FOR THE LOVE OF THE BEE GEESTM

THE ARCHIVES

David Garcia's Columns

Dec. 18, 1999

  You know, you'd think that after forty years of concert appearances, they'd have this one figured out by now. But no, Robin STILL doesn't know what to do with his hands when on the stage.
Maurice has it easy -- he ALWAYS has an instrument to play. Even when he doesn't, he somehow manages to keep his hands busy. Take the "One For All" tour as an example. When Barry and Robin were dominating the mic, Maurice grabbed a video camera and filmed the audience. If he didn't have THAT to mess around with, he'd probably to and made shadow pictures in front of one of the 500 watt kleig lights or some such thing...
  Barry, when not gesturing as if he's flagging down a taxi, plays his guitar. You can never quite tell whether he's playing because the band needs him, or if the guitar is just a prop. He's strumming, looks like he's making chord changes, and then all of a sudden he stops, and stretches his hand forth as if he's hailing a cab again. But if you listen to the song, you can't tell from what you hear whether he's stopped playing or not. Not that it matters, or course...
  But Robin, there's a situation. He play NO instrument on the stage at all. Ever. An old biography of the Bee Gees claims that Robin plays a little organ, (a straight line that I shall ignore. This is a family column, after all...) and on some demos you can hear him doing so. On the demo of the song "You're Going Away," he plays organ, and occasionally misses a chord change or two.
  It's possible, I suppose, that Robin could play a muted keyboard, and we wouldn't notice his missed notes at all. On the other hand, there might be a loud commotion in the audience:"Robin's playing KEYBOARDS!" A hush would fall over the crowd as they strain to hear Robin's instrumental debut. Every fan waiting by the stage door afterwards would be asking enlace questions about Wobin's Wonderful Wurlitzer.
  So, we can reasonably conclude that putting Robin in front of a keyboard is a bad move. Likewise, forty years on IS a bit late in the game for him to have a guitar as a prop. It wouldn't be believable, and when the brothers did the acoustic medley, people would probably wonder why Robin wasn't playing guitar as well.
  So, what are we left with? On past occasions, he's done a number of things to keep his hands busy. During the 1973 Midnight Special TV appearances, Robin took to making unexpected hand gestures. I don't know about you folks, but frankly, I found some of his gestures downright disturbing. Apparently, he'd calmed down a bit in that regard by 1989, since in the "One For All" tour, he chose instead to keep busy by holding with a huge cupped earpiece. I suppose it was useful in some way, but darned it he didn't look like a ham radio operator at times. Eight years later, with the "One Night Only" appearance in Vegas, he had done away with that (had his hearing improved somehow"), and, instead, devoted himself to compulsively adjusting the mic stand during the course of this time on stage.
  It's a matter of days now until the New Year's Eve appearance in Florida, and surely much time has been devoted to figuring out how to solve this problem. Of course it is possible, I suppose, that Robin knows how to handle himself quite well on stage now, but his brothers, as an ongoing practical joke, keep sticking him with a faulty mic stand, just so that he has to keep adjusting it on stage. If so, will they do it again this year? Will Robin finally get his revenge? You'll have to be there to get the answer to THIS one. December 31st, National Car Rental Center, Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, tickets still available. But watch  out for those tricky mic stands if you're sitting in the front row...
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

Dec. 25, 1999

   The problem with my solutions to many problems is that, by the time I come up with the solution, the problem already has been solved!
  Take, for example, the problem of who's going to open for the Bee Gees at the New Year's Eve concert. Whatever I come up with to solve this, at this point, is OBVIOUSLY already too late to be of any use. So, why bother to offer a solution at all?
  Well, mostly because I've got to write over 600 words on the Bee Gees by Saturday night, and it's already Thursday, that's reason enough for me!
  Now, I was standing this morning on the uptown platform of the Chambers Street subway station, having left the 1 or 9 local train (I never notice which is which, since they both go to Chambers), and waiting for the 2 or 3 express (see previous explanation). I was listening to "Heartbeat in Exile" on my bargain basement COBY "Walkman". (A COBY brand. Does anyone at all outside of New York City buy COBY sound equipment? At any intersection of West 34th Street, you've got these street merchants with home electronics for sale, all made by COBY. These things have become a mainstay of NYC commuting, just like those j-handle three dollar umbrellas the same street hustlers sell on rainy days. If they break, or you forget them on the subway, well heck, it's just three dollars! But I digress...)
  "Heartbeat in Exile," for those of you unfamiliar with the song, is from Robin's most recent (well, by recent, of course, I mean 1985) solo album,"Walls Have Eyes." It's truly the most memorable song you can listen to if you're waiting for the uptown IRT express train.
  So, I'm listening to this song on the subway platform, and it occurs to me: I've never heard of Robin performing "Heartbeat in Exile" live in any concert. Come to think of it, I can't recall Robin doing any concerts on his own for ANY of his solo albums!
  Now, suffice it to say, this seems a bit strange. Four solo albums, and not a single concert tour? I know I'VE never heard of any solo concerts by Robin.
  Of course, he did a few TV appearances back in his solo years. For example, a couple of years back, a Bee Gees fan sent me a tape of a televised appearance he made in some German speaking country, probably Germany (although Austria and Switzerland can't be entirely ruled out). It showed Robin being interviewed by some gregarious blond guy.
  Robin then sang one of his songs -- I think it was "Like a Fool," but I'm not sure, because all I can remember thinking was what the person who sent me this tape had said: "Doesn't Robin look like his feet were glued to the floor?" But that's a separate issue -- I haven't come here to make fun of Robin, after all, I did that LAST week, and I have to pace myself if I don't want to be remembered as The Guy Who Is Always Making Fun of Robin Gibb. No, the issue is this: Here was Robin singing one of this own solo songs! Well, lipsynching, actually, but that's okay as well. He was performing!
  SO, did Robin ever do any live concerts? Four albums of stuff to choose from, so certainly he could have if he wanted. We could have had some interesting performances there. We could have had, for example, the twenty-five minute version of "Farmer Ferdinand Hudson," had fans only encouraged him sufficiently.
  But as far as I know, this just never took place. All his promos apparently consisted only of poorly-directed videos and late-night German talk shows. Such a loss.
  And then it hit me. Who better to open for the Bee Gees on New Year's Eve than Robin Gibb?
  Yes, I realize the idea is a silly one. Robin is a big talent all his own, and doesn't have to open for a headline act anywhere, even his own two brothers. But if he DID, boy, what a concert THAT would be! I can hear it now, the haunting opening chords to "Like A Fool," and Robin standing there, his feet glued to the...
  Okay, maybe I AM The Guy Who Is Always Making Fun Of Robin Gibb. But you have to admit, it would be a real showstopper...
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

Jan. 1, 2000

  Sorry to say, my family didn't survive Y2K well at all. I'm presently writing this week's column by the light of a tallow candle, using a yellow number two Eagle pencil upon my son's Big Chief notepad. Why is this? Because we blew tons of money on candles, brown rice, bottled water, and lord knows HOW many cans of Spam (and I'm a vegetarian!). My wife says I have to use all this stuff up before she allows me to touch modern day technology again. In fact, I can't leave the house until I've washed all my clothes by beating them against a wet rock in the driveway -- a task I've been putting off, since I STILL don't know when to add the fabric softener...   
  Anyway, our sincere thanks go out to all those folks in New Zealand and Australia who had to deal with Y2K fever nearly a full day before we Americans did. Had we turned on CNN Friday morning, and discovered that New Zealand was in the midst of blackouts, riots, Godzilla, and various degrees of madness, well, we Americans would likely have looted all the 7-11 stores we could find. But thankfully that proved not to be necessary.
  As we deal with all these hi-tech marvels, I'm reminded of an anniversary of another technological achievement: the red velvet album cover of the 1969 Bee Gees album, "Odessa."
  We often hear about the fantastic tunes of "Odessa," but little about the album cover itself. "Odessa" was product of the age of Seriously Wacky Album Covers. The Rolling Stones, for example, had a 3-D photo on one of their albums, followed a couple of years later by one with a working (so I've been told) zipper. Jethro Tull, in "Thick as a Brick," gave us an album with an entire newspaper inside. In a later interview, they mentioned that more work went into writing articles for the "album cover" than into the songs on the album. I, for one, don't doubt it for a second.
  Was that the case with "Odessa?" I don't really know. Neither do I know who came up with the idea of a red velvet album cover in the first place. It sounds like a Stigwood sort of idea, but it just as easily could have been one of the Bee Gees who came up with this one. Of course, no one could have anticipated the final result six months later. For that was when fans began to notice red velvet slowly rubbing off the "Odessa" covers, leaving icky yellow gooey patches in their place. For the first time, the term "mint condition" began to take on significance to collectors of Gibb albums.
  Oh, by the way, the debate continues: were these red VELVET covers or red SUEDE covers? This was, according to some conspiracy theorists, the REAL reason the Bee Gees broke up in 1970. Barry, they say, thought they were suede covers, patterned no doubt after the "Blue Suede Shoes" that Elvis made famous. Robin suggested that they were velvet, and wanted blue velvet for their next album. Maurice found himself in the middle, suggested they were just "fuzzy," and was promptly told to keep quiet. I would point out that they never came out with any suede, velvet, or fuzzy covers since. That certainly proves SOMETHING, although what exactly, I haven't a clue.
  Soon after buying the LP, fans quickly discovered that it didn't take very much for these things to start losing their fur. The common culprit was committing the unthinkable act of actually STORING THE DISCS IN THE ALBUM COVER. This invariably resulted in a round, twelve inch yellow circle, as if someone had used the album as a drink coaster for one of those ridiculously huge beer mugs you find at Oktoberfests. The only way you could have a mint condition "Odessa" album cover was to, first, remove the discs, and second, never put the discs anywhere near the album cover ever again. Ideally, the album cover would be taken out of the record rack, and stored in a convenient zero-gravity environment, never coming in contact with any objects of any reasonable mass whatsoever. A few obsessive collectors of Pokemon cards may be familiar with this particular method.     Since this was rarely done, most "mint" covers you see these days were likely the work of some clever restorative processes. Efforts involving krazy glue, red-dyed kiwis, (the furry fruit, not the zany New Zealanders, with whom I've been corresponding rather frequently these days), steam irons and industrial belt sanders, among other apparatus. Not a pretty sight.
  The Bee Gees, of course, have another album coming out later this new year. I suppose they could try the innovative cover approach again if they so chose. Perhaps not velvet this time, but some other, more "collectible" approach.
  Hmmm. I wonder if it's possible -- an album with a "Beanie Babies" sleeve? ------- David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia

Jan. 8, 2000

  Well, this is a new challenge: trying to be funny while I'm coming down with the flu.I know it's the flu, because my daughter's had it all week.  It's kind of like seeing movietrailers for your forthcoming illness.   "There, see all that green stuff she just heaved up?  That's what YOU'RE gonna do in another five or six days.  See you then..."
   As it happens, my car is sick too.  The little switch thing that controls the brake lights went all goofy, so that the car gives
the appearance of someone slamming the brakes on even when it's parked in the driveway.   But the people at the AAA repair shop were happy to see me.  Why shouldn't they be?  I spend more on car repairs for my ancient Nissan Sentra than most people spend on their BMWs.  Well, that is, those people who own BMWs.
  Have I mentioned the Bee Gees yet?  No, I didn't think so.  It
will be interesting to see if they do get mentioned in this week's column, and what will be said about them.  Personally, I have no idea.  They just did a concert back on New Year's Eve -- I could write about THAT, except that I wasn't there.  I'm told that Barry wore a see-through shirt, which is the sort of thing that's okay to mention in a family column, because Barry's a guy. Why is this sort of thing okay?  I can't explain it, because, after all, it's a family column, but it's okay, trust me. Thankfully, I don't write a column for the Dolly Parton web page...  
  Well, I've written over two hundred words now, and I haven't keeled over yet.   I take this as a hopeful sign.  The way I see it, the flu is kind of like a tax audit for your guts.  If you eat a really pure diet, green leafy vegetables and fresh produce,then you don't have to worry so much.  But if you get most of your meals from drive thru windows, be prepared to suffer. Revenge of the french fries!
  At least that's MY theory.  Theories like that are a lot easier
to concoct before you actually GET the flu.  Once you have it, of course, you discover a whole new outlook on life: life is
suffering, life is unfair.  If life were fair, you'd pass on the flu to those you dislike, not to those you care about and spend the most time with.  Strange how these things happen.
  Bee Gee content: boy, I hope the Bee Gees don't get the flu.  Or the hiccups.   Have you ever had a REALLY bad case of hiccups?
The kind that go away for a few minutes, and then, all of a
sudden, come back with a vengeance?  I've often wondered what
would happen if one of the Bee Gees -- Robin, for example -- got
the hiccups when on stage.  Right in the middle of "I Started A
Joke," perhaps at the bridge, where that high G is there waiting
to be sung:  "I... (hic) looked at the (hic) sky... running my
(hic) hands... over (hic) my eyes..."  A total disaster, but what
could you do about it?    Ah, hiccups.  We can cure most cancers when they're detected early.  We can bring many a heart attack victim back from the tunnel of light.  But if you're President of the United States, giving a speech from the nation's capital, and you get one brute-nasty case of hiccups, you're stuck, nothing you can do about it -- just sit back and watch the Gallup polls drop twenty points the next day, and read all those editorials making jokes about you.  Life is full of practical jokes waiting to happen, some worse than others.  As for me, I've got the flu this week, at least it looks like I'm about to.  But thankfully, I'm not head of state, all I need to do is write this column.  Did I make it?  Good, I think I need to lie down.
  Next week: an update on my bodily functions.  It will be hilarious, I guarantee...

Jan. 16, 2000

   Well, my recovery from the flu was better than I'd expected. Usually, if I get sick, I get REALLY sick, and it lasts for weeks. A year ago I had a bout of laryngitis that lasted seven weeks. But this flu bug was mild by comparison. A couple of days of bed rest and I was all better.
   Actually, I haven't been getting sick all that much since I switched over to a vegetarian diet. The difference has been very dramatic, given what I had faced before. Which, of course, means that now I can lecture everyone I run into who has had a nasty bout of flu, which is really half the fun of becoming vegetarian.
   As it happens, Bee Gee Robin Gibb is a vegetarian too. And macrobiotic. The macrobiotic diet is one that suggests a yin-yang balance can be achieved by avoiding extremes. Red meat is one extreme, strawberry cheesecake is an opposite extreme. Avoid these, and instead center your diet upon whole grains, such as brown rice, supplemented with miso soup, seaweed, and locally grown vegetables, prepared with minimal use of fats and oils. Some people say it's helped them overcome cancer and other ills. Others say it reminds them quite a bit of traditional Japanese food, which it's based on. Especially with all that seaweed: hijiki, wakame, nori, kombu and so on. Hijiki is my personal favorite, but they gotta get it JUST right, sautéed with carrots and onion. Expensive stuff, though. And not easy to cook. They say that brown rice should be pressure cooked, and most people are a tad wary of pressure cookers. One thing I've found is that computer phobia is nothing compared to pressure cooker phobia. But that's another story.
   How did I get onto this topic, anyway? I thought that the big news this week was some lady on the Howard Stern radio program who wanted to get Barry Gibb's attention with the help of extensive cosmetic surgery. And here I am writing about how Robin likes his rice and seaweed prepared.
   Hey, let's face it, writing about the Bee Gees every week is no easy task. At some point, I'm bound to run out of things to talk about. Although, so far, it has yet to happen.
   In the meantime, we have all sorts of Gibb resources out there, including entire books being written by some enthusiastic fans. Rumor also has it that Barry is writing his autobiography at long last. As for me, all I have to come up with is six hundred words a week. Well, everyone has his cross to bear, I suppose...
   We were just discussing the fact that Robin is on the macrobiotic diet. Which, suffice it to say, caused some trouble at the party for "Saturday Night Fever" on Broadway. According to "New York" magazine, they were serving White Castle hamburgers, the better to capture the Brooklyn atmosphere of the event. Apparently Robin didn't have "the crave" for a sackful of White Castles, and the hosts scrambled to put together some vegetarian fare. Not an easy task that late at night, even in the theater district. But somehow they managed. Still, it would have been nice if they'd checked ahead of time. Not that hard to find out, just ask, hey, are any Gibbs vegetarian?
   Robin also travels on the British Airways Concorde quite a bit. There was an article in the Wall Street Journal this week about Air France and the meals served on THEIR Concorde's. But no mention of macrobiotic foods was made. Gee, if you can't eat the meals, the only advantage to the Concorde is saving three or four hours of flight time. Sorry, I just can't see it, somehow.    Apparently Robin has been on this diet for about ten years now, maybe longer. Is the diet catching on? It's hard to say. I'd heard that John Denver had been on it. There may be other celebrities as well, but presently Robin is the only one that comes immediately to mind. A lot of vegetarians out there, even some vegans, but macrobiotics? Now THAT takes dedication. And dedication just isn't that marketable to the masses. So, for now, Robin appears to be on his own.
   But, hey, who knows? Maybe, someday, I'll start to see macrobiotic restaurants with drive thru windows...
------- David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia


Jan. 23, 2000

Well, this has been a fun week, full of snow, ice, and bitter cold winds. I also got to do a bit of chimney cap replacing, since the high winds yanked the chimney cap from the top of the chimney. Just another opportunity to remember why I really don't enjoy winter. And also why I really dislike having to do work involving standing on a ladder next to a broken chimney on a slanted roof. All things considered, I'd rather be writing a column about the Bee Gees. As it happens, however, I actually get to do both.
  Sad to say, I missed the Bee Gees' "One Night Only" concerts in both Las Vegas and Florida. Since the topic comes up, I should point out that, actually, I've missed all their concerts for the last thirty-three years. That's right: I am writing a weekly column about the Bee Gees, but I've never attended a Bee Gees concert in my entire life! A bit embarrassing, but I can't help it if things keep ending up this way. To quote a Gibb lyric, "That's just circumstances..." (The lyric is lifted from "Method to My Madness," thank you for enquiring)
  Not that I've never been to rock concerts at all, mind you. I've heard Jethro Tull perform both "Thick as a Brick" AND "Passion Play." I even went to a Steppenwolf concert, and I don't even LIKE Steppenwolf! I also didn't like the group of Hell's Angels, who took our front row seats. But, all this notwithstanding, the truth is I have never once heard the Bee Gees perform live -- only on recordings and television. Alas.
  There have been some near misses. They once performed in the town I was born in, and the show was on my birthday! But I wasn't there at the time. On another occasion, I went to Minneapolis to visit my parents during the week the Bee Gees' 1989 "One For All" tour opened there. I didn't know about that concert until it was too late -- the day the Bee Gees performed was the day my flight back home was due to depart. Darn non-refundable tickets...
  Since 1990, I've been living in the entertainment capital of the universe, New York City. They performed at Rockefeller Center here, FOR FREE, in 1997, when they were on NBC promoting the "Still Waters" album. But my kids had to take tests in school that day. And I had to drive them. Thankfully, both kids aced their tests -- I would have had little tolerance for a D minus that day...
  Yes, as Rhett Butler might say, the Bee Gees and I always seem to be at cross purposes. But now it appears that there may be some solution to all this. Or maybe not.
  Frankly, I don't think this will work at all. The Bee Gees are not the same as Tom Jones, Whitney Houston, or, heaven help us, Gary Lewis. But those artists, according to Friday's Wall Street Journal, do on occasion rent themselves out for private parties. Mind you, renting Tom Jones can cost around a quarter of a million dollars, and he usually arrives with an entourage of twenty six hungry mouths to feed. But if you DO have the money, and somewhere for him to hang up his French-cuffed shirts and skinny little trousers, well hey, give his agent a call!    Gary Lewis and the Playboys come much cheaper, according to the Journal. They can be hired for well under ten thousand dollars, and they solemnly promise to perform BOTH of their hits, "This Diamond Ring" AND "Everybody Loves a Clown." Also, if you can actually recall any other songs that they've ever recorded, they might agree to sing those too (assuming that THEY can remember how the songs go -- hey, it's been awhile...).
  But the Wall Street Journal made no mention of the Bee Gees. Barry did sing Sinatra tunes at some private affair last year, or so I've been told. Does that mean that fans like you and I can hire them? How about just one Bee Gee? Which one would you choose? My guess is that Maurice would be the most affordable, but his repertoire may be a tad limited. Although, I must admit, the idea of finally hearing "Hold Her in Your Hand" performed live is certainly intriguing. Talented though Mo may be, I personally would go the extra mile and get Robin instead.
  If he does come, be sure to work out the song list ahead of time. He might, after all, charge you something extra to sing "Farmer Ferdinand Hudson." "August October," on the other hand, he just might throw in for free, doesn't hurt to ask. If it were me, of course, I'd likely screw up everything by requesting songs he only performed on some demos, such as "Avalanche" or "We Can Lift a Mountain." Any requests for "Alexandria Good Time," anyone?
  But how much does all this cost? Are we looking at a home-equity loan here? What if you get some friends to go in with you on this one? Perhaps, if you can get Robin to agree to sing twenty songs for $300,000 or so, you could then get nineteen friends to chip in a mere $15,000 apiece to hear their favorite Robin tune. That way, you spread the costs around, and still get to enjoy Robin singing your favorite song. Assuming he is in agreement with all this, of course. Unfortunately, as I said, the Wall Street Journal was bereft of info on how to go about renting a Bee Gee. Paul Anka does weddings, Elton John can be persuaded to sing a memorable tune, but Robin Gibb for sale? I rather doubt it.
  But if he DOES do private parties, well, I think I know what I want for my birthday this year...  
------
  David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net
  Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.

Well, it's the old familiar feeling again, my happy little deadline for getting my weekly column done. I'd managed to avoid deadline pressure for a few weeks by having the misfortune of smacking my hand while fixing a computer, resulting in eight stitches right across my lower thumb knuckle. But my recovery, while not entirely complete, is adequate for typing, and so I'm back to deadline pressure.  
  I keep trying to get these things done ahead of time, but then I read what I've just written, and realize that it just won't work. Strange how that happens. It reminds me of my days in high school, writing term papers at the last possible moment. Not that I have missed HAVING that sort of pressure, but it is quite an adrenaline stimulator.
  The Bee Gees have pushed ahead the deadline for their forthcoming album. I wonder how they deal with deadline pressure? Do they write better that way, knowing that they said the first single is coming out in a couple of months? The Gibbs are perfectionists, and I would suspect that if they didn't have deadlines, they'd be putting out albums about once every four years. Wait a minute, they ARE putting out albums about once every four years! 
  Maybe they need some sort of deadline pressure after all. Back when Stigwood was in charge, in the sixties, they popped out new albums with the precision and reliability of a nail gun. I seem to recall their saying once that an album took three weeks from start to finish back then. And that was when they had entire orchestras to deal with. So, what has changed?
  Maybe it's the technology. Their last big single, "Alone," had synthesized bagpipes on it. Apparently that takes a long time to manage. Why, I'm not certain. How does one go about synthesizing bagpipes? I suppose the first step is locating a bagpipe player, not easily done in Miami Beach. Then you have to sample his playing, double it, then do some processing, layering, stuff like that. Or else just haul off to Radio Shack, buy a Concertmate keyboard, and hit the bagpipe key. Come to think of it, my kids have one of those, let me go find it...
  [after much rummaging around in kids' rooms] Here we are, a Radio Shack Concertmate-460 electronic keyboard, with Digital Pulse Code Modulation. 100 preset sounds, and sound #26 is BAGPIPE. Let's hit the switch and give it a try... 
  [a few notes later] Well, it works. I was worried that I would have to go buy some batteries, but these Concertmate keyboards handle battery conservation remarkably well. Now to try the bagpipe setting... 
  [a few bagpipe sounds later] No, I can easily conclude that Maurice never used a Concertmate keyboard on the song. It's not entirely a bagpipe, the Concertmate produces, so much as perhaps an operatic Donald Duck sound. Also, it's at LEAST one octave too low. And too loud, the kids are trying to watch "Totally Animals" on PAX-TV, and my experiment is drowning out the narration of John Ritter.
  I'm beginning to see how this can become time consuming. I can also see why the Gibbs own their own recording studio. To synthesize bagpipes really well, you really do need a controlled workspace, not a Concertmate keyboard on a kitchen table. The MIDI cables alone would require a good deal of table top in the kitchen, and heaven help us if someone turns the microwave on... 
  Then there's the vocals. How in the world the Gibbs arrange those harmonies is beyond my understanding, but they really are good at it. So much so that now concerts are becoming a problem. There are a few songs, such as "Alone," that can't be performed live without a time-synchronized tape player to sing along with. I sing along with tapes too, but not with an entire orchestra. Well, orchestra, backup band, whatever it's called. It's complicated business, and even more so when you're recording the album in the studio. So the Gibbs have asked for an extra six months. I say we give it to them.  
  But if it all ends up sounding as if it was recorded in a kitchen with a Concertmate-460, well, someone has some SERIOUS explaining to do...
-------

David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.

March 25, 2000

  The Bee Gees.  We recognize their voices the instant we hear them on the radio.  We recognize their faces as well, if not from
the album covers and concert appearances, then from our
screen savers, mouse pad photos, jigsaw puzzles and fan club newsletters.  We know their birthdays, the names of their
spouses, what kind of cars they drive.  We know all this, yet for
all we know, I can't find a single person who can tell me, with
any confidence, the answer to a very simple and obvious question:
How tall are the Bee Gees?
  We should know this by now.  As I'm writing this, I'm
sitting here at Boston Market, enjoying a vegetarian side dish meal (with cornbread!), and I notice that the doorway to the
restaurant has one of those measuring tape things like you see at 7-11 stores.  If there's a holdup, the robber leaves through the
doorway, and you instantly figure out his height, all the better to give an accurate description to the local authorities.  So, I
conclude, with all the folks who hang around outside the studio door, all we need is to have someone sneak one of those measuring tape stickers next to the studio door, and eventually we should
have a decisive answer, right?  But so far it hasn't happened.
  All right then.  With all of the pictures taken of the Gibbs posing with fans, this shouldn't be too hard to figure out. If you're six feet tall, stand next to Barry, and see who looks
taller.  On level ground, this ought to work.  So, if fans check their photos, they can figure out how tall the Gibb they pose with really is.  A perfect solution!   At least that's what I
thought back in October of 1996, when I first started gathering info for the Bee Gees FAQ.   (A quick explanation: FAQ is a
net-head acronym for "Frequently Asked Questions," as opposed to INFREQUENTLY asked questions, such as "Why are all the Maurice
Gibb picture lunch boxes we find on eBay always so much cheaper than the ones of Barry and Robin?")  Admittedly, I haven't
updated the FAQ in Lord knows HOW long, although it still gets posted by the MIT net robots on a monthly basis.  But back in 1996, in the midst of FAQ compilation, it seemed a special chance
to try and ask, and answer, every imaginable question about the
Bee Gees.
  So, of course, one of the questions had to be, "How tall are the Bee Gees?"  A simple enough question, so imagine my surprise
when I discovered that hardly anyone knew.  Everyone pretty much assumed the Gibbs all must be at least six feet tall, but when the fans went back to their photo albums and compared their own
heights to those of Gibbs in their own fan snapshots, they found that size wasn't everything in point of fact.
  After much asking around of folks, and some mailing list
debate on the matter, I was FINALLY able to set at least a broad range of likely heights for each Bee Gee.  It wouldn't be precise
enough to satisfy the FBI, but it would have to do.  So, I presented my estimates:   Barry was between 5'10" and 6'1", Robin was slightly shorter at somewhere from 5'8" to 5'11", and Maurice
came in at 5'6" to 5'9".
  That was four years ago, of course.  I would have thought
that more accurate answers would be forthcoming since then, but no such luck.  They are still rock stars of indeterminate height,
and unless someone has surveillance tape of them buying microwave
burritos at 7-11, we're pretty much out of luck here.
  I had hopes once.  Back in the spring of 1997, the web site www.beegees.net was preparing to debut.  The web site administrator asked me if it would be okay to feature some excerpts from my unofficial Bee Gees FAQ, and I enthusiastically
agreed.  Well, why shouldn't I?  Have some stuff of mine appear on the official Bee Gees home page?  But more importantly, this meant we may FINALLY have an answer to the big issue of height
definition.  I mean, the official site couldn't duck THAT question, now could they?
  Well, actually, they did.  They presented the very same
estimates I had been relying on, with the only change being the addition of a estimated range of height for their late brother Andy.  Needless to say, I was crushed.   The official Bee Gees web site, and even THEY didn't know how tall the Bee Gees were. Unbelievable.
  But, like I said, I really do need to update the Bee Gees FAQ one of these days.   So, next time you run into a Bee Gee in a hotel lobby or an airport coffee shop, say "howdy" for me.  And
ask, politely, of course, if you could please have a look at his driver's license?

-------

David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia.  All rights reserved.
 

April 15, 2000

  Lordy, what a week!  Construction, constant telephone line noise, hard to even get on the net this week.And then, of course, there's the column.  The ongoing adventure of
somehow coming up with 600 words on the Bee Gees on a weekly basis.  Oy!
  Just my luck, this week I find myself being distracted by the
yeoman's art of screenwriting.  Not that I've had any offers,
of course, just I found a how-to-screenwrite book on my shelf
that I'd forgotten about. Teaches all about screenwriting.
Screenwriting, to me, at least,is fun to do even if you're not
seriously pursuing a movie deal. Just having fun with things,
for example, reconstructing the Gore presidential campaign as an
episode of Gilligan's Island.  "Tipper, drop those coconuts!"
(Bonk!)  "OWW!"
  Oh, that's right, this is a BEE GEES column.  Well, don't worry, I'm sure I can connect it somehow.  Not that hard to do,  since the Gibbs have had more than a few tenuous connections to
the movie industry.
  Let's set aside the issue of soundtracks for the moment.  I
could, if I so desired, write an entire column about the soundtrack to the film "Saturday Night Fever."  I could point out that it was the top selling movie soundtrack of its time, yet
none of the Gibb songs were ever nominated for Oscar treatment.
If I could find my almanac, perhaps I could tell you which song
DID win the Oscar that year, but the last time I went looking for
a book, I found the screenwriting book instead, and NOW look what's happened.  Besides, there's no point in looking
for the book, since I JUST SAID that I'm not writing about soundtracks.
  Although, if I were writing about soundtracks, I could easily make mention of the fact that the brothers hadn't even seen a script to "Saturday Night Fever," the film their songs wound up
on.  In fact, some of the songs weren't even written for the film
at all: the Bee Gees were working on their followup album to
"Children of the World," and then, who should pop by but Robert Stigwood, who needed some songs for a film he was working on. Turns out the songs they'd already written for the studio album
in progress were ideally suited to the film, so off they went. No more studio album.  But like I said, I'm not writing about soundtracks here...
  So, if not soundtracks, then what AM I writing about? Well, around the same time their album was purloined by Stigwood, the brothers found themselves invited to make a big-screen acting debut in a film in which they had no lines of dialogue, and indeed, did not even have names, initially. The soundtrack to that film (let me remind you, now, I'm not writing about soundtracks here) was recently chosen The Worst Rock Album Ever Made by Maxim magazine. That wasn't why I canceled my subscription to Maxim, however. The subscription was a gift from www.priceline.com, but, frankly, I prefer the New Yorker. I didn't see the reference to the soundtrack (of which I'm not writing) until AFTER I'd canceled my subscription, and it wasn't worth resubscribing just so I could unsubscribe in protest to that nasty review. Oh, by the way, the film we've been talking abut here is "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." After reviewing the column so far, I discovered that I hadn't mentioned the title, and I'm under too much deadline pressure to rewrite here. My apologies.
  Well, in any case, the "Sgt. Pepper" film didn't do much for their standing in Hollywood, unfortunately.  Around this time, that is, around 1978 or so, there had been talk of Mr. Stigwood
putting Barry in the film "Evita".  Although the image of Che Guevara singing in a piercing falsetto is not a comfortable one, I feel sure Barry ought to have had the role.  Unfortunately, the movie was postponed a couple of decades, and Antonio Banderas gotthe role instead.  Oh well.
  Barry eventually wound up collaborating with David English on
the film "Hawks."  If my internet connection were working, I'd go
to Joe Brennan's web site and fetch the details.  But his site is
not easy to browse at 2400 baud, the only speed at which my modemcan deal with this hideous line noise.  But I'm quite sure his site, at http://www.columbia.edu/~brennan/beegees does make mention, around 1985 or 1986, of Barry getting a copyright onsome thirty pages or so of a "story" that related to the film. I think this is what the screenwriting book refers to as a "treatment." You get an idea for a film, put it into a treatment, which is half short story and half infomercial for your idea, and show it to Someone Who Is Active In Film Production. They then take your idea, show it to Others Who Are Active, get a screenwriter to put together a screenplay (if you
haven't already written a full 110+ pages of script to go with
your treatment), and then, from that point, Those Who Paid You Much Money promptly proceed to disregard pretty much everything you've written down. Of course, Barry got lucky: he was able to write the soundtrack too!  And, as we all know, soundtracks are where the REAL money is.  But I'm not writing about soundtracks here.
  So, from what I understand, all of this ended up making Barry
an esteemed Member Of The Academy, although I'm not clear if this
means he gets to vote on who the Oscar goes to for any categories.  If so, when those Oscar winners all say, "Thanks to
The Academy," they're actually thanking Barry as well!  See, there it is: your Gibb connection to screenwriting, in 1000 words or so.
  As for me, I'd better get back to reading this book.  After
all, if I get a good screenplay put together, maybe I can get the
Gibbs to write a soundtrack.  Then, you can be certain, I'll be HAPPY to write about soundtracks...

-------

David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia.  All rights reserved.

April 2000

Boy, I've really got a strange collection of books in my home. I'm looking at my bookshelf, and I see the recent two-volume biography of Elvis, alongside biographies of both Lincoln (by David Herbert Donald, who apparently decided to go through life with three first names and no last one) and "Dutch," the biography of Ronald Reagan, written by Edmund Morris. Somehow, I keep thinking of Edmund Wells, from the Monty Python bookshop sketch instead. Edmund Wells wrote "Knickerless Nickelby," "Rarnaby Budge," and "A Sale of Two..." oh, that's right, this is a family column. Edmund Morris, not to be confused with Edmund Wells, wrote his biography of Reagan by the unique literary vehicle of placing himself in the narrative as a fictional character at strategic points of Reagan's life. Suffice it to say, the critics picked on him something fierce. 
  But the more I think of it, the more I like the vehicle. I once tried to write a biography of the Bee Gees, but despaired when I read over the manuscript. It sounded like the book reports I used to write in third grade. Well, that is, the book reports I wrote on the school bus taking me to third grade. The reports, in fact, that I wrote on the day they were due. Having not gotten around to, well, actually reading the book yet. Once I came to that realization, it became difficult to continue the manuscript.
  But now that I think about it, I could probably write about the Gibbs "Edmund Morris" style, that is, placing myself as a fictional character in the lives of the Bee Gees. How would that go? Let's give it a try...
  BACK IN THE EARLY DAYS, I VISITED with the Gibbs under unexpected circumstances. Ossie Bryne was recording the Bee Gees in a makeshift recording studio he had in the back of the butcher shop. I was there to spray for roaches.
  Not that he had all that serious an infestation, but if you serve meat products for a living, you really do want to keep things clean. Ossie ran a clean shop, but Maurice had this strange addiction to buttered scones. Everywhere you looked, there were buttered scones, and buttered scone crumbs. Well, you don't need me to tell you how much roaches love buttered scones. Why, if we blew up the whole world today in nuclear annihilation, the roaches -- who, of course, survive everything we do -- would look back at the ruins of our civilization and say: "Too bad. They made really nice buttered scones."
  So, there I was, spreading a mixture of boric acid and powdered sugar around the corners of the room, when who walks in but Robin Gibb, with a huge roll of looseleaf paper, all taped together like a Medieval parchment scroll. The lyrics to his new song, he says. Ossie groans.
  "What's THIS tune," he asks, and Robin replies, "I Don't Know Why I Bother With Myself."
  "Neither do I, I can assure you," replies Ossie. "But tell me what the song is called..."
  Well, it turns out that this really IS the title of the song. It features a basic chord progression that repeats, so Barry and Maurice pick up on it quickly. But the vocal part is all Robin's. It sounds very Beatlesque, and he sings it well. But Lord, the lyrics just go ON AND ON...
  I've finished spraying, but I'm still there at the studio, mesmerized by this marathon tune. It's well past 4PM now, I'm watching the tape reel, and it's clicking away at seven and a half inches per second. There's not much tape left on the reel. Mister Gibb shows no signs of slowing down, and Ossie is still sitting there, eyes closed, taking it all in.  I look more closely, and I realize: Ossie is asleep.
  I look at the board controls. They are all set to zero. The VU meters are all the way to the left, dead as lumber. But Robin is still singing away, verse after verse emerging from his parchment scroll, several more verses yet to be sung. He is happy, and doesn't notice a thing. In the end, of course, the final version is three minutes long, as much as Ossie could take before tuning out the board in the middle of a verse and taking a long snooze...    Well, that's my Edmund Morris impersonation -- how do you like it? I can see why he did this, man, this is so EASY! Of course, I've taken it so far as to make up practically everything I wrote, but aside from that, hey, at least it reads well, right?
  Okay, fine. For the record, Ossie DID preside over Robin's recording of "I Don't Know Why I Bother With Myself," the song DOES sound like it goes on forever, and yes, it does sound like Ossie just faded it all out in the middle of a verse and settled in for a nap. But the buttered scone thing? Entirely made up.
  As Mason Williams once said, "This is not a true tale, but who needs truth if it's dull?"
-------

David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved

April, 2000

Boy, I've really got a strange collection of books in my home. I'm looking at my bookshelf, and I see the recent two-volume biography of Elvis, alongside biographies of both Lincoln (by David Herbert Donald, who apparently decided to go through life with three first names and no last one) and "Dutch," the biography of Ronald Reagan, written by Edmund Morris. Somehow, I keep thinking of Edmund Wells, from the Monty Python bookshop sketch instead. Edmund Wells wrote "Knickerless Nickelby," "Rarnaby Budge," and "A Sale of Two..." oh, that's right, this is a family column. Edmund Morris, not to be confused with Edmund Wells, wrote his biography of Reagan by the unique literary vehicle of placing himself in the narrative as a fictional character at strategic points of Reagan's life. Suffice it to say, the critics picked on him something fierce. 
  But the more I think of it, the more I like the vehicle. I once tried to write a biography of the Bee Gees, but despaired when I read over the manuscript. It sounded like the book reports I used to write in third grade. Well, that is, the book reports I wrote on the school bus taking me to third grade. The reports, in fact, that I wrote on the day they were due. Having not gotten around to, well, actually reading the book yet. Once I came to that realization, it became difficult to continue the manuscript.
  But now that I think about it, I could probably write about the Gibbs "Edmund Morris" style, that is, placing myself as a fictional character in the lives of the Bee Gees. How would that go? Let's give it a try...
  BACK IN THE EARLY DAYS, I VISITED with the Gibbs under unexpected circumstances. Ossie Bryne was recording the Bee Gees in a makeshift recording studio he had in the back of the butcher shop. I was there to spray for roaches.
  Not that he had all that serious an infestation, but if you serve meat products for a living, you really do want to keep things clean. Ossie ran a clean shop, but Maurice had this strange addiction to buttered scones. Everywhere you looked, there were buttered scones, and buttered scone crumbs. Well, you don't need me to tell you how much roaches love buttered scones. Why, if we blew up the whole world today in nuclear annihilation, the roaches -- who, of course, survive everything we do -- would look back at the ruins of our civilization and say: "Too bad. They made really nice buttered scones."
  So, there I was, spreading a mixture of boric acid and powdered sugar around the corners of the room, when who walks in but Robin Gibb, with a huge roll of looseleaf paper, all taped together like a Medieval parchment scroll. The lyrics to his new song, he says. Ossie groans.
  "What's THIS tune," he asks, and Robin replies, "I Don't Know Why I Bother With Myself."
  "Neither do I, I can assure you," replies Ossie. "But tell me what the song is called..."
   Well, it turns out that this really IS the title of the song. It features a basic chord progression that repeats, so Barry and Maurice pick up on it quickly. But the vocal part is all Robin's. It sounds very Beatlesque, and he sings it well. But Lord, the lyrics just go ON AND ON...
  I've finished spraying, but I'm still there at the studio, mesmerized by this marathon tune. It's well past 4PM now, I'm watching the tape reel, and it's clicking away at seven and a half inches per second. There's not much tape left on the reel. Mister Gibb shows no signs of slowing down, and Ossie is still sitting there, eyes closed, taking it all in.  I look more closely, and I realize: Ossie is asleep.
  I look at the board controls. They are all set to zero. The VU meters are all the way to the left, dead as lumber. But Robin is still singing away, verse after verse emerging from his parchment scroll, several more verses yet to be sung. He is happy, and doesn't notice a thing. In the end, of course, the final version is three minutes long, as much as Ossie could take before tuning out the board in the middle of a verse and taking a long snooze... Well, that's my Edmund Morris impersonation -- how do you like it? I can see why he did this, man, this is so EASY! Of course, I've taken it so far as to make up practically everything I wrote, but aside from that, hey, at least it reads well, right?
  Okay, fine. For the record, Ossie DID preside over Robin's recording of "I Don't Know Why I Bother With Myself," the song DOES sound like it goes on forever, and yes, it does sound like Ossie just faded it all out in the middle of a verse and settled in for a nap. But the buttered scone thing? Entirely made up.
  As Mason Williams once said, "This is not a true tale, but who needs truth if it's dull?"
-------

David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia.
All rights reserved.

May 6, 2000

Well, this column is the one I'm writing after talking myself out of writing all of the other ones that came to mind.
  For example, I considered writing about Barry Gibb's cars. This was inspired by the frequent articles in fan club newsletters about Barry's cars. These are usually articles along the lines of "Barry just rotated the tires on his Lamborghini today!" I also considered the Mercedes that he drives off the bridge in the "Now Voyager" video, and, of course, the classic car he's standing next to on the back cover of "Living Eyes." I felt sure there must be an idea for a column in there somewhere. And I tried, I really did. But somehow the topic kept on drifting into a nasty little rant about how many miles are on my ancient Nissan Sentra, the personal habits of New York City tow truck drivers, and how SOME people haul off to their luxury car dealers for a new car every time the ashtray is half full. Not that Barry is that sort of person, I'm quite sure he isn't, but after duct taping that rusted hole in my car trunk, I just felt the concept of car discussions was altogether ill advised.  The other stray topic that keeps drifting into my cross hairs is that comment Maurice made in an on-line chat a while back: that Barry and Robin "have 12:00 blinking on their VCRs." I know I've pretty much run that one into the ground, both here and on the mailing list, but there's a little metaphysical hamster on an exercise treadmill in my brain, and he keeps trotting away with this theme: Barry and Robin can't program their VCRs. Why does that matter? I have no idea, but my mind won't let go of it. That hamster keeps running, and every time someone unplugs a VCR in this house, and I reset the clock display, I keep thinking to myself: Two of the Bee Gees can't do this. It's so simple, I could explain it to them over the phone, but...
  So what is there to talk about? As far as I can determine, not a darned thing. The album is not out yet. No public appearances are currently scheduled. Diehard fans are reduced to watching that awful NBC miniseries "The 70's" for an off chance hearing of "You Should Be Dancing" (it was in the disco scene, you may have missed it if you were distracted by the devastatingly attractive gyrating blondes in the go-go cages). The only thing left to talk about, it seems, are the fans.
  This, too, is not without its hazards. For example, there is more than one fan club out there dedicated to the Bee Gees. In fact, there are several. Which one should you join? Thanks, but I wouldn't touch THAT topic with a 500-watt laser pointer. But fan club wars are always a volatile topic of discussion on various Bee Gees mailing lists, and sooner or later someone strolls along who innocently asks: Are there any Bee Gees fan clubs around? Which one should I join? And then the bloodletting begins...
  Another point of controversy seems to be the physical attractiveness of the brothers Gibb, and fans' reactions to that. I've only really been struck by one thing, personally. Barry was sitting in his Mercedes in the opening moments of the "Now Voyager" video, parked at the gas station. He is impatient, and his hands are drumming the steering wheel in a very impatient manner. It's obvious -- I'm sure the screenplay even has a line in it: "BARRY drums his FINGERS impatiently. CLOSE-UP on FINGERS..." So, I'm watching the video, his hands tapping on the steering wheel, and I realize: my hands look exactly like those of Barry Gibb! Especially my thumbs! Same kind of thumbnail, my thumb curves back in that same kind of arc and all. Fascinating!     Mary Rose, the editor of this column, has suggested that I send in my photo at some point. I keep asking if I could just send in a Timothy Dalton photo instead and pretend it's me, but, no, she thinks I should consent to be photographed, and send in the actual resulting image. Now here's a thought: how about if I just send in a photo of my thumbs? Then everyone can see that my thumbs are just like Barry's!   Too late for that, unfortunately. A tragic accident with a power supply connector caused an injury to my thumb two months ago. Now my beautiful left thumb has a Nike logo right on the base knuckle. Well, a scar shaped like a Nike logo. So, unless something similar has happened to Barry, I don't think a favorable comparison can any longer be made.
  Now what was it I was going to talk about? Oh yes, the Gibbs' physical attractiveness. Not something of particular concern to me, although I have met female fans who insist that the Gibbs should, as often as possible, wear tight jeans. Preferably, jeans so tight that fans can tell which of the 50 states are commemorated by the US quarter coin in the jeans pocket. So, there you have it, a worthy topic for this week's column: The Bee Gees and tight jeans -- how tight is TOO tight?    What? 850 words? Already?
  Sorry, folks, that's all we have room for this week. Some other time...
------
David Garcia can be reached at
david@garcia.net

Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.

May 13,2000

We're in the middle of a thunderstorm here as I'm writing this, so I'm having to use my old -- very old -- NEC PC-8500 laptop. It's a CP/M laptop powered by flashlight batteries, power outage free. If only I had the Coleman Lantern expansion pack for it...
  I suppose, if I wanted to complete the picture, I could put Australian-era Bee Gees song, "The Storm," on my CD player. You know the one, it goes "In the storm... (do do-da-do DOOO)". Not a bad song, but not one of my favorites. They must have worked really hard to get those majestic horns on the recording, but somehow that horn fanfare they use reminds me of the old margarine commercials, the ones where the kid eating the buttered toast hears trumpets and suddenly has a crown on his head. If you don't remember it, or if it was before your time, well, don't worry about it, you haven't missed much.  For those of you who do remember the Parkay commercials, my apologies, for I've probably just now ruined the song for you. Chances are, you will never again be able to listen to "The Storm" without picturing a Parkay commercial. To make it more vivid, picture Ozzie Byrne, producer of the track, eating buttered scones in the studio. At the appropriate moment in the song, he puts Parkay Margarine on the scone, the trumpets sound, and Ozzie has a crown on his head. There, now the song has been entirely ruined. My apologies.
   I've done that to people more than once. A co-worker of mine has never forgiven me for ruining the Andrew Lloyd Webber rock opera "Jesus Christ Superstar" for him. Quite innocently, I explained how the whole thing could be recast with Jim Henson's Muppets. Have Kermit the Frog in the title role, Muss Piggy as Mary Magdalene, Fozzie Bear as King Herod... Ruined, completely ruined, he hasn't been able to listen to the album ever since. And it really was one of his favorites, too...
   Some songs by the Gibbs have been ruined for me as well. There was the time I listened to the box set version of "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart" with headphones. Really good headphones, you know, the kind where you can hear all sorts of background noises on the recording. So, on the second verse, when Barry sings, "I can still feel the breeze that rustles through the trees..." I could, with the headphones, VERY CLEARLY hear someone going "whoooosh" in the background. Listen for it and you'll hear it, exactly one beat after the word "trees." WHOOOSH. The breeze. Trust me, it's there.
   Now, think about it, was that really needed? Couldn't they have done the song as well without going WHOOSH? I've never been able to take the song seriously after that. Even the Al Green version, which appears to be whoosh-free, is ruined by Al's ad-libs toward the end, particularly where Mr. Green suddenly rants about how his clothes are all wet. If you have the Al Green version, you'll find the wet clothes rant toward the end, before the fade out, before the last "la-la-las," which, if you ask me, are also kind of silly. 
  [More dubious examples deleted by author]
   Well, now I have gone back and deleted a bunch of things I just wrote that surely would have gotten me into even MORE trouble. That's all I need at this point. Believe me, I can get into trouble without trying here. Take the whole thing with the Timothy Dalton photo.
   In last week's column, I mentioned my idea that we could put Timothy Dalton's photo here instead of my own. We did, and now there are people out there who think I really do look like Timothy Dalton. If I ever go to a fan get-together, I'm going to see some disappointed faces of ladies who read my name tag and realize that I'm me. And he isn't.
   As if that isn't trouble enough, there are also the comments in last week's column about Barry rotating the tires on his Lamborghini. Some people take their devotion to Barry very seriously, and thus also take his devotion to his automobiles very seriously. To them, and any others I have inadvertently offended, I apologize. And let me point out that, contrary to what I previously wrote, I have not seen actual fan club newsletter articles specifically referencing tire rotation as such. I should also mention that tire rotation is, I am told, an essential part of car maintenance, and most tire manufacturers recommend you rotate your tires every 7,500 miles. If Barry is rotating the tires on his vehicles, then he is being a responsible car owner, and that is surely nothing to be ashamed of.
   Looking back at the fan club articles I have read, it's hard for me to be sure that Barry even owns a Lamborghini, although I do see a 1993 reference to Maurice acquiring a Lamborghini Jeep. Heavens, what in blazes is a Lamborghini Jeep? Does Lamborghini even MAKE Jeeps? Does the Italian Army use Lamborghini Jeeps?
   In the event that, somehow, even MORE fans are now upset with me, ("I'll have you know, Mister Garcia, that in MY view, Maurice DESERVES a Lamborghini Jeep...") my apologies to Maurice, owners of Lamborghinis (in ALL their makes and models), and the Italian Armed Forces. And don't forget to rotate those tires...
-------

David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.

May 20, 2000
  
   People may be inclined to wonder: how does this weekly column get written? Six hundred or more words every week about the Bee Gees? What is the technique he uses to get these remarkable results?
   We'll use this week's column as an example. I have one week to write the column, which I email to my editor, Mary Rose Farlow, on Saturday night. I can write columns ahead of time. If I want to, I can write columns weeks in advance. In any event, I always have at least a week to write the column, from the Saturday night previous to the Saturday night to come.
   So, when do I start writing? Well, this week, I started writing at 9:55 PM, a little over two hours before deadline. Well hey, I was busy this week. I came to the keyboard with the following topic firm in my mind: "I haven't the slightest idea what to write about!" This is the same topic with which I began last week's column.
   Last week's column was a relative breeze, however. After all, I spent most of THAT column apologizing for the PREVIOUS week's column. You know, the column that mentioned the Lamborghini, tight jeans, 12:00 blinking on Barry and Robin's VCRs. THAT column. It took 850 words to write, and another 700+ words to apologize for.
   This week, I don't have the advantage of previously offensive columns to repent over. I have the option of inventing new things that I can apologize for NEXT week, but that, too, can be a creative burden.     I do have my limitations, when it comes to column themes. I don't pick on Bee Gee relatives in any significant way. The Gibbs are very open about their personal lives, so if I were looking for topics of conversation, it would not be hard to find Gibb relatives to write about. I don't do that, however.
    Actually, I don't really want to dedicate myself to dwelling on personal details about the brothers Gibb either. I've often breached that one: how Robin doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands when on stage, the brothers' various stages of hair loss, etc. But I always feel guilty afterwards.
   Where does that leave us then? Their music, of course. I made quick mention, last week, of one of their songs. "How Can You Mend A Broken Heart," I said, had that WHOOOSH sound in the second verse. Looking back, it amazes me that I was able to write much about that at all. I suppose, if I wanted to, I could put out a 50,000 word annotated book about the WHOOOSH sound in that song. The fact that I could is, indeed, a very good reason for me not to write books at all: I have very unconventional concepts about what sells and what doesn't, and it would be an uphill struggle to sell publishers on "How Can You Mend A Broken Heart: What's with the WHOOOSH?" as a publishable title. Other titles for books surely to be rejected would have to include: "Maurice Gibb: Why Only One Song Per Album?", "How Many Bee Gees Does It Take To Change A Light Bulb?", and "Why Do All These Bee Gees Songs Sound Like Hemingway Book Titles?"
   Well, the Bee Gees do seem to use Hemingway as an inspiration, at least for such songs as "Islands In The Stream" and "For Whom The Bell Tolls." Of course, since they have a new album coming out soon, they may need to cone up with more Hemingway titles. The local library, I've found, is closed at 10:16 PM on a Saturday night (Yes, what you've read so far took 21 minutes to write), but in the tool shed I have a book that I purchased at last year's library book sale: R.B. Bowker's "BOOKS IN PRINT." Actually a whole stack of books, and they are in the tool shed because that way I know where to find them. I went out there with a flashlight, (this is all true, I swear), and retrieved Volume 2, Authors E-K of the 1997-1998 edition. The 50th edition of Books in Print, according to the gold-embossed logo. I plowed through the listings on pages 3716 and 3717, and now, here, for public benefit of the Gibbs, are a complete list of Hemingway titles (excluding such as "Complete Poems" and "Forty-Nine Short Stories", of course) for them to utilize for Bee Gees song names:
   "A Clean, Well Lighted Place," "A Farewell to Arms," "A Moveable Feast," "Across the River and Into the Trees," "Death in the Afternoon," "For Whom The Bell Tolls," "Green Hills of Africa," "In Our Time," "Islands in the Stream," "Marlin!," "Men Without Women," "The Dangerous Summer," "The Fifth Column," "The Garden of Eden," "The Nick Adams Stories," "The Old Man and the Sea," "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," "The Sun Also Rises," "The Torrents of Spring," "To Have and Have Not," and "Winner Take Nothing" (note to you sticklers for detail: "True at First Light" was printed after this edition of Books in Print, due to Hemingway's remarkable ability to continue publishing new books decades after his demise).
    Boy, I'm glad that's over with. See, I KNEW there was a reason for taking those eighty pounds of reference books at the library book sale last year!
   Of the aforementioned, my vote goes for "Winner Take Nothing," as that sounds like it really should be a Bee Gees song. Similar, perhaps TOO similar, to ABBA's 1980 chart-topper "The Winner Takes It All," perhaps, but still worth going for. "To Have and Have Not" could also work, although it has a rather pretentious feel to it, if you ask me. "Men Without Women," naah, I wouldn't advise that one, especially after that questionable Australian track "I Was A Lover, A Leader of Men." Some people might take all that the wrong way, you know...
   And now, it's 10:37 PM, my word count a little over 900 words. A quick spell-check (well son of a gun, "Hemingway" has only ONE 'm' in it...) and it's 10:40, another column done in less than one hour! And you saw it all happen.
   Next week: how sausage is made...
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.
 

May 27. 2000

  Well, the time has come for another column about the Bee Gees. This week, I suspect that Mary Rose, my editor, has more to say about the brothers than I do, since she had a nice chat with them over there in Miami. As I've mentioned on previous occasions, I've never met them myself, never been to a concert, nor had any form of communications with any Gibbs. Not that there's any restraining order, mind you, just circumstances have not been cooperative with arranging a meeting.      But that Mary Rose, she's something else. "I'm going to Miami!" she tells me, and sure enough, she meets the Bee Gees. I, for one, am VERY impressed...
   So, how is MY life, then, appreciating the Bee Gees from afar? I must confess, it does trouble me that I've never even seen them at a concert. Back in 1997, the "TODAY" show had the Bee Gees performing for FREE, all I had to do was show up. Well, all I had to do was convince my wife to allow me to show up, rather than drive the kids to school. And convince her to stay at home with the kids, or else just have them come with me to Rockefeller Center. And have them miss the tests they had that day. And have me miss a day of work. Not much to ask for, in my view, but in the end I wound up just watching WNBC 4 on videotape that evening.
   There have been other near misses, not worth going into here. Suffice it to say that the arrangement I've had with the Bee Gees since 1967 remains, alas, just as it's always been: they make the albums, I buy the albums, and wait patiently for them to make more albums, that I may buy those as well. I don't get to bump into any Bee Gees while getting a new set of tires. And my email, so far, hasn't seen any memos from Maurice (the only Bee Gee, apparently, who has an email address). There have been no Gibb sightings for me at the health food store (although Robin is macrobiotic, and Publix doesn't carry very good seaweed, if any).
   And yet, having never met them, I find, through Mary Rose's encouragement, that I am writing about these guys every single week. One week I'm writing about strange sounds on their songs. Another week it's about how they use Hemingway novels as song titles. And each week, I need to come up with something new.
   I'm not one to complain, of course, but I must observe that this job would be a whole lot easier if I actually DID meet up with a Bee Gee now and then. Just a simple thread to build a column on: "So, Robin, who got you involved in macrobiotics?" "By the way, Maurice, how much time do you spend in cyberspace?" "Hey, Barry, is it true what I've been hearing about you and those salad bars at Denny's?" Not that I've heard much of ANYTHING about Barry and salad bars, but you have to admit, it's quite a conversation starter...
   In any case, my congratulations once again to Mary Rose for having the guts to go out there to Miami and find the Bee Gees. Once my persistent telephone line noise is taken care of, you can be certain that I am going to park my Internet Explorer on her web page and set about gawking at every single photo she managed to snap. And then gawk some more. But at the moment, I'm stuck at under 10kb, due to nearby construction interfering with my telephone line, and anyone who's tried to surf the web at 9600 baud has my deepest sympathies...
   As fate would have it, if the Bee Gees actually WANTED to talk to me today -- if Robin actually rang me up on the phone and wanted to chat -- I couldn't. I've had laryngitis since last Friday. It's still bad, but getting better, thanks in part to a suggestion made by Maurice. Well, not a suggestion to me personally, but a while ago, in an interview, he recommended Fisherman's Friend cough drops, and sure enough, he's right. Fisherman's Friend cough drops (with enough menthol to stun a manatee) make my laryngitis very tolerable indeed.
   Of course, I would probably get over my laryngitis a lot sooner if it weren't for the way I always sing along to my Bee Gees tapes in the car. Word of warning: if you are suffering from a hoarse voice, singing along with Bee Gee falsettos is a really bad move. When your doctor recommends that you rest your voice to enable a speedy recovery, he usually doesn't mention falsetto singing, but he ought to. I'm STILL recovering from Tuesday's rendition of "Too Much Heaven"...
   But I'll get better, I promise. And then, it's Bee Gee Karaoke Time on the expressway. And time to start yelling at those drivers who pass me on the right, cut two lanes to the left, and then... ouch, my voice hurts just thinking about it. Hmmm. Maybe I'd better start taking the bus. And leave my walkman at home. Now, where's that box of Fisherman's Friend cough drops? Ahh, relief... Thanks, Mo!
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net
Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia.
All rights reserved.

June 4, 2000
My mind is a bit befuddled. It's been a busy day, with my kids participating in Karate demonstrations at the mall. It's fun to watch, and they're good at it. It's also fun to watch their instructor kick five cement blocks into rubble all at once. But it's at a shopping mall, and shopping malls dull the senses.
  This is not a good time for my senses to be dulled, because I have to report on an important occurrence. Well, two important occurrences, the other being that scientists appear to have breached the speed of light. I found a link to Sunday's London Times article about this on the www.drudgereport.com site, but it wasn't too clear what the long term implications of this shall be. My guess is that, somehow, accelerating photons to 300 times the speed of light -- and the resulting time-space contradictions -- will invariably result in the Bee Gees album being delayed once again. Don't ask me how -- it just will. On the other hand, they may decide that "Faster than Light" is a good album title, so not a complete loss...
   So, there you have it, Einstein rolling over in his grave, Steven Hawking typing Very Bad Words into his speech synthesizer, and every physics book turned instantly obsolete. But that's nothing, compared to the other important discovery, made by Mary Rose Farlow during last week's visit with the Gibbs in Miami. While Mary Rose was chatting with Barry on the studio doorstep, he said, in passing, that he hasn't used a blow dryer on his hair since Christmas. Indeed, Barry Gibb no longer has a blow dryer. He threw it away.
   Let me mention that again, if you missed the implications of what you just read:
   BARRY GIBB HAS STOPPED BLOW DRYING HIS HAIR.
   Yes, I think we can reasonably conclude that civilization has come to an end. Barry tossed his blow dryer in the trash bin. Once word hits e-trade, Conair and Sunbeam stock will be trampled. Vidal Sassoon will have an anxiety crisis. People, this is serious stuff going on here.
   Perhaps it hasn't sank in yet. You're reading this and saying, "Well, there goes that David Garcia, making a big fuss over nothing again." I would refer you to any photo of Barry you have from 1979. Look, for example, at the cover photo for Barbra Streisand's "Guilty" album cover. See Barry's hair? That's blow dried hair! Enough blow dried hair to... well, I had a good metaphor, came up with it just the other day, in fact, but I forgot it. Like I said, my senses are pitifully dulled at the moment. But, no doubt about it, that is SOME MOP of HAIR he has in that photograph.
   But what does Barry do? Turn of the century, doesn't blow dry anymore, tosses the blow dryer into the trash bin. Unthinkable!
   The entire blow dryer industry came into the mainstream, in large degree, as a direct result of The Barry Gibb Effect. Men who had towel dried their hair saw their girlfriends drooling over those Barry Gibb photos. The men looked at HIS hair, looked at their OWN hair, and then hauled off to Sears and bought a deluxe Kenmore 1500 watt blow comb. The power grid shuddered under the weight of all those high-watt appliances. But a civilization came into being. Barry Gibb may not be the man to blame for disco, but he surely can be implicated for the blow dryer phenomenon.
    How much would Barry Gibb's blow dryer net on eBay? The "Bunbury Tails" CD, which has a couple of so-so Bee Gees songs, routinely sells for over $300. But an authentic, perhaps autographed, Barry Gibb blow dryer? I think Sotheby's would have to handle that one.
    But like I said, my senses are a bit fatigued at the moment. I wish I had the presence of mind to dwell on all of the myriad implications of the whole blow dryer thing. Barry Gibb stops blow drying his hair, and tosses his blow dryer into the trash bin. That's kind of like Carroll O'Connor giving the Archie Bunker Chair to the Salvation Army. The Archie Bunker Chair is in the Smithsonian now, along with Henry "The Fonz" Winkler's leather jacket. And some moon rocks.
   Would the Smithsonian have turned down Barry Gibb's blow dryer? How about Andrew Môn Hughes, founding father of the yet-to-be-established Bee Gees Museum in the Isle of Man? If you, like Andrew, were aspiring to create a Bee Gees museum, would you turn down a Barry Gibb blow dryer? I think it would have its own exhibition wing. Possibly sponsored by Sunbeam.
   But, alas, Barry Gibb has thrown his blow dryer away. Another piece of American treasure lost to landfill. It makes you want to cry.
   Mind you, Mary Rose may have been misinformed. After all, perhaps what Barry MEANT to say was "I threw away my blow dryer. Now I just use our gardener's gas-powered leaf blower instead..."
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.

It's not that I plan to write groggy columns, it just happens. Last week's column was written after spending a day sitting around a shopping mall, watching my kids do demos for their karate school -- a nice family outing, but I came back really groggy. Today, on the other hand, it's close to 100 degrees outside -- and I'm even groggier than last week! Yet, just a few days, ago the high was in the fifties. Some people would say that the temperature doubled this week, but actually that's not how these things are measured. After all, using the Celsius scale, the same people would say the temperature tripled. Word of warning: don't use percentages on temperature scales, it's a misapplication. The temperature didn't double, it didn't triple, it just got a whole lot warmer really fast. And it makes me groggy.
   Last week's column was about Barry throwing away his hair dryer. I'd originally warned my editor, Mary Rose Farlow, that I was considering doing THREE columns about that topic. But I'm reconsidering. I may revisit the subject now and again, the same way I do a whole bunch of other topics. Such as what Robin will do with his hands next time he's on stage. Or when will Barry and Robin learn to program their VCRs. Or when will Robin find a reliable auto mechanic.
    Oh, didn't I talk about that one? When Mary Rose visited the Gibbs, Robin was having trouble starting his car. Too bad, especially considering that it was A Very Nice Car. She didn't notice the make or model, being distracted by the presence of the Bee Gees. But it WAS a nice car, she says, and Robin has had some manner of difficulty keeping it in good repair, or so she was informed.
  This is one of those areas in which I don't envy the rich. I am poor, I freely admit it, and my car is less than 10% away from hitting 200,000 miles. My mechanics are scrupulously honest, because they know I'm a steady customer, and too poor to be lied to profitably. If my repair costs were over-inflated, I would have to give up, dump the car and buy another car. Possibly one with low mileage, and that is not in their best interest. A car with 200,000 miles on it is a car that will put an auto mechanic's kids through college, if the mechanic stays honest, and keeps the driver happy. 
   Then there's Robin. His mechanics must know that this is THE Robin Gibb, who rides the British Airways Concorde the way that I ride the Staten Island Ferry. And Robin is surely clueless about things mechanical. I can sense that, because I am clueless about cars as well. I once had my car towed to the AAA station because the steering had gone funny, and it turned out my front left tire was under inflated. I can just IMAGINE what sort of things that Robin has to deal with in terms of car repair.
   But actually, I wasn't planning to discuss car repair this time. I wanted to take this moment to publicly thank Mary Rose for getting me something I've always wanted: the autographs of the three brothers.
   She told them who I was, and explained about the column I write. She describes their responses as "puzzled." They each replied with the same exact phrase: "Really."
   Is that a good "really" or a bad "really"? We're still not sure yet. But they did sign the back of the printout. Mary Rose had printed out my May 22nd column, had them sign it, and sent it to me.
   I showed my kids. They were impressed, but confused. "Why does it say 'To Daniel?'" they asked. "Well, that's a 'v', not an 'ni', and that's a 'd', not an 'el'," I explained.
  They were unconvinced. "And who's 'June'?"
   I looked, and just above the "Rob Gibb" signature, there was something that, indeed, looked like "June." Or "darne". Or "Jaimie." What DOES that say?
   But we all agreed, the signatures are very nice. Barry's kind of looks like that gansta graffiti we sometimes see on the outside of bagel shops in town. And it looks more like it says "V. Gill" than "Barry Gibb." But hey, I'm happy. Most definitely happy.
   So, thanks, Mary Rose, for taking the time to mention me to the brothers. And also for telling Maurice where to find my column on the web. And Maurice, if you're reading this, thanks for the many years of music, and thanks for the autograph! But WHY did you sign it "yell to Druid"...?
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.

June 12, 2000
  It's not that I plan to write groggy columns, it just happens. Last week's column was written after spending a day sitting around a shopping mall, watching my kids do demos for their karate school -- a nice family outing, but I came back really groggy. Today, on the other hand, it's close to 100 degrees outside -- and I'm even groggier than last week! Yet, just a few days, ago the high was in the fifties. Some people would say that the temperature doubled this week, but actually that's not how these things are measured. After all, using the Celsius scale, the same people would say the temperature tripled. Word of warning: don't use percentages on temperature scales, it's a misapplication. The temperature didn't double, it didn't triple, it just got a whole lot warmer really fast. And it makes me groggy.
   Last week's column was about Barry throwing away his hair dryer. I'd originally warned my editor, Mary Rose Farlow, that I was considering doing THREE columns about that topic. But I'm reconsidering. I may revisit the subject now and again, the same way I do a whole bunch of other topics. Such as what Robin will do with his hands next time he's on stage. Or when will Barry and Robin learn to program their VCRs. Or when will Robin find a reliable auto mechanic.
    Oh, didn't I talk about that one? When Mary Rose visited the Gibbs, Robin was having trouble starting his car. Too bad, especially considering that it was A Very Nice Car. She didn't notice the make or model, being distracted by the presence of the Bee Gees. But it WAS a nice car, she says, and Robin has had some manner of difficulty keeping it in good repair, or so she was informed.
  This is one of those areas in which I don't envy the rich. I am poor, I freely admit it, and my car is less than 10% away from hitting 200,000 miles. My mechanics are scrupulously honest, because they know I'm a steady customer, and too poor to be lied to profitably. If my repair costs were over-inflated, I would have to give up, dump the car and buy another car. Possibly one with low mileage, and that is not in their best interest. A car with 200,000 miles on it is a car that will put an auto mechanic's kids through college, if the mechanic stays honest, and keeps the driver happy. 
   Then there's Robin. His mechanics must know that this is THE Robin Gibb, who rides the British Airways Concorde the way that I ride the Staten Island Ferry. And Robin is surely clueless about things mechanical. I can sense that, because I am clueless about cars as well. I once had my car towed to the AAA station because the steering had gone funny, and it turned out my front left tire was under inflated. I can just IMAGINE what sort of things that Robin has to deal with in terms of car repair.
   But actually, I wasn't planning to discuss car repair this time. I wanted to take this moment to publicly thank Mary Rose for getting me something I've always wanted: the autographs of the three brothers.
   She told them who I was, and explained about the column I write. She describes their responses as "puzzled." They each replied with the same exact phrase: "Really."
   Is that a good "really" or a bad "really"? We're still not sure yet. But they did sign the back of the printout. Mary Rose had printed out my May 22nd column, had them sign it, and sent it to me.
   I showed my kids. They were impressed, but confused. "Why does it say 'To Daniel?'" they asked. "Well, that's a 'v', not an 'ni', and that's a 'd', not an 'el'," I explained.
  They were unconvinced. "And who's 'June'?"
   I looked, and just above the "Rob Gibb" signature, there was something that, indeed, looked like "June." Or "darne". Or "Jaimie." What DOES that say?
   But we all agreed, the signatures are very nice. Barry's kind of looks like that gansta graffiti we sometimes see on the outside of bagel shops in town. And it looks more like it says "V. Gill" than "Barry Gibb." But hey, I'm happy. Most definitely happy.
   So, thanks, Mary Rose, for taking the time to mention me to the brothers. And also for telling Maurice where to find my column on the web. And Maurice, if you're reading this, thanks for the many years of music, and thanks for the autograph! But WHY did you sign it "yell to Druid"...?
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net Copyright (c) 2000 by David Garcia. All rights reserved.

 

.

Well, another hot, humid weekend, preceded by another cold and clammy week, preceded in turn by another hot, humid weekend. I have always held to the theory that rapid, extreme changes in climate can affect the immune system, bringing on colds and flu. I'm going to have to withdraw that theory now -- with all the ridiculous changes in weather we've had these past few weeks, we would all theoretically be bedridden by now. But we're not, just a little tired and sweaty.
   I am beginning to understand why the brothers Gibb prefer Miami Beach. It's in the eighties and nineties pretty much all summer, and in the sixties and seventies pretty much all winter. You could get used to that in a hurry.
   I tried living in South Florida myself once, about sixteen years ago. I was okay with the weather. I was okay with the hurricanes, to the extent that none really showed up while I was there. I was even okay with the occasional two or three little lizards that would make their way into the house and hang from walls of the living room. But I couldn't handle fire ants. Say what you will about New York, we don't have any fire ant problems here.
   We do get ants in the house, now and then, of course. I find a mixture of boric acid and powdered sugar is effective in getting rid of them. Haven't had to do it this year, however. The ants apparently have figured out that this is a dangerous place to be, so they just stay out in the front yard, making a village of little dirt mounds, as ants do. Hopefully things will stay that way.
   If you listen carefully, you can hear an echo, and the sounds of footsteps. That's the sound inside my brain, as my thoughts wander around like an old man lost in an unfamiliar shopping mall, trying to figure out how to tie all this to the Bee Gees. Weather patterns? Fire ants? Where are we going with all this?      I've done this before, taken whatever is going on inside my head and tied it to the Bee Gees in some awkward fashion. My laryngitis, I was able to associate that with Fisherman's Friend cough drops (as recommended by Maurice Gibb) and falsetto Bee Gees karaoke tapes (which helped bring on the laryngitis to begin with). I've commented, at length, about Barry Gibb throwing away his hair dryer, and the cultural implications. I've even managed to discuss White Castle hamburgers and link it to the Bee Gees. But this week... nothing. 
   It's kind of like trying to get your car started in the morning, and the engine just won't turn over. You keep sitting there in the driver's seat, thinking that maybe if you turn the key JUST ONE MORE TIME, it will start up. And it doesn't. Same thing here. Usually I get some sort of groove going at around 300 words or so, but I'm at about 500 now, and nothing has happened.     A reader wrote to me recently, and compared my column to Seinfeld, in the sense that we try to present it as "much ado about nothing" and relate it to the Bee Gees. And she's right, that's basically it. But this time, the column really IS about nothing. I'm sitting here at the keyboard, pumping out sentences one after another, and the segue isn't happening at all.
   Thankfully, I don't do this for a living. I'm not in that creative an occupation, so I don't risk my income on the prospect that I can create something new and interesting every single time. On the other hand, the Bee Gees do. I wonder what that's like?
   Back in 1973, one of their albums, "A Kick in the Head is Worth Eight in the Pants," was actually rejected by their label. Imagine that. All your life, you've made a living from creating good music, and suddenly no one is interested any more. The radio stations aren't playing your music. The record company won't press your album. And you have to walk into the studio and start all over again, somewhere below the zero point.  I still find that intriguing, over twenty five years later. The Bee Gees, in 1973, were essentially finished as a group. They were stuck in a rut, musically, and were undoubtedly hearing those same empty footsteps echoing through their minds. Writing songs that, even as they were writing them, they knew wouldn't work. What a feeling.
    In the same email, the reader asked me, which Bee Gee would I like to meet the most? I'm still thinking that one over, but, regardless of who I meet, I would like to ask them about how they went from, in 1973, having their entire album scrapped by Atlantic Records, to, a couple of years later, having a blockbuster single "Jive Talkin'" revive their careers? How do you pick yourself up from the floor and do that?
   Until I figure that one out, I'll be grateful that I don't need to depend on my creativity for a living. It's way too risky.
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

June 25, 2000
   Well, once again, for the second week in a row, I find myself faced with a peculiar challenge: not obsessing over the course of my car's repair work in my Bee Gees column.
   This was quite a challenge last week, and remains a challenge this week too. Last Saturday, I spent the entire day in the vending machine lounge of A Major Car Repair Chain Facility, trying to get my brakes inspected. I brought my car there at noon on Saturday, and retrieved it from The Major Car Repair Chain Facility at 3:30 PM Monday, having spent all of Sunday in the vending machine lounge as well. There were two problems: one, they couldn't remove the brakes properly from the left rear wheel, and two, the soda machine would not take quarters.
   This Saturday, I spent my entire morning and a good part of the afternoon sitting in my front yard, basking in a lounge chair, waiting for the tow truck to arrive. It did, they took my Nissan away, and promised that they will look at my car on Monday. "Rear calipers" was the phrase the tow truck man muttered as he winched my car onto the platform. Apparently that is what he thinks was causing all that screeching, hissing and smoldering of the left rear wheel as I drove home last night. Hopefully they can attend to the matter.
   But like I said, this is not supposed to be a car column. So, what IS it about? It took me a while to remember my topic, given to me by a reader last week. I now have the question firmly in mind, at least as firmly as I can have anything in my mind at the moment that doesn't have to do with rear calipers.
   In her email, Anna Vogt asked me a question, and a very good one: If I could meet one of the brothers Gibb, which one would it be, and why?
   Well, that is a good question. I haven't met any of them so far, and it's hard to imagine having any time to talk to them at all, really. I'd probably be passing them in an airport lounge for all of fifteen seconds, just enough to blurt out one thing as they zip on by. The Sam Donaldson technique, if you will.
   If it was Maurice strolling by, I'd probably say something like: "You need to sing lead more often." This probably wouldn't engage his enthusiasm. Then again, I can't really think up any one question that would stop a Bee Gee in his tracks, if that was what circumstances required.
   My editor, Mary Rose, had a chance to talk to the three of them for quite some length of time. And even so, she still came back from the experience thinking, "What I SHOULD have asked was..."
   But what was the topic? Which Bee Gee would I like to talk to the most?     Alas, the brother Gibb I've always wanted to talk to is no longer around. I've always wanted to talk to their younger brother, Andy Gibb.
   Andy Gibb was an interesting person, and not only for being the first solo artist whose first three debut singles all went to number one on the charts. I've always been interested in him because he was my age, and was around "the eye of the storm" when the whole Bee Gee music mania began, back in 1967. And earlier, of course, in Australia.
   To have the Bee Gees as your older brothers. Now that's something to think about.
   If I had a chance to talk to Andy, something that, sadly, can no longer be done, that's what I'd bring up: what has it been like, being the kid brother of Barry, Robin, and Maurice? Did Andy spend a lot of his spare time listening to their albums? Which album was his favorite?
   And did he get a chance to influence their song picks? When they were about to go on stage, was he able to nudge them into doing "Down the Road," for example, back at the LA Forum in 1976? The "Here at Last... Live" album has that track on there, so obviously they sang it. Did he ask them to?
   Given the choice, would he rather be with them on the stage, or in the studio control room? Would he have considered becoming their producer someday? Did he have the "ears" for it? We know that Barry helped with producing Andy's albums way back when, but I can't help but wonder, had he lived to the present time, what his involvement might be on the forthcoming Bee Gees album. Maybe Andy could co-write a song, or toss in some production ideas? Or would he still be involved in his solo career?
   We lost him back in 1988, so, of course, this is nothing more than thinking about all that might have been. And it's sad: an opportunity lost, perhaps a good conversation missed. I really would have liked to have talked to him, if only for a little while.
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David Garcia can be reached at david@garcia.net

July 1, 2000

Well, now it seems real to me. I've been t