Born in Essex in 1989, musician Sam Ryder found fame covering hits on TikTok during the 2020 lockdown. In 2022, he represented the UK at the Eurovision song contest, finishing second to Ukraine with his hit Space Man. The following year, he was nominated for best new artist at the Brit awards. Ryder headlines the Ovo Arena, Wembley, on 6 November, and his new single, OH OK, is out now. He lives in Essex with his partner, Lois Gaskin-Barber.
This was taken at The Underworld in Camden, north-west London, when I was in a band called the Morning After with my friends from school. The gig was probably awful – but what we lacked in tightness, we definitely made up for in enthusiasm.
When I look at this photo, I see the arrogance of youth. I’d have probably got wasted after the gig and stayed up all night. The foot on the amp – it’s like I’m playing the part of a rock star. I was convinced we were going to make it, and I had no insecurities whatsoever, which is a total superpower at 19. As you get older, that kind of mindset can cause problems – arrogance and a detachment from reality. But when you’re young, it fuels your dreams. If I wasn’t deluded, what else would I have had? I came from a working-class family, I had no foot in the door. All I had was my ambition and the stories I could tell.
The Morning After’s music was an amalgamation of Iron Maiden, Sum 41 and Megadeth, but I couldn’t write anything nearly as good as those bands. That didn’t stop us from touring in mainland Europe, mostly playing to no one. The alternative was working full-time in an industry I wasn’t passionate about. Instead, we borrowed my bandmate’s van from his tiling job, and played wherever anyone would let us.
My dad was a carpenter, my mum worked in Boots and then as a dental assistant. They grafted every hour they could. My parents didn’t have connections in the music world, but they did everything they could to help me get there, like driving me to gigs. For a while, I had a job in McDonald’s, but I got into a fight with some people who came into the drive-thru one night. I’ve always had long hair, apart from one unfortunate haircut I had as a kid where I looked like Mr Spock. Maldon in Essex could be a hostile environment for anyone who looked “alternative”. My dad didn’t want me doing shifts there any more, so I ended up working part-time with him in carpentry and labouring on building sites.
After the metal band broke up, I joined a punk band called Close Your Eyes. It was a proper rock’n’roll lifestyle – drinking, smoking, being a nuisance and barely being able to sing the next day. But after a few years of touring, my bandmates met their girlfriends and started to put their instruments down for something more settled. Lois, who I’ve been with for 13 years, is my first real girlfriend. Before I met her, all I wanted was a life on the road. Not that I actively avoided female attention – I was awkward, with braces and a mullet. Nobody was coming forward! But it did mean I had a lot of spare time to obsess over Megadeth songs in my bedroom instead.
In my mid-20s, the delusion was finally over and I made a promise to myself that I’d stop joining new bands that were on the brink of breaking up. I was like a flea on the back of a series of dead dogs, and it was all about ego. I just wanted people to see I was touring the world, so they’d think, “Wow, he has been a successful artist since leaving school!” The reality was, I had no kind of foundation or constant in my life. I also had no money. I remember, after one tour, being in line at Nando’s and trying to pay for my order, but my card getting declined. I went to the ATM and realised I was over my overdraft. At that moment, I thought, “I’m fed up with this. Something has to change.” I was constantly seeing friends on Facebook moving into new houses or celebrating work promotions. Meanwhile, I couldn’t afford a chicken wrap in a business park in Leicester.
After that, I decided to focus on my own music and started recording in my parents’ shed. It was then that Mum suggested I start a wedding band. For eight years, me and my friends made a business out of it. I learned about taking care of my voice and what it means to really be a musician, rather than just pretending to be a rock star. There was no ego, because nobody cared about what I was doing musically. Things would always go wrong. Once, a couple had told us a different first dance from the one they actually wanted and we needed to figure out the new one on the spot, and there were times where big family fights erupted and we had to keep on playing. But, mostly, we just made a lot of people happy.
It took until I was in my 30s for my solo career to take off. It was in lockdown, and I was posting TikTok videos from my parents’ shed. The stars aligned, my profile got a lot of traction and I was blown away by the response. It was incredible, but also a strange sensation, as I was starting to make peace with just playing weddings. Instead, my life changed overnight.
In January 2022, I got a call about doing Eurovision from the president of the record label I was on. My immediate reaction was, “Sick. I love Eurovision.” Then that other, more negative voice crept in: “What about the perception? It’s a poisoned chalice. You’re going to ruin your career.” In the end, I trusted my heart. On the night of the results, I had the Ukrainian flag with me in my pocket. The scores were coming in and it was close. But I knew that I couldn’t go up and accept the award. Eurovision has always been about putting a spotlight on something that needs it, and I was adamant, however high we scored, Ukraine were the real winners.
At the start of my career, I inadvertently built a brand around myself. This sort of sunny, optimistic person. It wasn’t strictly who I was, because no human on Earth is like that all the time. We all have seasons. It wasn’t fake, either – I was just stoked to have this opportunity. I thought that bringing negativity into a conversation was bad manners and that I should put a smile on my face, no matter how I felt. Now, I’m trying to have more authentic connections with people, and I don’t feel the pressure to be an endlessly positive caricature.
There are still days when I feel an immense lack of self-confidence and lose my spark, but now I know how to get balance back in my life. It’s why I like to live out in the countryside, why I don’t subscribe to famous friends and keep my circle small, because all the people that were there at the beginning are still here now.
I may not have fronted the biggest band in the world, as I thought I was about to when that photo was taken, but without that failure I’d have also never tasted defeat. It tastes horrible, but it’s the best suit of armour you will ever get.
