Tiara Wehbe is a Lebanese singer and songwriter who has been on stage since a young age. After taking an unexpected step back, she has recently returned — signing with the Saudi record label MDLBEAST in what marks a significant new chapter in her career.

What sets her apart is not only her voice, but the femininity and quiet strength she carries so effortlessly. She speaks with openness and ease, drawing people in through both her vulnerability and her confidence.

In our conversation, she reflects on the sensitive realities of the music industry, the journey from performer to songwriter, and the unexpected criticism she has faced — including comments about her Arabic accent.

Here we are, meeting Tiara.

— How did music first enter your life?

— Music has been part of me for as long as I can remember — quite literally since I was a baby. It was never a phase, never something I experimented with and outgrew. While most children change their dream job every few years, mine stayed exactly the same. I always knew I wanted to be a singer.

Growing up, I was completely obsessed with Christina Aguilera. I watched Burlesque — the one with Cher — every single weekend, almost like a ritual. I would sit there imagining myself on that stage, certain that one day it would be me. At the same time, I was glued to Disney Channel, constantly singing around the house. My voice was strong even as a child, and that only deepened the certainty.

Later on, I began posting covers on social media. That was the first real shift — the moment when the dream stopped living only in my imagination and started becoming something tangible.

— You grew up in Dubai but feel very connected to Lebanon. How was that connection maintained?

— We were constantly moving between two countries. Every Easter, every Christmas, and especially every summer — we were in Lebanon. I think that is quite typical for Lebanese families living in Dubai. Summer in Lebanon was simply non-negotiable; it was home in a different way.

All of my extended family is there, so I never felt any real distance. Even though I have lived in Dubai my entire life — 24 years now — Lebanon has always remained emotionally central. I grew up between two places, two energies, two mentalities. And in many ways, that duality defines me.

— How did you become part of MDLBEAST Records, and what did joining a major label change for you?

— At the time this opportunity came about, a large part of my audience (more than 50%) was already in Saudi Arabia, and I was travelling there frequently. Over time, those visits turned into performances, and those performances slowly built real relationships within the scene.

Soundstorm became the natural peak of that momentum. Performing on the main stage with Steve Aoki wasn’t just a big moment — it was a confirmation that I belonged in that space. From there, conversations with MDLBEAST evolved organically into something more long-term.

Before properly stepping into my career — not just as a singer, but as a songwriter and creator — I was creatively frustrated. I was constantly writing songs on my phone, full of ideas and melodies, but I had no idea how to produce them. Growing up in Dubai, there wasn’t a clear pathway into music production, and I didn’t fully understand how to bring my vision to life. I had the emotion and the melodies — but not the tools.

Signing with MDLBEAST gave me access to that world. I was suddenly in studios, attending songwriting camps, and learning the mechanics behind production. Instead of simply performing music, I began to understand how it is built from the ground up.

In many ways, the label didn’t just elevate my career — it allowed me to become a creator in the fullest sense. Now I write and produce my own music, and that shift has been incredibly empowering.

— You once said, “When I finished this song, I finally felt it was mine.” Which song were you referring to, and how do you know when a song has truly turned out well?

— I was referring to Nawi Aaleih — and, in many ways, to my more recent releases as well.

When you are in the industry, there is often a quiet pressure — particularly from a marketing perspective — to make songs more commercial, more structured, more instantly catchy. And sometimes, in that process, you lose a small part of yourself. The track might be technically strong, but it doesn’t feel entirely honest.

With Nawi Aaleih, and especially with my newer R&B-leaning work, I finally felt full alignment. The melodies, the flow, the sensuality — everything felt intentional. It sounded like something I would genuinely choose to listen to on repeat. Not simply because I made it, but because it stood on its own.

For me, that is the real test. When I can listen back and feel proud — not pressured, not doubtful — and when I find myself replaying it the way I replay songs I love, that is when I know it is right. That is when I feel it has been done properly.

— Is there an unreleased song you feel most emotionally connected to?

— Yes. It is called Je te regarde, je t’admire — which translates as “I look at you and admire you”.

My mother used to sing those words to me as a lullaby when I was little. She made it up herself — just a few simple lines — but they stayed with me. Writing this song felt incredibly personal, almost like returning something to her.

She raised me on her own. I am an only child, and she sacrificed more than I probably even realise. The song is dedicated to her, but also to all single mothers who carry so much quietly, without asking for recognition.

I have only played her the demo so far. I would like to capture her genuine reaction when she hears the finished version — perhaps even film it. I imagine she will be emotional; I certainly am every time I sing it.

— What does your songwriting process look like?

— If I am starting from scratch, the team and I usually begin with a beat. Once we have that foundation, I step into the recording booth and freestyle melodies over the entire track — just sounds at first, no lyrics. I record multiple takes, experimenting with different flows and tonal variations.

After that, we sit together and listen back, shaping the structure: this feels like a verse, that could be the chorus, this might work as an outro. Once the topline is clear, we begin writing the lyrics over it.

I am very particular about syllables. When you create a demo, you naturally become attached to the way the melody falls — the rhythm, the breath, the phrasing. So when we add the final lyrics, I try to match that original rhythmic structure as closely as possible. It needs to feel seamless, almost inevitable.

The process is collaborative, but very instinctive. Structured, yet guided by feeling.

— Do you remember the first time you performed in front of a large audience? Were you scared?

— The very first time I stepped onto a stage, I was around fourteen or fifteen. My mum was incredibly supportive and would take me to workshops and competitions in Orlando, New York and Los Angeles. I often sang Christina Aguilera’s Hurt, performing in front of industry professionals. That was my first real taste of standing under the lights.

My first performance in front of thousands came later, at the Murex d’Or awards ceremony in Lebanon, shortly after the explosion and the protests. The atmosphere was heavy with emotion, and I performed a song dedicated to Lebanon. It felt important — bigger than just a show.

Then, in December, I reached another milestone — performing my original tracks live for the first time at Soundstorm. Until then, I had only sung covers. Sharing your own music in front of thousands is entirely different — it is far more vulnerable. But it is also extraordinary.

And yes, I was terrified — every single time. To be honest, I still get stage fright. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is how I manage it.

— Your music videos feel light and effortless, yet they are clearly large-scale productions. What does that process actually involve, and how demanding is it?

— It is much more demanding than it looks.

The last video we shot had around 50 to 60 people on set, so it was a full-scale production. What feels soft and cinematic on screen is actually weeks of planning, rehearsals and coordination behind the scenes.

For that track, I came in with a very clear intention: I wanted the audience — especially women — to feel powerful and confident. That energy had to be built physically, not just visually. We rehearsed choreography for three weeks with four dancers, carefully working on the contrast between slow, controlled movements and fast-paced music. That tension is what creates the adrenaline. The visual language supported that idea. We used vintage tones, and the storyline followed a woman trying to escape an unhealthy attachment — stepping into an alter ego where she feels free, yet still being pursued.

Shoot days themselves are physically intense. I started at 4 am for hair and make-up, we were on set by 6 am, and didn’t wrap until close to midnight. I was also barely sleeping beforehand.

It is exhausting. Yet in the moment, adrenaline carries you through. And when the final result aligns with your original vision, the intensity feels entirely justified.

— Arabic culture is often perceived as conservative. Your music, however, is openly romantic, feminine and expressive. Did that openness come naturally to you?

— It came very naturally.

I grew up listening to Western pop — Lana Del Rey, Britney Spears — and also strong Arab female icons like Haifa Wehbe. For me, femininity has never felt controversial; it feels expressive and powerful.

What might seem bold to some feels normal to me. I don’t approach my art thinking about boundaries — I approach it thinking about honesty. Femininity is central to my character, and I want girls listening to my music to feel confident and powerful. It is not about provocation. It is about authenticity.

— Have you faced criticism because of that openness? How do you deal with negativity?

— Of course — especially from more conservative perspectives.

What I found interesting, though, is that some of the criticism wasn’t only about openness. Earlier in my career, I also received comments about my pronunciation. Arabic is my mother tongue, but I grew up between languages. I sing in Arabic, French and English — and I am proud of that. However, when you blend cultures, accents and sounds, not everyone is immediately receptive.

Over time, I have learned to see it differently. Being trilingual is part of who I am. My upcoming track Shatayra even includes Spanish in the bridge — I genuinely enjoy playing with language and sound. Some may find that unconventional, but growth often is.

At the end of the day, criticism is inevitable. What truly matters is whether you feel aligned with what you’re creating.

— What advice would you give to a young artist just starting out?

— Follow your gut. Genuinely.

For a long time, I listened to a lot of external opinions because I wanted success so badly. When you are ambitious, it is easy to be influenced by what others think will “work” commercially. You start second-guessing yourself.

But I have learned that your body is your compass. If something feels off, it usually is. Instinct is often far more reliable than strategy.

And just as importantly — build the right team around you. Surround yourself with people who genuinely care, who believe in you, and who are willing to give their full energy. That support makes an enormous difference, especially in the early stages.

— Tell me about your latest single. How was it born, and what does it represent?

— The track was created over a year ago during a songwriting camp in Jordan. We finished that camp with six demos, but this one stood out straight away.

The producer played me a reference from the Pussycat Dolls — that early-2000s, confident, slightly provocative energy. He said he had always wanted to produce something in that space, but hadn’t found an artist ready to lean into it. I loved the idea immediately.

We started with the beat, built the melodies the way I usually do, and shaped the structure together. I began writing it in Jordan and later completed it at another songwriting camp in Cairo.

For me, the track represents confidence. It is playful, bold and unapologetic — quite different from some of my more emotional songs. And I really enjoy that contrast. It shows another side of me.