The last time I gave any serious thought to Barry Manilow was, well, never. When Manilow was making suburban hearts flutter with his treacly ballads, I was busy listening to the likes of Donald Fagen. And when he returned from pop purgatory to try his hand at swing and Sinatra, I slotted him into the same camp as Carly Simon, Toni Tennille and all the other capable but uninspiring wannabes.
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