I think it goes without saying that 21-year-old J.P. was a very different person than 50-year-old J.P. That was the age when I moved to Ireland, young, eager, innocent, and convinced I knew what my life was supposed to look like. I worked hard, no doubt about that, and I modelled my idea of success on the musicians I admired. And yes, there was youthful arrogance, the kind that often hides how lost we really are.
Back then I didn’t have the self-awareness to understand who I truly was. It takes humility to look in the mirror and see yourself honestly. But that same ego and drive were what pushed my career into motion. I was more of a team player than a solo artist then, but I quickly learned that if you want something done in the music world, you often have to do it yourself.
What followed was an incredible ride:
27 years of thousands of shows, endless sessions, albums, festivals, more hours on the road than I can count. I slept in hundreds of hotel rooms, held on to a bunk bed through a storm in the North Sea, flew through thunderclouds, watched a missile launch from an airplane window, witnessed fights, talked my way out of a few, and played guitar until the calluses bruised bone and sent electric pain through my fingers.
And I met more people, and made more friends than I ever imagined possible.
It was an amazing experience, until it wasn’t anymore.
I’m nothing but grateful for those decades, but the lifestyle took its toll. Physically, yes, but emotionally even more so. Performing seven nights a week, often for drunk, distracted crowds, drains you in ways most people never see. Trying to conjure your best performance for a festival crowd after 10 hours of travel and another gig the night before… that wears you down.
Part of me knew I was living the dream. Another part knew the dream had morphed into something else, something I no longer recognised. And I found myself struggling to remember the reason I chased that dream in the first place.
Of course, this isn’t unique to musicians. Most people hit a moment where they ask:
Is this still who I am? Is this still who I want to be?
In 2023, after nearly three decades in Dublin, we moved to rural Burgundy.
I needed a clean slate.
A fresh start.
And this time… it needed to be my vision.
Working in bands is beautiful, the collaboration, the shared energy, but every extra voice means compromise. That compromise creates legendary albums, yes, but it also lets you hide. In a band, it’s easy to blame someone else if things don’t get done. This time I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to stand behind my own work with no excuses.
Could I have done this in Dublin? Probably.
But old habits dig deep grooves, and it’s hard to step out of them when they’re all around you. I needed a new landscape, a new rhythm, a new version of myself.
Now here I am in my 1970s caravan studio, a tiny creative space I rebuilt from the inside out. And in many ways, that’s exactly what I’m doing with myself.
Tearing down old walls.
Going to the places I avoided.
Facing the things I buried.
Not for anyone else, but because I owe it to myself to see who I really am when everything unnecessary is stripped away.
This story might be about me, but the reason I’m sharing it is for you.
To remind you that it’s never too late to start again.
Not until we take our final breath.
What did you lose along the way?
And how can you bring it back to life?
—J.P.