Bamdad on Truth, Time, and the Rebellion of Underground Hip-Hop

In the latest episode of Cozy Corner with Hossein Nasiri, a show dedicated to unraveling the inner worlds of Persian creatives, the guest chair was taken by one of the most enduring voices of Iranian underground rap: Bamdad. Known for his independence, boldness, and refusal to play by the market’s rules, Bamdad has spent over 16 years carving out a unique place in the Persian hip-hop landscape.

But this episode wasn’t just about his music. It was about a worldview—an exploration of what it means to stay true to one’s art in a world defined by formulas, sponsors, and power structures. Across nearly two hours of conversation, Bamdad opened up about his early days of discovery, his philosophy of independence, his inspirations, and his latest conceptual project Zurvan, which weaves together Iranian mythology and existential thought.

What emerges is not simply the portrait of a rapper, but of a thinker who has chosen to use hip-hop as his medium. For Bamdad, underground is not a genre—it is a condition of existence, a commitment to freedom, honesty, and self-expression that cannot be dictated by commercial agendas.

Origins: A Teenager and a CD of Persian Rap

Every story of rebellion begins with a spark. For Bamdad, that spark came in middle school, when a friend handed him a CD filled with early Persian rap tracks. It was the late 2000s, still the era of dial-up connections and blog downloads, and hip-hop in Iran was a scattered, barely-formed culture.

Inside that disc were names that would later become legends: Hichkas, Pishro, Eblis, Diako. The sound was raw, often unpolished, but it carried something he hadn’t found elsewhere—realness. Tracks like Bahram’s 24 Saat and Delnevesht didn’t feel like entertainment; they felt like mirrors, articulating experiences he himself lived. Police harassment, loneliness, rejection, the streets of Tehran—they were all there, wrapped in rhythm and rhyme.

By the time he was 15, he was already writing lyrics. At 16, he stepped into a studio for the first time to record. It was the summer of 2009, right after Iran’s disputed elections—a politically charged time when expressing dissent, even in art, was dangerous. But for a teenager who felt like he didn’t belong anywhere, rap wasn’t about danger. It was about survival.

“If we had been accepted in other parts of society, we probably wouldn’t have ended up in hip-hop,” he told me. Hip-hop became a home for the rejected, a culture for those who didn’t fit the dominant mold.

Defining Underground: A Condition, Not a Genre

The heart of Bamdad’s philosophy lies in his definition of underground. For him, underground is not a musical style but a state of independence.

“Underground music is basically whatever isn’t part of the mainstream. It’s not produced, distributed, or consumed within the dominant flow. It’s a condition, not a genre.”

That condition is marked by certain choices—how you produce, how you distribute, and what you prioritize. While mainstream artists often chase chart positions, play counts, and sponsorships, underground artists prioritize freedom of expression. They create not to meet a formula, but to articulate lived experience.

That doesn’t mean underground is automatically “better.” As Bamdad points out, underground work can still fall into clichés, and mainstream work can sometimes break new creative ground. The distinction lies not in the sound but in the relationship to power. Underground art resists control, whether imposed by markets, governments, or even public taste.

The Graffiti Analogy: Reclaiming Presence

To illustrate his point, Bamdad turns to other elements of hip-hop culture—particularly graffiti.

Graffiti, he explains, is the perfect metaphor for underground art. When a city designates a “legal wall” for graffiti, it misses the point. True graffiti happens on the walls where it is forbidden—because it is about reclaiming space. It says, “This street belongs to me too. My presence cannot be erased.”

“Underground rap is like graffiti sprayed on forbidden walls—an act of reclaiming presence, defying imposed frameworks, and asserting individuality.”

Similarly, underground rap transforms suppressed experiences into raw, honest art that resists easy digestion by the mainstream. It is not about destruction, but about expansion—adding new textures and truths to cultural life.

Independence as the Essence of Hip-Hop

Throughout the conversation, one phrase echoes again and again: independence.

For Bamdad, hip-hop loses its soul the moment it becomes fully dependent on market formulas. Independence doesn’t only mean financial self-sufficiency. It also means creative and philosophical autonomy.

That’s why he has remained independent for more than 16 years, despite pressures, temptations, and the possibility of greater fame. “If I’m not independent, then it’s not really hip-hop anymore,” he insists.

This philosophy has guided his every decision—from refusing to follow trends, to choosing obscure, even esoteric themes for his music. It has also shaped his rhythm of work. Bamdad doesn’t release music for the sake of visibility. He releases when he feels compelled to, and if he doesn’t feel the joy in it, he stops.

The result is a career marked by authenticity, not consistency—a path of peaks and silences, but always guided by honesty.

Zurvan: Mythology as Existential Reflection

Perhaps the most striking example of Bamdad’s philosophy is his latest conceptual EP, Zurvan. Named after the ancient Iranian deity of time, the project explores existential questions through a mythological lens.

From its opening eight-minute track—an audacious move in today’s era of disposable, two-minute songs—Zurvan signals that it is not seeking popularity. Instead, it invites listeners into a layered journey where history, philosophy, and personal reflection intertwine.

Tracks like Vohuman and Akōman weave ancient concepts of good and evil into modern contexts, suggesting that human struggles have changed less than we think. The final track, Goor (“Grave”), brings the narrative into a deeply personal register, showing how myth and life ultimately converge in the human experience of mortality.

What makes Zurvan powerful is not its mythology per se, but the way Bamdad uses those symbols to reflect on timeless human concerns: the passage of time, the recurrence of social power structures, the continuity between past and present.

“As human beings, maybe we’re not all that different from our ancestors—at least not as much as we think we are,” he says.

The EP is not designed for mass appeal. In fact, Bamdad openly admits he knew from the start that few would listen. But that, he says, was the point. By closing the door on commercial expectations, he opened the door to freedom.

Rebellion and Belonging

Bamdad’s journey is also about belonging. As a teenager, he felt rejected by mainstream society, unable to find his place. Persian rap gave him not only a voice but also a community.

Listening to Bahram’s 24 Saat felt like reading his own diary. Singing along to Eblis’ Refagha created a sense of crew identity. And the battles over what counted as “real hip-hop” versus “party pop” solidified a sense of cultural rebellion.

Hip-hop became not only a medium of expression but a space of belonging—a subculture where marginalized youth could recognize themselves.

Even today, despite his introverted nature, Bamdad emphasizes the communal aspect of hip-hop. “There’s no Batman figure in hip-hop who does it all solo. We’re all connected,” he reminds us.

Underground vs. Mainstream: A Spectrum, Not a Binary

A recurring theme in Bamdad’s philosophy is the rejection of binaries. Too often, he says, the Persian hip-hop community falls into black-and-white thinking—labeling someone as either underground or mainstream, independent or commercial.

But in reality, most artists fall somewhere on a spectrum. Zedbazi, for example, once called themselves underground simply because rap was illegal in Iran. Technically, they weren’t wrong. The same distribution channels—MediaFire, Telegram, later Spotify—were used by everyone.

What matters is not the label but the decisions artists make. Are they prioritizing honesty over formulas? Are they resisting control, or inviting it? Are they creating for empathy, or for consumption?

As Bamdad puts it: “Having a large audience doesn’t disqualify you from being underground. And not being heard doesn’t automatically make you underground either.”

Hip-Hop as Philosophy of Life

One of the most compelling parts of the interview is when Bamdad moves beyond rap to describe his broader philosophy of life.

He admits to being fascinated by existential thought—the idea that life and the universe are ultimately meaningless. But rather than sinking into nihilism, he sees this as a call to live well, to create, to embrace freedom.

In that sense, underground hip-hop becomes more than music. It becomes a philosophy of presence—a way of asserting existence in a world that often erases individuality.

“No matter how bitter it is, if you tell me it’s real—even if it tastes like poison—I’ll still swallow it,” he says.

That commitment to truth, however painful, is the core of his art.

Lessons from Bamdad’s Journey

What can we learn from Bamdad’s story? Several key lessons emerge:

1. Underground is independence. It is not about rejecting the mainstream for the sake of rebellion, but about affirming the freedom to create without external control.
2. Authenticity creates connection. Listeners connect deeply to music rooted in real experience. It creates empathy rather than consumption.
3. Creativity thrives in freedom. By releasing himself from market expectations, Bamdad allowed himself to explore mythology, history, and philosophy in rap—a rare move in the Persian scene.
4. Belonging matters. For marginalized youth, hip-hop is not just art but a community, a mirror, a way to feel less alone.
5. Art is a philosophy of life. At its best, underground hip-hop is not only about beats and rhymes, but about grappling with existential questions and asserting presence in a world that prefers silence.

Conclusion: A Philosopher in Disguise

In the end, Bamdad’s story is not just that of a rapper but of a philosopher in disguise. He may use rhythm and rhyme instead of essays and lectures, but his mission is similar: to challenge systems, awaken hidden truths, and offer alternative paths forward.

He stands as a reminder that creativity flourishes not in conformity but in freedom—that the most powerful art often comes not from seeking mass approval, but from telling one’s truth, however bitter, however obscure.

As Zurvan shows, art can transcend time, merging myth with modernity, the personal with the universal. And as his entire career shows, independence is not a limitation but a source of boundless possibility.

For Bamdad, underground is not a stage to conquer but a world to build. One track, one story, one reclaimed space at a time.