Chad Lawson is an American pianist, composer, podcaster and certified breathwork coach. With multiple #1 releases, Chad Lawson has a different approach to classical music; don’t make it classical. Don’t miss our conversation with Chad Lawson about influences, creative rituals, new project Where We Are: Sleep Reworks, upcoming projects, and life.

You’ve had success across multiple genres, from jazz to contemporary classical. How does your background in jazz influence your current work?

Jazz taught me everything about listening. It’s not just about the notes you play—it’s about the space between them and how you respond to the room, the energy, the moment. That’s stayed with me, even now. Whether I’m recording a solo piano piece or working on a larger composition, I’m always asking myself, Am I listening? Am I contributing?

Jazz is really about being fully in the moment—not just as a performer, but as a participant. You’re part of something bigger that’s happening right then and there, and it only exists in that moment. That mindset has never left me. Even now, when I’m writing something quiet and introspective, it’s less about perfection and more about presence. About creating something honest in real time.

Is there a composer, past or present, who you feel a deep connection to or who has shaped your approach to music?

Without question—Chopin. I often joke that I never made it past the Romantic period. I stopped at Chopin because, for me, melody is everything. His ability to express vulnerability through melody is something I’ve chased my entire career. I want my music to feel like a conversation with the listener, the way Chopin’s melodies still speak to people centuries later. Bach is a close second because of his structure and discipline, but Chopin grabbed my heartstrings.

When do you feel the most inspired? Is there a particular time of day or environment that sparks your creativity?

Oddly enough, it’s when I stop trying to be creative. I’ll get my best ideas during a long run, or after meditation, or honestly, when I’m on the yoga mat. I’m a pretty devout yogi, and it’s often in those moments—away from the piano, away from the noise—that ideas start to quietly show up.

It’s the time away from the music that inspires me the most when I finally sit down to play. If all I did was sit at a piano eight hours a day, there’d be no life in the music. And if there’s no life, there’s no story. And if there’s no story, how am I supposed to connect with anyone listening—if I don’t even know what my own story is?

I wish I were one of those artists who could say, “I saw a sunset and wrote a song,” but that’s just not how it works for me. I wait. I wait for a melody to show up, and then another, and another, until my head is so full of them I can’t ignore it. That’s when I sit at the piano and start listening, letting the song tell me what it wants to be.

Do you have a daily creative or wellness routine that keeps you grounded as a musician and composer?

I do. I’ve kind of built my day around creating space for clarity. It starts simple—I take my kids to school every morning. That part’s important to me. It keeps things in perspective and reminds me that before I’m a musician, I’m a dad and a person first. After that, I usually have a coffee with my wife and we catch up a bit before I retreat to my creative space.

From there, I keep things pretty intentional. I practice Transcendental Meditation for 20 minutes every morning and evening. I run most days—I call it my “mental shower”—and I build in small breath breaks throughout the day. Just little pauses to reset. It’s less about productivity and more about protecting my energy. Because creativity doesn’t thrive in chaos. It thrives when you make space for it.

Some artists chase perfection, while others embrace imperfection. How do you know when a piece is truly “finished”?

That’s always a tricky one. I’ve learned that a piece is never really finished—it’s just at a place where I can let it go. Early on, I used to overwork things, always thinking, maybe just one more note, one more take. But now, I focus on whether it feels honest. Not perfect, but honest.

For me, it’s really up to the song to decide when it’s done. I try to keep a bit of distance from how much I’m shaping or redirecting it. I’m a big believer that songs choose the composer—not the other way around. I know that might sound a little out there, but I truly feel that songs come to the artist they believe can carry them into the world. The composer is just the messenger, the conduit for whatever emotion that song is trying to bring forward—something the world might be needing at that moment.

What role does silence play in your music, both as a composer and in your personal life? 

Silence is my favorite note. That space between the notes is where the magic happens—it’s where the listener has room to feel something. I think life works the same way. We’re so conditioned to fill every moment with noise, but real growth, real connection, happens in the quiet.

What inspired you to create Where We Are: Sleep Reworks for World Sleep Day 2025?

Sleep has become one of the most undervalued parts of our well-being, and I wanted to contribute something meaningful to that conversation. After Where We Are was released, I started hearing from listeners who were using the album as part of their bedtime routine. So I thought, what if I intentionally reworked these pieces to help people wind down—not just emotionally, but physiologically? World Sleep Day felt like the perfect time to offer that.

How do these sleep reworks differ from the original compositions on Where We Are? 

The originals were written to bring calm and reflection, but the reworks go even further—they’re designed to help the body and mind slow down. I softened the dynamics, stretched the tempo, removed unnecessary layers. It’s like dimming the lights in your mind. Each rework is meant to feel like a gentle exhale.

Do you have any upcoming projects or new collaborations that you’re excited about? 

I do! This year is what I like to call my "writing year." I tend to work in cycles—write, release, write, release, rinse, repeat. So right now, I’m deep in the subconscious creative phase (I’m a big believer in subconscious thinking), spending most of my days at the piano or stepping away from it to let the ideas breathe. I’ve also got a few new things coming up with the Calm It Down podcast that I’m excited about. It’s a busy season, but one I really love—the part where I get to just make things without worrying about the outcome yet.

If you could give advice to your younger self—before the billion streams and major milestones—what would it be? 

I’d tell him to stop worrying so much about what’s next and start paying attention to what’s right in front of him. When I was younger, I spent so much time chasing the next goal, the next gig, the next release—always looking ahead instead of realizing I was already doing the thing I dreamed of: making music that mattered to people.

I remember years ago, I was rattling off to a well-known producer all the things I wanted to do—the albums, the shows, the career I hoped to build. He stopped me mid-sentence and said, “Chad, what’s the rush? These things will happen when they’re perfectly aligned to happen. Stop rushing tomorrow, or you’ll never learn from today.” That really stuck with me. And he was right. The best stuff has always shown up when I stopped trying to force it and just stayed present.

Finally, from your perspective, what is the meaning of life?

For me, it’s pretty simple: to leave things better than you found them. Whether that’s a person, a conversation, or a piece of music—it’s about creating something that offers light, however small, in a world that can sometimes feel heavy.

That might be through music, sure. But it might also be through something as simple as a smile, holding the door for someone, or just showing up and listening when someone needs it. We’re all just trying to find our way. And if I can make that path a little easier or a little more beautiful for someone—whether I ever know about it or not—that’s enough. And to me, that’s really the whole point.