At 78, Barry Gibb—last surviving member of the Bee Gees—admits that one song still breaks him every time he hears it.
Decades after the Bee Gees ruled the charts, Barry stands alone under the same spotlights he once shared with his brothers, Maurice, Robin, and Andy. Behind the applause and tributes, there’s a melody that brings him to tears—a song that’s more than music, it’s a goodbye he never got to share.
For most fans, Barry Gibb is a legend: the falsetto voice, the prolific songwriter, and the final Bee Gee standing. But for Barry, surviving his brothers has felt less like a title and more like a sentence.
One by one, his brothers were taken from him—Andy, the youngest, gone at just 30; Maurice, the anchor of the group, passed in 2003; and Robin, Barry’s twin in harmony, died in 2012. With each loss, Barry became more alone, carrying not just the Bee Gees’ legacy but also the memories, guilt, and heartbreak of a lifetime.
The song that still breaks Barry is “Immortality,” written in 1997 for Celine Dion. Barry, Robin, and Maurice crafted it together, layering their signature harmonies under Dion’s powerful lead. At the time, it was meant as a ballad about endurance, memory, and living on through the people we leave behind. But after Maurice and Robin passed, “Immortality” transformed into a haunting echo—a reminder of the voices Barry can no longer hear except in recordings.
When Barry performs “Immortality” today, backed by his brothers’ voices preserved on tape, the grief is palpable. Fans in the audience feel the shift: the stage dims, Barry closes his eyes, and for a few minutes, he’s not just singing—he’s communing with ghosts. The lyric “We don’t say goodbye” is no longer just a line; it’s a promise, a refusal to let go.
But “Immortality” isn’t the only song that brings Barry to tears. The Bee Gees’ 1968 hit “I Started a Joke,” written and sung by Robin, carries a melancholy that has only deepened over the years.
After Robin’s death, Barry began performing the song solo at tribute concerts. Fans noticed he often struggled to finish the performance, his voice catching and eyes glistening. In those moments, Barry isn’t just singing his brother’s words—he’s living them, reckoning with everything left unsaid.
Andy Gibb’s loss was perhaps the earliest and deepest wound. Andy, though never officially a Bee Gee, was part of the family’s musical soul. Barry helped launch Andy’s solo career, but Andy’s rise was fast and ultimately tragic, plagued by addiction and self-doubt. When Andy died suddenly at 30, Barry was shattered.
Rumors persist of a final demo Andy recorded and handed to Barry, a private message never released. Whether true or not, Barry’s grief over Andy is evident whenever he sings songs like “To Love Somebody,” sometimes pausing as if delivering the line to the past rather than the audience.
Through all these losses, Barry Gibb has carried the weight of being the last Bee Gee. “Immortality” isn’t just a ballad—it’s a conversation between the living and the lost, a lifeline to memories that never fade. The most powerful emotions in Barry’s music aren’t declared in interviews; they’re revealed in trembling lyrics and silences that follow. Every time Barry steps on stage and sings “Immortality,” he’s not just performing—he’s remembering, and that memory, that ache, will never fade. For Barry Gibb, some songs are more than hits; they’re lifelines to the ones he loved and lost.
