I was accompanying. I had left CBS and I had begun accompanying singers, and I was making a really healthy living because I'm really a good accompanist. I'm not that great a pianist, but I'm a really good accompanist. And they are always in demand in New York for auditions and people who need

arranging and coaching and stuff. So before I knew it, I was coaching just about every singer that needed a pianist. I was booked like 12 hours a day. And Bette must have heard of me and called me and asked if I would play a couple of weekends for her at this place called the Continental Bass. So I worked for a couple of weekends for her. I subbed for her, the piano player that she had. And she exploded and asked me if I would stay along with her. And I frankly didn't want to just work for one person. And she couldn't afford to really just pay me for 24 hours a day. But Bette Midler was so incredibly talented that I just could not say no. And I began to work for her exclusively. What was your role in her act? I

mean, were you just quiet at the piano or did you participate in any of the banter or sing duets? No, no, no, no. That again, I'm, you know, I was not up to singing then. That was still, this was still before I began to sing. In the beginning, I was, I just arranged her music, put her act together, tightened it up, led her band, hired the background singers, taught them what to sing. I, you know, I put her whole musical, the musical part of her show together. Could you talk a little bit about what it was like to play to an audience in a gay steam bath? Well, I only worked there for two weekends.

You know, people got, you know, there's this unbelievable reputation that both Bette and I had, you know, about working in, you know, all the gay bath houses of all around the world, you know, in Iran and Paris. But it really was, I don't know how long she worked there, but I know for me it was only two weekends. And it was a nightclub situation there, although they were in towels, but it was a nightclub situation. And there was a stage and lights and a sound system,

and Bette would come out and do her brilliant hour and a half, and they would freak out. And after the two weekends, she got booked at a place called the Upstairs at the Downstairs, which was in Manhattan, and that was it. That was the end of my experience at the Continental Baths. But a lot of other people worked at the Baths because it was, like I said, it was a really interesting nightclub situation, and the audiences were fantastic to the performers. Barry Manilow speaking with Terry Gross in 2002. And the audiences were fantastic to the performers.

Barry Manilow speaking with Terry Gross in 2002. He and his longtime collaborator Bruce Sussman have a new musical on Broadway titled Harmony. We'll hear more after a break. Later, Justin Chang reviews the new film Poor Things. I'm Dave Davies, and this is Fresh Air. Hi, I'm Tanya Mosley, co-host of Fresh Air. Before we get back to our show, we want to take a minute to say thank you so much to our Fresh Air Plus supporters and anyone listening who donates to public media. Everything you hear from the NPR network really does depend on your contributions. For anyone listening who isn't a supporter yet yet right now is a great time to get

involved if you like perks fresh air plus offers sponsor free listening and exclusive bonus episodes if you want to make a tax deductible donation to your favorite npr station or stations that's great too we've even had npr plus subscribers make additional contributions no matter how you give your donation helps us continue to bring you news and shows across the NPR network. If you value what we do here, please give today at donate.npr.org slash fresh air or explore NPR Plus at plus.npr.org. Thanks. Let's get back to Terry's 2002 interview with Barry Manilow. He was one of the biggest pop hitmakers of the 70s and early 80s. He now has a musical on Broadway titled Harmony,

based on the true story of the male singing group the Comedian Harmonists, who were banned by the Nazis. Manilow wrote the music and his longtime collaborator Bruce Sussman the lyrics. Before we get back to the interview, let's listen to Manolo's first big hit, Mandy. I remember all my life Raining down as cold as ice Shadows of a man, a face through a window Crying in the night. The night goes into morning, just another day. Happy people pass my way.

Looking in their eyes, I see a memory I never realized How happy you made me, oh man Well, you came and you gave Well, I'll take it At what point did you think, well, I'm going to be the one by the microphone, I'm going to be the one singing, I'm going to have my own act.

What led you to that point? You know, it felt to me, it still seems to me that I was not in charge of that until way, way into my career. It felt like I was just catching up. I was just keeping up barely because when this opportunity to sing for myself came up, I was very reluctant to pursue this. I, first of all, didn't believe that I had any right to be a singer. I didn't think that I had a voice. I didn't think that I had a style. I didn't think that, and frankly, it wasn't anything that I'd ever aspire to anyway.

But I got this record offer, a contract offer, because somebody had heard my demos that I had sung. I had sung my own songs. And I was trying to get other people to record them, but I couldn't afford other singers, so I sang them myself. And I got an offer to make a record, because Bell Records thought that I, I don't know what they thought, they liked what they heard. And I was so interested in promoting my own songs that if that was the only way to do it, I took it. But they said that I could not, they wouldn't give me this deal unless I promised to go out and put a show together and promote it.

Well, I just didn't know how to do that. But I was still conducting for Bette, and I asked her if I could sing a few songs to open her second act. And in that way, I would tour to promote my album, and I would also stay music director for her show. And she let me do it. So I would conduct her first act, then I would open her second act with three of my songs from this new album that I had made,

and then I would continue to conduct it. So that kind of worked out great. When you were doing demos, what kind of person were you hoping would record your song? Who were you looking at? Who were the singers? Andy Williams. Who were the singers that needed?

Nancy Wilson. Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones? This was the end of the 60s, and those were the kinds of singers that were recording other people's material. But at the same time, there was the new crop of young singer-songwriters, which little did I know I was one of. But I didn't know that. I was still trying to come from that old Tin Pan Alley school where you wrote songs for other people to record. So I was just writing songs that seemed like they could be recorded by other people. Little did I know that I was going to be the one that did it. Were you the first person to record one of your own songs?

Yeah, I was. Yes, I was. I was the first person to record one of your own songs? Yeah, I was. Yes, I was. I was the first person to record one of my own songs. If you don't want to count, State Farm is there. Is that one of your commercials? Yeah. Yeah, because you wrote a lot of jingles before you made it as a performer.

Yeah, I did. So how does the whole thing go? What's the first line in that? The State Farm is there. But like a good neighbor, State Farm is there. Yeah, I did. Oh, so how does the whole thing go? What's the first line in that? The State Farm is there. But like a good neighbor, the State Farm is there, yeah. Oh, wow. A very talented girl named Leslie Miller recorded that one after I wrote it. And then there was another one called I Am Stuck on Band-Aids and a Band-Aid Stuck on Me.

And there was a whole batch of little kids that recorded that. But, I mean, you know, I wouldn't consider that that was, you know, my first hit, you know. Well, let me back up to that. How did you start writing commercials? You know, we've got you going from Bette Midler's music director to recording demos and recording yourself. Where do the commercials fit in? Well, when I was sending my demos out, a commercial agent heard some of these demos and they thought that I was writing commercially. And they called me and said, do you want to go up for a Dodge commercial? And I said, sure. So I wrote a Dodge commercial, the melody to the lyric that they gave me. And

because my commercial, not knowing anything, came in like, you know, at four minutes or something. You're supposed to write it for 30 seconds, you know. But they liked the melody. And ultimately, as we pared the whole thing down to 30 seconds I got it I got the first one I went out for and then they kept calling me

to write various jingles and State Farm and Band-Aids are the ones that people still remember and I think they're still playing them What about the McDonald's Have It Your Way isn't that one yours?

No, it was You Deserve a Break Today Oh yeah, You Deserve a Break Today right, that was yours wasn't it? I only sang on that one. I was part of the vocal group. I got into the commercial world while I was conducting for BET. You see, when I started, I stopped accompanying everybody except BET.

But like I said, she couldn't afford to keep me on salary. So I was really making a handsome living doing these commercials. And so between the two of them, I was able to support myself. But what did you learn about the craft of songwriting from writing commercial jingles? Well, you know, I attended the New York College of Music, and a little while I went to Juilliard. And even though that was a pretty good training for my brains, the commercial world, my three years in the commercial world was really the

college that I went to because I got to work with the top musicians. You know, they pay so well. You work with the top studio musicians who taught me really how to arrange music. You know, the oboe player would say, psst, come on over here. You see this thing? You're writing it too high. I'd say, really? I'm writing it too high. Yeah. The oboe can't go up that high, so take it down a notch. This would go on and on. I worked with the great, great studio singers who taught me how to harmonize and how to change the timbre of my voice. I worked with these great engineers who, you know, I would stand behind,

and I would see how they made these jingles sound so hot that they would jump out of the radio. And as far as the songwriting goes, well, you're up against so many fantastic songwriters that you've got to write the catchiest melody in 30 seconds. If you don't write the best one, then the other guys get it. And so for three years, I was in school, and I'll never, never forget that.

Now, did you ever come up with a hook for a jingle and I'll never, never forget that. Now, did you ever come up with a hook for a jingle and think, wait a minute, that's really a song, it's not a jingle, I'm keeping that one for myself? A lot of them, but you know, once you start to write 30-second jingles, they really don't want to be much more than 30-second jingles. Uh-huh. So like there were ideas coming to you that you knew were just like 30-second ideas? Yeah, they're great hooks, but every time I tried to expand them, they didn't work. Right, so there's no

bridge to you deserve a break today. No, there's no bridge to you deserve a break, and there's no bridge to State Farm is There. State Farm is There is a pretty little melody that it could be a melody, but frankly it's probably better as a commercial. Barry Manilow speaking with Terry Gross in 2002. We'll hear

more after a break. This is Fresh Air. Let's get back to when you started performing after being more behind the scenes as a music director and writing commercial jingles. Were you self-conscious those first few times when you got up on stage and you were at the front of the stage? I would say I was the geek of all time on the stage. I really didn't know what I was doing up there. I can't express how uncomfortable I was walking out on the stage, having the spotlight hit me, and me having to lead the evening. And what about that experience made you so uncomfortable?

Well, like I say, I had never practiced for it. I had never imagined it. I had never thought about it. All I really ever thought about was making music, not performing music. And so it was a very uncomfortable, scary experience for me. But the amazing part about that was that the audience never had trouble with it, ever. From the very first moment I hit the stage and sang my own songs, the audiences never had the kind of trouble that I was having accepting this new role. What did you think it took to be a good performer or entertainer that you were afraid you might not have? confidence experience

not being self-conscious those were all the things that I didn't have I was very self-conscious I didn't know my way around a stage I didn't know the rules of performing I didn't know what to do with my legs. What about your arms?

Oh, my arms. Forget about my legs. I mean, I would stand there, you know, and I know that I would feel like, you know, naked and vulnerable. And the audiences loved that. Maybe they identified with your self-consciousness. Maybe they did. Whatever it was, I was very comfortable sitting at the piano

singing Could It Be Magic, but then having to talk with them and stand up and lead a whole hour-long set, it was torture. It was just torture for me. I was just very uncomfortable for many, many years. When you were having all those top 10 hits, this was the 70s and the 80s. Now, all of us who were, who remember then know that, well, most of us were fashion

victims of one sort or another during that era, particularly in the 70s. There were some pretty frightening things that we all wore, that we all participated in. As a performer, I think it's even worse for performers because performers have to wear more extreme versions of whatever. And you're tortured with them for the rest of your life. Yeah. Here I am bringing it up again for you. So what are some of your worst fashion memories? Well, you know, I looked just like Rod Stewart and Elton John did.

We all looked like idiots back then. White suits. The glitter and the bell bottoms and the platform shoes and the puka beads. Frankly, I looked like Britney Spears back then

with my long blonde hair, really, before the boob job. Exactly. I was going to mention that. That was me. David Rakoff did an interview with you in the Sunday New York Times magazine. Yeah. And you had mentioned that the Smithsonian had asked for your Cooper Cabana jacket,

which you described... Really, isn't that funny? Yeah, you described it as being a huge ruffle, Desi Arnaz, Babalu kind of thing. It is. I did it as a a huge, huge ruffle, Desi Arnaz, Babalu kind of thing. It is. I did it as a joke in 1978. And, you know, and somebody took a photo of me. And, you know, from that moment on, I was sunk. I was just sunk. You know, I did it as a joke. But I think people, you know, thought that I was serious. We said that the Smithsonian asked you for the jacket. You sent it to them and then they sent it back to you. Well, here's the real story is this. I just put my foot in my mouth.

They asked me for the jacket, and, you know, it's such a funny jacket. It's a joke. And so when I got it, I was interviewed, and the interviewer said, it's going to the Smithsonian. I said, yeah, I always knew it was going to wind up in an institution. And the Smithsonian got so insulted, they sent it back. Oh, oh. So where is the jacket now?

Oh, it lives in my offices in Los Angeles. And it's still as silly as it ever was, but now it has a little bit more meaning for me. Now, I have a question for you, and I know you're asked this a lot, but has it bothered you that, although you've had this huge success over the years, there's also been people, listeners,

and some critics who use the word syrupy to describe your music, and you've been the butt of jokes in some articles and other places. Is that difficult to handle? Does it bug you? Now and again it does. I'm human. So yeah, it does. I go into self-pity for a while and I pull the covers over my head

like any human being would do, but it never really stopped me. Mostly because I believe in what I do. I listen to these songs, trying to get the feel in, and this one's for you, and when October goes, and I say, well, I like them. I think they sound great. And, you know, my band likes them, and the audiences like them. And so I just keep going.

I just keep doing what I love doing and hope that there's an audience out there for it. And I was always surprised at the critics when they felt they needed to be so mean-spirited in their opinions to somebody that they never even met. But I forgave them, the little creeps, for making my life miserable all those years. But, you know, the best revenge is, like I said before, I continue to get the opportunity to make music, to make the music that I love to make, and so that's really the best revenge.

You're on a long performance tour now. Are you still self-conscious when you're performing? No, not anymore. Not anymore. I am a sex god now. I you still self-conscious when you're performing? No, not anymore. Not anymore. I am a sex god now. I accept it. I have accepted the fact that I am a sex god. Have women ever thrown panties at you and done that whole bit?

Only once. Only once. And I thought maybe she was asking me to take it out to the laundry. Where was this? It was in Vegas. Where else would they do that? Exactly, right. But no, they usually throw,

they don't throw very much things at me. They, you know, little soft teddy bears and roses and stuff. It's always very nice. No, I'm very comfortable on the stage these days, much more comfortable than I ever thought I would ever be. And it hit around, I would say,

10, 11, 12 years ago when I finally accepted that this was not going to stop. This was not going to go away. It seemed to be getting bigger. And I had better learn how to make myself comfortable on that stage or else I was going to be a very miserable old man. Right. And I took acting classes. Oh. Took acting classes from a brilliant acting teacher and actress named Nina Fosh. And when I started taking acting lessons, it was the first time I realized that what I was doing, there were rules for what I was doing. For those first, I'd say, ten years, I was meandering around the stage, trying to crawl into a lyric as honestly as I could, but because I'd never thought about actions and motivations

and reasons for singing or reasons for moving on a stage, it always felt so unsafe to me because I didn't know where I was. I didn't know why I was doing it. As soon as I began to take acting lessons, not that I'm a great actor, but I was able to learn the rules of acting. You break down a script. You don't walk unless you have a reason to walk. You don't speak unless you know who you're speaking to. These were the rules that I mean, I guess other

performers know how to do that. I didn't. I was just going by the flying by the seat of my pants. And luckily, the audiences liked it. And again, because I had the music to rely on, and I was pretty good at that. I was able to get through it. But emotionally, I was a wreck every night because I had no rules. I was out of control. As soon as I finished taking acting classes or in the middle of it, I began to learn the rules of what you do when you're on a stage. And it was the thing that saved my life as a performer. Barry Manilow recorded in 2002. His new Broadway musical Harmony is based on the true story of the Comedian Harmonists, an internationally famous male singing group in Germany who were banned by the Nazis.

Coming up, Justin Chang reviews the new film Poor Things, starring Emma Stone and Mark Ruffalo. This is Fresh Air. The top prize winner at this year's Venice International Film Festival was the dark comedy Poor Things, starring Emma Stone as a Victorian woman who embarks on a strange personal journey. It's Stone's latest collaboration with director Yorgos Lanthimos after their Oscar-winning period drama, The Favorite. Poor Things also stars Mark Ruffalo and Willem Dafoe. The movie's now in theaters, and our film critic Justin Chang has this review. Poor Things is a little Alice in Wonderland, a little Wizard of Oz, a little Marquis de Sade, and a whole lot of Frankenstein. It also has a lot in common with some of Yorgos Lanthimos' earlier films, like The Favorite and Dogtooth, Transgressive Sex, Sadistic Power Games, and Grizzly Violence.

But if the movie is brutal, it's also extravagantly beautiful, extremely funny, and by the end, strangely touching, even uplifting. This may be Lanthimos' most unhinged movie, but it also has a joyous exuberance that I haven't felt in much of his earlier work. The story, loosely adapted from a 1992 novel by the Scottish writer Alasdair Gray, follows a most unusual character named Bella Baxter, played by a mesmerizing Emma Stone. When we first meet Bella in 19th century London, she looks like an adult woman, but has the awkward gait, unformed speech, and anarchic spirit of a very young child. As we learn early on, she's the product of a back-from-the-dead mad science experiment in which she was implanted with the brain of the child she was carrying at the time of her death. Bella, in other words, is both her mother and her daughter.

And, in a weird way, neither. Under the watchful eye of her creator, that's Willem Dafoe as the sweetly deranged scientist Dr. Godwin Baxter, Bella develops rapidly. Before long, she's walking and talking more or less like a grown-up, though her inventively tortured speech patterns remain one of the best running gags in Tony McNamara's script. Inevitably, Bella discovers sex, first exploring her own adult body with childlike curiosity, and then having a passionate fling with a rogue named Duncan Wedderburn, a hilariously over-the-top Mark Ruffalo. When they have sex for the first time, the movie, which until now has

mostly been filmed in black and white, explodes into wild, rapturous color. Like an especially bawdy riff on Voltaire's Candide, Poor Things becomes the story of Bella's sexual odyssey. Ever since the movie's Venice Film Festival premiere, much of the reaction has focused on its many frenzied sex scenes, in which the bodies of Stone and Ruffalo, among others, are on abundant display. But the movie is after something more than mere titillation. Much of the time, it emphasizes the absurdity rather than the ecstasy of sex. Before long, Bella grows bored and disillusioned. She learns that men are mostly horrible and that the world is full of suffering and poverty. Soon she begins making new friends, reading Emerson and nourishing her mind.

At one point, while they're on a European boat cruise, Duncan becomes jealous, accusing Bella of spending too much time with two other travelers who are having an engrossing intellectual debate. Bella responds, as she often does, by referring to herself in the third person. These two are fighting and ideas are banging around in Bella's head and heart like lights in a storm. Oh. You're always reading now, Bella. You're losing some of your adorable way of speaking. I'm a changingable feast, as are all of we.

Apparently, according to Emerson, disagreed with by Harry. Come, come, just come. You were in my son. What? If Bella's Baroque dialogue makes poor things a lot of fun to listen to, it's also gorgeous to look at. Lanthimos has never been afraid of anachronism, and here he embraces it head-on.

His production designers, Shona Heath and James Price, have dreamed up a futuristic, candy-colored vision of the 19th century, where people-movers soar over city streets and chimneys belch green smoke into a dark purple sky. This almost steampunk fantasy version of Victoriana, often shot with fisheye lenses by the gifted cinematographer Robbie Ryan, suggests just how radically strange the world must look to Bella's eyes. And Jerskin-Fendrix's dissonant, unruly score feels like something piped in directly from Bella's subconscious.

Some admirers of Poor Things have argued that it's a feminist work, in which Bella's erotic awakening becomes the key to her liberation. The movie's detractors have dismissed it as just a superficially empowering girl-boss narrative. I'm hardly the only one to have noticed that it's basically the unfamily-friendly version of Barbie, in which a woman's childlike naivete becomes a surprisingly effective weapon against the patriarchy. I guess that makes Ruffalo's greasy-haired Duncan a ken, though you might say the same for the men played by Rami Youssef, Jared Carmichael, and Christopher Abbott, all of whom try, in their own ways, to manipulate Bella's destiny.

But Bella won't be controlled, and she's much too brilliant a character to be reduced to a symbol or archetype. Stone gives a great, audacious performance. Her Bella can be ignorant, selfish, impulsive, and cruel, but also fiercely intelligent, witty, thoughtful, and kind. Lanthimos has seldom expressed much affection for his characters, but he clearly loves this one to pieces. He's made a movie that, even at its most outlandish, has its heart in the right place, even if its brains are not. Justin Chang is the film critic for the LA Times. He reviewed Poor Things, starring Emma Stone and Mark Ruffalo. On Monday's show, we speak with Coleman Domingo, a star of two of the big holiday film releases. In the biopic Rustin, he plays Bayard Rustin, the civil rights leader most responsible for organizing the 1963 March on Washington,

who was forced into the background because he was gay. In The Color Purple, he plays Mister, the abusive husband. I hope you can join us. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. Fresh Air's executive producer is Danny Miller. Our senior producer today is Roberta Shorrock. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham,

with additional engineering support from Joyce Lieberman and Julian Hertzfeld. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Amy Sallet, Phyllis Myers, Sam Brigger, Lauren Krenzel, Heidi Saman, Teresa Madden, and Marie Baldonado, Bea Chaloner, Seth Kelly, and Susan Yakundi. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nesper. For Terry Gross and Tanya Mosley, I'm Dave Davies.