NIKOLAS LEE | INTERVIEW + TRACK REVIEW

After a decade-long pause, Nikolas Lee returns to music with raw honesty, hard-earned wisdom, and a renewed creative fire. His newly released EP blends nostalgic folk with introspective storytelling — the product of both deep personal loss and artistic rediscovery. In this intimate interview, Nikolas reflects on his early brushes with the industry, navigating grief, living with ADHD, and the quiet power of beginning again. With a voice shaped by vulnerability and a vision anchored in growth, he’s carving a path that’s as thoughtful as it is fearless.

TRACK REVIEW

There’s something deeply grounding about Life That I Lead — the kind of track that reminds you real storytelling still matters. After watching A Complete Unknown last night, I found myself craving that kind of honest songwriting again, and Nikolas Lee delivers it here in full.

Blending warm folk textures with a gentle, upbeat pulse, the track flows effortlessly. The melodies feel like they’ve always been there, tucked between the lines of the thoughtful, resonant chorus. Of all the songs on the EP, this one stood out immediately — not because it’s flashy, but because it’s so raw and riveting.

In a time where so much music feels over-polished, Life That I Lead arrives like a breath of fresh air — vulnerable, unpretentious, and exactly what the world needs right now.

LISTEN HERE

After a decade-long hiatus, what inspired you to return to music, and how has your creative process evolved during this time?

I think most musicians—and artists of all kinds, really—have an innate need to create. Not just a desire, but something deeper. Over those ten years away, I still had ideas pop into my head—melodies, phrases, fragments. I’d pick up the guitar, and a chorus or verse would appear, but I rarely shaped them into full songs. At the time, I thought that was enough. But eventually, the need to actually finish songs became an itch I had to scratch.

As for how my process has evolved—it’s mostly stayed the same at its core. I’ve always been self-taught, so everything starts with noodling on the acoustic guitar, playing with chords and melodies, and singing nonsense lyrics until something clicks. Honestly, if there are musicians out there not using nonsense lyrics to start, I highly recommend it—it’s amazing how often one strange word or phrase becomes the heart of a song.

What’s changed is how much more time I spend listening now. I still don’t know music theory, but I’ll find myself thinking things like, “Should this go to a minor 7th?” I’m exploring more unusual chords and spending longer crafting the arc of a song. I still find choruses tricky, though—I haven’t completely made peace with them yet!

Reflecting on your early 2000s band that nearly signed with Sony, what lessons have you carried into your current solo endeavours?

The music industry has changed so much since those days. I remember going to the house of this big-shot A&R guy to play our demo. His first response was, “This is great, but we’d need to change this, this, and this…” And at the time, that felt totally normal. Getting signed was the only real path to success, and we would’ve probably changed whatever we needed to, just to make it.

Looking back, I realise how much that approach would’ve forced us to compromise our vision. These days, while there’s plenty of chaos in the music world—good and bad—at least artists can put their work out there without permission. People can hear the music as it was meant to be heard.

Rick Rubin talks about not making art for anyone else, and I think he’s right. If it’s good, it’ll find its people.

The loss of your father and sister, along with your ADHD diagnosis, have profoundly impacted you. How have these experiences influenced your songwriting and the themes you explore?

The last four years have been strange and hard in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve been between Australia and New Zealand, while my family remained in the UK. My dad was ill for a long time, so in some ways I had time to prepare. But my sister’s passing was sudden—cancer—and she had two young children. That was… devastating. I was lucky to make it to my dad’s funeral just before Victoria’s lockdowns began, but I never got that chance with my sister.

Themes of life and death have always threaded through my music, but they feel even more present now. I like writing songs that explore big things, but in a way that leaves them open—ambiguous enough that people can find their own meaning. I’ve tried to write directly about my sister and my dad, but so far, the songs haven’t been good enough. I’m still working on them.

As for my ADHD—growing up, it wasn’t something anyone talked about. You were just labelled ‘disruptive’. Getting a formal diagnosis helped me understand why I feel things so intensely, and why I often struggle with emotional regulation. It also helped me make sense of my creative patterns. For example, I’d always start songs and never finish them. Turns out, the dopamine hit from starting something new is a real thing. I’ve had to teach myself that it’s okay—even good—to go back and finish things, even if my instincts want to chase the next idea.

You describe your music as ‘Music for Growth.’ Can you elaborate on what this means to you and how it manifests in your compositions?

Of course—and hopefully it’s not as corny as it sounds! For me, “Music for Growth” is about recognising the role music plays in our lives. It journeys with us. It reflects the ups, downs, and all the fragile, messy bits in between. It helps us find meaning—or at least feel something honest.

I don’t see myself as a self-help guru or anything like that—it’s more about being open with what I’m going through, and hoping that honesty connects. I try not to be too on-the-nose with lyrics either. These days, I lean into metaphors and ambiguity more than I used to, leaving space for the listener to interpret things in their own way.

In the past, my writing leaned heavily into melancholy. Now, I’m exploring story-driven songs rooted in personal and historical moments. One song I’m working on is about my grandparents’ journey from France to the UK after World War II—a reflection on resilience, change, and the ripple effects of history on individual lives.

Balancing multiple creative outlets, from visual arts to music, how do these disciplines intersect and inform each other in your work?

I actually started out wanting to be an illustrator. I went to art college, but I’ll never forget the head of the department telling me—bluntly—that I just wasn’t good enough. At the time, it crushed me. Art had been my escape after struggling through school with undiagnosed ADHD. But that same tutor saw something else in my work and nudged me toward typography, which ended up being a bit of a lifeline.

I studied typographic design at university, and weirdly, it’s had a lasting impact on how I write lyrics. I approach words almost visually—I think about the rhythm, structure, and how things sit in space, like I would when laying out a page of type. It’s a crossover I never really expected, but it’s definitely shaped how I craft lyrics and songs.

With a new EP releasing in March 2025 and an album in the works, what can listeners expect in terms of style and subject matter?

The upcoming EP leans into the acoustic, nostalgic folk end of my sound—with a few dreamy, psychedelic edges creeping in. It’s influenced by the 60s and 70s artists I grew up listening to via my dad’s record collection, but it’s also very much me processing the last few years.

The subject matter ranges from grief and transformation to the strangeness of memory and the passing of time. There are songs that feel intimate and stripped back, and others that build into more textured, hypnotic spaces. I’ve been writing a lot about personal turning points—those moments where everything quietly shifts—and trying to capture the emotional aftershocks that follow.

Rehearsing with a band for upcoming live shows, how are you translating your solo studio creations to the stage?

Translating the songs live has been both exciting and surprisingly emotional. A lot of the recordings started with me alone—just a guitar, a mic, and a voice memo—but when you bring other musicians into the mix, the songs take on new life. I’m lucky to be working with people who really get the atmosphere I’m trying to create—space, tension, release.

We’re keeping things fairly stripped back: acoustic guitar at the heart, layered with gentle textures—electric guitar, some ambient effects, maybe subtle keys. I want the performances to feel intimate and human. Not everything needs to be tight and polished; I’m much more interested in capturing a feeling.

It’s also been a chance to let go a little. I’ve realised that a song doesn’t have to sound exactly like the recording to connect—it just needs to feel true in the room we’re in.

Navigating the music industry now versus the MySpace era of the early 2000s, what challenges and opportunities do you perceive?

Oh wow—MySpace! It’s wild to think how much has changed since the MySpace days. Back then, just having a profile and some dodgy demos was enough to get people’s attention. There was a real sense of discovery—people stumbled across your page, left comments, and shared your songs without needing a campaign or strategy.

Now, the digital landscape is a lot noisier. There are more tools, but also more pressure—to be a marketer, a content creator, a data analyst. And honestly, that can be exhausting. But at the same time, there’s freedom. You don’t need a label to release music. You don’t need radio play to find listeners. There’s a lot more autonomy, and that’s empowering.

The challenge is not losing your creative compass in all the noise. You’ve got to remember why you’re doing it, and focus on making work that feels meaningful—whether it reaches ten people or ten thousand.

Your father’s extensive collection of obscure 70s folk vinyl was a significant influence. Are there specific artists or records from his collection that have particularly inspired you?

Absolutely—his record collection was like a secret world I got to grow up inside. He had this real love for the fringes of folk—the weirder, darker, more psychedelic stuff. People like Roy Harper, John Martyn, and Bert Jansch were on heavy rotation. I remember hearing Nick Drake’s Pink Moon for the first time and feeling completely undone by it. It was so sparse, but it said so much.

He also had more obscure artists like Michael Chapman and Vashti Bunyan, which really influenced my sense of space and intimacy in music. There’s something about that era that felt raw and unfiltered—there was room for imperfection, and for emotion to spill over.

That collection shaped my ears early on, and I still find myself chasing that feeling in my own music—the sense that a song can be both fragile and fearless.

As an artist in your 40s embarking on what feels like a new beginning, what message do you hope to convey to audiences through your music?

If there’s one message in the music I’m making now, it’s probably: it’s never too late to begin again. Life rarely unfolds the way you thought it would, but that doesn’t mean the story’s over. In fact, some of the most meaningful parts can come later—when you’re a bit bruised, a bit wiser, and a bit less worried about proving yourself.

I want people to hear these songs and feel less alone. To recognise themselves in the lyrics—not just in the heavy stuff, but in the beauty and weirdness of being alive. There’s no fixed map for how to live, or grieve, or grow. And if the music can give someone even a moment of clarity or comfort, then that’s more than enough for me.

LISTEN HERE