Kim
Because Dad had been a rock star, people assumed we were millionaires. Sorry to disappoint you, but my early childhood was spent in a suburban semi in Greenwich, south London. By the time I was born in 1960, Dad’s hits had tailed off and he hadn’t even seen much of the money he’d made in the Fifties. Like lots of young singers, he was ripped off. Other dads were plumbers or mechanics, but my dad earned his money by doing a summer season performing in Clacton or Brighton. A lot of guys would have gone to pieces — you’re a big star and suddenly it’s all over. I’m proud of how Dad handled that. He kept touring to ensure we were OK.
It was only in 1968 that things started to change. Dad was writing songs for other artists — Jesamine by the Casuals was huge all over the world — and he suddenly had a big payday. We all jumped into the car and Dad showed us a chocolate-box thatched cottage in the Hertfordshire countryside. This was our new home.
He never sat there thinking success made him special. It was just a job. Mind you, a lot of that level-headedness comes from Mum, Joyce. They were both ridiculously young parents: Dad was 21, Mum was 19. She was a pop star too, and was part of Britain’s first all-female rock’n’roll band, the Vernons Girls. Thankfully, she’s also a great organiser. While Dad was entertaining — the big, beautiful kite flying across the sky — Mum was the one who kept him anchored in reality. Falling in love with Mum changed his life and probably saved it too.
Kim Wilde in 1987Getty images
Yes, Dad had a rebellious image — one of his hits was called Bad Boy! — but I can assure you he was not like that in real life. None of the “craziness” you get with rock’n’roll, no drugs, no TVs in the swimming pool. And maybe that’s the reason I never went down that path. What did I have to rebel against? Even when punk and new wave came along, Dad was listening to the same music and going to the same gigs that I was. He was the one bringing home albums by the Clash and Kraftwerk, turning the stereo up full blast.
Dad often says that he wishes he’d pushed me more at school, but our education — me, my sister and two brothers — was happening away from the classroom. Music was the glue that held us all so close, but it was also how we accessed the world: driving back from a show with Dad, listening to him talk about Elvis and Frank Sinatra or playing Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells. I would tilt the seat back and drift off with this space-age music drifting through my head.
And it was Dad — along with my brother Ricky — who totally changed my life by writing Kids in America. It was my debut single in 1981 and went to No 2 in the charts. Although Dad knew there was a darker side to the music business, I never felt he was worried about me becoming “famous”. Did blokes try it on? Course they did! I remember doing a TV thing in Europe and Lemmy from Motörhead marched into my dressing room. He propped his cowboy boots on the table, opened a bottle of vodka and poured me the best part of half a pint. “Have a drink!” In the end he was lovely. Plus, Dad had created this protective cocoon around me; Ricky was in my band, Mum and Dad would often be backstage or Dad organised a minder.
Had you told me back then that both me and Dad would still be touring and releasing new music in 2026, I wouldn’t have believed you. But Dad is a sturdy old fella. He still drives himself to gigs, makes me laugh and he’s still in love with music. And he has the record player on full blast now because he’s slightly deaf.
Father and daughter in 1961
Marty
I was an immature kid. I’d signed a record deal in 1957 aged 17, my picture was in the papers and I had a few quid in the bank. I was silly with money. I remember buying a new pink Vauxhall Cresta and selling it the next day because I’d banged my knee on the steering wheel.
Even becoming a dad didn’t change me that much. I wasn’t at Kim’s birth. The doctors called from the hospital. “Congratulations! It’s a girl!” To my eternal regret, I hardly saw anything of my four kids growing up. Even today, when I see a young couple out pushing a pram, it breaks my heart. I missed all that; the first steps, the first laugh. Yes, I’m a grandad to eleven and great-grandad to three and I love them to bits, but I wish I’d made more of an effort with my four. I don’t think I was a particularly good father during those early years.
Maybe music has to take over your life. It felt like that when I was in a south London cinema in 1955 watching Blackboard Jungle, hearing Rock Around the Clock for the first time. It was like getting smacked on the back of the head with a brick. My first hit single was Endless Sleep in 1958. And then I got to meet a lot of those guys, working with Jerry Lee Lewis, Eddie Cochran and Johnny Cash. Johnny was like a modern-day gunfighter. I’m tall but he towered over me, dressed in black. And that deep voice: “Hi, Marty. I’m Johnny Cash.”
My career was in the doldrums by the early Sixties when Kim was born. I was having to take any old work that was offered, a few shows here and there. Promoters knew I was struggling and they took advantage, paying me a pittance. It was tough, but Joyce kept everything ticking along. Without her I’d be in some care home, telling the other residents I used to be Marty Wilde.
Rock’n’roll marriages don’t always last. So how have we managed over 66 years? I’m not saying that every day was perfect. Joyce had a fiery temper and so did I. We had some right old rows and wouldn’t speak to each other for days. But the simple thing is that I am still madly in love with her. The thought of her walking into a room on the arm of another man would kill me.
Kim was doing some backing vocals for me, so the idea of her making a record must have been floating around. Rock music had been dominated by blokes, but the Eighties changed all that. Then Kim’s on Top of the Pops, looking like a punky Brigitte Bardot. What made me most proud was she never changed. Even when she was No 1 in the US and all over Europe, there was no celebrity palaver. She’d still pop out to get us a bit of shopping. Then she’d be off to play Wembley Arena!
It’s funny, really. I’ve made a few mistakes over the years and not been the man I hoped I would be, but music has always been there to rescue me. It’s the thing that’s guided this family and given me a lifetime of joy.
Marty Wilde’s album Let’s Rock the Place is out now. He is touring throughout the year. Kim Wilde’s Singles tour begins next spring
Strange habits
Kim on Marty
He rewrites the lyrics of songs. As a kid, I’ll never forget him singing, to the tune of Wand’rin’ Star: “I was born under an elephant’s bum”
Marty on Kim
We watched the moon landing in 1969 and the Artemis II lunar flyby together. We’re both space buffs and, yes, both believe in alien life