O.C. POP MUSIC REVIEW : Very Barry Opening Night : Manilow Gently Breaks in Arena With Unabashed Schmaltz

Here’s some theme music for the folks who run the handsome, gleaming Anaheim Arena, which staged its first event Saturday night:

They ain’t superstitious, Barry Manilow just crossed their trail.

Now why would “I Ain’t Superstitious,” that roughhouse Willie Dixon/Howlin’ Wolf blues standard from the southside of Chicago, come knocking in anybody’s head on the night when smooth Mr. Schmaltz opened an arena on the southside of Anaheim?

History, that’s why.

Given the history that ensued after Manilow last inaugurated a big, new concert venue in Orange County, we can only assume that the arena’s management ain’t superstitious at all.

Ten years ago, Manilow was the opening night attraction at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa. No mishap befell that show, but the amphitheater’s subsequent fate as a business might give pause to the superstitious: a far-from-pacific 10 years of lawsuits with the neighbors, lawsuits with the landlord, cutthroat competition with Irvine Meadows, and financial losses reportedly in the millions. Last month, the Pacific’s operator, the Nederlander Organization, announced that it was bailing out at the end of this season. An amphitheater partner characterized the Pacific’s 10-year aggregate bottom line as “horrendous”--even factoring in the $12.5 million Nederlander will receive from the Orange County Fair in a buyout agreement.

Well, even the superstitious could argue that the Anaheim Arena is different. It has a roof to keep the noise in, so the neighbors shouldn’t mind. And it has a National Hockey League team, the Mighty Ducks, and the potential to house basketball, wrestling, tractor pulls and the like. The concert business figures to be gravy, rather than essential bread and butter. So maybe this place is Manilow-proof.

In a way, it made perfect sense to have Barry and his fans take the building for its first spin. You know how when you buy a new car, the owner’s manual says to avoid revving the engine until you’ve put 1,000 miles or so on it? Well, maybe owner’s manuals for new arenas say the same thing.

Caution: do not book Metallica during the first 1,000 concert-minutes of operation.

With Manilow’s long, 180-minute opening night (including a half-hour intermission and a 45-minute pre-show delay due to a traffic jam) behind it, and a night of country music ahead (the hall’s next pop offering is a July 31 double-twanger with Clint Black and Wynonna Judd), Anaheim Arena is being broken in gradually. Manilow’s tractable crowd wasn’t apt to mess up anything, except perhaps the hearing of anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting close to one of his many very loud and very screechy female adorers.

Come to think of it, the 10 years since he launched the Pacific Amphitheatre haven’t been especially lucky for ol’ Barry, either.

The last year one of his songs entered the Top 40 was 1983. And while Manilow sold something on the order of 50,000 tickets in his three-night inaugural stand at the Pacific, he was unable to sell out the 12,000 comfortably cushioned seats available for Saturday’s Anaheim Arena opening. (Many sections behind the stage at the arena’s west end were left empty because they had no view of Manilow’s stylish, curtained-off set. It recalled a theater proscenium, and employed moving screens and backdrops similar to those used in the theater.)

Manilow hasn’t had an album of new, original material since 1989; his most recent release was a four-disc, boxed-set retrospective. This tour, in which Anaheim was his second stop after two nights at an outdoor theater in San Diego, was also a retrospective, billed as Manilow’s “Greatest Hits Tour.”

So what do you get with Barry’s greatest hits? Hardly a pinch of substance in the songwriting; nothing deep or challenging or thought-provoking. The aim is a maximum of easy hum-ability in the music and a maximum of easy sentiment in the words. Why do you think they call it easy listening, anyway? As his grand finale sing-along put it, “I write the songs that make the whole world sing”--not “I write the songs that make the whole world intensify its experience of the human condition.”

But if “easy” music is disposable music, it isn’t by definition music devoid of merit.

For the most part, Manilow delivered what his fans expect him to--a light evening’s entertainment by a nice guy who gives the impression he would make a splendid house guest, and who happens to specialize in big, catchy choruses. Manilow doesn’t pretend to be a remarkable singer (he never stretches for high notes, and on this night there was some raggedness even within his range). But he delivers familiar sentiments in tunes that, at their best, have the knack of making themselves very familiar, even against your will.

Unabashed schmaltz was the main fare for the evening: big ballads, starting out quietly and building to crescendos with Manilow holding notes as best he could, and his eight-member band laying it on thick behind him (for “I Write the Songs,” he added a choir of more than 20 voices to enhance the sonic swelling). The big-crescendo device worked every time, at least as far as Manilow’s fans were concerned. And, at certain moments, such as the end of “Tryin’ to Get the Feeling Again,” which found him barking the word again again and again with some believable urgency, you got the sense that Manilow was probing an emotion instead of merely enacting it.

The most swell crescendos came from backup singer Debra Byrd, who took the spotlight for a medley of “Deja Vu” and “I’ll Never Love This Way Again,” two 1979 Dionne Warwick hits that Manilow had a hand in writing and producing. Like her boss, she employed the old ploy of jumping to a higher key for that heart-leaps-up effect.

Manilow threw in some up-tempo stuff for changes of pace, but the way he truncated “Copacabana” and turned his ersatz-rocker, “Some Kind of Friend,” into a backdrop for band intros made it clear it wasn’t balance but ballads that ruled.

Or, we should say, big ballads. Announcing that he wanted to transform a “big commercial ditty” into an “intimate ditty,” Manilow sang “Somewhere Down the Road” quietly, with just piano backing and some synthesized strings. The crowd response was mild, and Manilow was soon back belting an ultra-big ditty, “Even Now.” It would have been nice if, for his quiet change of pace, Manilow had ventured “When October Goes,” his lovely, wintry setting of an austere Johnny Mercer lyric full of intimations of death. Evidently, such sobriety didn’t fit the opening night festivities (for pop-philosophizing, Manilow did offer a serviceable rendition of the Garth Brooks hit, “If Tomorrow Never Comes”).

Manilow built his concert on hits rather than glitz. It included a few dance routines involving backup singers, some colorful but tasteful background designs and lighting effects, and no over-the-top bombast--aside from the ample dosage that came with the songs themselves. The other cornerstone was Manilow himself: the engaging, nice guy persona that is a large part of his appeal. As always, he pulled a woman out of the audience and sang and danced with her through the almost intolerably saccharine “Can’t Smile Without You.” When several iron-lunged fans interrupted one of his quietest moments to yell “happy birthday” (Manilow just turned 47), he stopped, laughed an acknowledgment, and moved on without the least sign of irritation.

If he boasted mildly about having written so many hits, he more than made up for that with self-deprecating humor. To avoid coming off too cushy-sweet, he tossed in a few salty, PG-13 quips, and even cussed once, not as a show of swagger, but as a prelude to a large helping of audience flattery. Noting the value of his romantic ballads as “music to you-know-what to,” Manilow claimed indirect paternity “for a lot of children in this world” conceived to the strains of “Mandy” and the rest.

Manilow flattered the building even more than the audience, stopping several times to speak the praises of Anaheim Arena (“Out of all the arenas we’ve ever played, this takes the cake,” etc.). In terms of physical accouterments, he may well have been speaking the truth. From the earth-tone marble in the hallways, to the impressive ceiling with metal grid-work forming a green empyrean of aesthetically arranged geometric patterns, the place is an eye-pleaser.

It also has a nice, cozy feeling for such a big place. The three tiers of seats rise steeply, especially the upper level, which is so sharply sloped that those sitting at the very top should have to submit a doctor’s note certifying cardiac fitness before they make the 45-step climb (the rise is about as steep as the upper deck at Anaheim Stadium). Consequently, the far end of the arena did not feel terribly remote from the stage. From the most distant seat, you could at least see that Manilow had a face, although you couldn’t make out any of its features. Bring powerful binoculars, and you’ve got a fine view. Fans sitting in the side wings could feel as if they were almost in hailing distance of their counterparts across the way. Because of that coziness, bands that strive to spark a sense of community with their concerts should find Anaheim Arena a conducive place to make that happen.

Not counting the show-delaying traffic problems outside (“It took us 45 minutes to go two blocks,” one fan was overheard to say), the arena had two serious flaws.

One was sound. Echo, that bane of indoor arenas, threw an unwanted aural halo around virtually everything. It was sometimes hard even to make out what Manilow was saying between songs. At least that’s how it was from what one would presume to be an ideal listening spot near the middle of the arena, in the lowest tier of seats. Things sounded exponentially better at the back of the hall, where listeners weren’t subjected to the long bounce of sound waves that creates echo (to serve the far reaches, Manilow’s sound crew had hung a separate bank of speakers from the ceiling, about halfway back from the stage).

Before the show, Manilow’s sound engineer said that the building had seemed acoustically quite lively during the preconcert sound check--which isn’t good news. He added that he was worried about the possible effect of the glassed-in luxury suites--82 in all--that virtually ring the arena on two levels. Hard surfaces like the suites’ sliding glass doors make audio engineers nervous because instead of absorbing sound, they make it bounce, creating echo. Maybe it would help if the doors to the suites were replaced or covered by nice, thick, sound-absorbing drapes, which would be kept drawn during concerts. If the luxury suites, priced at $69,000 to $99,000 per year, are indeed intensifying an echo, they may prove to be a luxury that the average concert-goer can’t afford, in more ways than one.

The suites clearly were to blame for the arena’s other chief opening-night flaw: there was far too much light in a hall that ideally would be almost pitch-black.

Manilow himself put his finger on this problem, albeit without intending any criticism.

“You see all these little condos up there,” he said cheerfully, motioning toward the luxury suites. “They’ve got Jacuzzis, just like Club Med.”

I couldn’t see any Jacuzzis, but, from clear across the arena, I did see television screens and couches and carpeting. Lights were on inside the suites during the show, and it was hard not to look. A concert should take place in as dark a space as possible, so that the eye has little to distract it from the stage. Again, dark curtains might be the answer (there are box seats immediately outside each suite, so drapes wouldn’t block the occupants’ view of the show).

On the plus side, the human factor was an advantage on opening night. From parking attendants to ushers to snack-bar attendants, employees were pleasant, even given the pressures and uncertainties of an opening night. Let’s see if they can present the same face on a night when challenged with a crowd of excitable speed-metal fans.

Among the minuses, the arena’s policy of prohibiting employees from wearing mustaches or beards--even trim, attractive ones--is rankling and goes against the ideal of individual expression that is the foundation and impetus for American pop. When word of this policy gets out in the rock music community it may even lead to onstage mockery by certain performers, which would by far negate any dubious benefit that the arena’s customers might get from interacting with a clean-shaven staff.

Not all musicians are as nice as Barry Manilow, you know.