I promised my concert-going days were over after seeing Boy George and Culture Club at the Hollywood Bowl.
I meant it.
I had retired.
No more Ticketmaster.
No more service fees, convenience fees, processing fees, breathing fees, and “because we can” fees.
Then Kanisa mentioned Barry Manilow.
My wife always loved Barry.
So there I was, sheepishly logging back into Ticketmaster one last time, thinking, What’s the worst that could happen?
Never…ever…ask that question.
I wasn’t there because I’m a Fanilow.
Truth be told, I packed a book. Nothing says, “I’m here under protest,” quite like bringing reading material to a concert.
But the biggest disappointment wasn’t mine.
It was Kanisa’s.
Because of her mental health struggles, simply getting out into the world isn’t easy anymore. Concerts, ballgames, restaurants, and other special outings have become few and far between. Those moments of normalcy—the ones most of us take for granted—have become precious.
That’s why this night mattered.
I wasn’t nearly as excited about hearing Barry Manilow as I was about watching Kanisa. I couldn’t wait to see that smile on her face when the lights dimmed and the music started. For a couple of hours, I wanted her to forget the burdens she carries every day and simply enjoy being part of the crowd.
Instead, before the first note was ever played, that moment disappeared.
With less than an hour before showtime…
Boom.
Concert canceled.
The explanation?
“Due to unforeseen circumstances.”
That’s it.
Four words.
I’ve gotten longer explanations from disgruntled coaches after devastating losses.
At first, I wasn’t upset. I was worried. After all, Barry Manilow is 83 years old.
Eighty-three!
I’m thrilled when I can get through Costco without looking for the Advil. Barry has been flying around the country performing multiple 90-minute concerts before thousands of fans.
That’s incredible.
So naturally, my mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario.
Please don’t let this be another Elvis.
Nobody wanted to hear those words. If Barry had suffered a medical emergency, this column wouldn’t exist. We’d all simply be thankful he was okay.
Then came the plot twist.
Barry showed up the very next night in Cincinnati.
And apparently put on a terrific show.
Wait…
What?
Now you’ve got me confused.
Lexington gets four mysterious words.
Cincinnati gets “Copacabana.”
How exactly does that work?
And before someone says, “Well, unforeseen circumstances happen,” you’re absolutely right.
They do.
But this also wasn’t Barry’s first Lexington cancellation. His appearance in March had been rescheduled as well.
At some point, “unforeseen circumstances” starts sounding like the entertainment version of, “Your call is important to us.”
Meanwhile, thousands of fans had already spent enough money to finance a small used car. The tickets, hotels, parking, dinner gas, time…and, of course, those lovely Ticketmaster fees that somehow survive every cancellation known to mankind.
People weren’t just buying a concert. They were buying an experience. Instead, they’ll get an email.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I probably was the least disappointed person there…for myself.
Remember, I brought a book.
Had they announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, Barry Manilow has canceled. In his place will be a three-hour lecture on Kentucky tax law,” I probably would’ve found a comfortable seat to finally finish my book.
But I was deeply disappointed for Kanisa. And for the thousands of people around us. Some had waited years. Some had driven hours. One lady proudly told us she had seen Barry more than a dozen times. She wasn’t angry. She looked crushed.
It was the disappointment—not the inconvenience—that stayed with me. It was the sadness of watching people walk away from Rupp Arena carrying the excitement they’d brought with them.
Here’s what’s frustrating.
I’m actually thrilled Barry appears to be healthy.
Seriously.
At 83, I hope he’s performing for as long as he wants.
If I’m still traveling anywhere at 83 besides my primary care physician’s office, somebody should throw me a parade.
But if you’re healthy enough to entertain Cincinnati a day later, surely Lexington deserves more than four words.
Throw us a bone.
Tell us the bus broke down.
Tell us the stage lights exploded.
Tell us Barry ate some bad lettuce.
Anything.
Just don’t leave thousands of paying customers filling in the blanks themselves. Because human nature almost always fills those blanks with something worse than the truth.
As for refunds?
Absolutely.
That’s the easy part.
But refunds don’t replace the hotel bill, the parking fees, or the dinner at Jeff Ruby’s. They don’t give people back a night they had been anticipating for months.
I’m not requesting compensation for pain and suffering. These things happen in the world of live entertainment. But common courtesy doesn’t cost anything. An honest explanation is free.
Barry Manilow has spent decades singing, “I Write the Songs.”
Lexington isn’t asking him to write another one.
We’re just asking him to finish the sentence.
Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. He currently serves as a columnist for Nolan Group Media and invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. His latest book is Whining for Posterity, available on Amazon.
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