The Voice That Refused to Die: My Life Beyond the Roar of Slade
People always want to know why bands break up, and the truth is never glamorous. It is usually the same story—egos, money, drink, women, and musical differences. Slade was no exception. From the outside, we looked unstoppable, a roaring glam rock machine built on glitter, guitars, and anthems. But behind the cheers and the flashing lights, the cracks were always there, growing wider with time.
I was born into a working-class family in 1946, where nothing came easily and every penny counted. Music was not handed to me—I chased it. By the time I was 13, I had already formed my first band, and from the moment I stepped onto a stage, I knew I had something. My voice was loud, rough, and impossible to ignore. It opened doors for me, and eventually it led me to the band that would become Slade.
When Slade took off, life became a blur of records, tours, screaming fans, and hit songs. I was not only the frontman, I was also one of the main songwriters, working closely with Jim Lea. Together we wrote songs that became part of British rock history. “Merry Xmas Everybody” took on a life of its own, returning every year as if it had never left. We became the sound of a generation, and for a while it felt like nothing could stop us.
But success has a price. Fame may look dazzling from the outside, but inside it wears you down. We lived out of suitcases, moving from studio to stage to hotel and back again. I stayed more grounded than many rock stars of my era, but even that could not protect me from exhaustion. In 1980, after Bon Scott died, I was reportedly asked to join AC/DC. It would have changed my life completely. But I said no. I stayed loyal to Slade, to the people I had built everything with.
Still, loyalty could not save us from ourselves. Tensions inside the band deepened over the years, especially as our creative choices became more divisive. Personal tragedy hit us too, especially after Don Powell’s terrible car crash, which left scars on him and on all of us. By the early 1990s, after more than 26 years, I was burned out. So in 1992, I walked away. Not because of scandal, but because I wanted something I had neglected for too long: time. Time for myself, time for family, time to breathe.
Leaving Slade did not mean disappearing. I found a new life in television and radio, where people discovered another side of me—my humor, my storytelling, my ability to laugh at life and at myself. And in my personal life, I found lasting love with Susan. With her, and with our family, I discovered a quieter kind of happiness than fame could ever offer.
Then in 2018 came the hardest blow of all. I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer and told I had just six months to live. That kind of news strips everything away. But I fought. The treatment was brutal, and there were days when I was reduced to almost nothing physically. Yet I kept going, helped by Susan, by my family, and by a stubborn refusal to surrender.
Now, at 79, I am still here. I live more quietly, but with more gratitude. I still tell stories, I still sing, and I still laugh. My life has been full of noise, heartbreak, survival, and second chances. And if I have learned anything, it is this: the greatest triumph is not fame, not the records, not the sold-out crowds. It is simply finding the strength to keep going.