It had been almost two years since my last trek to New York. Much had changed. Rather than sitting in a Town Hall audience watching Barry Manilow receive a Manhattan Cabaret Association Award, this time I was about to spend five nights working for him at Radio City Music Hall.

And the world had been altered a few months earlier on September 11th.

            The first indication that all was not normal had been the airline directive to arrive at Winnipeg check-in two hours prior to take-off. It took me an hour and twenty minutes to get from the ticketing counter to the jam-packed departure lounge. Inspection tables had been set up along the way at which I had to present all my electronics – my laptop, the digital camera, my cell phone and the Palm Pilot – and to turn them on to prove they were real. The officers were very stern, humourless, openly skeptical about my answers to their questions, and I found myself struggling to control an uncontrollable shaking as I pressed buttons on my devices, praying that they would operate as they were supposed to. The paranoia and apprehension in the air was palpable. Even after boarding the plane I could still feel the tension hanging over us like a thick cloud in the cabin. It was even worse in Minneapolis. I’d not had a cig for almost four hours and the prospect of another smokeless four drove me out of the smoke-free airport for a fix … despite the knowledge that I would have to go through the same inspections all over again to get back to the departure gate. Now there were soldiers everywhere, wearing sunglasses so you couldn’t see where they were looking, booted, helmeted, machine guns on their shoulders, frightening, and in a heightened state of alert. I wanted to take a picture of them but was sure I’d be wrestled to the ground and thrown in jail. I’d almost made it to the waiting area when I was stopped and pulled out of line for a “random check”. My blood pressure went through the ceiling. I could feel a strange tightening at the back of my head. This time I was frisked, had to undo my belt, take off my shoes and turn on all my electronics again. There were a number of us being inspected and we all obliged, the unspoken rationale being that it “was for our own good”. I thought to ask what it was about me that made the uniformed lady pull me out of line but tacitly convinced myself that taking it in stride would be the better choice. The good thing about the experience was that I was subsequently ushered past all the folks waiting to board and escorted directly onto the plane. I was glad I’d been warning our musicians on all our tours that getting through airports was going to take a lot of time and patience and that travel documents should be in-hand at all times, ready to show at a moment’s notice AND, knowing that some of our folks had a way of speaking their minds, without question. I settled into my seat and slept for the remainder of the trip.

            My roommates – the Jims – were waiting for me when I arrived at the apartment and the rest of the evening was spent at Coppola’s, our favourite Italian restaurant a block away, catching up, mostly with them regaling me about their 9/11 experiences – horrific – and the on-going aftermath in the form of the continuing clean-up and people’s constant apprehension. My airport experience paled in comparison to what New Yorkers had been through.

            The following morning I had no trouble getting my Radio City Music Hall “All Access” Laminate at the Stage Door and wandered about getting my bearings. I found the stage entrance, walked into the bustling backstage area, rounded the proscenium and out into the immense space. I usually get a mysterious uplifting around my heart whenever I get to walk out onto a stage and see the house for the first time. But this took my breath away. Seeing the sea of 6,000 seats was overwhelming. The huge stage crew was everywhere, still setting up, testing sound, dealing with lights and working feverishly on the bandstand’s superstructure. I wandered around trying not to get in anyone’s way and eventually found Joe Clayton, the production manager and Libby Fabro, the Tour Director, both of whom I’d talked with many times during the past few months. It’s always a bit of a jolt seeing the face of someone who has only existed as a voice on the phone. We were all pleased to meet in person. “You can settle in over here, if you want” they said as they walked me to a small table just behind the off-stage sound board. “We’ll find you someplace more comfortable in the Green Room in a bit” and they headed off. When I heard the keyboard being played I went out on stage again and introduced myself to Steve Welch, Barry’s Musical Director. He jumped up from his bench, threw is arms in the air then around me, greeting me with such warmth and friendliness, like a long-lost brother. That happened over and over again with the musicians, once only voices and now, like Steve, immediate friends … well, for the most part.

            Then Barry arrived with a very small entourage. I had retreated to my little corner in the wings and allowed myself to be a fan during the sound check. There was no need for me to provide any input or to interfere. Steve had it all under control. The orchestra rehearsal was good. Barry ran through a few numbers to hear the sound – remember the bands were always new to him in each city on the Tour – and he seemed satisfied after making some suggestions, partially through Steve and partially himself. Then it was time for the dinner break. Dinner was provided by the Company in a rehearsal room, and I sat with some of the players. The chatter was affable enough and I stayed quiet for the most part, just listening and observing. Eventually, it was just me and our local rep, Lisa Pike, who had worked for us previously in New York. While I initially had the impression she was miffed that I was there, it turned out that things were really not as they seemed. There had been tensions at the New York AFM Local caused by Sam being hired by Barry’s Company to put together the band for this major engagement. That, in turn, had created some political upheaval within the hierarchy of “established” New York Contractors. I was just an underling and there was nothing I could do but mentally track Lisa’s stories and report back. It was a volatile dynamic and one that Sam and I had encountered and would continue to over and over again.

            Opening night of Barry Manilow at Radio City Music Hall was a major EVENT! This was his home town and tickets could not be found anywhere! All five performances had long been sold out. The “curtain” was held for ten minutes, something that happened every night and, I discovered, was built-in at every show just to heighten the tension. When the Intro Music finally began, the audience went utterly berserk as their idol walked on stage. There was no particular demographic I could make out – young, old, male, female, black, white … they were ALL there for Barry. Over the next five nights I watched Master Classes in how to work and play an audience. It came down to structure. He simply gave them what they wanted, meted out over two hours, a little up-tempo here, a little quiet there, something old (which usually sent them all to heaven) and something new (his latest album, “Here At The Mayfair”, and a couple of songs from a Musical he was writing called “Harmony”). But at the foundation of everything was the obvious love being exchanged in that cavernous room. It was personal, intimate despite the vast space, and the fullness of his years of experience was on display for me to admire and envy all at once! It was remarkable to watch.

            Earlier, when we’d returned from dinner, I noticed a lot more people in suits standing about in the hallways. Of course we had to show our credentials to enter the building, but now we had to do the same before being allowed through the doors to the stage. It happened again after intermission. Some of those hallway guys in suits were now stationed around the backstage area. I had thought little of it in the moment – opening night security and all that – but half-way through the second Act, there was a whirlwind of activity. From my little perch I could see these people moving purposefully toward the right side of the stage. Barry was doing some of his patter introducing another song and ended by saying, “So to give me a little help on this next number, would you please welcome my favorite sax player,” and who should wander out on stage with dark glasses and a sax, but the President of the United States as Barry yelled “Bill Clinton” It took everybody by surprise, including the band. It was only Barry’s Rhythm Section (piano, bass, drums, guitar) who were in on it in order to play the accompaniment for “Heartbreak Hotel”. If I thought the noise the audience made was loud when Barry walked out at the top of the show, the reception for the President was off the charts! Its volume reminded me of the time I saw The Beatles at the Montreal Forum in 1964 … a noise so loud it was like silence! They quieted down a bit but not much. It was hard to hear him playing, but that didn’t matter … it was Bill Clinton! He was there to accept a $100,000 cheque from Barry to a Clinton Scholarship Fund for the education of children who had lost parents in Trade Center Disaster. Phenomenal!

            The show finished and I headed out on stage to thank all the guys in the band. I gathered my stuff and headed out. As I came out into the off-stage vestibule I was confronted with a crowd of people. Not six feet from me was what you see above … the two stars of the evening having this picture taken with the prop cheque. I should have taken my camera out and taken some photos myself, but I didn’t. I would have four more chances for photos.

            But it was still Barryworld for me the following morning. I was up and out to NBC Studios at Rockefeller Center at the crack of dawn to do the Contractor thing for Barry on the Rose O’Donnell Show. Could this get any headier?? This one was up close and personal as I sat in the front row while he rehearsed ten feet away. One’s sense of an idol is invariably tied to the image they want you to see – the public face, so to speak. Being so close to him before the broadcast gave me another perspective. Without his make-up on, his hair done and in show mode, he looked waif-like, very thin and a bit gaunt. Marc Hulett, Barry’s very affable Personal Assistant, brought him over and introduced us. I told him how wonderful I thought last night’s event had been, and he told me what a great band we’d put together and then got pulled away for hair and make-up.  It didn’t matter that he’d done a huge show the night before. Even thought it was early in the day, once the lights and camera were on, so was he!

            Over the next four performances I learned what a fine actor he is. Though I’d been in love with his voice for a lot of years, I’d never had a chance to watch him so closely when he performed. There was a song called “Not What You See” from the “Mayflower” album that captivated me. It’s sung by ‘Joe’, an 83-year-old man, about his wife, ‘Esther’. They’re the oldest residents at the Mayflower Apartment complex where Barry grew up in Brooklyn. The lights went way down as Barry put a scarf around his neck and an old hat on his head and became ‘Joe’. I had a monitor feed from the big on-stage screens right beside me and could see his face in great detail. Steve was playing keyboard for the number, so Barry was singing directly to the audience. Manilow disappeared, and ‘Joe’ took his place, not superficially but to the core. ‘Joe’ told us that what one sees on the outside is not the full story. I was mesmerized! It was an intimate aria, quiet words from way down inside delivered with joy but wrapped in a little sadness now that ‘Esther’ was failing. There was no showman, no pizzaz, just truth and heart. It was deeply affecting and remarkable to watch.

            On closing night, I got to the theatre early, found Steve and asked if he would arrange for a picture of the three of us after the show. I hung around following the “Meet and Greet” until the mucky mucks had left, and Marc took the picture here. In the course of the setting up the shot, I took a great leap in mentioning to Barry that we (Music Services) would be up for contracting his “Harmony” orchestra when it arrived on Broadway. He said he didn’t know how far off that would be but that he was probably coming back to New York in the Summer and would want the same great band he’d had this time round. At least I was laying some groundwork and Sam would be happy about that. (Just a sidebar here – this concert was February of 2002. As I write, it’s early Summer of 2022. This past March, a fully-staged Workshop Production of “Harmony” played for a limited run at the National Yiddish Theatre in New York … exactly 20 years since that concert. Persistence pays off!)

            I didn’t check the voice mail when I got home late Sunday night. It wasn’t until Monday morning that I discovered a message from Heather telling me that Robbie was in hospital in Toronto with bacterial meningitis and she would be heading there in the morning! The world went into a tailspin. Late in the afternoon, Sam called from Philadelphia to say that he’d run into Heather at the Winnipeg airport that morning and had got the news about Robbie. In typical Sam fashion he told me that I should take the time if I needed to go to Toronto and we would manage the office somehow. Information was sporadic and incomplete but eventually Heather and I spoke.

            It turned out that Robbie had eaten some unpasteurized cheese in Vancouver and after travelling to Toronto had complained of headaches and feeling ill. In the course of a conversation at a family gathering he began to talk gibberish, not making any sense, and was taken to the hospital right away. He was put on some antibiotics to bring down the fever and arrest what was diagnosed as an infection. But nothing was working. By the weekend, he had lapsed into a coma. By Monday, it was getting grave. That evening Heather called and told me I should prepare myself for the worst. What? No! This wasn’t happening! I could tell she was being strong for everyone else, but I could only imagine what was happening on the inside. When I got off the phone, I sat in stunned silence. I literally didn’t know what to do. This was too huge a thing for my mind to accept, too horrible a thing to contemplate. I didn’t sleep that night as thoughts of a world without Robbie kept bearing down on me. I kept waiting for the phone to ring.

That morning I got a call from an associate in Heather’s office with the news that Robbie had come out of the coma and was responding to voices. It was as if someone had taken a rock from the pit of my stomach. He wasn’t out of the woods but closer to the clearing than he’d been for the past three horrific days. He had wiggled his toes for a nurse. More relief. I learned that he was still very confused. In cases like this apparently the short term memory is deeply affected. I found out later that the neurologist looking after him on the Monday night shift had been terrified Robbie wasn’t going to make it. He’d contracted pneumonia as well which only complicated matters. But somehow, miraculously and against all odds, and with that spirit inside of him, he fought, quietly and unassumingly as is his wont, and worked it out. My Mom had been following all this with my constant phone updates. She said she’d go to the hospital after Heather and the Family had left to see him for some company and support. She’d provide me updates directly.

            The “West Side Story” auditions were in their final stages … and a much needed distraction. There were a number of people left to see dance on Saturday morning and Bill (Robertson) was putting them through their paces. I stepped out into the Rehearsal Hall Lobby for a few minutes to check my messages. There was one from Heather. She was talking so fast and loud I could hardly understand what she was saying but managed to make out “relapse” and “infection”. My head started whirling and I felt like I was going to pass out. I didn’t know what to do. I had no way of getting back to Heather, didn’t have the number for the hospital and just stood there, trembling, unable to think straight. I was in limbo. It was my shaking that surprised me more than anything, and once again that horrible sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I finally thought to call Mom and tell her what had happened. She could tell right off that I was very upset even though I was trying desperately to control it. I asked her if she could call the hospital and find out what has going on. And I waited, rooted to the spot staring at my phone. Mom was back to me twenty minutes later. The message from Heather had been sent much earlier in the day. Since then, the situation had improved greatly although Robbie had indeed caught an infection from someone in the ward and had lapsed into a catatonic state to which Heather had been responding. Mom had spoken to Robbie’s sister-in-law at the hospital, been reassured that things had gotten better and, the following day went over to the hospital and saw Robbie. She told me he looked good, but that it was obvious that he’d been through a trauma. While the roller coaster had taken a toll on all of us things had calmed a bit. There would be some bumps in the road ahead and it would be a few weeks before some normalcy, and Robbie, would return.

I kept myself together by diving back into the ever-present Tour payrolls and budgets. They had never stopped. I also spent time organizing the production script for “West Side Story”. The in-town folks had risen to the occasion at dance auditions, but I still hadn’t found a ‘Tony’ and a ‘Riff’ and a few more ‘Jets’ equal to the demands of Bill’s high-quality choreography, so it looked like a trip to Toronto was in the offing. But in the meantime, it was settled that Robbie would be back in early March. It had been a month since this saga began and I’d not spoken with him. One afternoon, I was getting an update on the phone with Heather, and she said, “Just a minute”. The next thing I heard was a small “Hello?” I gasped. It was like talking to Jesus. I got my breath and stammered out “You’ve no idea how I’ve longed to hear your voice”, and we both got a little emotional. I could tell it was difficult for him to keep the conversation going as he searched for words, trying to remember things that were very foggy in his head. It would have been enough for me to just sit there and listen to him breathe. I told him that so many people were pulling for him, and we both started to choke up. He whispered some things I didn’t quite get and then Heather was back on the phone. “I don’t know what you said to him”, she said, “but this is the first time he’s cried.” He was back in Winnipeg a few days later.

            The entire Theatre Community rallied and took him under its wings with a planned-out daily schedule of strengthening walks and short social visits. We learned that 19 other people had also been affected by the same cheese Robbie had eaten in Vancouver. It was now a case of nursing him back to health and getting him back on track.

            As planned Bill, Ken and I zapped back to Toronto for a couple of days to wind up “West Side” casting. It was a very intense two days, particularly for the dancers and we ultimately decided that who we had back home would stand us in good stead with a couple of out-of-towners (Vancouver and Calgary) anchoring them all. For the ‘Tony’ and ‘Riff’ roles they came out of the woodwork. The singing auditions were difficult. While ‘Riff’ doesn’t have a lot to sing, his dancing and acting has to be spot on. I had hoped, to no avail, that Jon Tsouras would come back from Europe, and we finally cast a great performer named Randy Ganne before we lost him to another engager. I had a very specific idea for ‘Tony’ – a combination of good-looking, boy-next-door with no guile, innocent and accessible but slightly shy. Fortunately, I knew it was Nicholas Matthew (now Nicholas Seguin) as soon as I saw him. And when he sang … well, the search was over. By the time we got back to Winnipeg, the casting was set.

            Without wasting a beat, I was on another plane, this time to Los Angeles and the Kodak Theatre, this time to tape a TV Special with Barry. And what a week that was!