Sir Barry Gibb KNIGHTED: Bee Gees star honoured by Prince Charles at Buckingham Palace | Celebrity News | Showbiz & TV | Express.co.uk

Introduction:

From the glittering dance floors of Saturday Night Fever to the grandeur of Buckingham Palace, Sir Barry Gibb’s remarkable journey has spanned over six decades, defining him as one of music’s most enduring figures. Recently knighted for his services to music and to charity, Barry Gibb stood before Prince Charles with a mix of pride, nostalgia, and humility. Yet, in true Gibb fashion, the moment was not without humor. After decades of energetic disco moves, Barry admitted that when told to rise, he almost couldn’t. “He said, ‘You can stand up now,’ and I replied, ‘I don’t think I can,’” he recounted with a smile—a lighthearted reminder that time catches up with even the brightest of stars.

Barry, together with his brothers Robin and Maurice, first formed the Bee Gees in 1958. Ten years later, their single Massachusetts soared to the top of the UK charts, marking their first number-one hit. However, like many great acts, the pressures of fame took their toll, and the band split the following year. Still, the brothers were never meant to stay apart. In the 1970s, they regrouped, redefining popular music with their groundbreaking work on the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. The album went on to sell 40 million copies, solidifying their place in the pantheon of music legends and forever linking their name with the global disco phenomenon.

Beyond their own hits, the Bee Gees also proved themselves masterful songwriters for others. Their compositions enriched the repertoires of stars such as Diana Ross, Barbra Streisand, and Dolly Parton, cementing the brothers as one of the most versatile and prolific songwriting teams in music history. Across their career, they sold more than 200 million records worldwide, achieved nine number-one hits in the United States, and five in the UK. These milestones positioned them among the top 10 best-selling artists of all time.

Despite these staggering achievements, Barry Gibb’s reflections during his knighthood ceremony revealed a deep sense of loss. Maurice passed away in 2003, shortly before the brothers were awarded the CBE, and Robin died of cancer in 2012. “Without them I wouldn’t be here today,” Barry said with emotion. “We spent our entire lives making music that we enjoyed, and I feel that they should be here today too. I always feel their presence—I always do.” His words were a poignant reminder that, behind the glamour of the Bee Gees’ success, their story was also one of brotherhood, resilience, and love.

For Barry, this new honor carries a meaning beyond chart statistics and accolades. “It’s all surreal and a great shock,” he confessed. “It’s not something I ever expected to happen in my life. This is the greatest honor your culture can give you.”

In a career filled with high notes, Sir Barry Gibb’s knighthood stands as a crowning achievement—one that not only honors his music, but also the lasting legacy of the Bee Gees.

Video:

You Missed

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.”