By admin 
Introduction
This is not a story about a pop star; it is an investigation into one of the most ruthless character assassinations in music history. For decades, a specific narrative was force-fed to the public by the self-appointed gatekeepers of “cool”: Barry Manilow is a joke. They labeled him the Prince of Cheese, the Sultan of Sentimentality, a manipulator of the lowest common denominator. But numbers do not lie, and 85 million records sold tells a very different, far more dangerous story.
How does a man become one of the best-selling artists of all time while simultaneously serving as the industry’s favorite punching bag? The cognitive dissonance is staggering. We are looking at a grand disconnect between the elite critics in their ivory towers and the visceral, beating heart of the global public. While Rolling Stone and the cool kids of the 70s were busy deconstructing punk and worshiping at the altar of raw grit, Manilow committed the ultimate sin: he made people feel. He didn’t offer rebellion; he offered solace. And for that, the critics tried to slaughter his credibility.
The “sến súa” (cheesy) label wasn’t just an adjective; it was a weapon. It was designed to shame the listener. If you liked Mandy, you were unsophisticated. If you hummed along to Copacabana, you lacked taste. But beneath the sequins and the key changes lies a craftsmanship that rivals the “serious” songwriters of his era. Manilow wasn’t an accident. He was a Julliard-trained architect of sound who understood the mathematics of a hook better than his detractors understood their own bias. The scandal here isn’t that Manilow wrote sentimental songs; the scandal is the arrogance of a critical establishment that believed emotion was a weakness.
Why did they hate him so much? perhaps because he represented something they couldn’t control: unironic joy. In an era obsessed with irony and edge, Manilow was dangerously sincere. He wore his heart on his sleeve in a business that prefers armor. Today, we look back at the wreckage of those critical opinions and see them for what they were: elitist gatekeeping. Barry Manilow didn’t just survive the ridicule; he built a fortress out of it. He filled stadiums while his critics filled column inches that are now used to wrap fish. The 85 million people who bought his albums weren’t wrong. They were just listening with their hearts instead of their egos. The “Manilow Paradox” forces us to ask: Who actually gets to decide what is “good” art? The few with the pens, or the millions with the tears in their eyes?