Introduction:
Barry Gibb has stood before screaming crowds, basked in global fame, and endured the unforgiving glare of the spotlight. Yet for all the glamour and success, there is one song that has the power to undo him, to reduce the last surviving Bee Gee into a man standing vulnerable in front of thousands. That song is I Started a Joke. It was never his signature piece, and it wasn’t originally his to sing. But when Barry takes it on stage today, the audience witnesses something rare: a legend fighting back tears as he pays tribute to the brothers who once stood beside him.
In the golden years of the Bee Gees, Barry, Robin, and Maurice were a force of nature. Their voices blended with such perfection that it was often impossible to tell one from another. They didn’t simply dominate the charts; they helped define the sound of an era. Yet, behind every soaring harmony was something more profound—a brotherhood. Robin’s voice anchored Barry, while Maurice’s humor shielded him from the darker edges of fame. Their connection wasn’t just musical; it was the very foundation of Barry’s identity.
That bond was shattered by loss. When Maurice passed away in 2003, Barry and Robin faced the public at the Grammy Awards, receiving the Legend Award just weeks after their brother’s death. What could have been a celebration became a moment of raw grief. Barry called Maurice’s son to the stage and handed him the award in his father’s honor. The gesture transformed a shiny trophy into a symbol of family, legacy, and absence.
By 2010, tragedy loomed again. Robin, already quietly battling illness, performed How Deep Is Your Love with Barry on American Idol. The performance seemed like a time capsule—two brothers holding onto something they knew they could not keep forever. Just two years later, Barry was alone, the “last man standing” as he has called himself, though never with pride.
When he finally returned to the stage as a solo artist, Barry chose to include I Started a Joke in his setlist. It was Robin’s song, his moment. To hear Barry perform it was unsettling at first, like listening for a voice that would never arrive. Yet this absence was exactly the point. Behind him, archival footage of Robin singing filled the screen, allowing the past and present to converge in a hauntingly intimate way.
Audiences quickly realized they were not watching a performance in the traditional sense. They were witnessing a man sing to a ghost. Every crack in Barry’s voice, every pause between verses, carried decades of memory and loss. Fans described it as both painful and healing, as if Barry’s grief had unlocked their own.
For Barry Gibb, music is no longer just a career—it is a scrapbook of love, loss, and promises kept. Each time he sings I Started a Joke, he allows the silence where Robin’s harmony should be to linger. It is not just a song; it is a brother’s way of keeping the bond alive, even when the stage feels emptier than ever.