## Beyond the Falsetto: Barry Gibb’s Enduring Love Story Amidst Triumph and Tragedy
Barry Gibb, the enigmatic figure behind the legendary Bee Gees’ timeless harmonies, stares out from the laptop screen, a black Stetson hat shadowing his gaze. He resides in Miami, a sun-drenched sanctuary he’s called home since 1974, a deliberate relocation suggested by Eric Clapton during a downturn in the Bee Gees’ career. This move, a leap of faith for the entire family, saw them settle into the very house Clapton immortalized as “461 Ocean Boulevard.” While Barry maintains ties to England with a home there, Miami, he notes, resonates with him, a reminder of Australia, where his family immigrated when he was just eleven.
His current life, a waterfront mansion in an exclusive country club, stands in stark contrast to the early years of “penury” the Gibb family endured in Australia. This affluence, however, is the direct outcome of an astonishing musical legacy, with record sales estimated between 120 and 220 million units. The familial ties remain strong, with “multiple Gibbs” – five children and seven grandchildren – residing nearby, a comforting presence in times like a global pandemic. Despite Miami’s recent prevalence of coronavirus, Barry expresses their efforts to self-isolate, a cautious nod to their well-being.
What truly sets Barry apart, however, is a remarkable personal resilience, particularly in the face of the struggles that tragically claimed his younger brothers. While Maurice grappled with alcoholism, Robin with amphetamines, and the youngest, Andy, succumbed to cocaine addiction at 30, Barry seemingly emerged relatively unscathed. This, he firmly asserts, is largely thanks to his wife, Linda. “My brothers had to deal with their demons, but I was married to a lady who wasn’t going to have it,” he states, recounting how Linda would swiftly dispose of any drugs he might have brought into their home. “She never allowed me to go in that direction. I had to deal with my brothers being pretty much out there, but I was lucky.”
Barry’s current disposition appears brighter than when he was last interviewed seven years prior. Then, still raw from Robin’s recent death, he was haunted by unresolved conflicts with his brothers, lamenting that they “weren’t really speaking” when Maurice died suddenly in 2003, and his last conversation with Andy was a “tough love” attempt to break him from addiction, just days before his passing. “Jesus,” he sighed at one point, “That’s all my brothers.” Today, however, a more sanguine perspective prevails. Revisiting the Bee Gees’ career for the documentary “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” wasn’t painful, he explains, because he’s learned that “things just roll on, and you roll on with them.” He’s bubbling with enthusiasm for a new album, a collaboration with country stars revisiting the Bee Gees’ catalog, a project his son Stephen had to convince him would even attract interest.
Despite the accolades and the homage paid by contemporary artists in the documentary, a sense of the outsider still seems to cling to Barry Gibb. His genuine surprise at the rapturous reception he received at Glastonbury in 2017, despite his previous guest appearance with Coldplay, underscores this sentiment. “I’m the last person to think I’d still be hearing those songs now,” he shrugs, “or that anybody would be interested in them now. It’s a long time ago.”
Indeed, the Bee Gees were outsiders from their very beginning. Early Australian TV clips reveal a nascent group that resembled a variety act more than a rock and roll band. Yet, even as a 14-year-old, Barry never viewed his 10-year-old twin brothers as a hindrance to his “cool.” “I never thought of them as my little brothers,” he frowns, “It just wasn’t like that. There was something we all loved doing, and we kept on doing it. There was nothing more fun than singing in three-part harmony.” Their shared passion also fueled their role as family breadwinners from the moment they were discovered, performing between races at a Brisbane speedway. Living in “penury,” often moving from rented house to rented house, they were a family constantly on the edge.
Their audacious decision to move the entire family back to England in 1965, believing it was essential for their career, proved prescient. With impeccable timing, they departed Australia days before their single “Spicks and Specks” hit No. 1. Upon arriving in the UK, a seemingly ominous encounter with a band of “absolute Beatles lookalikes” on Southampton dock who advised them to “Go back to Australia, there’s nothing happening here,” turned out to be one of pop history’s most ill-fated predictions. Within a month, the Bee Gees had a management contract with Brian Epstein’s Nems, and their single “New York Mining Disaster 1941” became a transatlantic hit. They were, it turned out, preternaturally gifted songwriters, crafting both enduring ballads and a uniquely idiosyncratic brand of pop.
Their fame exploded, yet it came with immense pressure. Barry vividly recalls Maurice’s exaggerated claims of owning six Rolls-Royces by 21, but acknowledges the overwhelming nature of “ultrafame.” “You lose your perspective; you’re in the eye of a hurricane, and you don’t know you’re there… And we were kids, don’t forget.” This rapid ascent also fueled internal tensions, particularly between Barry and Robin, leading to a temporary split in 1969 over who was the frontman. “Before we ever became famous were the best times of our lives,” Barry reflects, lamenting that Robin’s lead vocal on their first No. 1, “Massachusetts,” seemingly solidified his belief that he should always sing lead, despite the group’s collaborative nature.
The early ’70s saw their celebrity wane, leading to a pivotal move to Miami in 1974, urged by Eric Clapton, and a new direction under producer Arif Mardin. It was here that Barry stumbled upon his iconic falsetto, initially an ad-libbed “scream” during “Nights on Broadway.” Mardin encouraged it, leading to “Jive Talkin’,” “You Should Be Dancing,” and the phenomenon of “Saturday Night Fever.” The soundtrack sold 45 million albums, and between December 1977 and September 1978, seven of Barry’s songs hit No. 1 in the US, including hits for Andy Gibb, Samantha Sang, and Frankie Valli. But this extraordinary success came at a price; by 1979, after the “Spirits Having Flown” tour, Barry was exhausted, carrying the weight of his own career, his brothers, and an entire musical movement.
The 1980s saw Barry transform into a prolific hitmaker and producer for other artists, including Barbara Streisand’s “Guilty” (15 million sales), Dionne Warwick’s “Heartbreaker,” and Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s “Islands in the Stream” – a song that became one of the biggest country hits ever. Ironically, while radio stations largely shunned new Bee Gees tracks during the disco backlash, every song Barry wrote for others sounded distinctly like a Bee Gees song. He even collaborated with Michael Jackson, though those results were never released, with Barry politely asking Jackson to leave his house because he “couldn’t get anything else done.”
Despite pursuing a solo deal in 1983 with “Now Voyager,” which found limited commercial success, Barry’s heart remained with the band. He continued to write for others, including Diana Ross and Cliff Richard, and even formed the short-lived Bunbury’s supergroup. Yet, a fundamental connection, the magic he felt with his brothers, was missing. By 1987, that connection was rekindled as the Bee Gees returned to the studio. He also worked with Andy on new music, including “Arrow Through the Heart,” a song that would become tragically significant.
The later years brought further physical challenges, with arthritis making it difficult for Barry to play guitar, and the immense weight of personal loss. Andy passed in 1988, a grief Barry never truly recovered from. Then, in 2003, Maurice was gone. Having spent a lifetime writing about love and loss, Barry found himself facing a grief that defied words.
His journey has been anything but easy, filled with the temptations of a rockstar lifestyle that led his brothers down destructive paths. But Barry’s survival, he consistently attributes to Linda. Despite her own admirers, including Steve McQueen, Linda always chose Barry, keeping him grounded when everything around him spun out of control. “Anytime he tried to bring drugs into their home she flushed them right down the toilet,” the text recounts, “no arguments no Second Chances. She was determined he wouldn’t suffer the same fate as his brothers.” This steadfast devotion, this unwavering commitment, is perhaps the true secret to Barry Gibb’s enduring legacy. Through all the heartbreak, losses, and temptations, he stands, still singing, a testament to the profound power of love, resilience, and a partnership that defied the odds.