Johnny McEvoy

Living with bipolar disorder

Iused to work six nights a week all over the country. I was in Heuston Station the other day, and I was looking at the train timetable on the board. I’d been to every one of those towns and played in them all.

Now I just do two tours a year, one in the autumn, the other in the spring. I’m performing in the National Concert Hall on Tuesday.

When I’m doing those concerts, and in between, I’m up at 8am. I wake up naturally. I live on my own in Greystones.

I have a routine when I get up. It’s almost obsessional. I switch on the shower, to let it warm up. Then I do the toothpaste. I wash my hair, have the shower, and then I get out, ruffle the hair, and shave. It has to be that routine, and I can’t break it, even on holidays. It’s good for getting the head together.

Then I’m dressed and ready to go somewhere. I’ve never let that slip, even in the worst days when my wife, Odette, was dying. It was a way of holding on to reality.

I’m bipolar. September is one of the hardest months, when the light starts to dim. It’s not a bad dip, but you just become very sensitive to things around you. You start to remember the past. By November, everyone gets a dip. January is the worst month, so I try to get away. The sun helps, and light is important. I was in Tenerife recently. It was great to have all that sun, and not to hear the word Brexit for two weeks.

In the mornings, I make a vegetable smoothie, and tea. I have muesli with sliced banana, and toast.

Then I go for my walk. If I don’t have my walk, I’m a grumpy fecker all day. I walk down by the sea. I started this when my wife died. It was hard going. I was out in the rain, snow, and bitter-cold winter days with my iPod. I’d drive myself on and on, and it helped me to get through that time. It was the fresh air and watching the sea and its moods; don’t mess with me, I’m the sea and if you start doing something silly, I’ll grab you.

I walk three kilometres, and I always go back to the coffee shop and have a coffee as my reward. This helps me feel well. It keeps the depression at bay. I was diagnosed with manic depression in 1979, and have been on medication ever since.

After coffee, I go home. Then, if I’ve somewhere to go, I head off. I’ve been in a routine of getting songs together for a new album. The latest album is called Mirror on

the Wall. I’m still writing songs. I was never prolific. But I did the Camino, and when I came back I was on a high, and I wrote a lot. I felt healthier than I’d ever felt in my life. I walked 260 kilometres. I came home and I couldn’t stop talking about it. I was boring people to tears. I felt a great pride in myself.

I started out as a folk singer, and I would still regard myself as a folk singer. I have no idea where the music came from. My dad was a bus driver and loved ceili music. He thought I was wasting my time with the music. He told me to get a trade, and I started as a plumber. I left it after six weeks and worked in advertising. Then I met a guy from Waterford, Mick Crotty, and we discovered we had the same likes — Liam Clancy, folk music and ballads. We struck up a friendship, and suddenly I had a guitar and mouth organ.

We used to play together, and then I went out on my own. I got a spot in the show Gaels of Laughter in the Gaiety with Maureen Potter. I only had two songs to sing, but I always remember Maureen said to me — ‘You might only have two songs in the show, but you are an important cog in the show’. She told me to look at the faces in the audience, and I’ve always done that. It was a great experience. Then I recorded Muirsheen Durkin, and that was the start of the big time.

It happened very fast. I was frightened by the adulation. The girls were screaming, pulling at my shirt. I was very serious about the whole thing. I thought, ‘If you’re going to do it, do it right. Be on time, and respect the people. Pick your songs and do your one encore and get off ’. I’ve stuck to the discipline of that all my life. The day before a performance, the anxiety starts to kick in. I still try to go for my morning walk, if I have the time.

On the day of a concert, I drive down to my manager Darren’s house, and we head off in his car. Then I start to talk and I can’t stop talking. It’s nervous energy. We are at the venue at 4pm, even though we’re not on stage until 8pm. All the equipment is being set up.

I walk the theatre and walk the stage I want to get the feel of it and the smell of it. We do a tune-up and soundcheck, and then we go for a good meal. I have something light.

I like to have some time on my own before a show. Then the musicians join me in the dressing room. There is a good camaraderie. Then, just before I go on, I say, ‘Why am I putting myself through this?’ But when the lights go down and I walk out, I’m happy on stage. I always do the favourites.

I love meeting the audience afterwards. Then we pack everything up. My guitar is the last to be packed away. It’s sad, because that moment is gone, no matter how good it went. You’ve got to think of the next one.

Then we get into the car and out comes the Diet Coke and the Pringles. And then I start talking non-stop because I’m on a high.

In conversation with Ciara Dwyer

“Maureen Potter told me to look out at the faces in the audience. I’ve always done that”