He was born in 1907 and grew up as part of a privileged family in Rochester, NY.

New York’s legendary Algonquin Hotel in NYC was his home base for half a century while he travelled the country on the trains he so loved.

Rather than publish a standard autobiography, he created a sequence of over 200 letters which addressed the story of his life to those who lived it with him. These letters form the basis of Letters I Never Mailed.

Many times his music wasn't jazz enough for the "jazzers," or "highbrow," "classical" or "avant-garde" enough for the classical establishment. In essence, Wilder's music was so original that it didn't fit in any of the preordained musical slots and stylistic pigeonholes. His music was never out of vogue because, in effect, it was never in vogue.

Frank Sinatra, an early fan of Wilder's music and an avid supporter, persuaded Columbia Records to record some of Wilder's solo wind works with string orchestra for an album in 1945. They agreed only so long as Sinatra would “conduct” them.

The two men became life-long friends and Sinatra recorded many of Wilder's popular songs. His last song, A Long Night, was written in response to a 1980 request from Sinatra for a "saloon" song.

Wilder’s Symphonic Piece was premiered in 1929 with fellow composer Howard Hanson conducting. Wilder was so displeased with the rehearsals he got drunk at a nearby speakeasy and missed the performance.

Among his most famous concert pieces are the 31 Octets, which combine the “classical” chamber music sound of woodwinds and harpsichord with a jazz rhythm section. They were assigned titles such as The Children Meet the Train, It’s Silk Feel It and Jack This Is My Husband.

A group of his friends who remain committed to his memory now meet annually in New York for a concert of his multi-faceted music.

He died on Christmas Eve 1980, the news of his passing came over the wires on the one day of the year when few would have access to newspapers or news bulletins. He wanted no marker on his grave: “I wish none, no names, no dates, and certainly no maudlin phrases in the style of Rod McKuen”.