Whenever Achint Thakkar, the man behind Scam 1992 and the Coke Studio hit Khalasi, feels a song idea spurt, he heads to his studio, which sits right above his bedroom in his house in Juhu, Mumbai.
An intimate space designed to hold only a handful of people at a time, Achint is currently immersed in creating his independent album that deliberately wanders far from the prescribed sounds producers often seek for films from him. In one corner of the studio sits his collection of guitars, ranging from an acoustic to the white electric guitar that often appears in his Instagram pictures. In another corner is a harmonium, with a Beatles CD placed next to it. His desktop, keyboard and small soundpad take up another part of the room. Look closer and you’ll find a few pictures of his dogs, an Avril Lavigne CD, and a stack of books that includes Gulzar and Rick Rubin. There’s also an old iPod, sitting among the things he uses and collects.
After years of making music for films and television, Achint is returning to where it all began: a guitar, a voice and the freedom to make music without having to fit it into someone else’s story. His independent album, Juhu Leopard Vol. 1, is a homecoming of sorts for the 36-year-old composer, who describes the project as a space for music that exists entirely on his own terms. His recently released second song Laapata captures the frantic emotions of searching for someone you love before they’re lost forever. Inspired by an incident in Goa, where Achint and his wife spent kilometers chasing after their missing dog, the song transforms a moment of panic into a reflection on love, vulnerability and the fear of absence.
In a conversation with Esquire India, the 36-year-old Indian composer takes us inside his studio to talk about his evolving relationship with music, the artists and sounds that shaped him, his creative process, and his return to guitar-led music with Juhu Leopard Vol. 1. He also opens up about why he believes some of the best ideas come when you leave your mind a little empty.
When I was growing up, I used to think hardcore genres were the best music out there, but as I have gotten older, I have realised that every genre has a different emotional story. Have you had any revelations through your musical journey?
It’s interesting that you said that because that’s exactly how I used to think. When I was in college, I thought the only way I could express myself was by turning the volume all the way up and yelling into the mic. Everything had to be hard all the time. But slowly, I started realising that the music I loved also had a lot of emotion and songwriting in it. That’s why I liked it in the first place. It wasn’t necessarily anger or rage. At the end of the day, it’s a song. It’s not the genre.
You’ve spoken about how your relationship with music has evolved over the years. How does that evolution come through in Juhu Leopard Vol. 1?
For me, interestingly, it’s a homecoming to how I started. I started playing in a band called Rosemary back in college. It was a three-piece grunge band—just guitar, bass and drums, and I would sing. Then I started my first album, Shalimar, which was very experimental and folk-fusion. I went further into folk and fusion and then embarked on this experimental journey to explore what else I could do. I found myself collaborating with directors on film soundtracks and TV shows. There, you have to play a character and be a lot of different people. Now I’m coming back to where I started. I started playing guitar and singing, and that’s what I’m doing now.
What is the story behind the album name Juhu Leopard?
I’ve always shied away from PR and social media. In fact, this is the first time we’ve let cameras into the studio. A leopard is also an animal I’ve always related to because it doesn’t want to be seen as much. It hides in the trees and all that. And I just thought the name was cool.
Both Parth and I were the uncool kids in school. We never really thought of ourselves as cool. I would always disappear. Another reason was that my dad made me repeat the ninth grade even though I had passed because I had failed physics. So he went to the principal and said, “Let’s put him back.” I spent the whole year there after having already spent 10 days in the 10th.
That’s when I met Parth, in my "second" ninth standard. It was also when I retreated from school life a lot, and music became everything. I would hide in the bathrooms with my iPod and just be there because I didn’t know anyone in the new ninth standard. They all thought I had failed. So it was only music at that time. It’s always been that, even now.
What was it about playing the guitar that drew you in so deeply when you were younger? Tell us about the white Fender Stratocaster that often appears in your Instagram pictures.
I was madly in love with the guitar and what it could do, and how the music made me feel. I just wanted to be part of that feeling somehow. Like you said, it was an escape. Music was an escape, and playing guitar was also an escape. I wasn’t a really cool or popular kid in school, so having the guitar and just being with it all the time gave me an identity at that time. I had some classes, but I think a big part of my learning came from watching the other kids in the band play. I was also largely self-taught.
[the white Fender Stratocaster] was my first one. It’s not currently my favourite, unfortunately. I feel very bad saying that because it almost feels like I’m betraying it. But it’s my first, so that makes it very special. The guitar I had before that was really bad. It’s still there, but it doesn’t work anymore. That was my first one. We paid ₹1,800 for it at Sardar in Santa Cruz. My father said, “Get him the cheapest one,” because he thought I was going to give up in two months or something. So, fair enough.
I got the Stratocaster when I was 18, and it was with me through all my band stuff in college. All my heroes had played this model—David Gilmour, Billie Joe Armstrong and so many of the people I grew up listening to. It’s a very standard rock guitar, but it’s very special to me.
What about the music you grew up listening to? Who were some of the artists who made you fall in love with music?
American Idiot by Green Day was a big one. It was the first album I heard that really spoke to me. I was 14, on my own in this alien ninth standard where I didn’t know anyone, and it felt like this guy was just singing to me. VH1 had just come in, and it was amazing.
That’s when I started getting into albums. Then, in 10th grade, there was Nirvana and Pearl Jam. But in the background, I was always listening to A.R. Rahman. Rang De Basanti had come out around that time, and that was a big moment for me. I thought, “Film music can be so cool.”
'Barsa' came from a very personal place. How did that moment eventually become a song?
It’s a really stupid story, but it’s true. Since I’m on the top floor, every monsoon there’s always some leakage in the house. I really dread the monsoons because everything starts leaking. It’s an old house, so there’s always some new problems when it starts raining. Last year, I knew some problems were going to happen. The rain started early in May, and I hadn’t managed to get the leakage fixed before it started. It just wouldn’t stop raining, and I got really worried that the leakage was going to ruin everything.
I got into this overthinking zone of, “What now? It’s all ruined.” I was really frustrated. That’s when the song came. The rain wasn’t stopping, and I realised I had made such a big deal in my head.
When I would tell Parth [ childhood friend and co-creator] about it, he would just laugh because it was such a stupid thing to fixate on. My wife was also making light of it, but I was really feeling it. It made me think that someone might be feeling something that you can’t see. You may not know what another person is carrying or hiding. Everyone’s carrying a cloud over their head that other people can’t see, and only they can. Most times it’s an imaginary cloud, but we still see it.
You’ve described procrastination as part of your creative process. What role does it play in the way you make music?
Sometimes it just takes you a while to figure out how something should be presented. Many times, the first instinct is the right one, but it takes you on a little detour to see what the possibilities are. Maybe there’s something better out there, and then you realise the first idea was the best.
But I’m trying not to procrastinate now that I’m getting older. Procrastination is fun when you’re young. But there is definitely some merit to keeping your mind more empty, to allow ideas to come in. Usually, it’s the melodies. Most times, it’s the melodies. If there’s a lyric that I have that’s nice, then I’ll want to put it into melodies later on. So, it’s always the melody first.
What does Juhu Leopard give you that your work in films and commercial music doesn’t?
There’s no pressure. That’s a big reason for doing Juhu Leopard. It’s separate. A big reason we wanted to do Juhu Leopard is so that we can continue doing film work and commercial work on one end, but this will be what we’re doing for ourselves. There’ll be a Volume I, II, III and more. It gives these songs a home that can exist separately from the film work.
Does making music for yourself change the way you approach a song?
In film, you have to play a character and be a lot of different people. With Juhu Leopard, it’s what we’re doing for ourselves. We can just make something because it feels right to us. It may not be the most popular thing right now, but it feels very real and natural to us. There’s something about playing guitar and singing that feels like going back to where we started.
There’s a lot of conversation around songs going viral today. How do you look at virality as a musician given the soundtrack for Scam 1992 and Khalasi both went viral?
It’s very transient. If something pops off, it’s great for the artist because they can get more listeners for the body of work they want people to discover. So, in that way, it benefits any artist. Tame Impala had Dracula blow up, but that’s his fifth album. We’ve been fans for over a decade. He hasn’t been viral like this before, so now it draws attention to his previous work as well.
But all the songs that have gone viral for us, we never planned for them to go viral. It’s just about trying to make something nice, cool, and memorable. I don’t think that can necessarily be recreated by the artist because even they don’t know exactly how they did it. We get asked to do things that will mimic virality. But the truth is, you can’t recreate it. Otherwise, if someone goes viral once, they could just keep doing it over and over. That doesn’t always happen. It’s like catching lightning in a bottle. You don’t really know how it happened.
Lastly, a lot of contemporary Indian music is drawing from sounds of the 1990s and earlier. Do you think new music inevitably needs to look to the past, or is there no real formula for creating something new?
I don’t think there’s any pattern. But when you take an old sound and present it in a new way, it becomes interesting to hear because it’s familiar and new at the same time. It all depends on what you’re trying to do and what your intention is. If your intention is to go viral, then good luck. If it goes viral, great. But then you’re chasing other people’s numbers, and that’s a totally different game. You’re not really making music for yourself in that sense. You can’t judge it because everyone has their own metric.