Since 1987, Billy Idol has called his Hollywood Hills compound home. It’s a rock-and-roll hideaway, complete with stone buildings, sweeping valley views, and even a waterfall. Idol jokingly recounted discovering the previous owner was a “soft-porn guy” when he inadvertently screened old films shot on the property. “I’d be watching something, going: Wait a minute, that’s my house!” he recalled, adding with a raspy chuckle, “Into the spirit, we carried it on.”
This candid glimpse came early in an introduction to Idol, the iconic razor-blond British singer. His anthemic hits like “Rebel Yell,” “White Wedding,” and “Dancing With Myself,” coupled with his swaggering attitude, cemented his status as the bad boy of ’80s rock. Now 70, Idol delves into the depths of his past in his best-selling memoir and a new documentary, “Billy Idol Should Be Dead.”
The film, directed by Jonas Åkerlund, opens with Idol composing a raw, introspective song: “In ’84, I OD’d on my kitchen floor / woke up and had some more.” It’s a stark reflection on sex, debauchery, addiction, and aggression—a far cry from anything softcore.
Approaching half a century in the music industry, Idol, who emerged from London’s vibrant 1970s punk scene, clearly understands his enduring legacy. He’s a crucial link between that raw, DIY energy and the glamorous, mainstream rock era. Musicians who followed in his leather-clad footsteps, like Dave Grohl, eagerly pay their respects. At a recent Los Angeles talk, Grohl lauded Idol’s “ultimate badassery” and his incredible band. Idol proudly shared how, at a festival, “The whole stadium was moshing,” a “writhing mass of people, going crazy” to his 1987 cover hit, “Mony, Mony.” Nearly four decades after his Madison Square Garden debut, Idol’s summer tour promoting his reflective 2025 album, “Dream Into It,” was his biggest to date, marking one of the longest gaps between headlining performances at the legendary arena.
Image: The new documentary “Billy Idol Should Be Dead” and Idol’s last album helped him take stock of his life.
His career, however, was anything but a straight shot. Idol readily admits, “I’m super lucky.” His remarkable survival through decades of heroin use and reckless motorcycle riding seems a testament to a unique blend of risk-taking and relentless drive. He always prioritized his artistic passion: “I really wanted this artistic life, where I was in love with what I did.”
While his charismatic, shirtless, fist-pumping stage presence captured casual fans, his artistic depth was undeniable from his early days. His signature bleached hair, for instance, started as a happy accident. As revealed in his 2014 autobiography, “Dancing With Myself,” and the upcoming documentary, his songwriting was as carefully crafted as his image, honed among the titans of punk, rock, new wave, and pop.
He even borrowed the title “Rebel Yell” from a bourbon brand he saw the Rolling Stones drinking. Idol was a fixture in the scene, drawing influences from minimalist acts like Suicide, Russian constructivist art, and Elvis Presley’s iconic lip curl. According to Steve Stevens, his longtime guitarist, Idol had a clear vision from their first meeting in 1981. He didn’t just grow into a rock star; “He was already there.”
Image: “I’m super lucky,” Idol said. “I really wanted this artistic life, where I was in love with what I did.”
His deceptively simple, yet powerful hits, many co-written with Stevens, a virtuoso guitarist, have stood the test of time. Songs like “Eyes Without a Face,” his jagged 1984 ballad, have seen a recent resurgence on streaming and social media. Even country star Maren Morris offered a dreamy rendition of “Dancing With Myself” in a 2024 cover, which Idol wholeheartedly endorsed. “The original structure is so memorable,” Morris noted. “He’s a legend.”
On a recent sunny winter afternoon, Idol, clad in a Sun Records T-shirt and his usual array of heavy silver jewelry, relaxed in a red club chair in his living room. Years ago, he decorated the space in an overstuffed British pub style, a striking contrast to L.A.’s sleek modern aesthetic. Moody reds and blacks, lion-crested wallpaper, and fleur-de-lis brocades filled the room. It was a lived-in space, adorned with mementos and photos of his three children and grandchildren. Legal pads, his book notes, were stacked by the couch, and Civil War-era weaponry hung near the ceiling. Idol, it turns out, is a lifelong history enthusiast, especially when it comes to battlefields.
“He has probably watched more American westerns than anybody I know,” Stevens remarked, adding that Ozzy Osbourne, whom he and Idol helped induct into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, shared these interests in history and Americana.
School wasn’t Idol’s forte—he says he had an undiagnosed A.D.D. problem in the ’60s—but music captivated him completely. He vividly recounted his inspirations, explaining how he blended diverse sounds—’50s and ’60s crooners, London reggae, Kraftwerk’s electronica, and Donna Summer’s Giorgio Moroder-produced dance beats—into his punk foundations. “‘Dancing With Myself’ is the same speed as ‘Blitzkrieg Bop.’ You never think that, but it is!” he exclaimed, singing the Ramones classic’s guitar line. His first band, Generation X, even opened for the Ramones in 1977.
Born William Broad in England to a British businessman and an Irish nurse, Idol always felt a connection to America. His earliest memories involve his father’s job taking them to Long Island, where he absorbed his mother’s big band and jazz records, alongside Broadway musicals.
Image: But as he nears a half-century in the music business, Idol, who got his start in the roiling London punk scene in the ’70s, is cleareyed about his cultural place.
“I learned a lot from Richard Burton doing ‘Camelot,’ because he spoke-sang,” Idol revealed, mimicking a surprisingly accurate Burton-as-King Arthur impression. His famous lip curl is natural, but he intentionally amplified it with a touch of Sid Vicious snarl.
Back in the London suburbs, he picked up drums and guitar, drawn to the nascent punk scene’s rebellious spirit. As a teenager, he roamed with friends like Siouxsie Sioux of the Banshees, dressed in ripped T-shirts, leather pants, and military waistcoats, often frequenting a lesbian club—the only place their avant-garde style didn’t invite a fight.
In 1976, at age 20, he witnessed the Sex Pistols firsthand, and Generation X opened for The Clash on New Year’s Eve. His stage name emerged from a teacher’s report card note: “William is idle.”
Yet, as a musician, he was anything but idle. He helped establish the Roxy club in Covent Garden with fellow artists as their fanbase expanded. He noted in his book, “We were one of the few punk bands to have females in our audience.” Sex appeal always played a role—in 1990, during a Wembley Arena show, he released balloons with condoms attached from the ceiling.
After a night out with a “bird” (as he calls a girl), a hungover Idol and Generation X bassist Tony James penned “Dancing With Myself” in the studio. It was inspired by a Tokyo club-goer dancing with his own reflection in a mirror.
When Idol came to the U.S. in 1981 to launch his solo career, Stevens recalled, “you couldn’t go to a club and not hear it.” One night, at a crowded West Side bar, Idol needed a drink, but the dance floor suddenly cleared when the DJ played his song. “I know who Billy Idol is, in that moment,” he remembered thinking. “This is what I wanted to do.”
Image: “White Wedding,” which Idol wrote alone in 20 minutes, was inspired by his sister’s nuptials. He gave them a more sinister spin — “and of course a million people got married to it,” he said, laughing.
From then on, he test-drove all his new tracks in clubs. “White Wedding,” featuring a thrumming guitar sound that Stevens says was inspired by Martin Rev’s electric organ in Suicide, premiered at what is now the Viper Room on the Sunset Strip.
By then, Idol had forged lasting artistic bonds on both coasts. “We met in ’78,” said Joan Jett, who opened for Idol at the Garden last year. “I lived across the street from the Whiskey a Go Go,” in L.A., and Idol “came over and hung out.”
His nascent band played Max’s Kansas City, New York’s legendary art-punk hub, for its closing-night showcase in 1981, embracing a DIY ethos. “We got up unannounced,” Stevens recounted. “That afternoon, in our crummy little rehearsal place, Billy brought in white T-shirts and fluorescent paint, so we’d look like we belonged together.”
Idol fully immersed himself in the ’80s scene, joining Blondie at the Mudd Club, seeing Grandmaster Flash in the East Village, giving a ride to a confidently emerging Madonna, and absorbing all the cultural touchstones. In his book, he vividly recalls a Prince concert: “He was wearing a raincoat with thigh-high socks and a jock strap that squirted water during his guitar solos.”
The arrival of MTV, launched the same month Idol began recording his solo album, propelled him to global fame. His extensive tours were filled with the wild, womanizing escapades one might expect. (Years later, 23andMe tests revealed he had a son, Brant Broad, during this period.)
Image: Billy Idol: a punk rock legend who embraced his rebellious artistic life.
However, the drug addiction Idol developed eventually threatened to derail his success. He used heroin and other substances throughout the ’80s, spending days holed up alone, hallucinating. A split with Perri Lister, his longtime girlfriend and muse, deepened his despair. (They later reconnected and had a son, Willem Wolfe Broad.) Withdrawal symptoms made him so erratic and aggressive that collaborators nicknamed him Zool. During his first interview with Rolling Stone, after several bottles of red wine, he unleashed a tirade against the magazine to reporter E. Jean Carroll—a sentiment, he admits, that wasn’t entirely true.
As he famously put it: “I had it all, and I lit it with butane.”
He kept the extent of his addiction largely hidden. In those pre-internet days, dangerous incidents, like being escorted out of Bangkok on a gurney by the Thai military, never made headlines. “I learned a lot” watching the documentary, Stevens confided.
A severe motorcycle accident in 1990, which nearly cost Idol his leg, significantly altered his career path; he even had to decline a role in “The Terminator” due to the extensive running involved.
His relocation to Los Angeles and the responsibilities of fatherhood—he also has a daughter, Bonnie Blue Broad, from another relationship—helped him rein in his wild ways. “There was a voice telling me, you can’t do this forever,” he recounted.
Today, Idol, who is currently single after a long relationship with model and TV host China Chow, is almost entirely abstinent. Two years ago, on doctor’s advice, he even quit alcohol, and he’s now a dedicated fitness enthusiast. Both the documentary and his latest album have provided an opportunity for him to reflect on his life. But then, he has always drawn from his own experiences.
“White Wedding,” which he wrote alone in just 20 minutes, was inspired by his sister’s wedding. He infused it with a more sinister edge—“and of course a million people got married to it,” he said, laughing. The song, he believes, contains some of his most profound lyrics, which he speak-sings: “Start again. You can restart your life, if you think it’s over. Start again.”