I’ve always had a bit of a thing for music that you could describe as “raw”. Obviously a lot of music is deeply personal, but less music feels like it’s written so firmly about an author’s life, and that it grabs at elements of their soul and bares them for all to see. Truthfully, I was unfamiliar with J Smith when his music landed amongst my PR emails, but it quickly became clear that his music sits exactly in that realm. So much so that what he asked for was help sharing his stories, not his music. They amount to the same thing in this case, of course, but it feels like a very different ask; and a very different lens.

So I asked about the personal things, and I uncovered a man writing about life and family, writing through heart and emotion, somewhat against the odds. His albums are, he says, representations of life before and after his daughter. Life experience tells me parenthood is hard, especially the early years. There’s beauty in hearing the lightness his daughter clearly instills in him. ‘I Stood Their Naked’ is a telling title, and the album as a whole that bears that title is not yet for public consumption, but the singles, ‘Bassinet’, ‘Corner Shop’, and ‘Laburnum’ give light to Smith’s stories. Here’s what he told me about it all.

Your new song, Bassinet, is about impending fatherhood. Was it difficult to translate into music?

When I sit down to write a song, it tends to bring everything up. It exposes every facet of a situation, so I usually know exactly how I want it to feel. With Bassinet, I wanted to express optimism and a sense of elation, and I think that comes through in the music. Having great players around me helped a lot.

You describe your songs as meditations. What do you mean by that, and how does it work in practice?

I mean that I try to allow every thought in—dark and light—and aim to be as true to a situation as I can. One thing that’s changed since having my child is that my thoughts now tend to lean more toward the light. I’m not as anxious as I used to be, despite life being far more complicated.

You’re pointedly personal in your music. Does that ever get hard? Does it come with any consequences?

It absolutely gets hard. I’m often uncomfortable with things I’ve shared lyrically—and with things I will share. But I can’t seem to write any other way. Some of it feels like a protest against the ultra-composed nature of persona on social media.

The consequences are mostly positive. People reach out, ask questions, empathize, share. They come away feeling like they know a big part of me, and that makes conversations so much richer.

How does ‘I Stood There Naked’ compare to your earlier work?

It’s a sister album to my first. I never doubted that I would meet my daughter—it felt like destiny. So the two albums sit beside each other: life before Connie, and life after.

This new album is lighter. It’s full of moments of joy and whimsy, reflecting the time I’ve spent watching my daughter grow—and myself change.

Is the title a metaphor for all that personal stuff? To what extent is this whole thing a kind of therapy for you?

I can’t afford therapy. I could just about afford to make this record. My creative practice gives me that outlet. It creates a dialogue between me and my wife, sparks conversations, and allows me to connect with something bigger than myself.

It also helps me be more present and balanced with my family. I’m forever grateful for it.

How have you found the Irish music scene? What are its strengths and issues?

There’s a beautiful network of people here—some of the greatest players, deeply committed songwriters, and a level of inclusiveness that rivals any scene.

The issues don’t lie within the community itself but with everything around it. People can’t afford to go to gigs or buy merch because so much of their income is going toward essentials. Musician fees haven’t increased, support slots often don’t pay, and ticket prices are kept low just to get people in the door.
It’s hard to say this without sounding bitter, but if we want to keep music alive, we need solutions—maybe universal pay for artists, or getting people to invest directly rather than rely on streaming.

How do you measure the success of a release?

It’s hard. I try to limit my idea of success to the experience of making the work. I thoroughly enjoyed the process of this album—recording at Hellfire Studios with incredible players (Dylan Lynch, Neil Dorrington, Aidan Gray, Conor Wallace, Hannah Miller, Paul Kiernan, Krists Liepa, Ora Quartet).

Learning how to score for strings and brass, implementing those parts, mixing it, and creating the artwork myself—I learned so much. I see real success in that.

Do you find it easy to convert a track from recording to live performance?

A big step is letting go of the idea that it has to sound like the record. I don’t want to go to a gig and feel like I could’ve just stayed home and listened.

As a solo musician, I have to hire players. They change every gig, which means each performance has its own limitations and advantages. That’s exciting to me. Live music is where I feel most connected. It’s where I think AI can’t go—it’s human and real. That’s what people want again.

What’s been your favourite experience through music so far?

I’ve played big shows—close to 3,000 people—shared stages with amazing musicians, played intimate rooms… but I just love having my daughter in the audience. Seeing her mouth along to songs and dance with my wife—that fills my soul.

What are your hopes for the future?

I hope I can keep making music. I hope I can make a living from it. And I hope I can pass on a reverence and awe for live music to my daughter, so she can experience it the way I do.