Interview with Robin Gibb on Dads Space site (2009)

Introduction:

Growing up, I was fortunate to have a father who never tried to shape my future according to his own unfulfilled dreams. He never once said, “You have to do this,” or “You must become that.” Instead, he offered something far more valuable—freedom. Freedom to discover who I was, freedom to follow what stirred my curiosity, and freedom to explore the passions that eventually defined my life. And when he recognized where my interests naturally gravitated, he was there not to direct me, but to support me wholeheartedly.

My father was an extraordinary pianist, though he never boasted about his talent. I remember sitting beside him as a child, watching him play with a grace that felt almost effortless. His hands glided across the piano keys, weaving together chords that filled our home with warmth and wonder. I couldn’t play then, but those moments felt magical. Without pressure or instruction, he planted in me a quiet but powerful love for music—one that would later become an inseparable part of who I am. Looking back, I understand how profound those “ordinary” moments were. A single act of encouragement, offered gently and sincerely, can change the direction of a child’s entire life.

Robin Gibb 2002 interview: "Let's just live for now" - Bee Gees Days

Becoming a father myself at twenty-two was both overwhelming and transformative. I was still learning who I was, still navigating the uncertainties of adulthood. Nothing prepared me for the moment my first son, born prematurely, was placed in an incubator. I felt fear, helplessness, and awe collide all at once. But when I finally held him—a tiny life resting in my hands—I understood the depth of love and responsibility that comes with fatherhood. It was the moment everything shifted. The world suddenly felt bigger, yet my purpose became clearer.

From that day on, I knew the kind of father I wanted to be. I believe raising a child requires more than being a parent—you must also become a friend. Children need guidance, yes, but they also need someone who listens without judgment, someone who stands beside them rather than above them. This becomes especially crucial when families go through separation or change.

Robin Gibb, giọng ca hớp hồn của nhóm Bee Gees vừa chợt tắt

Living apart from your children can test even the strongest heart. There may be new figures in their lives, and it is natural for a father to fear being replaced. I felt that fear deeply. But time has taught me an important truth: what matters most is the bond you build. If you show up consistently, love sincerely, and stay connected in a meaningful way, no one can take away your place in your child’s life.

My journey has shown me that fatherhood isn’t defined by strict rules or rigid expectations. It is built in the quiet, everyday moments—listening, encouraging, understanding. It is giving your children the space to discover themselves, just as my father once did for me. In continuing that cycle of love and freedom, I now see how the smallest acts of kindness can shape not only a childhood, but a future.

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THE LAST TIME THE CROWD ROSE FOR MERLE HAGGARD — HE WOULD NEVER WALK ONSTAGE AGAIN. They carried him through the doors wrapped in the very flag he once sang about — and in the stillness that followed, there was something almost audible… a fragile echo only lifelong listeners could feel in their bones. Merle Haggard’s story closed the same way it opened: unpolished, honest, and deeply human. From being born in a converted boxcar during the Great Depression to commanding the grandest stages across America, his life unfolded like a country ballad etched in grit, regret, resilience, and redemption. Every lyric he sang carried the weight of lived experience — prison walls, hard roads, blue-collar truths, and hard-earned second chances. Those who stood beside his casket said the atmosphere felt thick, as if the room itself refused to forget the sound of his voice. It wasn’t just grief in the air — it was reverence. A stillness reserved for someone whose music had become stitched into the fabric of ordinary lives. One of his sons leaned close and murmured, “He didn’t really leave us. He’s just playing somewhere higher.” And perhaps that’s the only explanation that makes sense. Because artists like Merle don’t simply vanish. They transform. They become the crackle of an AM radio drifting through a late-night highway. They become the soundtrack of worn leather seats and long stretches of open road. They live in jukebox corners, in dance halls, in quiet kitchens where memories linger longer than the coffee. Somewhere tonight, a trucker tunes in to an old melody. Somewhere, an aging cowboy lowers his hat and blinks back tears. And somewhere in that gentle hum of steel guitar and sorrow, a whisper carries through: “Merle’s home.”