I Went Back to Ibiza March 7, 2026 By Mike Posner I arrived at Nightbird studios in a sleek white Porsche. After carefully opening the door, I traded my keys to a valet for a pinkish slip of paper. I wasn’t kill-yourself sad. I was just my-life-should-be-better-in-some-undefined-type-of-way sad. There was a subtle resentment towards reality running in the background, like an air conditioner whose hum you no longer hear, but is there nonetheless. In 2014, Nightbird Studios was a hornet’s nest for all manner of B-level recording artists: jewelry-clad rappers in clouds of marijuana smoke, male R&B singers whose choreography skills were surpassed only by the amount of cologne they wore, and the occasional pop-diva who when spotted without makeup, looked mysteriously like a “normal girl.” I was there to write with a country artist named Jake Owen. I was hoping this would result in another hit, which would result in more fame, which would result in…I didn’t really know. That’s as far as I’d planned. I walked in the lobby, pushed the down button, and rode the elevator into the studio’s stuffy-black-walled lower depths. As I entered Studio B, Jake was strumming a shiny Taylor that somehow reminded me of my Porsche. JAKE OWEN: Whatsup Mike? ME: Whaddup doe Jake? JAKE: How are you man? You working on anything cool? ME (gesturing towards the guitar): Can I show you? JAKE: Yeah man. Of course. I wrapped my barely calloused fingers around the neck of the Taylor and strummed an A minor. Six separate strands of sadness emanated off the strings before crystallizing and making purple in the room. I sojourned through a song and my brain synapses snapped into high gear. I climbed through the chorus and emotion steamed off of me like a football player who just took his helmet off. When I finished, the room was silent. Could anyone else feel this? JAKE: That’s dope man. What’s it about? I shook off my altered state and replied, ME: It’s about a girl I had a thing with in New York. But I mixed her story up with another girl I had a thing with in Cleveland. And the rest I just kind of made up. His annoyingly handsome face made a constipated look. He was trying to decide whether to tell me something. JAKE: Well— Internal debate settled, he said, JAKE: —why don’t you just tell the truth? Telling the truth in songs had never really occurred to “Mike Posner.” “Mike Posner” thought songs were for convincing everybody how cool “Mike Posner" was. JAKE: You know there are songwriters who just tell it like it is. MIKE: There are? JAKE: Yeah, man. Let me show you. I passed the guitar back to Jake and he played me an old country song that you don’t hear growing up North of the Ohio River. “I got cuffed on dirt roads, I got sued over no-shows.” The Hank Williams Jr. lyric danced with the guitar chords and did some kind of magic on my neurochemistry. Without warning, I felt a tear show up in my left eye, decide it was comfortable right there, and refused to fall. The color emanating off of Jake’s song wasn’t purple; it was deep royal blue. I sank like a pebble to the bottom of my consciousness. Down beneath my smile, beneath my social personality, and beneath my relentless need for everyone to pay attention to me, there was a small igneous stone with a glistening black surface. That was my pain. And I’d designed my whole life to distract myself from the fact that it was still there. Jake sang country songs deep into the fake LA night. At five a.m., I left the studio and went directly to the airport. The plane took off over the Pacific Ocean and boomeranged back over the city. I looked down and saw West Hollywood, a 1.9-square-mile sandbox where my entire life took place. Jake’s question, “Why don’t you just tell the truth?” was bouncing off the walls of my mind like a ping-pong ball. I took out my Green Notebook and turned the pages past all pages filled with songs about how I wanted people to think my life was. And I wrote one about how my life actually was: I took a pill in Ibiza To show Avicii I was cool And when I finally got sober, felt 10 years older But fuck it, it was something to do I'm living out in LA I drive a sports car just to prove I'm a real big baller 'cause I made a million dollars And I spend it on girls and shoes But you don't wanna be high like me Never really knowing why like me You don't ever wanna step off that roller coaster and be all alone You don't wanna ride the bus like this Never knowing who to trust like this You don't wanna be stuck up on that stage singing Stuck up on that stage singing All I know are sad songs, sad songs I started off playing, “I Took a Pill in Ibiza,” in parks for whatever was left of my fanbase. youtu.be/LADbw4IgCv8?si=jVZt… This was quite the departure from the first chapter of my career which was mostly focused on emulating Justin Timberlake. But it’d been years since my first hit, “Cooler Than Me,” and that wave of my fame had already crashed and receded into nothing. So I did my best to adjust. I was figuring out who I was post-pop-fame. I recorded an acoustic version of “Ibiza” and released it on a little EP which I aptly titled, The Truth.  The EP was well received by my audience, but failed to catch the attention of the larger public and didn’t come within a mile of the Billboard charts. My girlfriend and I broke up. At which point I did what I always did. Ran (while trying to get attention). I had this habit of isolating myself from people and the big emotions they created in me. But I never just isolated. I ISOLATED; in grand, egocentric maneuvers that I hoped would get the attention of the very people I was “trying to get away from.” So I moved into a 1993 Dodge Conversion Van, drove it into the mountains, and started on a beard. I was now a former-popstar-multi-millionaire living in a van. But while I was “figuring it all out,” forces beyond my control were at work. A few executives at Island Records, Matt D’Arudini and Zeke Silvera, cleverly recognized there was a limit to how popular the acoustic rendition of “Ibiza,” could get. So they sent the vocal files to a Norwegian duo named SeeB to create a remix of “I Took a Pill in Ibiza.” A few weeks later my manager emailed me SeeB’s overhauled version of the song, asking for my approval. The song cascaded out of my grungy van speakers, sounding like a love-letter from outer space. I liked how different it was from the original, but its high-energy production was almost foreign to my now-nature-tuned ears. Nonetheless, I approved the song, shut my laptop, and picked up my guitar with my now very calloused fingers. The subsequent months were filled with mountains, guitar, and more loneliness than I liked to admit. I drove around The Rockies, buying day passes to local gyms, and sleeping in Walmart parking lots. I forgot about the song from my email. But the song had not forgotten about me. In fact, unbeknownst to me, it was about to change my entire life. *** I was somewhere in Utah. A friend was letting me use their toilet, shower, and WiFi when I received a call from my manager whose usually reserved demeanor was replaced by what sounded like excitement: RYAN CHISHOLM: You gotta see this. ME: What? RYAN: The remix is taking off in Norway. It’s number one. ME: What remix? RYAN: “I Took a Pill in Ibiza!” Remember? ME: You mean that one you emailed me? RYAN: Yeah man. It’s catching on. No ‘effing way. My little song about how I was no longer famous was making me famous again. And after the song shot up the Norwegian charts. It did the same thing in Sweden, and then The Netherlands. By Christmas I knew that the U.S. was not far behind. I braced myself. Fame had not been kind to me the first time around. I’d been so overwhelmed by the attention I worked so hard to get that I forgot to do things like maintain a relationship with my parents, sleep, or care at all about other people. I got very used to my assistants carrying my bags for me and indulging in easy sex with my fans after my concerts. I didn’t go on an actual date for six years. In fact, Fame had teased, tantalized and left me depressed, like a girl who’s all yours when you’re with her but doesn’t return your texts when you’re apart. And part of me wanted to give that girl the middle finger. That was the beard and the van and all that. Screw you fame. I’m really done this time and I’m over it. But just as I told her I was never coming back, put the car in reverse, backed down the driveway to escape into the night, part of me hoped that she’d chase me. And she did. Now six years older, but only incrementally more mature, I found myself back in the limelight, doing my best to act like I didn’t care. But I did. And I wanted to keep her around a little longer this time. So off went the beard. In came the income, the bleached hair, and the world tour. I was back. The Diagnosis _______________________ June 2016 Los Angeles, CA It was a million dollar home in the Hollywood Hills and it belonged to me. I was reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being on the couch and there was a non-trivial amount of this-is-going-to-last-forever percolating in my belly. My iPhone 7’s monophonic ring bounced off the walls of my newly remodeled kitchen. I’d been expecting a call from my manager to discuss an offer that just came in to do a private show for some rich dude’s daughter. 100k. But instead the screen read: Home. Disappointed, I answered. MOM: Michael. ME: Yea, hi Mom. MOM: It’s your mother. I have something serious to tell you. ME: Okay. Whatsup? MOM: Dad was acting strange yesterday so I took him to the doctor. They did a scan and he has a tumor in his left frontal lobe the size of a tangerine. They're gonna take it out tomorrow. You need to come home. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I was already grieving. Not for Dad. But for the life I’d set up for myself where nothing was wrong. My father was big, gregarious, and generous. Once at my friend Justin’s graduation party, he found the lucky graduate and cornered him in the kitchen. He proceeded to effusively tell Justin how proud he was of him for the next twenty five minutes. Some witnesses say he didn’t take a breath for the entire monologue. When I finally intervened, he smiled at me, threw his hands up in the air, and said, “What? I’m just Posefying him!” But when I arrived in Detroit the next morning, my teddy bear dad was hooked up to way too many machines. He’d been instructed not to eat or drink before the operation. DAD: Hey boychik! A smile-from-deep-within stretched all the way from his face to mine. ME: Hi Dad. I used both of my hands to pick up one of his big ones and held it tight. DAD: Mike, get me some water. It was an order. But Dad was so effusive that his orders didn’t seem like orders. They just seemed like opportunities to love him as much as he loved me. ME: I’m not allowed to Dad. You have to be dry-fasted before the surgery. He pleaded with me. DAD: Just a little bit? I held his hand tighter. Nobody else could tell how scared he was, but I could. I could just feel it. I held back the tears. He wasn’t allowed to drink those either. Instead I winked and smiled. ME: Not even a drop. Nurses came and took him away. *** That night I unpacked my fancy Helmut Lang shirts into my childhood dresser, which was still covered with the crooked Ninja Turtle stickers I put there when I was six. Dad was diagnosed with Glioblastoma, a terminal form of cancer. And I was now living a double life. One as a born-again pop-star. And another as a son caretaking for his dying father. Along with my family and nurses, I helped shave him, turned him so he didn’t get bed sores, and changed his diapers. In one way it was beautiful. I got to take care of my father in some of the same ways he took care of me. Despite our most vigorous prayers, his body continued to break down. Then I realized something.  No one ever told Dad he was going to die. We’d been so caught up in taking care of him, we hadn’t shared the prognosis the doctors gave us. Didn’t he have a right to know it, too? I was the new man of the house. So I puffed my chest out and courageously hired myself for the job.  I took three deep breaths and entered the living-turned-dying room. Dad's eyes were dull and his skin graying. I sat on the edge of the bed. DAD: Mike, who is that woman over there in the corner? I looked in the corner and saw only a corner. No woman. He was hallucinating again. ME: There’s nobody there, Dad. DAD: Yes there is. I did my best to ground him in my reality. I was good at that. ME: No, there isn’t Dad. DAD: There is Mike. Tell me who it is. I took another deep breath to dissipate the frustration. This wasn’t going well. ME: Dad, let’s get on the same page. There was a sparkle in his swampy green eyes. He was still in there somewhere. Kind and sweet. DAD: Okay. ME: Do you know where you are? He sensed the change in my tone and a serious look fell on his face. DAD: Yes…I’m home. ME: That’s right. And I just want to tell you what’s going on. DAD: Okay. ME: Dad, you have a form of brain cancer called Glioblastoma. When I uttered the word cancer, his right leg started to shake. This was going to be harder than I thought.  But if I didn’t tell him the truth, no one would. DAD: I think this is serious, Michael. ME: It is serious. No one knows the future, but there’s a good chance you’re going to die from this. He began to shake with even more intensity. And for the first time in my life he was silent. If there’s one thing you don’t want to be saying to the man who’s always loved you no matter what, the man who took the child psychologist’s advice and slept on the floor next to your crib when because you were so attached to your mother, the man who only gave and never took, it’s ‘you’re going to die.’ But that’s exactly what I was saying to my father. Black fear rippled out of his body and into mine. I reached out and put a hand on his decaying quadricep. By now, the tears were raging up to my throat but I somehow managed to halt them there. ME: I love you, Dad. DAD: I love you so much. I nodded toward my guitar, which I’d left laying next to his bed. ME: Do you want me to play you a song? DAD: Yes, please. I turned down the lights and sang an especially sad version of Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song.” The dark blue coming out of my guitar harmonized with our black Fear and created a rich love. It expanded across the room like a storm cloud. Nobody heard that strange duet but us. *** Grieving is hard for narcissists. Mostly because we believe we don’t have to do it. After all, we’re special. The annoying and burdensome steps of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, are a roadmap laid out for less spiritually evolved people. People who are not geniuses, like us. So basically what I’m saying is. I didn’t grieve at all. I just did what I always did. Ran (while trying to get attention). Next came the requisite ayahuasca journey. Perched in a small glass room hovering over the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, I sat cross-legged on a veined oak floor—waiting. Waiting for the drugs to kick in. Waiting for the medicine to show me how to make people like me more. Waiting for my life to get better. But then as Victor the Shaman aggressively shook his capacha at me a horrible thought presented itself disguised as truth: I should kill myself. It was the only logical next step. I’d spent years convincing myself that my life was going well. But it was not going well and the gig was up. My life was a fraud. And my entire existence was rooted in convincing everyone that it wasn’t. I imagined a world without my pitiful-fake-pop-star behind spewing fake smiles in all directions and saw it would definitely be a better world. It actually felt like killing myself was the more courageous path. Avicii had taken it. And wasn’t I was already dead? Not in the way Dad and Avicii were. But in an even sadder way.  The kind of dead where you’re still walking around, saying words, and shoveling food in your mouth, pretending like you’re okay. But deep down you’re just a shadow of the person you’re actually supposed to be. And you know it. To add insult to injury, “I Took a Pill in Ibiza,” slowly retreated off the pop charts and into a “remember-that-one-song” territory. For the second time, I became a guy who used to be famous. Yes, I grew my beard out again. But the defining physical characteristic of this part of my life was the sunken in holes where my eyes used to be. TSA agents at airports held my ID and did double takes. Then they’d always ask me the same question: “What happened to you?” I was trying to figure that out myself. But I needed help.

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