Born in Los Angeles in 1981, Josh Groban is a singer-songwriter and actor. His self-titled classical-crossover debut went five-times platinum in 2001, and he has since sold more than 25m albums. As an actor, he has appeared in films such as Crazy Stupid Love and TV shows The Office and The Simpsons. Groban made his Broadway debut in 2016 in Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812 – a role that earned him a Tony award nomination. Groban performs his first UK show in six years at a one-off O2 event in London on 1 April.
I went through a lot of phases when I was five – astronaut, firefighter, and, in this photo, cowboy. The look was inspired by the old country and western films I was watching, a kind of homemade blend of gunslinger and headband-wearing guitarist. And it wasn’t just for the back yard – I wore it everywhere. If I dropped something on the street, my mum would say, “Josh, cowboys don’t litter.” She was great at using whatever character I’d invented to teach me a lesson.
Back then I was shy and socially awkward, and I could fly off the handle without knowing why. I didn’t realise I had ADHD, so I was bouncing off the walls one minute and crashing the next. I was creative, but often privately: the kind of precocious show-off who’d put on a magic show with my brother, doing silly card tricks, but if someone asked me to do something heartfelt, I’d freeze. Even now, at 44, I’m still terrified to play new songs for people – the words “Come on, Josh, play us a song!” at a party remain my worst nightmare.
My voice didn’t drop until I was 14, and I struggled in lessons unless they were arts classes. I switched schools several times as my parents were trying to find an environment where I could actually absorb anything academic. ADHD wasn’t talked about much then, and teachers didn’t always have the patience for it.
When I was 13, a teacher pulled me out of the back of the choir and gave me my first solo. It was the first time I’d shown anyone what I only did in my bedroom, and the first time I felt genuinely good about myself. Something clicked after that. I was at school with the actor Jason Schwartzman, and we performed a Gershwin song called ’S Wonderful – Jason on drums, me on vocals. My classmates were losing their minds because the kid who usually hid in the corner was suddenly doing a scat solo.
Those formative moments transformed what had otherwise been a tumultuous chapter in my childhood. From there I auditioned for musicals, joined the jazz vocal choir and eventually landed at the LA County High School for the Arts. That’s when I realised I could actually do this professionally.
I was discovered at 16 by the producer and songwriter David Foster, who had heard about me through a local voice teacher. After listening to a tape of mine, he asked me to stand in for Andrea Bocelli, who was stuck in Germany and couldn’t make rehearsals for the 1999 Grammys. I was naive enough at that age not to grasp how important it was to be singing The Prayer with Céline Dion, but I was still terrified. Céline was incredibly kind and kept reassuring me I could do it. Dad said I knocked it out of the park – and the next morning I just went back to class, as if nothing had happened.
I was about to go to the prestigious performing arts school Carnegie Mellon when David suggested that there might be another pathway for me. Instead of studying, I took a leave of absence and started recording. It was the early 00s – hybrid genres such as rap-rock and pop-rock were dominating the Billboard charts, every male singer had frosted tips, and glossy boybands were huge. Being a traditionally trained musical-theatre baritone was not exactly in fashion, so David, with his 16 Grammy awards, was taking a stab in the dark with me. Once it came out, I fully expected the album to tank and that I’d head back to theatre school. I never looked back.
When it came to playing live, David would joke about how the women in the audience were lusting after me. I’d insist, “No, no, they’re so sweet! They’re kind. They’re donating to charity!” Looking back, it was very much a kind of lusty mothering. On the one hand they wanted to pinch my cheeks like I was a sweet boy; on the other, I’d be sitting on the edge of the stage and I’d feel their hands going up my pant leg. Fortunately, none of it got to me because I was completely oblivious.
The tension between being a sensitive person and getting famous is still something I talk to my shrink about. Honestly, I was probably healthier when I was a kid in my bedroom and nobody was paying attention. Part of the problem was the material: I was 18, listening to grunge, but singing songs like To Where You Are about love and grief. At 5am, doing TV while jet-lagged in some far‑off country, I felt pressure to inhabit these very adult emotions I couldn’t relate to, while knowing how deeply the songs mattered to the people listening.
It took me a while to figure out who I was in adulthood, and for a long time I felt as if I was frozen in time as a 12-year-old. As a result, my 20s were chaotic, and eventually that sensitivity turned into depression. Music became a liability to my mental health. I let the negativity in – the praise, the criticism, the feeling of not belonging. It was like reliving all the insecurities of school, on steroids. There were years of walking on stage with a huge smile and crying on the way home, until I finally went on medication because of how dark things were getting.
Luckily, I had great friends, family, and a team who didn’t want me to crash and burn. The music business can be cold and cynical, but my people protected me. I never self-medicated with drugs or alcohol; I never wanted to damage my voice. I always wanted to do well. And now I feel lucky that I can be proud of having kept my head down and pushed through it.
In my 30s, I rebelled creatively – I guess it was my middle-finger phase. I got in the studio with Rick Rubin, worked with comedy people I’ve always admired such as Tim and Eric and everyone involved in Parks and Recreation. Performing on Broadway felt like coming home to my younger self, too – I was surrounded by like-minded weirdos, experimental musicians who can also act and dance; a real Swiss army knife of talents. That experience was a lot like coming full circle – they were all like that kid with the headband and the guitar, a little bit of everything.
Now, in my 40s, I feel grateful to embrace the strange, winding path I’ve taken. I’d be hesitant to tell the five-year-old version of me what the finish line looks like, because I don’t think I’d be here without the hard stuff – the sensitivity, the what-ifs, the failures. Sometimes you need to feel as if you don’t fit in to understand where you do. Plus I definitely wouldn’t want to give him a big head. Based on the outfit alone, that kid was one step away from becoming absolutely intolerable. I’m endlessly proud of him for making it through in one piece, but he needed to be taken down a peg.
