By News18
There are musicians, and then there are sonic architects, people who don’t just write songs but build new worlds through them. Leslee Lewis is one of the rare few who’s done this, not once, but time and again. From the sensual, synth-laced revolution of Pari Hoon Main to the genre-defying alchemy of Colonial Cousins, to spearheading India’s debut season of Coke Studio, Leslee Lewis has always lived on the bleeding edge of sound. He’s been the quiet engine behind some of the most defining moments in Indian music, crafting melodies that were often years ahead of their time.
But what happens when such an artist turns his gaze inward?
That’s what Meheki Khushboo answers, not just as a song but as a statement. It’s bold without bravado, sensual without sleaze, romantic without rose-tinted lies. Written, composed, and sung entirely by Leslee himself, the track feels like a whisper from a night you once lived, a fleeting, electric, magnetic encounter that vanishes by morning, leaving only a lingering fragrance behind. A scent. A sensation. A meheki khushboo.
This isn’t just a song. It’s a cinematic moment trapped in a riff. And it’s the fifth track from his audaciously independent album Phir Se Rock and Roll, where every song struts into a different genre with swagger, depth, and a distinctly desi heart. From Elvis-era grooves to sultry blues to full-throttle Hindi rock, Leslee is creating music that refuses to sit quietly in a genre box. And perhaps, that’s the point. He isn’t here to blend in. He never was.
In this deeply revealing interview, Leslee Lewis opens up to News18 Showsha about what it means to start again, as an independent artist in an age of algorithms, when everyone remembers you for something you did three decades ago. He speaks about the music industry’s obsession with virality, the loss of value in the age of free streaming, and why he believes the most personal instrument is still the voice. He reflects on The White Album, a collection of six live-take romantic ballads that sound like smoky jazz lounges and moonlit drives. He tells us why analogue warmth still matters, how Channel V and MTV gave birth to a generation of music lovers, and why today’s youth deserve something more, something real.
He doesn’t just want to be remembered for the past. He wants to ignite a present. And perhaps, a future.
Leslee doesn’t sing at you. He sings to you. His lyrics aren’t just heard. They’re felt. Whether he’s reimagining “Dum Maro Dum” as a rock anthem or channeling Hindi blues in a smoky groove, there’s always that one thread: emotion over perfection, connection over production.
So if you think you know Leslee Lewis, think again.
This isn’t just a conversation about a song. It’s a conversation about everything music was, is, and could be.
Here are the excerpts:
View this post on Instagram
A post shared by Leslee Lewis (@lesleelewisofficial)
“Meheki Khushboo” feels like a fragrant time capsule—both energetic and timeless. What was the first spark that led to its creation?
I think the music itself speaks volumes. It’s bold, it’s brash, it’s aggressive—but never vulgar. It walks right up to that sensual, even sexual edge, without crossing into anything crass. It’s raw and unapologetically so. The energy is real. There’s no overproduction, no polish, no bells and whistles—just a bare, honest sound. It comes straight from the heart.
That rawness shaped everything else, including the lyrics. Imagine you’re alone at a bar, watching a band. You’re sipping a drink, lost in the moment. Then across the room, you notice someone else doing the same—watching the band, vibing with the music. You exchange glances when a great track plays. Maybe you smile. Maybe they nod. One thing leads to another, a conversation begins. You’re bonding over the music, maybe you buy each other a drink. And then, suddenly, without even realizing it, you’ve left the venue together.
Next thing you know, you’re in each other’s arms. You don’t know whose place it is, or even how you got there. It’s impulsive, electric—an explosion of chemistry that was sparked entirely by music and that fleeting moment of connection. And by morning, all that remains is this lingering scent. This meheki khushboo. A memory. A feeling.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even an affair. It was a moment. A night. A collision of two strangers drawn together by a vibe, a rhythm, an atmosphere. This happens more than people admit—in the corporate world, the entertainment scene, even the armed forces. It’s that unspoken reality. Fleeting, unnamed, but unforgettable. Only a few are lucky enough to experience it—and that’s what this song captures.
You’ve written, composed, and performed “Meheki Khushboo” entirely on your own. How different is the emotional intensity of a song when it’s born entirely from one artist—when it’s your soul from start to finish?
It’s an entirely different experience. When a singer-songwriter creates something from the ground up—lyrics, melody, performance—it becomes a direct extension of who they are. It’s their story, told exactly how they want it told. For years, I made music for everyone else—for films, for labels, for commercial projects—but never for Leslee Lewis, the artist. That changed in 2020. I decided it was time to go independent, time to create music that came from me, for me.
That’s how The White Album came to life. You can find it on Spotify. It’s perhaps one of the most romantic albums of our time—not in the overly polished, formulaic way, but in a raw, vulnerable, completely live way. Each of the six tracks on that album was recorded in a single take with a live band. No dubbing, no retakes, no post-production tricks. Just pure, unfiltered emotion captured in real time—like how recordings used to be in the old days, when singers performed alongside the orchestra and everything was done in one shot. It’s raw, but it’s real. And that’s what makes it beautiful.
Every song on The White Album is romantic, but each belongs to a completely different genre. That’s something missing in a lot of today’s romantic music—everything sounds the same. Same beats. Same emotions. The same “I’m crying because you left me” narrative. My album shakes that up. It excites you romantically, but through variety. You’re guaranteed to find at least two favorites there.
After that, I released The Phir Se Rock and Roll Album, which is where Meheki Khushboo comes in—it’s the fifth track. That album, too, explores six different genres, all rooted in rock. From blues to classic Elvis-style rock and roll, to 70s guitar-driven soundscapes. For example, Dil Chahe Desi Girl has that classic groove, while Gaana Mujh Pe Chhod is laid-back blues. Meheki Khushboo is pure 70s rock. And there’s no music like this in India right now.
Back in the ’90s, I released Pari Hoon Main. There was nothing like it in the country. In 1993, when it came out, people didn’t know how to place it. Just like they didn’t know what to make of Colonial Cousins in 1994. It took them a few years, but eventually, everyone caught on. And I feel the same thing is happening now with The White Album and Phir Se Rock and Roll. This is the new sound of India.
But it’s more than sound. What I’m presenting is a whole new gharana of music. This isn’t blues adapted from the West. This is Hindi blues, Hindi rock, Hindi ballads—written with meaning, sung with intention. When I played this music in LA, even the Americans said, “This isn’t Indian music. This is real blues.” And yet, I’m singing in Hindi.
For many Indians raised on Rafi, Kishore, and Lata, this sound may seem unfamiliar—but that’s exactly why it’s powerful. It’s not plastic. It’s not curated for virality. It’s organic. It’s from the heart. And when you hear a lyric like “Karu main teri thodi, kya mujhe pyaar?”—you get it immediately. There’s clarity. There’s connection. There’s no need for overthinking. That’s what great music does.
At the end of the day, all I’m doing is bringing back honesty. Bringing back music that bleeds emotion. And hopefully, it opens people’s hearts—stripped of the plastic, of the polish—and helps them feel something real again.
How did you decide on the name The White Album? Was it inspired by The Beatles’ iconic album of the same name?
Not really. I mean, sure, The Beatles had The White Album, but Hindi-speaking audiences don’t necessarily have that reference point. For me, The White Album is more about a state of mind. I always tell people—if you want to really appreciate this album, you have to listen to it in your white state.
What do I mean by that? I mean a clear, uncluttered state. You’re relaxed. Maybe you’re having a drink, driving alone, just unwinding. You’re not scrolling, not replying to texts, not taking 20 phone calls. You’re present. You’re still. Because in today’s world, we’re overloaded—too many frequencies, too much noise, too many colours. And The White Album asks you to strip all that away. Return to the blank canvas. The white. And then, let the music seep in. If you do that, it will speak to you. If you’re scattered or distracted, you’ll miss the essence.
This isn’t some two-second jingle that hooks you with a beat drop. This album isn’t made to grab your attention. It’s made to earn it. To resonate slowly, deeply. One of the tracks is called Adhi Raat Whiskey Aur Tu—Midnight, whiskey, and you. That’s the mood. And musically, it’s as jazzy as anything you’d hear at the Blue Note Club in New York. It’s got that classic feel, that sophistication. Yet, it’s all in Hindi. It might appeal more to people who appreciate ghazals or poetic music, but even the janata gets it because the lyrics are simple, direct, and relatable.
Take a line like: Tera chehra, makhmali andheri raatein, teri khushboo, meheki, adhi raat, whiskey aur tu.
It sounds poetic, but it’s not poetry in the high-brow sense. It’s just soulful, accessible language that feels elevated. That’s what this music is about—simple words, complex emotion. It’s got jazz arrangements, it’s got soul, but it speaks in a voice that anyone can understand. And honestly, there’s no other music like this in India right now.
Like you mentioned, Colonial Cousins didn’t just perform—they completely shifted the sonic DNA of Indian music in the ’90s. What was it like pioneering fusion before it became a genre buzzword? And how did purists react to it back then?
See, the truth is, Colonial Cousins didn’t come out of nowhere. I come from that gharana—not just a classical one, but a sonic gharana made up of everything I’ve grown up listening to. I had rock, blues, jazz, ghazals, Indian classical, Carnatic—you name it. So when we created Colonial Cousins, I was simply presenting what was already inside me. And with Hariharan’s incredible voice and our combined love for experimentation, we created something that didn’t exist in India at the time. We weren’t trying to follow a trend—we were the trend.
And let me tell you, we were excited. The same kind of excitement I feel now, making Meheki Khushboo and this entire new album—that was the energy behind Colonial Cousins too. If you’re not excited as an artist, the audience will never be. Then you’re just making a product. You’ll look at the numbers, wonder why it didn’t “go viral,” try to buy views to fix it. That’s not art. That’s business.
When we first released our songs, some classical purists were upset. Especially with Hariharan. They were like, “What gharana is this? This doesn’t follow the rules—this isn’t Sa Re Ga Ma, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be sung.” I just told them, “You’re trained in classical music. You’ve studied the art. That’s your journey. Don’t impose your expectations on our expression.” Eventually, they chilled out.
Meheki Khushboo comes from that same place. Whether it’s Colonial Cousins, Indipop, remixes, Coke Studio—I’ve always been behind the scenes, building what became the sound of modern India. And now, I’m doing it again. But this time, I’m doing it for me. No filters. No committees. Just melodies that matter. Because here’s the thing—if the music doesn’t touch your heart, it won’t last. It may sound cool, but it won’t connect.
That’s the problem with a lot of today’s music. It stops at the ears. You hear it, maybe you nod your head, but a second later, it’s gone. You don’t remember the beat. You don’t remember the words. But when music hits your heart—that’s when a conversation starts. You start thinking, feeling, and asking yourself, “What is this song trying to tell me?”
And that’s what I do—I don’t sing for nobody. I sing to someone. I want to speak to people. Especially the youth. I’m saying—bro, have you ever experienced this? Have you ever had that moment, where you’re at a club, you meet someone completely out of the blue, and by the end of the night, something explosive happens between you—emotionally, physically—and then… it’s gone. All that’s left is a lingering fragrance. A Meheki khushboo.
It’s real. It happens. And I’m just putting it into a song.
One of my all-time favorite Colonial Cousins performances was your MTV Unplugged set. I still revisit “Indian Rain” and “Krishna.” What was it like performing on that iconic global stage?
We were the only Indian act ever to perform on the original MTV Unplugged. Let that sink in. One day you had Seal. The next day, George Michael. And then—Colonial Cousins. We even performed at the Billboard Awards—I just got the official recognition last week, and we were on stage the same night as Céline Dion. It was a different era—an era people today don’t even fully understand. When Hariharan and I walked in wearing sherwanis, arriving in stretch limos with bouncers around us, people thought, “Who are these two princes?” And then we’d perform “Krishna”, and the reaction was unbelievable—audiences were asking, “Where can we buy this music?”
But that era is gone. Today, music is free. You just hit a button. You can listen in your car, in your bathroom, in bed. And because it’s so easily available, it’s lost a certain value. When something costs nothing, it’s treated like it’s worth nothing. That’s the sad truth.
As an independent artist now, I’m still making music—but people continue to ask me about Colonial Cousins. That’s the memory they associate with me. That’s how you—and many others—first discovered me. And I get it. That was the ’90s. But I’m here today with an entirely new sound. And unless we promote and share this new music, the story will always be stuck in the past.
What I’m creating now is not Colonial Cousins—but it’s just as groundbreaking. Just as honest. It’s music for this generation. The only difference is, today’s youth don’t have what you had back then—Channel V, MTV, curated platforms that would champion new sounds. The only way to reach people now is through conversations like this, through interviews, through word of mouth. So when I speak with you, I hope the music finds new listeners—not just those who loved “Pari Hoon Main,” but those who’ve never heard of it.
The problem is, if we only keep talking about the “golden era,” we sound like news anchors eulogizing the past. And sure, I was the best back then. But I’m also doing the best work of my life right now. It’s just that people don’t know it yet.
So I always say—don’t overthink it. Just press play.
There’s a new sound rising in India. That’s the point of this entire interview. And I’m not here just to talk about the past—I’m here to bring something fresh. Something rooted in soul and melody, in romance and rock and roll. I released Aasmaan Se—it’s full of attitude. It speaks to the Tier 2 audience in India, but it’s got the edge of Western angst. Blues, rock, soul—but in Hindi. The language may be Indian, but the emotion is global. That’s what I’m channeling.
In fact, I could release a song every day for the next year. And these aren’t throwaways. This is curated, meaningful content. But I’m pacing myself. Because if I flood the space, it becomes noise. I’d rather go slow, stay intentional.
In COVID, I released a song every month. Now, I’m trying every two or three months. That’s still a lot. But how many interviews can one do? At some point, the system has to support independent music too. We don’t have MTV and Channel V anymore. So we need conversations like this to carry the sound forward.
Meheki Khushboo carries that very spirit—it’s part of a larger album that’s bursting with stories, styles, genres, and emotional weight. And all I ask is—listen. Listen with an open heart. There’s a whole river of music flowing again. And it’s only just beginning.
So are you planning to release one track every month from now on?
No, no, this isn’t the start—I’ve already released five tracks. Meheki Khushboo is actually the fifth one. Songs like Aasmaan Se, Dil Chahe, Desi Girl, Do Do—they all came out last year. But here’s the thing: there’s no Channel V or MTV anymore to showcase these songs. So they exist, but people don’t always discover them right away.
Now you’re finding these songs interesting, right? That’s because there’s real energy in them. Something is connecting—and that is what I’m after. Meheki Khushboo is just a way in. If someone hears it and thinks, “Wow, this is different,” maybe they’ll dig deeper, stumble on the rest, and realize, “Oh man, I missed all of this!”
And that’s the beauty of it—it’s all evolving. The entire musical landscape is changing. But I’m still here, doing what I’ve always done: showing up at the frontlines of change. Whether it was Indipop, Bollywood remixes, classical fusion, or Coke Studio—I’ve always been part of the reinvention. And I’m here again to make it real.
Take Coke Studio, for example. The first season I did is still so iconic. We recorded 51 songs in 40 days—unheard of! And yet, every single one of them was done start to finish—no punches, no edits. Just pure, organic takes. The most raw and honest sound. That’s the same energy I poured into The White Album. You’ll hear it.
So yeah, use the tech. Use AI, use the computers—but don’t lose the soul of the music. That’s what creates the connection. And that’s what I care about most.
You once said your voice is your most personal instrument. What’s your relationship with it now—as a singer, composer, and storyteller?
It’s funny—most people still haven’t heard me. They’ve heard my songs, because I’ve composed for everyone. But they haven’t heard the voice of Leslee Lewis, the 17-year-old who wanted to sing his way. Whatever that means. Whatever that sounds like.
When I do Dum Maro Dum at my concerts, for example—it’s completely reimagined. The arrangement is pure rock: loud guitars, driving drums, wild energy. But people can still sing along because they know the melody. It’s familiar, yet fresh. They recognize it, but they’ve never heard it like that.
And that’s the power of the voice. It’s the vocal that carries everything. It’s the vocal that convinces you, that reaches you. That’s why legends like Lata ji, Kishore Kumar, Frank Sinatra—they moved people. Because their voices became the soul of the song.
I’m not saying I’m classically trained or trying to be anything I’m not. I don’t care about that. I care about the connect. If you understand it—great. If not, maybe tomorrow you will. Maybe the emotion will find you when you’re ready.
That’s how I sing. That’s how I tell stories. From the heart, straight to yours.
In your Instagram series “Leslee Lewis Ko Jaano,” you offer some beautiful, candid insights into your journey. What’s one lesson you wish every aspiring music producer in India understood about the craft?
The first thing is simple—learn the art itself. Before calling yourself a producer, learn music. Most people today don’t know music. They’ve got a laptop, a few plugins, and they’re already producing, which is fine—it gives access, opens up possibilities. But the question is: Why are you doing this? Because it sounds cool?
Okay, but do you even know what notes are in an F# major 9th chord? And if your answer is, “Why should I care?”—then that’s exactly the problem. You don’t have the foundation. I’m not saying you need to be traditionally trained, but the more you understand music, the better you’ll get at using the tools. If you know music, you’ll know how to push your computer. You’ll blend creativity with control. You’ll sound unique.
Look, if I didn’t know my craft, why would Disney make me the musical director for the Indian production of Beauty and the Beast? I flew to LA to do the mock-up, then recorded the full score with the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra in Prague. That’s two hours of orchestration. You can’t fake that.
So yes, I’m cool—but I’m also competent. That’s what you hear in my songs. Each track reflects a different facet of my personality. The romantic songs reveal my softer side. Tracks like Meheki Khushboo show the raw, edgy artist. If I drop something funky or Afro-Latin tomorrow, you’ll hear that side of me too. Like Colonial Cousins—our track “Afreen”? That was Afro. People forget we were always blending global genres.
Do you miss anything about how music was made in the ‘90s—especially the analogue days, compared to today’s hyper-digital scene?
The only thing I truly miss is this—great songs. Back then, even if the gear was noisy, limited, or hard to maintain, we still listen to those records today because the songs were brilliant.
Sure, analogue brought warmth—but only if you knew how to use it. You had to calibrate the tape heads every day, deal with hums and hisses. Maintaining analog equipment is like owning a Rolls-Royce. Everyone wants one, but do you have the money to service it? The side mirror alone could cost a fortune!
That said, digital has been a great friend to analog. It’s not trying to replace it—it’s emulating it. Today, we have plugins that capture that analog warmth and offer limitless sonic possibilities. You can go totally electronic, or completely organic. The beauty is in knowing how to use both.
But gear aside, the most important thing is intent and experience. You need people who know how to record music, how to mic a live instrument, how to bring life to a performance—not just click a button.
That’s why I’ve started a new show called “Leslee Lewis: The 90s Experience.” It’s my way of inviting people to relive that analog era. You’re nostalgic about the ‘90s? Cool—come experience it. But I’m not just recreating the old vibe. I’m modernizing it, bringing it forward with today’s sound. I don’t want to show up like some uncle in a sherwani stuck in time. I want to be real—and that means being myself, with all the evolution that’s come along the way.