I first encountered Farzad Ghadimi nearly three years ago, when his debut single Shelik burst forth like a sudden spark in the dark. That track wasn’t merely a promising start—it was a declaration. From the opening bars, it was clear that a distinctive new voice had emerged in Persian rap, one that refused to be mistaken for anyone else. Even his chosen name—infused with affection for the kitsch and color of Iranian traditional culture—stood out boldly against the prevailing aesthetics of the contemporary scene.
Since then, every time I’ve spoken with fans, producers, or fellow rappers, his name has risen to the surface—spoken not with hesitation but with certainty. For many, Farzad’s ascent is not a matter of if, but when. He’s already seen as a future heavyweight—one of the rare artists whose trajectory feels not only promising but inevitable.
Guiding that trajectory from the outset has been none other than Saeed Dehghan—a foundational figure whose sonic fingerprints are etched across the landscape of Persian rap. Their collaboration has proven unusually cohesive, rooted in a shared artistic language that bridges generations. With Dehghan behind the boards, Farzad has cultivated a style entirely his own: a fusion of lyrical precision and vocal poise that renders each release less a song and more a cinematic scene unfolding.
Last night, Ghadimi returned with Rasmi, his debut full-length album—a 14-track project once again fully produced, mixed, and mastered by Dehghan. This time, the record also marks Farzad’s first collaboration with Safir, the veteran rapper who has recently been revitalizing his presence through partnerships with the new wave—artists like Hoodadk4 and Kixty. On the track Yakh Too Livan, Safir and Ghadimi cross paths for the first time, their verses flowing seamlessly over a beat that’s at once icy and incandescent.
And yet, Farzad continues to walk alone—a solitary traveler on a road he seems determined to pave for himself. In an era when some rappers veer too far into cryptic abstraction, heavy-handed reportage, or worse, bland mimicry of global trends, Ghadimi offers something rare: a voice rooted in the legacy of Persian rap yet wholly unbound by it. His lyrics teem with characters and contradictions, conjuring vivid, cinematic scenes rendered with both a dark brush and a comic glint. Each track unfolds like a miniature drama—by turns bitter, mischievous, and unflinching.
For Dehghan—who has kept a relatively low profile in recent years—Rasmi feels like a homecoming. In Ghadimi, he has found a kindred spirit: an artist with the narrative force and agility to match his expansive musical vision. Together, they eschew the safety of looped beats and formulaic hooks, crafting instead a body of work that feels immersive, unpredictable, and deeply intentional.
The rise of artists like Farzad Ghadimi signals something vital about the current state of Persian rap. It is no longer a scene chasing trends; it has become a realm where genuine innovation not only survives—but thrives. And perhaps that’s what makes Rasmi feel so essential: it reminds us that rap in Iran doesn’t need a blueprint. It can redraw the map entirely.
In the end, Ghadimi’s greatest gift might be his singularity. He doesn’t sound like anyone else. And for those fatigued by the formulaic, Rasmi arrives like a breath of cold, bracing air. It’s more than just an album—it’s a signpost for where Persian rap could be headed. And if that path runs through Ghadimi, the journey ahead is sure to be unforgettable.