Jeff Beadle Writes Songs for the Long Haul
Jeff Beadle doesn’t chase trends.
The Canadian songwriter has built a quiet career on emotional honesty, sharp storytelling, and a voice that cuts through the noise. From the rustbelt edges of Southern Ontario to intimate stages across Europe and the American South, Beadle’s songs feel lived-in—equal parts worn denim and open diary. Ahead of his Florida run this April, we caught up with Beadle to talk about songwriting as a coping mechanism, the influence of place and family on his music, and why success, for him, looks less like stadium lights and more like real human connection.
Your music often feels deeply personal—do you write to process your experiences, or does the storytelling come first?
It’s a bit of both, honestly. Usually, it starts with a hook or a few emotive chords I can build around. I’ll work that part to death until it feels right, and then let the rest fall into place around it. It’s definitely a way for me to process things—my own experiences or those of people around me. It’s the most natural way I know to make sense of both the struggles and the joy we all share. I’m just tossing my own stories into the mix.
Do you find that place influences your writing? How has your environment shaped your sound?
Absolutely. I’m from Southern Ontario, Canada—good weather is a rarity. It’s a lot like the Rust Belt in the U.S., and we’re right in the thick of it. Our short summers are spent outside with my wife and kids, playing shows and hitting a few festivals. But when fall and winter hit, I hunker down and get to work. If you’ve got a visual mind and listen to the mood or lyrics in my music, you’ll probably see the place I grew up, how I’ve lived, and the people I’ve known.
When you're not writing or performing, what fills your creative well?
Honestly, there are times I don’t listen to much music at all. I’m not a poet, not a painter, and I’m not tearing through books every week. I dabble, but that’s not where I recharge. What really fills me up is simple stuff—running with a few buddies, playing beer league hockey, driving my kids around, or coaching their sports. I find a lot of joy in those moments. I’d rather let my mind rest and do something repetitive than have it switched on all the time. Music is the one art form I feel compelled to pour myself into—but even then, I need time to process everything before I create. I’m in no rush.
There’s a raw honesty in your lyrics—has sharing that vulnerability ever felt risky?
For sure. There are things I don’t say in songs because they’re too personal, especially when it involves family or close friends. I might process those emotions through more metaphorical or abstract lyrics, but I try to be mindful. I never want someone I love to hear a song and be pulled back into a painful moment just because I felt like writing it. That feels insensitive. And then there are hometown shows—those are a whole different thing. Singing something emotional in front of your wife, kids, and family can be really tough. Sometimes you’re choking back tears mid-song, but the show has to go on.
Is there a song you’ve written that still feels hard to perform live?
Yeah—“Single Mothers, Single Fathers.” I don’t play it often, but it gets requested sometimes. I wrote it when I was younger, but now that I’m older and have seen friends go through divorces and family breakdowns, it hits a little harder. It resonates with both older folks who’ve been through it and younger ones who are living it now. It just gets to me in a different way now, and sometimes I’d rather not go there.
Has your relationship to your own music changed over the years? If so, how?
Definitely. Early on, I was bouncing from job to job to make room for touring. Now, with a family, I need a bit more structure. I still tour, but I keep it shorter and closer to home. I used to go to Europe for two months and play 50 shows. Now I might go for a quick run every now and then, but it’s more on my terms. As far as the music itself, I’ve always written what I wanted to write. You can produce a song a million different ways, but I’ve always started with the song and then shaped the sound around it. One big shift, though—I used to think music had to come from suffering. These days, I’m finding joy in the writing. I’ve become more hopeful, especially for my kids and the generation coming up. I’m excited to see what they create.
What’s something you believed about music or life when you started out that you no longer believe?
I used to think being a musician was a young person’s game. I told myself, “If I don’t make it by 30, I’m done.” But then I started making the best music of my life in my mid-30s. I got signed. I toured the world. And I realized that “making it” doesn’t mean stadiums or sold-out theaters. It means making a real connection. I’ve had people from all over reach out to say a song helped them through something hard. That’s what success looks like to me now.
What’s a moment with a fan or listener that has stuck with you?
There have been so many. I’ve played in a lot of beautiful communities and had a ton of encouraging moments that meant the world to me. Sometimes, all it takes is someone saying “keep going” to get you through the next show or album. One that always makes me laugh happened in Germany. I was pretty new to playing guitar and this guy came up to the merch booth and said, “You have such an amazing voice and songs—but your guitar playing is shit.” And he still bought a record! I loved that honesty. It pushed me to get better. So—thank you, sir.
If someone heard your music for the first time today, what do you hope they take away from it?
I’m just a regular person who decided to pick up a guitar and tell some stories. We all go through things—some harder than others—but people can hear parts of their stories in my songs. If someone feels seen or understood through something I wrote, that means the world. And if it inspires even one person to try writing themselves, even better. It’s a bit of a cliché, but music really can be therapy.
What do you hope your songs still say 20 years from now?
I hope they say who I was—maybe even who we were as people before the full-on AI takeover, ha. Maybe they’ll be a time capsule for my kids or anyone else curious. I could live with that.
Jeff Beadle’s Performances
April 10 - Spinster Abbott’s - St. Augustine, FL
April 11 - Blue Jay Listening Room - Jacksonville, FL
April 12 - The Bull - Gainesville, FL
