John Richard Paul

The Road of Life is my first proper solo debut record. It’s a collection of songs culled from life that, taken together, represent a small portion of the person I am today. I’ve vehemently stuck to the adage “write what you know,” pulling everything directly from my personal life and experiences. A couple weeks ago I had to wear a wristband that said “Observer” while my two boys (6 and 8, also prominent figures on the record and in my songwriting in general) bounced around an indoor trampoline park. I’ve never been one for tattoos, not liking anything enough to want it permanently etched on my body, but that single word best summed up the gist of who I am. Not much of a talker, probably seen by most as standoffish or aloof, not terribly engaged. But the opposite is true. I’m just constantly taking everything in, the whole world around me, the people, places and things that make up a life, attempting to process it both in the moment and contextually within my years on this planet. My deepest apologies to those who’ve thought otherwise and figured me for an asshole. I promise I’m not. Just often lost in thought and deeply uncomfortable in most social settings (rather ironic, given the nature of my chosen career path). These ten songs best represent where I’ve been and where I’m at, an autobiographical sketch examining the who, what, where, when, how, and why of a life. I offhandedly referred to it once as not so much songwriting as emotional journalism. So it goes. 

“Across the Lake”

When you lose somebody close to you, your whole world shifts, seismically. Everything you’ve ever known has been irrevocably changed. The idea that things we once knew no longer exist permeates this song and the ideas herein. The physical structures may remain, but the people they once housed are gone. Yet their memories remain within, if not the literal walls, the more figurative walls of our minds. Though hidden from time to time, maybe amongst the leaves of the silver maple in the front yard, they might occasionally find themselves windblown across the lake and far away from here. A presence remains.

“Plus Two”

I can be kinda hard to deal with. I’ve got some rather significant anxiety issues, am prone to mood swings, harbor a handful of mental problems, the whole gamut. So all the credit in the world to my wife for sticking it out. Twenty years as of this writing. We’ve managed to build a life together, now with our plus two in tow. This song exists in two other forms already released, but it’s become such an integral part of my life that I would be remiss to exclude it from an album whose very existence is predicated on the sum total of the collective stories and parts that make up a life. 

“Swimming After Dark”

When we were kids, my brother and sisters and I got to spend time alone with our grandparents at the family cottage on Mullett Lake outside Cheboygan. Anybody who’s been up that way will know most or all of the places referenced (Castle Rock, The Mystery Spot, Alice’s Kandy & Korn, Mackinac Island, etc.) Though an amalgamation, it refers to one day in particular when they took us over to Mackinac Island for the first time. I can still remember the white and neon green Avia shoes I wore, the way they felt. Can’t be sure of the ferry timetables, but I would imagine it’s close, wanting to make a full day of it and all. One of the first songs that came to me after the passing of my grandma back in 2005. Couldn’t sing it for awhile without tearing up. My brother told me he did the same upon hearing this version. A deeply personal (for my family) song. The line about getting “pasties in the park” refers to a long-standing family tradition, getting pasties from the Mackinaw Pastie Co. in Mackinaw City and taking them to Wawatam Park in the shadow on the Mackinac Bridge. In all likelihood, we kids were too scared from the bonfire stories of what might be lurking in the lake (the giant sturgeon nicknamed “Gums,” the three men strapped to a log my uncle swore he saw floating in the lake one night racing home in the boat) to actually go swimming after dark, but the general sentiment seemed to work. 

“The Worriers Hall of Fame”

My grandpa’s worrying became legendary within my family. Got me thinking about the magic of genetics and how some things are passed down visibly and others less so. It’s become an unofficial family anthem of sorts, tracing now four generations of Paul boys, all of whom have been afflicted by the worrying gene. Some things never change. Legend has it he did call the state police on a few occasions, worried that some family member or other had met a terrible end. Even if not entirely true, it still makes for a good story. Family legacies are built on such things. 

“Silver Linings”

My mom always asks who this song is about. Enquiring minds and all that. That’s for me, though. I’ve had folks, now that it’s been out in the world, tell me it’s alternately the most depressing song they’ve ever heard and that it truly resonated with them after having a particularly hard year. It’s not mine anymore. It belongs to everybody. Imprint on it what you will. Take comfort in the sentiments. Sorry, mom. 

“No Matter How Hard We Try”

The early days of the pandemic were a time of great uncertainty and fear, a time when this song came about. Couple this with the general propensity for things to never go as we plan and yeah, it does seem like everything just seems to wanna fall apart, no matter how hard we try. The line “Could you have ever imagined even four years ago that we’d be here?” is the only overtly political statement on the record, a reference to the orange monster. Everything else tracks with my blatant pessimism (see also: the third verse of “Silver Linings”). But so long as we keep things in perspective there’s a chance that, despite the lyrics, things might end up being okay after all. 

“Sea Shell City”

Written after the death of my grandma. The first major loss of a loved one. Went back to the idea of an afternoon we shared together where she took me to the titular location off I-75. Added a few artistic liberties, a little poetic license, but remained largely true to the facts. I still remember handling the brittle starfish and smooth, perfect looking shells, holding them to my ear as instructed to hear the sound of far away oceans. She and my grandpa traveled the world for years, saw all kinds of things and had many stories to tell. I always remembered them coming back from freighter trips loaded down with photos, stories and trinkets from far-off places. When I was singing this song in Nashville a few years back, the line, “Maybe some day when you’re grown you will be far away from home and you can think of me here” had me tearing up, my voice catching in my throat. Just the thought still manages the same.  

“Our Roots Run Deep”

My youngest sister - the Annie of the song’s first line - has been physically and mentally handicapped from birth. She’s non-verbal, non-ambulatory, requires 24-hour care, the whole nine. Yet the looks she gives can convey more than any words I could ever attempt to string together. Sometimes we talk in my dreams. An imagined life, one in which we wouldn’t be who we are. Sometimes comforting, more often distressing, these thoughts. But her face registers the passage of time, my “looking older these days.” It’s as good an entry point as any I could consider for a song about family and knowing where you’re from. It’s true you can’t always go back home, but I believe that applies more to the idea of the house you grew up in rather than your hometown. Once those roots are there, it takes a lot for them to be completely and totally destroyed. Especially if they managed to take a deep hold. Some places hold greater sway in the lives of folks than others. Traverse City, for a certain generation, seems to be one of those places. 

“Work in Progress”

It’s tough being named after someone else (who, in turn, was named after someone else). That’s a lot of baggage. Lives lived certain ways in different times. Ended up, I’m the first John Paul not to go into banking. Particularly tough when you’re your father’s son and namesake in a small town in which he was a well-known and respected community figure. That I chose a life in music after a decade trying to follow a proscribed path based on previous generational expectations must’ve been a hard pill for my folks to swallow. But they’ve been more than gracious and supportive once they saw how bound and determined I was to stick this out. Things don’t always work out, but we learn a bit as we go. Hard to know what to do when you aren’t really sure who you are to begin with. These things take time. 

“The Road of Life”

Came to me in a dream, nearly fully formed. Didn’t want to get up to capture it. Was tired from having to deal with kids and sleepless nights. Started dreaming some more. John Prine showed up, told me it was gonna be a “good song” and that I should probably wake my ass up and catch it before it vanished into the ether. The basic idea came from a conversation with my friend and musical partner, Rhett DuCouer, on a drive to a gig. Some lives are more varied and circuitous than others. Also happened to be reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road at that time. Seemed a good metaphor. Mixed that up with what Rhett and I had talked about with regard to her life. Caught the cosmic radio signal for a few moments while somnambulant. Finally fully work my ass up as Mr. Prine suggested to capture the rest and here we are. We might not always like where we are, but the accumulated mileage leads us to where we ultimately need to be. I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason and it is the sum total of all these experiences that make us who we are, where we are and, ultimately, why we are. 

The Road Of Life is available everywhere you stream or download music June 14, 2024.