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Barbra Streisand kept this secret about Neil Diamond for 40 years — now she finally spoke out

Barbra Streisand was already a superstar, a woman who had conquered every medium she touched. She had won Academy Awards for her acting, Grammy Awards for her singing, and had become a cultural icon known for her perfectionism, her powerful voice, and her refusal to compromise her artistic vision. She was demanding, she was difficult, she was brilliant, and she was one of the most successful entertainers of her generation.

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Neil Diamond was equally legendary in his own right. He’d written and performed countless hits, songs that had become part of the soundtrack of American life. Sweet Caroline, Cracklin’ Rosie, I Am I Said. These were not just songs, but cultural touchstones that millions of people had sung along to, cried to, fallen in love to.

Neil was known for his warm, powerful voice, his masterful songwriting, and his ability to connect emotionally with audiences in a way that few artists could match. Both Barbra and Neil had been in the music industry for years and they knew each other professionally. They moved in the same circles, attended the same industry events, had mutual friends and collaborators.

But they had never worked together, never recorded together, never created anything as a team. They were both such strong personalities, such perfectionists about their work, that the idea of collaborating seemed almost impossible. How could two people who were each accustomed to complete creative control work together without clashing? The song You Don’t Bring Me Flowers had an interesting history.

Neil Diamond had originally written and recorded it as a solo track for his album I’m Glad You’re Here With Me Tonight. It was a beautiful, melancholic song about a relationship that had lost its romance, about two people who had stopped making efforts for each other, who had let love fade into routine and indifference.

The lyrics were poignant and relatable, capturing that moment when you realize that the person you love no longer does the little things that once made you feel special. Neil’s solo version was successful and got radio play, but something unexpected happened. A radio DJ in Louisville, Kentucky named Gary Guthrie had both Neil’s version and a solo version that Barbra had recorded of the same song.

She had included it on her album Songbird, also as a solo track. Gary Guthrie, either out of curiosity or inspiration, decided to edit the two versions together, creating an artificial duet by splicing Barbra’s vocal take with Neil’s. He played this homemade duet on his radio show and the response was immediate and overwhelming.

Listeners went crazy for it. The switchboard lit up with calls from people wanting to know where they could buy this duet version. The chemistry between the two voices, even though they had been recorded separately and had never been intended to be together, was undeniable. Other radio stations heard about it and started playing Gary’s edited version.

Within weeks, this unofficial duet was being requested more than almost any other song on the radio. The record executives at Columbia Records, which had both Barbra and Neil under contract, saw an opportunity. If an edited together version was this popular, imagine how powerful a real duet would be with both artists actually in the studio together, singing to each other, creating something intentional rather than accidental.

They approached both Barbra and Neil with the idea of recording an official duet version. Both artists were hesitant. Barbra was in the middle of other projects and was notoriously selective about her collaborations. She did not work with just anyone and she had specific ideas about how her vocals should sound, how songs should be produced, how everything should be perfect.

Neil was equally particular about his work and he had already recorded his definitive version of the song. Did it need to be redone? Would working with another artist, even one as talented as Barbra, improve it or dilute it? But the record label was persuasive and both artists could hear the potential in the idea.

After some negotiation about production credits, studio time, and creative control, they agreed to do it. A recording session was scheduled for late 1978 in Los Angeles. Both Barbra and Neil would come to the studio, they would record the song together, and hopefully they would create something that lived up to the expectations that the radio edited version had generated.

The day of the recording session arrived and there was tension in the air. Studio musicians who were there that day later said that you could feel the energy the moment Barbra and Neil walked in. These were two titans of the music industry, two people with legendary perfectionism and strong opinions about to work together for the first time.

Everyone wondered if they would clash, if there would be arguments about interpretation or arrangement or production choices. But something unexpected happened when Barbra and Neil stood together at the microphone. The song You Don’t Bring Me Flowers is deeply emotional, a conversation between two people whose love is dying, who are going through the motions but have lost the connection.

To sing it convincingly, to make it real, you have to tap into real emotions, real pain, real longing. And as they began to sing, something shifted in the room. Neil looked at Barbra as he sang his lines and she looked at him as she sang hers. They were not just reading lyrics off a page, they were having a conversation, a deeply personal conversation about love and loss and regret.

The emotion in both their voices was palpable. Barbra’s voice, with its incredible power and vulnerability, conveyed the pain of a woman watching her relationship crumble. Neil’s voice, warm but tinged with sadness, conveyed the helplessness of a man who knows he has failed but does not know how to fix it. The musicians in the studio stopped what they were doing and just listened.

The producer in the booth leaned forward, transfixed. Something was happening that went beyond a professional recording session. This was real. Whatever Barbra and Neil were feeling as they sang to each other, it was coming through in every note, every word, every pause. When they finished the first take, there was silence in the studio.

Then someone started to clap and then everyone was applauding. Barbra and Neil looked at each other with an expression that people in the studio that day would later describe as complicated, a mixture of surprise and recognition and something deeper that was hard to name. They had just created something extraordinary and they both knew it.

The official duet version of You Don’t Bring Me Flowers was released in November 1978 and it was an instant massive hit. It shot to number one on the Billboard Hot 100 where it stayed for two weeks. It became one of the best-selling singles of the year. The song was everywhere, played on every radio station, discussed by every music critic, sung by couples and heartbroken individuals across America and around the world.

But more than just the commercial success, people were fascinated by the chemistry between Barbra and Neil. When they performed the song together on television specials and award shows, the connection between them was electric. The way they looked at each other, the way their voices blended, the emotion in their performance, it all seemed too real to be just acting.

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