by Billy Idol
We lived in a four-bedroom house in a middle-class neighborhood with a garden, each of us with our own room. On bad winter days, I would indulge in the endless fantasy of childhood war games played out with my tiny toy soldiers. There were Civil War soldiers and whole divisions of World War I and World War II troops of British, American, French Foreign Legion, and Nazis. I would put the Confederate forces with the Nazis, even then understanding something of the similarity of their racial policies. For a kid, I knew a great deal about the history of all these wars, and had a firm grasp of the technical truths of each one, including battle histories and weaponry.
I would read a comic called The Victor, which had cover stories about soldiers winning different medals, such as the Victoria Cross, and where you could see the differences in the drawings of World War I and II armaments. My parents had no understanding that my childish imaginings were based in fact.
I was also fascinated with Winston Churchill, as we shared the same birthday. A few years later, the movie Young Winston showed him as a child, playing with his soldiers in a perfectly serious way, and I knew how he felt. I read all about his early exploits in the Boer War at the turn of the century in some children’s book, and I came to understand his importance to the British effort in both world wars.
Attending a Church of England school, to my mother’s delight, I joined the Goring Cub Scouts and was chosen to represent the troop at an annual Baden-Powell meeting, a national meeting at which Churchill himself was to officiate. When we got to Albert Hall, to my dismay, he was ill and unable to attend, leaving his wife, Clemmie, to stand in for him. When he died a few years later at age ninety, I was saddened. Later, upon learning how vindictive he was towards the people of Southern Ireland and towards British workers, I realized people have many sides to their personalities and beliefs. Yet he was still a childhood hero to me.
I excelled at reading. I quickly devoured all the books on the library shelves. I pored through Enid Blyton fictions of the Famous Five and Secret Seven and all the history books about the Romans, the Stone Age and Bronze Age Britons, ancient Egyptians, old and new kingdoms, tales of the Norse and Greek gods, Odysseus’s long voyage home after the siege of Troy. In particular, I enjoyed books about English seafarers like Sir Francis Drake and Captain Cook. History read like fantasy to me, but even better than fiction, because it all really happened and was constantly being revised as new information from archaeological digs was continually being unearthed after WWII ended. I once wanted to be an archaeologist, but I was never any good at languages.
At the same time, American comics began to be serialized in England. I loved the Marvel stories about the Fantastic Four, Thor, Hulk, and the X-Men. Sometimes I would find reissues of the 1940s Captain America, with Bucky vs. Hitler and the Nazi/communist Red Skull. I enjoyed Superman, but he seemed dated to us. Batman rocked on into kitsch with a kids’ TV show starring Adam West. I watched Dr. Who every week. There was one episode that I watched alone, where a Dalek crawled out of its mechanical shell to reveal itself. As the camera’s gaze lingered on the immobile dead cyborg, the Dalek’s top flew open, and the fear of whatever horrible thing that might be inside drove me into hiding behind our couch, where I occasionally peeked over to try to catch a glimpse of whatever it was without it seeing me. That scared me; somehow, the fear of the unknown conjured by our imaginations can really put the fright in us. I don’t believe it had any long-term effect or anything, but the deep terror I conjured up over that dead Dalek was palpable for a few days.
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IN SCHOOL, TAKING MUSIC LESSONS, the class would all sing folk and sea shanties like “A-Rovin’ ” or “What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor” and soldiers’ marching songs like “Lillibullero.” Throughout my life, one ear has been listening to what’s being said while the other listens for music playing in the background, or for the melody and rhythm of a voice. Thank god for beautiful music, as it represents our human spiritual side expressing itself.
I never wanted to be in the school choir. In fact, I pretended to sing dreadfully when they held auditions for the choir in both school and church. Still, I enjoyed sing-alongs, and even today, I find some of those English folk songs have a resonance throughout the world. For instance, in Dances with Wolves, just before the scene where Kevin Costner first sees Kicking Bird trying to steal his corralled horse while he cleans his clothes in the watering hole, he is singing a version of “Soldier, Oh Soldier, Won’t You Marry Me?” Many of those traditional songs have journeyed far and wide from their original source in the British Isles.
Movies were also an inspiration to me as a kid. One of the first great films my dad took me to see was David Lean’s desert epic Lawrence of Arabia. Its gigantic, wide-screen Technicolor enraptured me, as did its story. England was in a bad economic way in 1962, our postwar recovery largely unaided by America, which was still busy helping the Germans get back on their feet a mere seventeen years after the fighting had ended. The U.S. needed a bulwark against communist expansion into Western Europe; we needed heroes, and Lean’s film reminded us that we had selfless leaders. Lawrence was an archaeologist who helped free the Arabs from the Turkish yoke but was torn between his love of the desert, Arabian freedom, and loyalty to England. Although he became a political pawn in his home country, his encouragement of guerilla tactics would inspire the Irish freedom fighters to separate from England in 1916. The movie uses the device of a motorbike to symbolize Lawrence’s naiveté, his love of freedom, and his demise. The film begins with him prepping his Triumph for the ride that would lead to his high-speed accidental death.
“Let me tell you the secret of the world,” Sean Connery as James Bond whispers to Miss Moneypenny before being interrupted by M in From Russia with Love. Swinging London was still a little way off, but with Secret Service agent 007 all the rage on both sides of the Pond, the “cool” pendulum was starting to swing in this direction.
Rock ’n’ roll music was still very popular in England, though by the early ’60s it was in a precarious position. Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran were dead; Elvis had emerged from the army seemingly cowed, becoming a movie star in gimmicky Hollywood films and abandoning the edge and quality of his music. Little Richard had become a preacher to avoid the taxman, and Chuck Berry was in jail for consorting with a minor.
Most of the British stars were Elvis clones, like Cliff Richard or Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, with “Shakin’ All Over,” but neither managed to cross over to the States. Instrumentals were on the charts, too, the Bond theme leading the way with Vic Flick’s noir/twang guitar–driven sound (he says he was paid $15 for recording it). Then there was Cliff Richard’s backup band, the Shadows. “Theme for Young Lovers,” “Peace Pipe,” “Apache,” “Wonderful Land”—all instrumentals with a Western feel, that wild Burns/Stratocaster twaaaang! I thought Hank Marvin, the Shadows’ guitarist, was great. Even today, I still feel something spiritual in their mysterious sound. I liked Joe Meek’s production of “Telstar.” The theme from the TV show Dr. Who might have been one of the first truly electronic hits, with its pulses and outer-space swells.
You had to glean the good stuff from where you could, as the only radio station was the BBC, which was run by the government and played only a smattering of rock ’n’ roll. I started hearing some music I liked, but nothing life changing just yet. There were several shows on Saturday morning featuring the “Mersey beat” and the new sounds coming from Liverpool or farther north.
Maybe that’s where I first heard a suddenly popular British group, the Beatles, who already had a number one hit and were singing their second, “From Me to You.” I didn’t have enough money to buy the single, so I saved up for the next one, “She Loves You,” which arrived in the summer of ’63. It had me from the opening drumroll. “Dddddderlin! Ddddderlin! She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah / She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
It spoke volumes to a displaced kid about how life has the potential to be full of fun and energy. It
has a hopeful, naïve aspect to it, something I could relate to. It allowed me to reunite with a world that, for me, had changed quite rapidly, and to which I had to adjust, just as the characters in the song had to be reunited to work out their problems. The Beatles’ music seemed half-English and half-American, something I have always felt about myself—along with the part of me that was half-Irish.
I loved the music, the sound, and the crazy element the Fab Four brought to the scene. And I loved the fashion and style. They cared about being songwriters and musicians; they were innovative, but also wild and crazy. They were the single most important band in my life, because they made me want to do what they were doing.
I bought “She Loves You” for six shillings, three pence, and half a penny. When I went to bed, I would listen to my little transistor radio under my pillow, tuning my “trannie” to Tony Prince on Radio Luxembourg, who would play all the latest American and English rock ’n’ roll hits on his chart show. Coming from across the English Channel, the signal would slowly fade out and come back over the course of a song, but it was the only way I could hear what was going on in music. Under my blanket, I would listen and pretend I was onstage, the heat on a warm night making me sweat and look the way the Beatles did during their performances.
The Beatles were new and so was I. Suddenly, it was great to be British! The groundswell was just beginning. I also loved Them’s bluesy “Baby Please Don’t Go,” as well as the Rolling Stones, the Animals, the Kinks, and the Who. I could particularly relate to Pete Townshend songs like “My Generation” and “I’m a Boy,” an unusual rock number about the cruelties of childhood.
More and more rock ’n’ roll bands began appearing on TV shows like Thank Your Lucky Stars and Sunday Night at the London Palladium, variety programs that had numerous other acts, but it was magic seeing the four “moptops” when they played the Royal Variety Performance at the London Palladium. “Twist and Shout” brought the house down, as did John’s irreverent “rattle your jewelry” comment to the aristocratic audience. In 1964, a show called Ready Steady Go! appeared on Friday nights, featuring performances by the latest hitmakers, changing the name of the particular episode to “Ready Steady Stones” or “Ready Steady Who,” depending on the featured headliner. (The show would inspire a Generation X anthem years later.)
The Beatles would release singles in England that were not included on their albums, heightening the demand. But soon, they had rivals for the throne. The Dave Clark Five’s single “Glad All Over” was touted as the new London sound. When they knocked the Beatles from the top slot, I cried. I liked their beefy sax sound, and Mike Smith was a throaty blues-rock singer, but they didn’t prove to have the same staying power, much to my childish relief. That was how much I believed in John and Paul.
For my eighth birthday in 1963, my parents gave me the new Beatles single, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” The flip side, “This Boy,” showcased their great harmonies, and how powerful John Lennon’s voice could be. The wild musical middle took thrilling vocal leaps, which John later explained was his way of matching the youthful Elvis’s savage vocal middle eights. Paul could do that type of thing more easily, but John’s struggle to do so had you on the edge of your seat. And it came out so very sexy. The lads’ passion for rock was quite evident with every release. The Beatles just got better and better, revealing the depth of their talent. I could sing along, although one step down in vocal range. The range of emotion is key.
On my sister’s fourth birthday, November 22, 1963, I was watching TV when news of President Kennedy’s assassination was reported. I went to tell Mum, “The president’s been shot,” and it took her a while to understand I wasn’t talking about a TV show, but real life. I will always associate that tragedy with Jane’s birthday, as it coincides with the death of our generation’s innocence, including mine.
Less than three months later, on February 9, 1964, the Beatles officially conquered America when they appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show. In England, we only heard about their performance, but the media made sure we knew it was a triumph, and Beatlemania was in full swing in my old homeland. English people felt proud, and I knew from that moment on, as far as Americans were concerned, we were no longer “fops” but cool and happening. I even dropped my Yank accent and went back to speaking the Queen’s English. In an echo of my childhood encounter with Floyd Patterson, the Beatles got to meet rhyming heavyweight contender Cassius Clay, who predicted with a couplet in which round he would knock out his opponent: “If he wants to go to heaven, I’ll beat him in seven.” The ’60s were in full swing.
Another artist who captured my attention around that time was Roy Orbison, who had toured with the Beatles in ’63. Songs like “Only the Lonely” and “Pretty Woman,” with the Big O’s soaring operatic vocals, spoke to the loneliness inside my heart. I found out Roy touched women deeply. His otherworldly image, vocal drama, sad subject matter, and real-life tales of the loss of his first wife in a motorcycle accident, along with his ever-present shades and black-and-white dress, all perpetuated this sense of loss and the cold, brutal truth that life can be harsh and success does not make up for it. But loss does give you something to write about.
I was captivated when the Beatles starred in their first film, A Hard Day’s Night, which featured visuals to their music and the new sound of George Harrison’s electric twelve-string guitar. The Beatles’ irreverent humor spoke to a generation of youth sick of being ground up and used for workplace fodder by the rich and powerful. It motivated us to believe that our destiny was in our hands, if we so chose. If you ask me, these were the roots that would later evolve into the punk mentality. The Beatles’ do-it-yourself approach and songwriting gifts endowed them with a freedom we all wanted, that would change the prevailing winds in postwar Britain and wow a fat America. The battle lines were being formed, but we had moral force on our side, one of the winning factors in any war, martial or cultural. We wanted the future and we wanted it now. The aristocracy had had its day: now it was our turn.
AROUND THIS SAME TIME, WHEN I was nine, I kissed my first girl in the school playground, and later, on a trip with my grandparents, I kissed the Blarney Stone. The girl was a neighbor, and her kiss was warm and wet, and introduced stirrings of a sexual appetite; the Blarney Stone was cold to the touch but instilled in me the gift of gab. My Irish granddad gave me a Ringo Starr snare drum, my second instrument after the banjo my grandmother had given me when we passed through on our way to America. The gift was a momentous one, as the drum initiated me into a world where being different was not only acceptable but required. My granddad and grandma seemed to recognize that I shared their love for music.
When I was ten I complemented my snare drum with a marching-band bass drum and a kick pedal. Playing the guitar, writing songs, and singing them were my dreams. I was quite ambitious, even back then. But I didn’t really know anyone my age who was in a rock ’n’ roll group. When some eleven-year-olds put on a gig at the school playground, performing the Mindbenders’ “A Groovy Kind of Love,” I noticed how the girls responded. The group wore winklepickers, shoes that were very long and pointed, even more so than the Beatles’ Chelsea boots. In British rock, fashion was almost as important as the music itself.
Most ten-year-olds were playing games and not instruments. But here, right in front of me, were kids barely older than me, realizing their own dreams by putting on a show. You could be in the audience one minute and up on a stage the next. This was how it would be later, in 1976, when punk invaded Britain.
In Goring, the Church of England school headmaster would play a wide variety of classical music. He was serious about his love of music, and that commitment resonates with me to this day. My family went to church, and my sister and I attended Sunday school, where I found the singing and stories about Jesus very entertaining. Mum had taken me to a Catholic mass in Eire, where I found the Latin service and incense slinging to be a bit too somber and weird.
It was around th
is time that I gave my first actual performance in front of an audience. Since I was a good reader, and my mum was connected to the Protestant Church, I was chosen to read a passage from the Bible at the lectern during the Christmas mass service. “While shepherds watched their flocks by night / All seated on the ground / The angel of the Lord came down / And glory shone around.” Of course, all the kids would change that to “While shepherds washed their socks by night,” which made it hard to keep a straight face. The reality of just how nervous I was kicked in, as the church would be filled with adults, children, and the vicar, all watching me. It was quite a large congregation, so I would need to speak very clearly and loudly, and sound like I really understood what I was reading. I would have to enunciate with as much authority as a ten-year-old could muster. To practice, I would stand at the top of the stairs in our house and read aloud to my mum, at the bottom, who gave me pointers on how loud I should be.
When the day arrived, needless to say, I was scared to death. Apart from having one line in a school pantomime (playing the part of a king), I had never really had to stand on my own, with everybody’s gaze focused on me 100 percent. Of course, it all went all right, though it felt horrible while I read. Even afterward, with people saying I’d done well, it was hard to shake off the stage fright, which lingered well after mass ended. It certainly wouldn’t be the last time I’d experience that uncomfortable feeling of stage fright, but I’d soon learn to ignore those fears.
“Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free.”
