“…then the camera is behind Jimmy Fallon, and he’s holding a massive ghetto blaster. He turns around, presses play, and mimes the first verse of Never Ending Story.. So this is hitting millions of people, obviously, across the US.”
Limahl is recounting the details of a sketch he’s just caught last night on The Tonight Show with the forensic detail of a man who still can’t quite believe what he’s seen. Yet it’s just the latest episode in the resurgence of his 1984 international chart topper, composed and produced by the legendary Giorgio Moroder for the iconic movie of the same name. The cause, a certain nostalgic Netflix smash…
“It makes the song just keep reaching new audiences,” Limahl tells me, the incredulity still audible in his voice. “Possibly mainly because of Stranger Things, even though it was number one in seventeen countries forty-two years ago.”
It is a strange, almost hallucinogenic position for the Wigan-born singer. While many of his contemporaries from the neon-soaked explosion of the early 1980s are resigned to the nostalgia circuit—or worse, forgotten entirely—Limahl finds himself culturally ubiquitous without having to lift a finger.
For a track that dominated the globe yet only scraped number sixteen in the US charts upon its original release (“Top twenty… you could never define that as a flop, but back then especially, you know…”), this second wind is vindication. “It’s great to see it getting this huge revival,” he says, “because I never felt it was fully realised the first time around. This is a super bonus; it really is.”
“…then the camera is behind Jimmy Fallon, and he’s holding a massive ghetto blaster. He turns around, presses play, and mimes the first verse of Never Ending Story.. So this is hitting millions of people, obviously, across the US.”
But Limahl is pragmatic about this viral fame. He isn’t chasing trends; he is simply surviving long enough to become classic.
“I do laugh, and I say to friends I’ve become like an antique,” he says. “I seem to have gained more value with age.”
He likens his catalogue to a classic car or a rare Elvis vinyl—assets that appreciate simply by enduring. “If you have a car that becomes old enough, it becomes a classic car, doesn’t it?” he muses. “So I’m very proud to be associated with a period of music that was so strong, so unique.” Alongside Never Ending Story, Limahl can lay claim to another all-time banger, with Kajagoogoo tune, “Too Shy” which peaked at number 5 in the US. Not bad going for a lad born in 1950’s Wigan.
Gold on the Pavement
His latest offering, One Wish for Christmas, serves as a marker of where Limahl sits today: reflective, grounded, and deeply in love with his adopted home. Originally titled London for Christmas, the song is a love letter to the city he has inhabited for fifty years, ever since arriving as a “naïve” eighteen-year-old believing the old adage that “the gold is on the pavement.”
“It tells you that I’ve lived in London for fifty years and I’m a huge fan of the city,” he explains. “I always have. It was so exciting to arrive here from Wigan at eighteen years old. You know, everything was like bigger… I started in theatre…I did Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, I was also in Godspell. This is before Kajagoogoo.” Limahl, it transpires, is a huge fan of musicals, “…it’s just wonderful to have all this amazing creativity”, he enthuses, waxing lyrical about MJ the Musical, which recently blew him away. “Even sometimes if I’m not going to the theatre, just knowing it’s round the corner if I want it, that’s great.”
Musically, the track sees him exploring a lower, crooner-esque register before climbing to the familiar high notes of his youth. To understand this shift, one has to look past the (now historic) spikes of blonde hair to the musical education of his youth—a diet far more diverse than the synth-pop label suggests.
“If you looked at my early records that I bought, it was so eclectic,” he says, painting a vivid picture of his teenage bedroom. “So I’d have a Carpenters album, then I’d have Barry White. I had the Three Degrees. I loved the TSOP label, the Sound of Philadelphia. Polished pop with a little soul. I loved Motown. And yet I could listen to Andy Williams and thoroughly enjoy it because his TV show was so popular growing up.”
“Um, I don’t know where I sit really,” he muses. “I wouldn’t describe myself as a crooner… but with this song, with One Wish for Christmas, it’s… It’s lower. That’s quite nice for me to perform, you know? And I think initially people might say, um, ‘Oh, who is this? Who is this? Oh, I’m not sure.’ And then maybe when the middle comes, and I start reaching the F, F-sharp, G, it might sound a little bit more familiar to people.”
“As soon as I start hitting Too Shy and Never Ending Story, they’re both around the sort of E, F, F-sharp, G,” he notes. He doesn’t just list the notes; he hits them. Without warning or warm-up, he slips into the chorus mid-sentence, his voice finding that crystal-clear, high-register sweet spot with an effortless, pitch-perfect precision that instantly bridges the decades.
“Top of my register. When I get up there, you immediately recognize my voice. You know, people will say, ‘Oh, I know that voice.'”
This creative freedom is the luxury of independence, though he admits the machinery of the industry makes visibility a constant uphill battle. He speaks of the “four conglomerates”—Warner, Universal, BMG, and Sony—with the wariness of a man who has seen the business from both the penthouse and the pavement.
“…they swallowed up all the independents,” he observes. “And so it’s tough. It’s tough. But I love this song. I’m very proud of the video and the production, and every December ’til I die, I’ll be promoting it. And even if it becomes a hit in the mainstream, I will probably still work on it a little more each Christmas.”
“It tells you that I’ve lived in London for fifty years and I’m a huge fan of the city,” he explains. “I always have. It was so exciting to arrive here from Wigan at eighteen years old.
A Horse With No Name
That independent spirit also fuelled his recent cover of America’s Horse With No Name, a project that he describes as a “jigsaw puzzle” that almost stayed on the shelf. It is a track that reveals Limahl’s enduring fascination with production—he is still the boy who walked around London with headphones, lost in his own world.
“I’ve played with it all my life. I can’t really remember specifically why it came into my life; it’s just one of those songs that I love.”
More Guardians of the Galaxy than Stranger Things, Limahl goes on, “I used to have a cassette called ‘My All-Time Faves’, and it was on there!” Still, a date with America’s biggest hit wasn’t inevitable…
“It could have very easily not happened,” he admits, citing interviews with Barry Gibb and George Michael about the graveyard of unfinished tracks every artist possesses. “But I think once I… with Horse, I got this jerky ba-ba-da-ba-ba-da-ba-ba-da with this envelope synthesizer going whoa-wa-wa-wa-wa. And that was very… I’d say spooky. I just thought it was eerie and interesting, and I loved the kind of, um, the retro feel about that, you know?”
The track’s evolution was serendipitous, featuring a guitar line provided by Jane McDonald’s guitarist, Steve, after a chance meeting on her TV show. “I thought we needed to move away from guitar because the original was all about that folky acoustic,” he admits, “but when Steve sent his ideas back, it was a no-brainer! When it came in, and I layered it on the synths and stuff, it added a new dimension.”
It is a testament to Limahl’s willingness to experiment, to “play around with listeners” rather than simply serving up a carbon copy of his, or anyone else’s, past glories. He mentions a “very interesting inquiry” regarding the track, currently with Warner Music, hinting that 2026 might bring “exciting news” if the legal red tape—the “lawyers and contracts”—can be navigated. So, watch this space.
The Elephant in the Room
Yet, no conversation with Limahl can entirely escape the gravity of Kajagoogoo. In an era where nostalgia is a lucrative currency and bands are reforming left and right to cash in on the heritage dollar, the question of a full reunion with Nick and the original lineup remains the persistent elephant in the room.
I mention seeing ABC recently at the Usher Hall—a band that, while excellent, is now essentially Martin Fry and a backing band and full orchestra. Limahl nods; he knows the setup well.
“He’s the songwriter, and he’s the voice, you know. I toured with ABC and Belinda Carlisle in America in 2018. And, oh it was a joy!”
But for Kajagoogoo, the dynamic is different. It isn’t just about the singer; it’s about the bassist, Nick Beggs, who has since carved out a significant career as a “musician’s musician.”
“…the Kajagoogoo one is really tricky. I think it’s really pompous and almost arrogant of an artist to deny their heritage….Whenever I hear it, I am immensely proud of it. I love the sound of it, you know? I’ve got huge memories with that album, you know?” Memories of the only album Limahl would produce with the band before they went their separate ways — but not before selling more than a million copies worldwide, and a 100,000 in the UK.
“I’m twenty-three,” he reminisces, “I’m working with Nick Rhodes and Colin Thurston. And we’re at Level 42’s studios in Chipping Norton with all our dreams and aspirations and being young and naive and all the rest of it. And everything that would come after that.
“Nick is a formidable talent and has gained so much huge respect as a bass player, which is what he wanted,” Limahl says, before pivoting to a more probing thought. “But is it enough for him? I wonder secretly. ‘Cause being a bass player for other artists is not quite the same as being in your own entity and being out there holding the fort, where your name is on the bill, where your name is in the contract. It’s a very different responsibility. And maybe he doesn’t miss it. I don’t know.”
Despite Nick’s recent comments on social media suggesting fans should “just enjoy it for what it was,” Limahl suggests the door isn’t bolted shut. “Nick’s the kind of person who could wake up one morning and change his mind. Really, that’s, you know, he can be that unpredictable.”
Critically, the personal bridges aren’t burned. “There’s never been a massive bust-up or a huge verbal confrontation. So that makes… that would make it easier,” he says. “I think we’d have to sit down and have a good old… we’d have a drink and a good old chat and break the ice and kind of see where everybody’s at mentally.”
Talking of 80’s Revivals
“You definitely won’t see with the blonde mullet which I wore so proudly” — I’ve just asked him what he wouldn’t like to see brought back. “I even smile myself when I look back, and I forgive myself because I was so young — but I do think I was cool…for about five minutes.”
“You know, I’ll never forget the first concert of the tour,” he carries on, “we did a tour in ’83 to support the album—and the first gig was in Cornwall. And we’d been tucked away in a recording studio and we’d done Top of the Pops and all the music shows and a couple of interviews, but apart from that hadn’t really been out facing our fans. And the first gig, I came out on stage and the first ten rows all had my haircut!”
It was his own Stranger Things moment. “I suddenly realised what huge responsibility we had,” he says. “They were looking up to us, copying us if you like. It was scary — a thrill, but it was scary!”
Readers mourning the loss of that remarkable barnet can rest easy though. “I do have a wig!” he proclaims. “I occasionally throw it on during gigs for a laugh. I’m not against giving the fans what they want.”
“You definitely won’t see with the blonde mullet which I wore so proudly” — I’ve just asked him what he wouldn’t like to see brought back. “I even smile myself when I look back, and I forgive myself because I was so young — but I do think I was cool…for about five minutes.”
Tits and Teeth
With hair tamed and Kajagoogoo in limbo, Limahl seems determined to carry the torch alone, citing a friend’s advice: “You have a duty to your audience. You leave all the shit in the wings, and you get out there, and you give the audience what they want.”
For Limahl, this isn’t just a convenient mantra; it is an echo of his upbringing. Before the charts, before the mullet, and before the screaming fans, Limahl was a theatre kid. The discipline of “tits and teeth” isn’t a cynical mask, but a performing philosophy ingrained in his DNA.
“I think it’s a case of the old showbiz,” he reflects. “What we said in theatre was: before you go out on stage, you look at your fellow cast members and say, ‘Tits and teeth.’ And that’s how it is.”
Behind the mantra lies a disciplined, quieter existence. At sixty-something, Limahl prioritises “strength, stamina, and flexibility,” recently discovering Pilates to combat the stiffness of age. “I feel like I’m finding parts of my body I’d completely forgotten about,” he jokes, noting he still can’t quite touch his toes.
He has been with his partner, Steve, for thirty-three years—a “match made in Heaven,” literally, having met at the legendary London nightclub of the same name. Yet it’s not all romance and nights at the Royal Opera House.
“I’m acutely aware of the struggles of life,” he says, stripping away the pop star veneer to discuss the realities of health scares and loss. “In the last twelve months, we lost three people — two dear friends and my partner’s mum last December.”
Beneath the cheerful disposition and can-do attitude, Limahl has a philosophical take on the festive season. “We’re supposed to be happy. And it’s all about joy and all the rest of it. But underneath… that’s life anyway, isn’t it? There’s always that pull. That emotional pull.”
He reflects on driving past a house recently, a sad record playing on the radio: “I felt my eyes filling up. Then you try to snap out of it… because ultimately you can’t do anything about it, and we’re all on the same trajectory.”
The Storyteller
Looking ahead, the creative fires are far from extinguished. He feels he is in a “fertile frame of mind,” with hints of new tracks coming next year and a lingering ambition to return to his roots in musical theatre — perhaps even to write one.
He is also compiling notes for a memoir, aided by the sync between his iPhone and MacBook, though impostor syndrome remains: “The other side of me says, ‘Don’t be so narcissistic. Who’s going to be interested in your little life?’”
But he concedes his story — from a council estate in Wigan to worldwide pop phenomenon at twenty-three — might indeed be one worth reading. “I think if I were reading that in a book, it’d be quite interesting.”
He cites a Neil Sedaka lyric that resonates deeply: “We made it to the top. We went so high, we couldn’t stop. We climbed the ladder leading us nowhere. The two of us together building castles in the air.”
It is a sentiment that prioritizes the journey over the destination, a vital perspective for a man who has already stood at the summit. “I miss the hungry years,” he admits, referencing another Sedaka title. “So… destination unknown, isn’t it? Life.”
For now, however, his focus is seasonal and personal. His Christmas wish is not for a chart-topper or a stadium tour, but for his eighty-seven-year-old mother, recently recovering from a hip replacement. He has spent time in Wigan recently, not as a pop star, but as a son installing grab rails in the bathroom. That’s right, you can add handy man to his resume!
“She comes down at Christmas, and she’s going to be staying with me and my partner Steve,” he says warmly. “I think seeing my mom smile… that’s the plan.”
It is a modest wish from a man whose cultural currency has never been higher. The numbers back him up: when Stranger Things utilised his signature hit, Spotify streams surged over 800% in a single weekend. But One Wish for Christmas proves that Limahl isn’t just resting on the laurels of a viral moment; he is entering a new, fertile period of creativity on his own terms. He has survived the hungry years, the pop wilderness, and the revival. He is comfortable in his own skin, happy to be the antique that the world has decided to value once again.
“I’m glad I’ve managed to stick around and I can enjoy this wave,” he says, with the calm of a man who has seen it all. “Where it will go, I don’t know, you know? We’ll see… I’m in a good place. Mentally, I feel very lucky for that.”
Limahl’s story is far from an ending.
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