Barry Gibb appears to be in a noticeably brighter disposition than during the interviewer’s previous encounter with him seven years prior. At that time, on the cusp of a solo world tour, Gibb was still deeply affected by the recent passing of his brother Robin from cancer. He openly pondered Robin’s refusal to disclose his illness and expressed his distress over their strained relationship in Robin’s final days. Gibb recounted a similar situation with his brother Maurice, revealing that they “weren’t really speaking” when Maurice died unexpectedly during surgery in 2003. He also touched upon his last conversation with his youngest brother, Andy, where a “tough love” approach, intended to help Andy overcome his addictions, was followed by Andy’s death just days later, prompting a poignant sigh and the lament, “Jesus… That’s all my brothers.”
However, the present finds Gibb in a more sanguine frame of mind regarding the past. He states that revisiting the Bee Gees’ extensive career for the new feature-length documentary, “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” was not a painful experience. He reflects on a broader perspective of loss, encompassing not only his brothers but also his parents, and concludes that “things just roll on, and you roll on with them.” His current enthusiasm is palpable as he discusses a new album project, where he revisits the Bee Gees’ vast back catalog in collaboration with a diverse array of country music luminaries, from Dolly Parton to Alison Krauss. He describes these recording sessions as “the thrill of a lifetime,” although he notes, with a hint of revelation, that his son Stephen had to assure him that there would indeed be interest in such collaborations.
One senses that the intense criticism the Bee Gees faced following the monumental success of the film “Saturday Night Fever” still lingers somewhat in Gibb’s consciousness. The era of comedians mocking their teeth and his falsetto voice is long past, and the backlash against disco is now largely viewed as an unfortunate period fueled by homophobia and racism. The documentary “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” features numerous prominent artists, including Chris Martin, Noel Gallagher, Mark Ronson, and Justin Timberlake, all paying homage to the Gibbs’ exceptional songwriting talent.1
Despite this widespread recognition, a certain sense of being an outsider still seems to cling to Barry Gibb. He appeared genuinely surprised by the overwhelmingly enthusiastic reception he received at Glastonbury in 2017 during his Sunday afternoon “legend” slot, even after having been Coldplay’s special guest the previous year. With a shrug, he remarks, “I’m the last person to think I’d still be hearing those songs now… or that anybody would be interested in them now. It’s a long time ago.”
Gibb then reflects on the Bee Gees’ origins as perpetual outsiders. Archival footage from early 1960s Australian television portrays them more as a traditional variety act than a burgeoning rock and roll band: a lanky teenager alongside his younger twin brothers, engaging in jokes and playful antics for the camera between musical numbers.2 Despite the potential for a 14-year-old Barry to view being tethered to his 10-year-old siblings as detrimental to his teenage coolness, Gibb states, with a slight frown, “I never thought of them as my little brothers… It just wasn’t like that. There was something we all loved doing, and we kept on doing it. There was nothing more fun than singing in three-part harmony.”
Furthermore, from the moment a local DJ discovered them performing between races at a Brisbane speedway meeting, they became the family’s primary source of income. Gibb recounts, “We were a family who had literally no money, and we could get $10 a show… We had to earn money; it couldn’t be done any other way. We probably rented 20 houses during the seven years or so that we were in Australia. I think, without overemphasising it, my father just didn’t pay the rent. We were that family in the middle of the night with the suitcases.”
By 1965, the brothers were sporting Beatle boots and writing their own material, yet mainstream success eluded them. In a rather drastic move, the brothers informed their parents of the family’s need to relocate back to England to further their musical aspirations. With remarkable timing, they departed Australia just days before their latest single, “Spicks and Specks,” reached the coveted No. 1 spot. Their record label even dispatched a boat after them, but the Gibbs remained hidden in their cabin, refusing to disembark.
Upon their arrival in the UK, they encountered another band on the Southampton dock, whom Gibb describes as “absolute Beatles lookalikes.” While this might have seemed like a promising sign, it didn’t quite unfold that way. He laughs as he recalls, “We went down the steps, and there in the fog was this group. Heaven knows what they were doing there… And they said: ‘Go back to Australia, there’s nothing happening here. They won’t sign groups any more.’”
This pronouncement stands as one of the most spectacularly inaccurate predictions in pop music history. Within a mere month, the Bee Gees secured a management contract with Brian Epstein’s company, Nems, and within two months, their single “New York Mining Disaster 1941” became a transatlantic hit. A band that had struggled for recognition in Australia was suddenly revealed to possess an extraordinary gift for songwriting. Still in their teens, they were capable of crafting both timeless ballads and a uniquely odd and engaging brand of pop, as evidenced by “To Love Somebody” and “Words” existing alongside the more peculiar “Barker of the UFO” and “Mrs. Gillespie’s Refrigerator” – songs that evoke a sense of quirky charm rather than straightforward psychedelia.
The Bee Gees achieved immense success. In archival footage featured in the documentary, Maurice Gibb playfully claimed to have owned six Rolls-Royces by the age of 21. However, when this is mentioned, Gibb rolls his eyes, stating in the unmistakable tone of a long-suffering older brother, “Maurice… was the master of exaggeration. It never went away. Maurice only had one Rolls-Royce, but he loved expanding everything that happened to him.”
Nevertheless, Gibb acknowledges that the Bee Gees’ rapid and overwhelming fame would have been challenging for anyone to navigate. “There’s fame and there’s ultrafame, and it can destroy,” he reflects. “You lose your perspective; you’re in the eye of a hurricane, and you don’t know you’re there. And you don’t know what tomorrow is; you don’t know if what you’re recording will be a hit or not. And we were kids, don’t forget.”
No sooner had they achieved fame than internal friction arose within the Bee Gees, primarily between Barry and Robin. With no clearly defined roles within the band, they often clashed over who should be the frontman. Gibb recalls, “Before we ever became famous were the best times of our lives… There was no competition; it didn’t matter who sang what. When we had our first No 1, ‘Massachusetts,’ Robin sang the lead, and I don’t think he ever got past that; he never felt that anyone else should sing lead after that. And that was not the nature of the group,” he asserts firmly, reverting to his role as the elder brother. “We all brought songs in; whoever brings the idea in sings the song.”
Consequently, the Bee Gees disbanded in 1969, only to reform a couple of years later, witnessing their celebrity gradually wane. By 1972, uncertain of their audience, they released an album aptly titled “To Whom It May Concern.”3 In a final attempt to salvage their careers, they relocated to the United States and heeded their record label’s suggestion to “make some records for fun, make some dance music, just enjoy yourselves.” As any pop music enthusiast knows, this marked a turning point, leading to the era of “Jive Talkin’,” “You Should Be Dancing,” and the monumental “Saturday Night Fever” soundtrack, which sold 45 million albums and brought total domination of the US charts and radio with a string of No. 1 hits.4
Gibb recounts that the true magnitude of their fame during this period only became apparent during another project: the ill-fated all-star attempt to create a film musical based on the Beatles’ album “Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” “We tried to talk our way out of Sgt Pepper, that didn’t work, and then suddenly Fever becomes the album that everyone in the film started to dance to at lunchtimes: what’s going on? It had started selling a million copies a week. We only had one Winnebago between the three of us when the film started, and within two or three weeks, we had a Winnebago each! It was a measure of success.”
However, a combination of the disco backlash and US radio stations’ saturation with Bee Gees tracks led to a decline in their popularity, until Barbra Streisand approached them to collaborate on her next album. Gibb admits to being terrified by the offer, reflecting on the inherent uncertainty of creative endeavors: “You never know if something’s going to turn out, do you? You just hope and pray it will.” Released in 1980, “Guilty” went on to sell 15 million copies, ushering in the Gibbs’ 1980s career as highly sought-after songwriters for other artists.5 Ironically, despite radio’s reluctance to play Bee Gees records, every hit they penned for others – Dionne Warwick’s “Heartbreaker,” Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s “Islands in the Stream,” Diana Ross’s “Chain Reaction” – bore a distinct Bee Gees sonic signature.
Gibb even recounts a period when Michael Jackson frequented his home, recalling the challenges of maintaining his routine as a father to young children while hosting the pop icon. “Well, we sat around in my lounge for days at a time, just having fun, not really writing songs. We came up with one, ‘All in My Name,’ but we were never that serious about it. I think Michael was just trying to escape the legal environment he was trapped in; he was visiting people he knew that he could relate to, because he didn’t know who his friends were. But then he started to hang out at the house all the time, and I had to get up in the morning; I’m 12 years older than him; I had to take my kids to school. At some point, I said: ‘Michael, wherever it is you’re going, you’ve got to go.’ So,” Gibb says with a chuckle, “I politely asked Michael Jackson to leave my house because I couldn’t get anything else done.”
The death of Maurice in 2003 marked the effective end of the Bee Gees as a performing entity. Gibb explains that while Robin was determined to continue, he demurred, feeling it inappropriate to carry on as the Bee Gees without Maurice. This difference in opinion caused another falling-out between the remaining brothers. “He was very hyper about it, wanting us to remain the Bee Gees. I think he might have known that he was ill at least a couple of years before it became very serious. And I think, spiritually, he didn’t want to become an invalid. He just never wanted to be recognised as someone who had something wrong with him, so he hid it, from me anyway. And when I finally discovered what was wrong, I understood why he was so hyper, why he wanted to keep going, no matter what. I understood it then.”
Gibb considered retiring after Robin’s passing, but he ultimately realized that, as the last surviving Bee Gee, the responsibility of keeping their music alive rested with him. “I care that the music lives, and I do everything in my power to enhance that. That’s my mission.”
Consequently, he resumed touring and recording. Over time, his perspective on the Bee Gees’ enduring legacy has evolved. Before concluding the interview, he shares a poignant anecdote about his daughter hearing “Stayin’ Alive” on the radio while driving to dinner. “They turned the volume up and opened the windows, and people on the street started dancing,” he recounts. “It’s not explainable how it happened, but those things seem to have penetrated the culture to the point that I don’t think this music’s going to be forgotten.”