“Until the music plays again, my brothers…” As the September sun dipped low, Barry Gibb lingered quietly at the gravesite in Douglas. No audience, no stage lights — only the whisper of the Irish Sea and the hush of falling autumn leaves. His voice, soft but steady, rose with a tune only Robin and Maurice would recognize — a melody set free into the wind, less a performance than a prayer. It wasn’t for fame, or for charts. It was for them.
“Until the music plays again, my brothers…” As the September sun sank into the horizon,...