Bee Gees

Bee Gees

“ONE LAST TIME, WE WILL PLAY FOR THE DREAMERS…” — Two giants from different worlds come together for a final journey. Barry Gibb, the last surviving Bee Gee, and legendary drummer Gregg Bissonette have announced their 2026 Tour, “One Last Ride.” Each show will open with the songs that marked their beginnings: Barry’s breakthrough “Spicks and Specks” (1966) and Gregg’s early spotlight performances in the 1980s. More than a farewell, this tour will be a bridge between eras — a celebration of rhythm, melody, and the timeless spirit of music that unites generations. Dates and venues revealed…

Few songs in modern music history have become as instantly recognizable — or as enduringly...

Bee Gees

“ONE LAST TIME, WE WILL SING FOR THE DREAMERS…” — Together, their voices carry the weight of legacy and the warmth of family. Barry Gibb and his son Steve Gibb have announced their 2026 Tour, “One Last Ride” — a once-in-a-lifetime farewell that will unite generations of music lovers. For Barry, it began in 1966 with the Bee Gees’ breakthrough hit “Spicks and Specks”. For Steve, it started in 1988 with “Let’s Get Together”, the first song that hinted at the musical torch he would one day carry. Now, father and son will open each show with those very first songs, performed side-by-side — a tribute to the past and a gift to the future. More than a tour, it will be a journey of harmonies, memories, and goodbyes that only a family bound by music can share. Dates and venues revealed…

When one thinks of the Bee Gees, the mind often jumps to falsettos, glittering dance...

Bee Gees

“ONE LAST TIME, I WILL PLAY FOR THE DREAMERS…” — With the same fire in his strings that once helped shape the Bee Gees’ earliest hits, Vince Melouney steps forward for his 2026 Tour, “One Last Ride” — a powerful, heartfelt farewell that will let audiences feel the soul of his guitar one final time. And just as his journey began in 1967 with the unforgettable “To Love Somebody”, so it will begin again — that very first song now chosen to open his last voyage. This will be more than a concert — it will be a celebration of riffs, memories, and the enduring spirit of a man whose music will echo long after the final chord fades. Dates and venues revealed…

Vince Melouney: The Original Lead Guitarist of the Bee Gees Vince Melouney, born on August...

Bee Gees

“ONE LAST TIME, I WILL SING FOR THE DREAMERS…” — With a profound tenderness in his voice that still carries the echoes of decades past, Steve Gibb has unveiled his 2026 Tour, “One Last Ride” — an emotional, soul-stirring farewell that promises to resurrect the timeless essence of his music like never before. The very first song that launched his path to stardom — and now the same song he will perform on his final voyage — “Let’s Get Together” (1988–2026). Dates and venues revealed…

There are songs that define a decade—and then there are songs that transcend it. “More...

Bee Gees

The hospital chapel was empty except for a single beam of afternoon light filtering through stained glass, casting pale gold across the floor. Timothy B. Schmit stood quietly in the doorway, his worn denim jacket folded neatly over one arm. No spotlight. No crowd. Just the stillness of a room built for whispers and prayer. He stepped forward and gently set down a photograph—Maurice, smiling beside an old piano. Timothy adjusted the tuning pegs on his acoustic guitar with fingers that trembled just slightly, more from memory than age. Then he sat. Not on a stage, but on a wooden pew beside the altar. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then came the first notes. Soft, almost hesitant. “More Than a Woman” — not shouted, not performed, but offered, like a final letter never sent. His voice carried with a warmth that folded itself into every corner of the room, into every silence Maurice had left behind. A nurse passing by stopped in her tracks. Someone in the back wiped a tear. Outside, someone posted a video without a caption — it needed none. The comments simply read: “I felt that.” “Maurice would’ve smiled.” And when the last chord faded, it was as if the room sighed — and held its breath. Even silence can sing, when love remembers.

In the shimmering glow of the 1970s disco era, few songs managed to rise above...

Bee Gees

The room was quiet — too quiet for a house that once echoed with music. Just a small reading lamp cast a circle of light in the corner of Barry Gibb’s study, where Steve Gibb stood, guitar in hand. No audience. No cameras. Only the ticking of an old wall clock and the scent of worn-out sheet music. Steve didn’t say much. He walked in, nodded silently to his father, and set his coat aside. With slow, careful hands, he tuned the strings of his guitar — not to perfection, but to memory. Then, without prelude, he began to sing “Wish You Were Here.” His voice was low, tender — almost like a whisper trying not to break the moment. Barry, seated across the room in his favorite chair, didn’t speak. He only looked. His eyes, already brimming, flickered as if searching the chords for old ghosts: Robin, Maurice, Andy. When Steve reached the final verse, something shifted. A long-held breath was exhaled somewhere — perhaps Barry’s, perhaps the room’s. Outside, the wind brushed gently against the windowpane, like applause too shy to interrupt. And when the song ended, it didn’t really end — it lingered in the walls, in the silence, in the space between a father and a son who understood that some things are too deep for words. “Music,” Steve once said, “is how we remember without speaking.” Tonight, he didn’t need to say a thing.

Of all the songs in the Bee Gees’ expansive catalog, few are as tender, personal,...

Bee Gees

The chapel stood still, its silence more powerful than any hymn. Vince Melouney entered without ceremony—no lights, no introductions—only the hush of reverence and the soft tap of his shoes on the old stone floor. In the front pew rested a single photograph: Colin Petersen, drummer, brother in music, now laid to rest. Vince removed his hat slowly, not out of habit, but out of love—an unspoken farewell between those who once shared the same stage, the same heartbeat. He carried no speech, only a guitar whose wood bore the marks of years and memories. Sitting down before the altar, he adjusted a single string, then rested his hand upon it, eyes lowered. And then, without warning or announcement, “Don’t Forget To Remember” drifted into the room—not sung for a crowd, but offered like a prayer. His voice trembled with grace, not grief, each note honoring the rhythm that Colin once carried behind the scenes. In the back, a mourner clutched a handkerchief. A woman pressed her fingers to her lips. No one dared break the moment. As the last chord faded into the rafters above, Vince lifted his gaze—not to seek applause, but to send something upward, something only a true friend could give. Even in silence, some songs never stop playing.

In the ever-evolving story of the Bee Gees, marked by reinvention, experimentation, and musical mastery,...

Bee Gees

The hospital hallway was quiet, lit only by the fading afternoon sun slipping through the blinds. Barry Gibb stepped inside the room—no entourage, no spotlight. Just him, a worn acoustic guitar, and the steady beeping of machines that marked the final hours of an old friend. On the small table by the window sat a framed photo of Mike Murphy, the man who once helped wire the Bee Gees’ earliest live shows, who whispered rhythm into chaos and made the stage feel like home. Barry removed his hat, nodded gently, and sat beside the bed. He didn’t speak. He only tuned his guitar—slow, deliberate—and then, without warning, let a soft hum roll into the first chords of “Night Fever.” It wasn’t the disco anthem the world knew. It was slower, aching, like a memory wrapped in dusk. His voice cracked, not from age, but from weight—the weight of time, of friendship, of goodbye. A nurse at the door covered her mouth, tears falling. The family froze, stunned by the tenderness. No one moved, as if even breath might break the spell. And when the final chord faded into silence, Barry simply whispered, “You lit the stage, Mike. Tonight, I lit this room for you.” The blinds fluttered. The light stayed a moment longer.

There are songs that define a decade, and then there are songs that become its...

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