Anthony Adonis: Inside the Mind of a Modern Icon

The afternoon light falls gently across our table in a quiet Beirut café. No stage, no soundcheck, no audience—just Anthony Adonis in conversation, his words measured yet unguarded. He speaks with the same clarity and precision found in his music, weaving thought and feeling into sentences the way he might weave melody and lyric.

There are artists who create to entertain, and there are artists who create because they can’t imagine doing anything else. Anthony Adonis belongs firmly to the latter—an instinctive storyteller, composer, and soul-searcher whose music doesn’t just fill a room; it grounds it. With every verse, every falsetto, every fragile pause between chords, Anthony reminds us that art is not an escape—it’s a confrontation. A mirror. A memory. A moment that could only be born from truth.

From Tourist to Tenant of Beirut’s Soul

Beirut, of course, lives in his music. But the relationship has evolved. "When I first moved, I was enamored by the chaos—the architecture, the nightlife, the variety. It felt like a museum you could live in.” Now, he sees the city as a beautiful, dysfunctional home: inescapable, but forever complicated. A place that doesn’t just inspire—it haunts, it holds, it hurts, it heals.

His daily drive to create, to move, to evolve? It comes not from spectacle, but from an interior hunger. “The desire to become a better person. And, maybe, make the world a better place with me.”

That drive spills over into every facet of his life. Outside of music, he’s drawn to the intimacy of cinema and the quiet power of real conversation. “I find myself drawn more and more to smaller circles. Just one or two people. A good film. A bar where I can actually hear the other person. That’s where I feel most alive now.”

The Man Behind the Mic

In private, Adonis is quiet, disciplined. Early mornings. Long runs. Solitude, often by choice. “I’m a one-man kind of guy,” he says. “I like to control when—and how—I’m around others.”

But even in stillness, his thoughts never stop composing. “If the show went well, I’m elated. If not, I go into these intense loops of self-doubt. But I never linger too long. I always find my way back.”

He has an almost meditative relationship with silence. “My barber was telling me today that I’m his favorite client because we don’t talk. We just sit. In silence. It’s sacred. Unless something’s being unsaid, silence is never awkward. It’s healing.”

On Emotions, Sadness, and Sensitivity

For someone whose lyrics cut to the core, you’d expect a heavy heart. But Adonis is quick to clarify: “I’m not a sad soul. I’m actually pretty joyful most days.” That said, he admits to dissecting feelings deeply—an occupational hazard of sorts. “It’s my job to sit with emotions, to turn them into words. But that can take a toll. I overthink. I overread. It’s part of the package.”

Still, he’s not romanticizing the myth of the ‘suffering artist.’ “Sadness and creativity are definitely linked. But chasing sadness for the sake of creating? That’s dangerous. I’ve started recognizing that in myself—and I’m working to break the pattern.”

The Craft, the Crowd, the Calling

His bond with music has only deepened over the years. “In the early days, I was just winging it—going along without much thought to practice or self-development. But once I started recognizing my weaknesses and putting in the work, my connection with the craft grew in ways I couldn’t have imagined. The more experience I gain, the stronger that bond becomes.”

One moment he’ll never forget? “We recently performed ‘Nadini’ (from our latest album Wedyan) for the very first time this summer on stage in Beirut. The crowd carried us beautifully through that song, singing at the top of their lungs every word, every sentence, like their lives depended on it. It was such a special moment.”

As for the creative process, it’s a balance of intention and surprise. “Most days, I need to prepare to write. Set the scene. Piano. Coffee. Phone off. But sometimes… the idea just comes. A line. A melody. A sentence. You have to grab it before it vanishes.”

Language, Emotion, and That Universal Pull

Though he writes in Arabic, his music transcends language. “Emotion and language are always in dialogue,” he says. “If you want to write in Arabic, immerse yourself in it. Don’t just translate feelings—live them in that language. It’s not just words. It’s tradition. It’s history. It’s rhythm.”

Yet, even with all his experience, fear still lingers. “I am very comfortable writing songs and producing them in a studio. It’s mostly the live concerts that still give me a lot of fear, because so many things could go wrong with my voice, my mood, my appearance, and affect the emotions I’m conveying to people. I recently started confronting this fear by looking for the right people to coach me and give me the tools I need to enhance my performance skills.”

And what’s the biggest misconception people have about him? “That I have it all figured out. When you present your work to the public with intention and confidence, people assume that this reflects your life structure. The truth is I struggle a lot with my short temper, with my indecisiveness, and with emotional distance from people I care about.”

The Advice, The Style, The Soul

To young artists, he offers not fame-chasing advice, but discipline and patience. “Give each part of your process time. Don’t rush to release. Sit with the song. Rework it. Build around it. And above all—collaborate. Even if you can do it all yourself, a team brings something you never can alone.”

And if a fashion house were to translate his music into a collection?
“Cargo pants. Tank tops. Sunglasses,” he laughs. “Simple. Practical. Unpretentious. And maybe, turn you on.”

As the conversation draws to a close, the noise of the street begins to seep back in—horns, footsteps, the rise and fall of passing voices. Anthony takes a final sip of coffee, pausing before speaking again. “You work on the song until it stops belonging to you,” he says. “Then it belongs to everyone else.”

It’s a sentiment that lingers, like the echo of a final chord. A reminder that for Anthony Adonis, music is never just about performance—it’s about connection, and the life a song takes on once it leaves his hands.