By admin 
Introduction
There is a specific kind of cruelty reserved for the things women love. For nearly half a century, a cultural weapon was pointed directly at the heart of the American suburbs, loaded with cynicism and aimed squarely at the millions of souls who dared to weep during “Weekend in New England.” The target was not just the music; it was the people listening to it. To be a “Fanilow” in the golden age of rock journalism was to be a punchline. The media elite, draped in their leather jackets and armed with typewriters, didn’t just dislike Barry Manilow—they actively dehumanized his audience. They painted his legions of fans as hysterical, tasteless, uncool, and frankly, embarrassing.
But the story the tabloids refused to print was the one happening behind the curtain. While the critics were busy sneering at the tear-streaked faces in the front row, Barry Manilow was quietly orchestrating a masterclass in loyalty.
The narrative was supposed to go like this: The pop star eventually craves “critical acclaim.” To get it, he must denounce his pop past, mock his “obsessive” fans, and beg for acceptance from the cool kids. It is a Faustian bargain that countless stars have made. Barry Manilow looked at that bargain and set it on fire.
Instead of distancing himself from the “grandmothers and secretaries” that the press mocked, he threw his body over them like a human shield. When interviewers would bait him with questions dripping in irony—asking about the “crazies” or the “underwear throwers”—Manilow refused to take the bait. He didn’t just tolerate the adoration; he dignified it. He looked down the lens of the camera and validated the very emotions the world told these people to suppress.
This wasn’t just about selling records; it was a war for dignity. The phrase “Guilty Pleasure” was invented to make people feel small for liking something soft in a hard world. Manilow understood this. He saw the snickers in the press pit. He heard the jokes on late-night TV. And his response was a radical, defiant embrace of the uncool. He told the world that the love flowing in those arenas was not hysteria—it was connection. By refusing to be ashamed of his music, he taught his fans not to be ashamed of themselves.
We are re-examining the archives of this cultural bullying not to dwell on the negativity, but to highlight the extraordinary resilience of a man who stood alone against the tide of “cool.” In an industry built on mockery, Barry Manilow’s greatest hit wasn’t a song; it was his absolute, unwavering protection of the people who made him. He turned the shame back onto the critics, proving that while trends fade and “cool” evaporates, the loyalty he defended is the only thing that actually lasts.