Barry Gibb has broken decades of silence about the youngest Bee Gees brother, revealing that Andy Gibb’s death at 30 was the end of a long, hidden battle the family only partly understood — and that the true cause of his fatal collapse was never the whole story.

In a series of candid reflections tied to his recent concert tributes, the 79-year-old music legend confirmed what fans have long suspected: the family’s public account of Andy’s death from a viral heart infection masked years of secret drug use that destroyed his health long before his final hospitalization.

“The medical story is that his heart was very bad,” Barry said. “But he had lived a lifestyle that very few of us in the family even knew about.” He described it simply as “the LA lifestyle” — a phrase that carries the weight of everything the Gibb family could not control.

Andy Gibb died on March 10, 1988, just five days after celebrating his 30th birthday in London surrounded by family and friends. Doctors attributed the death to myocarditis, an inflammation of the heart muscle. But those closest to him knew the truth: years of cocaine abuse had left his heart too weak to survive the fight.

The revelations come as Barry continues to perform his brothers’ music on tour, including a poignant rendition of “Wish You Were Here” dedicated to Andy. In a recent concert, he changed the tribute, choosing instead to dedicate “How Deep Is Your Love” to his late brother — a decision he explained was born of raw emotion.

“On the last concert we couldn’t sing ‘Wish You Were Here’ live. It was very hard to finish,” Barry admitted. “It was just very emotional to sing and it was upsetting.”

He explained that “Wish You Were Here” was written specifically for Andy, making it nearly impossible to perform without breaking down.

The story of Andy Gibb, Barry now says, does not begin with fame. It begins with a restless 13-year-old boy who walked away from school in Manchester, England, and never looked back. Born in March 1958, Andy was nearly a decade younger than Barry, Robin, and Maurice — a gap that shaped everything.

While his older brothers were already climbing the charts, Andy was watching, learning, absorbing. Barry gave him his first acoustic guitar. Andy never learned to read music, but he didn’t need to.

He played by ear, feeling melody and rhythm in a way that came naturally.

By 13, he had dropped out of school entirely. His parents had relocated to Ibiza, Spain, where Andy began sneaking into clubs and bars, guitar in hand, playing for tourists and locals. Those early gigs were not glamorous, but they toughened him.

They taught him how to connect with an audience.

When the family moved back to the Isle of Man, Andy kept performing. Barry, already a star with the Bee Gees, saw something in his youngest brother. He encouraged Andy to move to Australia in 1974 — the same country where the Bee Gees had found their footing years earlier.

In Australia, Andy formed bands, including Melody Fayre and Zenta, and began opening for major international acts like the Sweet and the Bay City Rollers. He was not just tagging along on his brother’s fame. He was proving he had something of his own.

Everything changed when his demo tapes reached Robert Stigwood, the powerhouse manager behind the Bee Gees. Stigwood did not sign just anyone. By 1976, an 18-year-old Andy was in Miami recording his debut album, “Flowing Rivers,” with Barry by his side.

What happened next became music history. In a 20-minute burst of inspiration, Barry wrote “I Just Want to Be Your Everything” while Andy watched. The single hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100 in the summer of 1977.

Andy’s life changed overnight.

More hits followed. “Love Is Thicker Than Water” topped the charts — a title Andy himself suggested. Then came “Shadow Dancing,” written by all four Gibb brothers, which ruled the charts for seven weeks and became the biggest hit of 1978.

Andy was only 19 years old. In less than two years, he had three number one singles, sold millions of records, and was plastered across the bedroom walls of teenagers worldwide. He had the looks, the voice, and the family name.

Everything seemed unstoppable.

But Barry noticed something else. Even when the world saw only the teen idol smile, Barry sensed a fragility in his younger brother. Behind the screaming crowds and magazine covers, Andy was vulnerable — maybe even a little lost.

That vulnerability found an outlet in the Miami music and party scene of the late 1970s. Cocaine was everywhere. For Andy, what started as something passed around at parties quickly became part of his daily routine.

At first, it seemed like a way to keep up with fame. Before long, it was the only way he thought he could cope.

One of the most talked-about chapters of his life was his relationship with actress Victoria Principal, best known for her role on “Dallas.” They met in the early 1980s. Young, beautiful, and completely wrapped up in each other, they seemed like a storybook romance.

But behind the scenes, the cracks were showing. Andy’s drug use became impossible to ignore. Those closest to them said the couple isolated themselves, cutting off friends.

Victoria eventually gave him a choice: get rid of the drugs or lose her. Andy could not let go. The relationship ended in 1982, devastating him.

“It really was hell for me,” Andy admitted later. “I had a nervous breakdown. And of course there was that like, I’m the man.

I shouldn’t be acting like this. I should be the one to rally and be strong.” He said losing her was one of the biggest regrets of his life.

Professionally, things were slipping just as fast. In 1981, Andy landed a co-hosting role on “Solid Gold” alongside Marilyn McCoo. It should have been a fresh start.

But his unreliability got in the way. He was cast in Broadway’s “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” and “The Pirates of Penzance” on tour — opportunities most performers would fight for.

But his absences and last-minute cancellations, driven by cocaine binges, left producers frustrated. One producer later said Andy was wonderful when he actually showed up. The problem was he just was not there enough.

By 1982, Andy was starting to see what his choices had cost him. In a brutally honest interview that year, he admitted, “I had everything I wanted, and I just blew it all up.” For someone who had achieved so much before turning 20, it was heartbreaking to watch it unravel.

Through all of it, his family never stopped trying to pull him back. Their mother, Barbara, had made Barry promise years earlier that he would always look after his youngest brother. Barry took that promise seriously — sometimes more seriously than his own career.

He rearranged recording schedules, skipped studio sessions, and put off his own commitments to make sure Andy was not left alone. It was not just about being a big brother anymore. Barry felt the weight of being Andy’s protector, even when it was exhausting and nearly impossible.

By the mid-1980s, Andy’s finances were in serious trouble. The teen idol who had earned millions was suddenly facing debts he could not pay. By 1987, he filed for bankruptcy, reporting income of less than $8,000 for the entire year while his debts had climbed over a million dollars.

Barry and his brothers helped cover what debts they could. They set Andy up in a Miami condominium so he could be close to them, giving him a small allowance to cover day-to-day life. They hoped keeping him near family would stop him from slipping further.

The family tried every approach imaginable. Gentle heart-to-heart talks. Formal interventions.

Stints in rehabilitation facilities, including his well-known stay at the Betty Ford Center in 1985. Each time there was hope. Each time the relapses followed.

Barry later admitted how powerless he often felt, saying no amount of love, fame, or financial support could fight Andy’s battles for him. That was the most painful part. Fans still saw the same smiling face on magazine covers.

They still sang along to his songs as though nothing had changed.

But for Barry, Robin, Maurice, and their parents, every headline and every old song was a reminder of the younger brother they were trying so desperately to save. In a recent interview, Barry was asked if he could watch old footage of Andy. “No, it’s too hard,” he said.

“It just makes me emotional.”

By the early 1980s, the music world was changing fast. The disco-driven sound that had made Andy a star was slipping out of fashion. Radio stations were shifting toward new wave, soft rock, and emerging pop acts.

For Andy, finding his place became much harder.

His reputation in the industry had also caught up with him. People loved his talent, but promoters and producers remembered the missed shows. A comeback felt like an uphill climb.

His voice was still there, but it was huskier, more weathered. Fans could hear the strain behind the charm.

Doctors had already warned him that years of cocaine use had weakened his heart muscle. One doctor told him that although he was only in his mid-20s, his heart looked like it belonged to someone in their 50s. Andy would nod, agree to take it easy, and then fall back into old habits.

In 1980, he released “After Dark,” his final studio album. Barry was heavily involved, producing most of the tracks and layering his own harmonies to steady Andy’s vocals. The record had bright spots, including “Desire” and a duet with Olivia Newton-John called “I Can’t Help It.”

But it did not perform like his earlier records.

Soon after, RSO Records, the label that had made him a star, let him go. Even Robert Stigwood admitted it was a painful decision, but one he felt was unavoidable. Andy tried other projects, including a duet with Victoria Principal, but it stalled outside the top 50.

For a man who had once topped the charts worldwide, it was a tough reality check. By 1987, things hit rock bottom with the bankruptcy filing. The news made headlines.

For Andy, who already carried so many insecurities, it was a blow he never fully got past.

In early 1988, it really did feel, at least for a while, like Andy might be turning a corner. He had gone through another round of rehab. Barry had secured a new record deal with Island Records in the UK, and the plan was for Andy to start fresh in England.

He moved into a carriage house on Robin’s estate, where the family hoped the quiet countryside would give him peace and focus. But the comeback was not as steady as it looked. Andy was still weighed down by the breakup with Victoria.

Those lingering feelings of failure made him anxious.

He missed meetings with the record company. Those missed chances eventually caused the deal to collapse before it even began. His brothers wanted so badly to see him back on stage, but something always seemed to be pulling him backwards.

On March 5, 1988, Andy celebrated his 30th birthday in London. Family and friends were there. For a short moment, it felt like things were okay.

Two days later, he was admitted to John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford with chest pains.

Barry flew in immediately. He sat with Andy, talking about old guitars and the songs they used to write as kids. Andy still had his sense of humor, joking that maybe their next tune should be a country ballad about second chances.

But just five days after his birthday, on March 10, Andy collapsed and passed away. Doctors said it was myocarditis, an inflammation of the heart muscle likely triggered by a virus. But everyone knew the years of drug use had left his heart too weak to fight back.

Barry has spoken about it many times since, but never in a way that feels rehearsed. He remembers Andy like you would remember a younger brother tugging at your sleeve, asking you to teach him a harmony. He still performs Andy’s songs now and then, telling stories between verses.

He makes sure his brother is not just remembered for how he died, but for the joy he brought when he lived. When Barry talks to audiences about Andy, he often shares a message that comes from somewhere very personal: do not wait until it is too late to reach out for help.

It is his way of turning loss into something that might save someone else. It is also his way of keeping Andy close — through the music, through the memories, and through the lessons that came with loving him.

For Barry Gibb, the Bee Gees were never just four brothers chasing harmonies. They were a family that loved hard, lost hard, and carried secrets the world never fully knew. And now, at 79, Barry is finally telling the truth about the youngest one — the brother who lived fast, loved hard, and left too soon.