Fuad Almuqtadir: This ‘old dog’ still has new tricks

Illustration: TBS

As the curtain falls on a calendar year and another emerges, it is rather intuitive to reflect on the days left behind as well as to anticipate what the future might have in store for us. 

For Fuad Almuqtadir, the year came to a close with a short novelty gig in this year's Bangladesh Premier League inauguration match at Sylhet.  And as he quietly packed his bags in preparation for an early morning flight back to California, effectively drawing his month and a half long Bangladesh visit—his longest one in recent years to a close, it felt like an opportune moment to grill the music producer on what he's been up to and if we're ever going to relive his glory days anew.

If anyone were to name their Mount Rushmore of Bangladeshi musicians from the mid to late 2000s, Fuad would undoubtedly make it to the list. For over a decade, he, along with a select few others, had continually breathed new life into Bangladesh's pop scene by introducing and infusing a Western touch in their songs, which back then, although divisive for a few, had an exotic and foreign feel to them, which commanded attention and appreciation from the many.

Although Fuad has remained occupied with a range of projects at home and abroad, alongside frequent trips to Bangladesh for concerts and events, what seems absent amid all this activity are the "chart-topping" hits he once delivered with regularity. Now a seasoned master of his craft, shaped by years of experience and evolution, it feels reasonable to wonder why those runaway successes no longer emerge as often as they did before. 

"I don't think I could recreate another 'Bonno' or another 'Variation no 25' even if I tried to right now," said Fuad as he sat down to take a break from all the packing to provide a deeper explanation.

Fuad believes the distinction of his earlier works went beyond melody or production alone. Much of its impact, he says, came from silent factors aligning at the right moment, especially cultural distance. At the time, Bangladesh was far less connected to the wider world, which gave him and other artistes of the time an upper hand.

"Culturally, we were in a different place. I could easily bring in a taste of New York and fuse it with Bangla music and since the fans had no exposure to things like that, had no other references— the unfamiliarity was something new and it would fly."

Fuad is careful to note that this is not a dismissal of his own work or that of his contemporaries; rather, he insists on the undeniable role of cultural differences. He stresses that impressing audiences today is far more difficult, given the sheer volume of music available instantly and the saturation that comes with it. With endless choices at their fingertips, listeners no longer wait in anticipation for new releases in the way they once did. The absence of that collective excitement around albums, he suggests, inevitably takes a toll

"Is anyone really waiting for new albums? I don't find anyone waiting for the next Topu album or the next Arnob album. If it comes out —fine, people listen,  but there's no anticipation. It does get a bit demoralising at times."

The producer stressed further,  adding, "Another question is—should an old dog actually do new tricks? People loved me and welcomed me because of my 20s—the music I created for that time, place and for that group of people. Will I be adding anything or bringing something new to the world or even be giving something back if I were to do it all again?"

On a personal level, Fuad admits that the rise of social media has taken a quiet toll on him. The constant negativity and, at times, borderline harassment disguised as criticism have slowly eroded the creative drive that once pushed him toward new projects. Where there was once a strong urge to create, he now feels less desire, shaped not only by that hostile environment but also by where he stands today—both as a musician and as a person. Settled with his family, carrying different responsibilities, and living far away in America, his priorities and creative impulses have inevitably evolved.

For much of 2025, Fuad was deeply absorbed in a project titled 'Touch of Gold', which demanded his full attention. It saw him revisiting and re-producing a selection of iconic Bangla songs—among them the likes of Ghumonto Shohorey, Rong, Bhoboghurey, Srabon er Megh Gulo, etc.

Rather than simply revisiting the past, he infused these classics with a contemporary edge, layering them with modern production techniques and technological refinements that were unavailable in Bangladesh when the originals were first made. For Fuad, the project became a way of giving back to the songs and artistes that had once inspired him to become the musician he is today.

During his recent visit to Bangladesh, aside from performing at several shows, Fuad was largely occupied with another project in collaboration with Qinetic Music called 'Bloom'. 

The project, a hybrid of a reality show and talent hunt, features a selection of young, aspiring vocalists chosen by Qinetic lending their voices to songs produced by Fuad. The episodes are in the final stages of production and are expected to be broadcast soon.

Our conversation also touched on his frequent returns to Bangladesh. I was particularly curious why Fuad, with a settled life and career in California—where he could, if he wished, work exclusively in the local music scene—continues to come back to his homeland, even when he isn't actively producing new songs.

"Until 2024, I was collaborating with a lot of American artistes and songwriters—which was deeply fulfilling," Fuad shared. "If someone had told me I could work with such artistes on songs I genuinely enjoyed, without any expectation of fame, recognition, or even the songs being commercial hits, and without my name attached, I would have been perfectly fine with it.

"But when it comes to my identity—or my professional ego, if I may say so—that will always be tied to Bangladesh. There is no Fuad without Bangladesh; I don't exist if my Bangladeshi fans don't exist. I have to return now and then to remind myself who I am. Bangladesh validates me. It always gives me fulfilment and purpose "

Although Fuad has remained occupied with a range of projects at home and abroad, alongside frequent trips to Bangladesh for concerts and events, what seems absent amid all this activity are the "chart-topping" hits he once delivered with regularity

When asked about what 2026 holds, Fuad's answer was brief but certain. He has developed an interest in Dhaka's quietly growing DJ, EDM, and house music scene and wants to explore it firsthand. The revelation carried a hint of irony, too—just minutes earlier, he had questioned whether he was like "an old dog learning new tricks," and now he seemed ready to embrace that very challenge.

Before wrapping up our conversation, 'the old dog' walked me through how he came to create what is arguably one of his greatest hits, Nitol Paye. I had pressed him for an answer to a question I'd asked years ago—about the "shyama meye" mentioned in the song. 

The lyrics weren't originally his own, but back in the day, everyone who played the track would ask around, curious about the girl in the lyrics. It was reminiscent of Michael Jackson's Billie Jean, except in Fuad's case, the mystery remained his to reveal. Even twenty years later, he remained quietly cryptic.

He offered a sly smile when I asked if it would make the record, and once I nodded, he reflected on the time when he created the song. "You know, I always used to kind of weirdly teleport visually whenever I was trying to make new songs or even just listened to songs by myself back in the day," he said. 

He explained how, for instance, if he listened to tracks from the '80s, he would mentally travel to a retro-futuristic place, picturing neon lights, synth waves, and the aesthetics of that era, letting it inform the mood and texture of his own compositions.

"Instead of making a song for someone specific, I focused on creating a sound palette that could transport me to those imaginary places," Fuad explained. "I used to compose the entire instrumental first, and the lyrics and melodies would come afterwards."

It was the same approach with Nitol Paye.

"I had burned the instrumental onto a CD, and whenever I was driving around, I'd play it and casually experiment with random melodies. One day, I was on the highway, driving from New Jersey to New York, and I ended up singing the lyrics of Nitol Paye over the instrumental. Of course, I knew the song from my childhood, and it sounded great. And here we are, 22 years later."

I still didn't have a clear answer to my original question. 

Fuad grunted, hesitated, but eventually caved, "You know, I was in my twenties, and like things are, we often ended up chasing a muse, hoping for a love story with that one cherished woman but somehow never making it happen. That, back then, was my interpretation of the 'shyama meye.'"

When I turned off the recorder, he offered a slightly more definite hint about her identity—but of course, that's a secret that I'm not going to tell you. Happy New Year!