This song is probably the quintessential archetype of the weepy, sappy Easy Listening ballad that everyone seems to envision when they think about the genre. Yes, the tune is reasonably pretty, but the lyrics are hopelessly pretentious and embarrassing, with a hyperbolic level of emotion that was probably supposed to come off as nakedly honest but just winds up seeming simpering and pathetic. On top of that, Dan Hill was the direct predecessor to Michael Bolton in his ludicrously overwrought singing style—he sounds more like he’s in an enormous amount of physical pain than in a state of romantic anguish. There’s actually a recording of Barry Manilow singing this from one of his later albums, and while he still has to contend with the ridiculous purple prose that is this song’s lyrics, Manilow’s subtler, more natural performing style does make the song at lot easier to tolerate.
Verdict: Bad