“Turn the Page: Why I’m Retiring from the Road”
By Damon Johnson
After a lifetime of six strings, smoky stages, and more miles than I can count, the time has come for me to say something I never thought I would: I’m retiring from music.
It’s surreal to say it out loud. Even now, sitting with a cup of black coffee and my favorite acoustic beside me, the words don’t roll off easy. Music has been my identity, my work, my therapy, and my joy since I first picked up a guitar as a kid in Alabama. From Brother Cane to Alice Cooper, from Thin Lizzy to Lynyrd Skynyrd—it’s been one hell of a ride. But now, it’s time to step off the tour bus and find out who Damon Johnson is when the amp goes quiet.
Let me explain how I got here.
The Long Road
I’ve spent more than three decades chasing that perfect note, that one night where the crowd and the band become one wave of energy. I’ve played the bars, the festivals, the arenas, and everything in between. Some of the best moments of my life have come under stage lights.
But those same lights come with a price. The road doesn’t leave much room for balance. You miss birthdays. You miss ordinary mornings. You miss being a son, a father, a husband in real time. I’ve given my all to this life—happily—but over the last few years, I’ve started feeling the weight of all those years and miles.
It’s not burnout. It’s not frustration. It’s clarity.
Skynyrd and Southern Pride
Joining Lynyrd Skynyrd in recent years was both an honor and a full-circle moment for me. Growing up in the South, Skynyrd was sacred. Those riffs, those anthems—they weren’t just songs. They were stitched into the fabric of life. So to take the stage and carry on that legacy was something I never took lightly.
But being part of a legendary band means you’re always on. You’re filling the shoes of icons while also bringing your own story to the stage. I gave it everything I had, night after night. Playing those timeless songs with the surviving brothers of the road was a humbling experience—one that I’ll always treasure.
We were more than a band. We were a brotherhood. And I’m proud of the music we made and the people we moved along the way.
Life Beyond the Stage
But here’s what they don’t tell you when you’re 25 and dreaming of guitars and glory—eventually, your soul starts to long for something else. For stillness. For home. For presence.
I want to be there for my family in a way I haven’t been able to for much of my career. I want to wake up and not immediately check where the next show is or what city I’m in. I want to write music not for an album cycle, but because it speaks to something real in me—without a deadline, without a label, without expectations.
I may not be touring anymore, but I’ll always be a songwriter. That part never retires. If you’ve followed my solo work, you know I’ve always had one foot in the personal—songs that cut closer to the bone, that say what I couldn’t in conversation. I’ll keep writing. I may even record here and there. But the pressure’s off. I’m not chasing chart positions or festival spots anymore.
To My Fans
You all have been the backbone of my journey. Whether you’ve been with me since the Brother Cane days or discovered me during a Skynyrd encore, your support has meant everything. I’ve read your letters, shaken your hands after shows, seen your tattoos, heard your stories. You reminded me, time and again, why this life was worth it.
You gave my music meaning. You gave me fuel when I was running on fumes. And now, as I step away, I hope you know that this isn’t a goodbye forever—just a change in rhythm.
What’s Next
I’m not disappearing. I’m just slowing down.
I’ll be spending more time at home in Nashville. Maybe producing. Maybe mentoring young artists. Maybe just being Dad and grilling out on the weekends. I’ve earned that, I think.
And as for the guitar? It’s not going into storage. It’ll still be around. Just in a quieter room, on a slower day.
Final Chord
Retirement isn’t about walking away from music—it’s about walking toward something else, something that’s been calling me for a while now. I’ve lived more than one lifetime through rock and roll. And now I’m ready to live a different kind of life, one filled with simplicity, stillness, and the kind of love that only grows in the quiet moments.
To my bandmates, to the fans, to every road crew member, every promoter, every sound engineer, every radio DJ who gave me a shot—thank you.
And to the 15-year-old kid who picked up a guitar and dared to dream—he’s still here. Just ready for a new tune.
With gratitude,
Damon Johnson
