From a Seven-Year-Old Dreamer to a Rock-and-Roll Survivor
I have spent most of my life on a stage, under lights, in front of crowds, and somehow, after everything, I am still here—still singing, still laughing, still telling stories. When people ask me where it all began, I always go back to one moment: I was seven years old, standing in my hometown club in the Midlands, completely unprepared for what would become the rest of my life.
My father was an amateur singer, and every Sunday night there was a “free and easy” at the local club—what you might call karaoke today. Anyone could get up and perform. One night, out of nowhere, my dad called me onto the stage. I was tiny for my age, but I could sing. At home, I was always singing “I Believe,” which happened to be the number one song in Britain at the time. So that night, with everyone watching, I sang it in my little soprano voice. When I finished, the audience went absolutely wild. I had never heard applause like that before, and from that moment on, I was hooked.
Even before that, I had already been putting on puppet shows and backyard concerts for the local children, charging them a penny to come in. So maybe I was an entertainer—and a bit of an entrepreneur—from the start. By the end of the 1950s, I had formed my first school band, The Rocking Phantoms, and from there it was clubs, youth halls, and working men’s venues. I never thought of myself as just a musician. On my passport, I always put “artist,” because I wanted to do everything—singing, acting, comedy, radio, the lot.
Years later, before Slade became Slade, I was moving through different bands, learning fast, working hard, and meeting people who would become legends in their own right. I even used to drive my dad’s window-cleaning van and give Robert Plant and his band lifts to gigs. Back then, none of us knew exactly where we were going, only that we wanted to get there loudly.
Eventually I joined Don Powell and Dave Hill in a band that became the In-Betweens, then Ambrose Slade, and finally Slade. When Chas Chandler came along, he saw something in us—not just in the music, but in the chaos, the energy, the live connection. He simplified the name, pushed us to write our own songs, and changed our future. Writing hits did not come easily at first, but then Jim Lea and I wrote “Coz I Luv You,” and suddenly everything exploded. Number one records, screaming crowds, sold-out tours—we were everywhere.
Then came “Merry Xmas Everybody,” a song that somehow became bigger than all of us. It has lived for decades, far beyond the year we wrote it. But even in the middle of success, life could turn in an instant. Don was in a terrible car crash, and for a time we did not know if he would survive. He lost his memory, and we had to rebuild everything, piece by piece, song by song, while carrying on.
Fame gave me everything I had dreamed of, but it also took its share. I missed parts of my children growing up. My first marriage did not survive the life I was living. There were sacrifices, absolutely. But I do not look back with regret. I look back with honesty.
After surviving cancer, I never imagined I would perform again. Yet here I am, singing with a young jazz band, telling stories, enjoying every minute. There is no pressure now—only gratitude. I am still alive, still standing, and still able to step onto a stage. After all these years, that feels like the greatest encore of all.