Musical Paralysis
I have a confession to make: I have bad taste in music.
Well, not so much “bad” as “uncool.” I was the girl in college who listened to the Go-Go’s, not the Talking Heads. The one who loved Lionel Richie and Madonna and didn’t quite get the appeal of Tom Petty. The one who never really knew any songs by the Grateful Dead.
I blame it all on The Partridge Family, the television show about a fictional music group that aired on ABC from 1970-1974. My brothers and I watched that show religiously every Friday night, and like many young girls at the time, I was enthralled, collecting all the Partridge Family albums and daydreaming about their lead singer, the late David Cassidy. Unfortunately for me, studies have shown that musical tastes get locked in at a fairly early age and most people experience what’s called “musical paralysis”—meaning that for the rest of their lives, they favor the music of their youth. Which in my case involves cheesy pop songs from the 1970s and early 1980s. (According to one article in the New York Times analyzing Spotify data, the “most important period for women” in forming their adult musical preferences was ages 11 to 14. That tracks for me; I was 11 when The Partridge Family went off the air.)
All of which is a long way of saying—I went to see Barry Manilow in concert a couple of weeks ago.
For the second time.
No, I’m not a “Fanilow,” as Barry’s diehard fans like to call themselves. But there are few things in life I like more than belting out one of his power ballads while driving alone in my car. (The alone part goes without saying.)
Walking into the theater with my son (who gamely went to the concert with me, having recently discovered the allure of Barry’s first big hit, “Mandy”), I couldn’t help but feel a bit superior. After all, given the number of canes and hearing aids in the crowd, I was a relative kid compared to most of the other people there. And I was in on the joke; I knew how nerdy this event was.
My ego got deflated pretty quickly though, as my son immediately took my phone to shepherd us through the electronic ticketing process, assuming (correctly) that a digital native like him would be much more adept at swiping through the machine. And it didn’t take long for me to realize the joke was actually on me—that despite my lingering baggage from adolescence, it didn’t matter what other people thought about Barry’s music, the people in that audience were quite excited to see a singer they really liked.
No one needed to explain that to the 70-year-old women in sequined blazers, feather boas and fringe, ready to merengue with their friends during “Copacobana,” as thrilled as their granddaughters had been to don similar sequins and white cowboy boots for Taylor Swift’s Eras tour last year. As time goes on, scientists are learning more and more about the physical and mental benefits of listening to music. In addition to reducing stress hormones in the body, it can also trigger the release of dopamine, the neurotransmitter/hormone that makes us feel good. And what other than pure joy could have propelled the middle-aged man three rows ahead of us out of his seat at the dramatic crescendo of “Weekend in New England,” arms raised in the air as if his favorite football star had just scored a touchdown?
Barry Manilow may not move like he used to, and the twenty-minute intermission in the middle of the show was unexpected. But the guy’s 81 now and performing in what was advertised as a “record breaking residency” at Radio City Music Hall; he deserved a short break. The crowd certainly didn’t seem to mind, so maybe they did too. While jaded observers may think the songs are cringe and the audience too old to be playing dress up for a concert, the endorphin high in that room was real, and frankly, we could all probably use a lot more of that these days. So, embrace your inner nerd and blast the music you’re ashamed to admit you love. Almost nothing else can make you feel happier.