When I came across a contest titled “What Is My Favourite Song from Engelbert Humperdinck — and Why?”, I almost laughed. A friend sent me the link as a joke, knowing my complicated and deeply personal history with Engelbert and his family. But I decided to respond anyway — not for recognition, but to share my truth. This is more than a reflection on music; it’s an honest account of admiration, disillusionment, and the lessons I’ve carried from my 22-year journey with Engelbert Humperdinck and his family. What follows isn’t about favourite songs in the traditional sense — but rather, the songs that hold meaning because they mirror parts of my experience: moments of hope, heartbreak, and ultimately, awakening.
I first met Engelbert and his family over two decades ago. What began as a simple fan encounter gradually evolved into helping them in small ways — which, over the years, turned into larger responsibilities. I assisted with setting up and advising on social media during a time when it was still new to many, coordinated various matters, and offered care and guidance to help certain family members with their health and mental well-being. I even played a part in helping Engelbert himself lose thirty pounds in preparation for one of his concerts. When his wife fell ill, I reached out to find a healer for her, and after her passing, I did everything I could to help the family through their grief — from providing items of comfort, to ensuring they had food after the funeral, even writing one of the eulogies that was read. I never sought recognition; I only wanted to help. Not being given credit was fine — but what hurt deeply was the lack of appreciation, and worse, seeing credit for my efforts taken by others, even when I had proof of everything.
It’s from that place — a mix of care, disappointment, and clarity — that these songs by Engelbert gained their meanings for me.
The first is “Les Bicyclettes de Belsize.” Hauntingly beautiful and wistful, it evokes innocence touched by loss. Beneath its dreamy melody lies a quiet disillusionment — the realization that not everything pure is genuine. For me, it reflects the early years of my connection with the family: what began with warmth and trust slowly revealing itself to be built on selective sincerity. The charm and friendliness that once felt real turned out to be conditional — offered only when something was to be gained.
Then there’s “There Goes My Everything.” Its mournful tone captures the grief of losing something deeply valued — not in the romantic sense, but the loss of faith in sincerity. I gave my time, compassion, and energy selflessly, checking in from Singapore to Los Angeles, ensuring they were cared for even when oceans apart. When Engelbert sings, “There goes my reason for living, there goes the one of my dreams,” it resonates differently for me now. It speaks to the pain of realizing that something I invested so much heart into — out of kindness and loyalty — was never truly valued in return.
“Too Beautiful to Last” mirrors that exact truth. What once appeared meaningful and mutual was, in hindsight, a one-sided bond. I believed in the goodness of what we shared — a connection built on trust and care — only to discover that it wasn’t as real as I hoped. The title itself says it all: some things are too beautiful to last because they were never meant to endure beyond illusion.
When I hear “Am I That Easy to Forget?” I’m reminded of the moment I realized I had been cast aside — my efforts, care, and presence forgotten once they no longer served convenience. The song’s question once haunted me, but over time, it became an answer in itself. I learned that I wasn’t easy to forget — they simply chose to. Yet in choosing to walk away, I found strength and clarity. I reclaimed my peace and voice, no longer waiting for acknowledgment that was never coming.
“The Way It Used to Be” captures the bittersweet nostalgia of how things once felt genuine — the laughter, the trust, the shared moments that now feel like echoes of a time I wanted to believe in. I often look back and remember the way it used to be, not with bitterness, but with acceptance. Those moments were real for me, even if they weren’t for them. And learning to let go of that illusion became one of my hardest but most necessary lessons.
Then there’s “Release Me.” This song became more than a melody — it became a personal prayer. Each day, I silently echoed its plea: “Please release me, let me go.” It wasn’t about love or romance; it was about breaking free from emotional manipulation, gaslighting, and the quiet toxicity that had entangled me for years. “Release Me” marked my turning point — the moment I chose to value truth over approval, self-worth over validation, and peace over pretense.
Finally, “The Last Waltz” and “A Man Without Love” complete the picture. On the surface, they sound romantic, but to me, they reveal something far deeper — the loneliness beneath the grandeur. “Every day I wake up, then I start to break up, lonely is a man without love…” Those lyrics echo what I eventually saw behind the polished image — the emptiness that fame cannot fill, the hollowness behind applause, and the quiet sadness that success can’t soothe.
So when asked, “What is your favourite song from Engelbert Humperdinck — and why?” my answer isn’t simple, nor is it sentimental. These songs are not my favourites in the traditional sense; they are mirrors of a personal journey that spanned over two decades — a journey from admiration to awakening. They hold meaning because they trace my path from trust to truth, from being unseen to finally seeing clearly.
In the end, Engelbert’s songs remind me of the very lessons his family inadvertently taught me: that beauty can hide deceit, charm can mask emptiness, and that truth — though painful — is the most liberating melody of all.
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