"Lager! Lager! Lager! Shouting! Shouting! Shouting!" There are many surreal moments during an evening with Barry Manilow: his fixed grin and shark's eyes; his dressing as Steptoe (comedy geriatric cough and all) to sing Not What You See; his alarming cheekbones; the gags about his age. None, though, is more surreal than the prince of gloop taking the stage to the sound of Underworld's Born Slippy.
Manilow's star has dipped of late, and in the US he has been forced to sign to an independent label. Yet in Britain his fanatical, overwhelmingly middle-aged and female audience remains sufficiently loyal to justify three nights at Wembley Arena. It is not difficult to understand why. He may be a figure of ridicule, but, attired in a shirt, tie and shiny blue blazer, the master of key changes knows how to entertain. Part Rod Stewart (though less bacchanalian), part Julian Clary, he sits at the piano to croon Mandy as the audience sits, sings and sways. He belts out his jaunty new single Turn the Radio Up after suggesting everyone telephone radio stations to request it - and he knows they will. Almost everyone dances.
He plays trim versions of most of the hits. As soon as the opening of Can't Smile Without You rings out, a sea of banners is raised - "Barry, I Want To Do It With You"; "Choose Me, Barry" - because the ritual dictates that Manilow will duet with an audience member. "I don't want anyone who's been up before," he chides. "I only want virgins." Barbara, a hyperventilating secretary, is selected. "I can't sing," she gasps. "Neither can I," smiles Barry. They make a handsome couple.
Aside from a rip-roaring romp through Copacabana (At the Copa), which ends with the camp ham shouting "Olé!" and assuming a toreador pose, those hits are rattled off with indecent haste. It's clear that Manilow's heart lies elsewhere. A trio of songs from Harmony, a Sound of Music-esque new musical about a harmony troupe in 1930s Germany, reveal that the more Broadway he goes, the less appealing he is. However, tracks from the forthcoming Here At the Mayflower, especially the sweet They Dance!, fare better and confirm that he has never been one to coast musically.
A hand-clapping choir emerges for the last 20 minutes. I Write the Songs and It's a Miracle are delivered with exuberant panache. Giant party poppers are released, and, before you know it, Manilow has stealthily disappeared.
·Barry Manilow plays Newcastle Arena (0191-263 5000) tonight, then tours
