Introduction:
For much of the world, Barry Gibb is remembered as the falsetto voice of the Bee Gees—the last surviving member of a dynasty that shaped pop culture for decades. His career has been celebrated with tributes, applause, and millions of fans who continue to hold the Bee Gees’ music close to their hearts. Yet, behind the bright lights and the golden records, Barry carries a quieter story—one not of fame, but of loss.
Over the years, Barry has stood alone under spotlights once shared with his brothers—Maurice, Robin, and Andy. The applause continued, but the harmonies that defined his life faded, one voice at a time. Andy, the youngest, passed away at only 30. Maurice, the anchor of the group, died suddenly in 2003. And Robin, Barry’s closest partner in harmony, was gone by 2012. With each goodbye, Barry was left with a heavier silence, the kind that no cheering crowd could ever fill.
Among the Bee Gees’ countless songs, there is one in particular that Barry has never been able to escape: Immortality. Written in 1997 for Celine Dion, it was originally meant to be a soaring ballad about endurance, legacy, and living on through memory. At the time, it was simply another brilliant collaboration. Barry, Robin, and Maurice layered their harmonies beneath Dion’s powerful vocals, never knowing what the song would come to mean.
Years later, after losing his brothers, Barry could no longer hear Immortality as just another song. Performing it became a haunting experience. The lyrics—“We don’t say goodbye”—were no longer just words. They were a vow, a reminder of the voices that once stood beside him. Fans who witnessed Barry sing the song in recent years recall the shift in his presence: the dimmed stage, the closed eyes, the trembling emotion in his voice. In those moments, Barry wasn’t just performing. He was remembering.
But Immortality is not the only song tied to his grief. In 1968, Robin Gibb’s haunting ballad I Started a Joke became one of the Bee Gees’ most enduring classics. When Barry performs it now, often as a tribute to Robin, the weight is unmistakable. The lines, “I started a joke, which started the whole world crying,” echo like a confession. For Barry, the song has become more than a performance—it is a window into everything left unsaid between brothers who spent a lifetime harmonizing.
Then there is Andy, whose short but brilliant career ended too soon. Barry has admitted that losing Andy was the hardest, because it felt preventable. Rumors suggest Barry still holds onto an unreleased demo Andy recorded shortly before his death—a song said to be deeply personal, perhaps his last message. Whether true or not, the thought alone speaks volumes about Barry’s grief. Some memories, after all, are too sacred to share.
So which song breaks Barry Gibb the most? Perhaps it’s Immortality. Perhaps it’s I Started a Joke. Or maybe it’s a song we will never hear, one meant only for Barry himself. What is certain is this: when Barry sings today, he is not simply offering a performance. He is carrying echoes of voices lost, memories preserved in melody, and love that refuses to fade.