Shando Bombs speaks with the kind of candour that makes a standard artist interview feel too small for the story underneath it. In this A&R Factory conversation, the Bay Area South Indian-American rapper opens up about Hittin It The Best Remix, the visual world behind the release, and the years of self-discovery feeding into his 18-track album, TUNNEL VISION. He reflects on autism, cultural displacement, childhood isolation, Eminem becoming his first doorway into hip-hop, and the long road from hiding under the same grey hoodie to performing in public with a no-excuses mentality. There’s pain between these lines, but there is also humour, hunger, California energy and a serious refusal to let old wounds become the ceiling.
Welcome to A&R Factory, Shando Bombs. Thanks for taking the time to talk to us about your new music and the next chapter you’re building from your sound up. The Hittin It The Best Remix feels like a statement release rather than just another version of a track, especially with the video coming alongside it. What made this song feel worth revisiting, recharging and giving a whole new visual life?
I knew “Hittin It The Best” was a hit from the moment I heard the beat and recorded it. Everything came together effortlessly. As soon as I started recording and sang the hook, Johnny was bopping his head like crazy. It’s also the one song that always gets a positive reaction, no matter who I play it for.
This year, I really started getting out there and performing, and my friends would go crazy whenever I played it. Whether I performed it live or put it on in the whip, everybody would be singing the hell out of that chorus. We would even find ourselves randomly humming it while walking around. By March, I knew we had something special and started thinking about how we could create a remix that was even more radio-friendly.
I noticed that a lot of hit records are driven by melody, and we had already scored with the hook. I changed two key parts of the original. There was a line where I said, “Kill and hit the guests with the pest dispense.” It sounded cool, but it wasn’t something people could easily remember or repeat. I simplified it to, “Feeling hella fre-fah-fah-fre-fah-fresh,” as a callback to the South and Mannie Fresh.
I also added the bridge: “Now pass it, now pass it—dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah—that’s it!” It gives me something interactive to use during live performances and gets the crowd involved. I’m basically telling people to pass the weed, which connects naturally in California, where cannabis is a major part of the culture. Even if you don’t smoke, it’s still melodic, easy to nod along to and immediately memorable. I felt like that helped us crack the code and make the record more suitable for radio and live shows.
The video gave me another opportunity to showcase my personality. We created an opening skit where Lil Hitz—who engineers many of my songs and is featured on the album—plays my manager. We’re having a label meeting and debating whether we should push “Hittin It The Best Remix” or another one of my songs called “Bobs Discounts.” I wanted people to see my sense of humor and acting ability before the music even started.
Johnny Hits, my engineer and the video’s director, told me how important it was to incorporate acting, bring interesting people into the visual and scout locations that would make it memorable. We brought in an extremely talented dancer from New York named Venom, who even danced on the ledge of a building. We filmed in the studio, throughout Downtown San Jose and on the top floor of the parking structure at Valley Fair Mall. I wanted to represent the culture of my city while giving people striking visuals and a video they would remember.
TUNNEL VISION is an 18-track album, which is a massive first full-length body of work. Did making it feel like you were proving your range to people, or proving to yourself how many different versions of Shando Bombs could exist on one record?
It became both, but the biggest thing was the self-discovery that happened while I was making it. When I started recording the album roughly two years ago, I originally wanted it to be a clear, concise and deeply personal record. But when you spend that much time creating an album, you grow while the music is growing too.
In 2024, I was still figuring out exactly what I was doing as an artist. I was recording songs, but I was also learning about mixing, beat stems, production, melody and how to make my ideas more tangible to a mainstream audience without sacrificing what makes me authentic. As my understanding grew, the vision for the album became much more ambitious.
TUNNEL VISION ended up containing a little bit of everything, which is what I love most about it. There are West Coast bops, emotional deep cuts, melodic joints, trap songs and rage records. I tried to give every track its own production, content and energy so that each one felt new and exciting, while making sure the album still sounded full and consistent as one body of work. I wanted to show as many layers of myself as possible and not be afraid to experiment or take risks.
I even made melodic singing records. I’m not a traditional singer, but I love singing, creating melodies and figuring out what will stick in somebody’s head. I remember Drake making the point early in his career that the artists combining melody with words people could digest were the ones succeeding. I think he was right. At the same time, I’m still an emcee and a hip-hop purist. I love lyrics and bars, so my goal is to combine both worlds.
More than anything, I wanted to pour my heart and soul into this album and show that I’m a force to be reckoned with in the industry. Outside of my family, music has been one of the only consistent forces in my life. I’ve been through a lot, and that’s why I go so hard for it. You can hear that hunger and passion throughout every song on TUNNEL VISION.
What are the moments on TUNNEL VISION where listeners will hear you pushing furthest away from what they might expect from a Bay Area hip-hop artist?
I think listeners will hear me pushing furthest outside those expectations on records like “What’s in a Name,” “Inner Peace,” “Holding On,” “Too Far Gone” and “Chandelier.”
“What’s in a Name” is especially important because it connects to my decision to change the name I use from Sudarshan Raguraman to Shan Raman. My old name carried painful memories and represented a version of myself that I was trying to move beyond. The song explores how something as simple as a name can carry culture, expectations, identity and trauma.
“Inner Peace,” “Holding On” and “Too Far Gone” are also incredibly meaningful records to me. They all sound different melodically, lyrically and in terms of my flow, but they carry similar messages. I wrote them during a really dark period when I was dealing with unemployment, loneliness, depression, feeling out of place and constantly longing for love, acceptance and some kind of escape. When you compare yourself to your peers and the lives they appear to have, it’s easy to feel like you’re falling behind. I can’t count how many times I’ve sat inside my house or walked around my neighborhood feeling restless and thinking, “There has to be more to life than this.”
“Inner Peace” also touches on a health issue I experienced during the summer of 2024, when I was dealing with reactive vasculitis. I had stomach issues, red rashes across my thighs, arms and other parts of my body, swelling in my feet and unexplained body pain. It took an entire month before we even knew what it was. Before receiving the diagnosis, there were constant doctor’s appointments, blood tests and long periods of waiting for results. That experience was frightening, but it put a lot of things into perspective. Writing about it became therapeutic because it allowed me to release emotions I had been carrying throughout that uncertainty.
because it allowed me to release emotions I had been carrying throughout that uncertainty.
“Chandelier,” the album’s closing track, is equally important because it captures the journey from darkness into light at the end of the tunnel. I go deeply into forgiveness and the decision to choose peace—not necessarily for anybody else, but for myself. I realized that holding onto pain and resentment would eventually erode and destroy me.
In the second verse, I talk about a friend who confided in me while going through an extremely difficult period and told me that he had attempted to take his own life. My parents and I contacted his family, he received help and, thankfully, he’s doing great now. On the song, I reflect on why he chose to trust me with that information, the responsibility I felt after hearing it and the guilt I sometimes carried over times when I hadn’t answered his calls or texts. I also think about what could have happened if I hadn’t acted when he reached out.
That verse carries a powerful message about forgiveness, asking for help and continuing to shoot for the stars even when life feels hopeless. “Chandelier” hits me at my core every time I hear or perform it.
That vulnerability feels especially important to me as a South Asian artist. Mental health and deeply personal struggles can still be difficult to discuss openly within parts of our community, especially among men. I felt it was important to peel back those layers and be candid about what I’ve experienced. Although I’m proudly a Bay Area artist, my music isn’t limited to regional sounds or expectations. I’m willing to confront difficult subjects and let people hear the parts of my life that aren’t always easy to talk about.
You discovered Eminem at 12, during a time when confidence, getting to grips with ASD, and feeling like you fit nowhere were all part of your reality. What did hip-hop give you back then that normal life was failing to give you?
Hip-hop gave me a voice before I felt comfortable using my own. At 12, I was overweight, had buck teeth and was painfully shy and socially awkward. Being on the autism spectrum made it difficult for me to understand certain social situations, connect with people and feel like I belonged anywhere. It often seemed as though everyone else had been given instructions for how to fit in, while I was left trying to figure everything out by myself. When it came down to race it was especially lonely not feeling like I belonged to my race or the Western side either it made hip hop feel like a real home for me.
I discovered Eminem after seeing his 60 Minutes interview in 2014, and something immediately connected with me. Here was someone who could take rejection, anger, insecurity, humor and painful experiences and transform them into something powerful. He showed me that you didn’t have to come from the expected background or naturally fit the image people associated with a rapper. If your words were powerful enough and you truly dedicated yourself to the craft, you could create your own place within hip-hop.
Normal life made me feel as though being different was something I needed to hide or correct. Hip-hop made me feel like those differences could become my greatest source of creativity. It gave me a way to organize emotions I didn’t know how to communicate in ordinary conversations. When I wrote lyrics, I could be louder, funnier, more confident and more expressive than I knew how to be in everyday life and get praised for it.
It also gave me an identity and something meaningful to work toward. Before I ever recorded a song or stepped onto a stage, hip-hop allowed me to imagine a version of myself who could command people’s attention and be heard. Shando Bombs was born from that imagination, but over time he became real. Music didn’t instantly eliminate my insecurities, but it gave me a reason to believe that the kid who felt like he fit nowhere could eventually create his own space.
As a South Indian-American artist in hip-hop, you have had to work through cultural conflict, rebellion and eventually self-acceptance. How has embracing your background changed the way you write, perform and carry yourself now?
For a long time, I felt caught between two worlds—not fully accepted by other South Asians, yet not entirely seen as Western either. Rebellion became a way of establishing my identity, and I once believed that becoming my own person meant distancing myself from my culture.
At the same time, embracing my culture doesn’t mean I need to bring it up constantly. I want people to rock with me for who I am and connect with the music because it’s good. If I forced Indian references into everything or presented my background in a stereotypical cringe corny way, that could be just as harmful as rejecting it altogether. When you do that you box yourself into a super niche audience while alienation other groups of people from potentially becoming fans of the music. Representation can help you stand out, but if you want to grow and be respected in this field, the music still has to connect with people beyond one community.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that I can become Shando Bombs without rejecting my background or allowing it to define everything I create. Embracing myself as a neurodivergent South Indian-American artist means being comfortable with that identity without feeling pressured to constantly prove it.
That honesty shapes my writing, especially on “What’s in a Name,” which explores my decision to change the name I use from Sudarshan Raguraman to Shan Raman. The decision wasn’t about rejecting my culture. It was about separating myself from painful memories and reclaiming control over the person I wanted to become. I can now address culture, family expectations, mental health and my overall thoughts and feelings more openly.
It has also changed how I perform and carry myself. As the times evolve, I think listeners increasingly want to hear unique stories and understand what makes an artist special. I no longer worry as much about fitting into a particular box. I lock in on the qualities that make me unique and bring my humor, vulnerability, melodies and cultural experiences to the stage naturally. That makes Shando Bombs more authentic as a whole.
Because I rarely saw South Indian-American artists represented in hip-hop while growing up, I still want to provide that representation for others. I want culturally displaced kids to understand that they can embrace every part of their background without erasing one side to express the other—and without allowing anybody to reduce them to a stereotype.
There is something mad powerful about going from a painfully shy, socially awkward kid to someone recording, performing, shooting videos and travelling for music. What part of becoming Shando Bombs still feels surreal when you stop and think about it?
What feels surreal, man, is that this is the first year when I can honestly say I’m really grinding—not only making music, but releasing it, performing, collaborating, meeting other artists and constantly stepping outside my comfort zone.
For the past few years, I was mainly locked in on creating records and discovering who I was as an artist. Now I finally have enough music that I’m proud to perform and share with people. I’ve done several shows this year alone, travelled and stayed in hotels for performances, booked a paid show and even reached a point where another artist is preparing to pay me for a feature. Those might sound like normal steps within the industry, but to the painfully shy kid I used to be, they’re huge.
Your track Ludacris with Nef the Pharaoh connects you to serious Bay Area energy, while Johnny Hits and Lil Hitz have helped shape you as engineers and mentors. What have those collaborations taught you about trusting other people with your sound?
I recorded “Ludacris” with Nef the Pharaoh and shot a video with him. I’m getting ready to release “Hittin It The Best Remix” with a video we went all out to produce, along with my first full-length album, which we’ve worked incredibly hard on. I’ve released limited merchandise, done professional photo shoots and built relationships with artists, engineers, directors and performers. I’m becoming the type of artist I always wanted to become and somebody I can genuinely be proud of.
One recent experience really captured that growth. My artist friend Coach Cal and I regularly attend Wordsmith Wednesdays, a new open-mic event in the South Bay. One week, the event was cancelled because the venue was meeting with the county about bringing in a bar. We decided that the show still had to go on, so we took it back to the basics. We went to a plaza in Downtown Palo Alto with a boombox, a microphone and a phone and filmed ourselves performing our songs right in the middle of the city.
That was one of the coolest things I’ve done because it represented having a no-excuses mentality. The venue wasn’t available, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t perform. We created our own stage and continued doing what we loved.
I’m not exactly where I want to be yet, and this journey comes with plenty of challenges. I’m not being paid consistently for my music yet either. But when I step back and look at the totality of everything, I’m doing things I once could only dream about. I’m chasing this head-on, creating something out of nothing and becoming more fearless in the process. To go from struggling to speak up or connect with people to performing in the middle of a public plaza is difficult to even put into words. It means the world to me.
Johnny Hits and Lil Hitz have taught me that trusting people with your sound doesn’t mean giving up your creative control. It means surrounding yourself with people who care enough to challenge you and help you bring the best version of your vision to life.
Johnny has become much more than an engineer to me. He’s a mentor and one of my closest friends. We talk all the time about music, the industry and life in general. He goes above and beyond to help me grow not only as an artist, but as a human being. He’s constantly telling me to invest in myself, aim high and avoid shortcuts. He’ll be the first to tell you that a lot of advice in this industry is the blind leading the blind.
Johnny has been in the game for years. He has worked around many different artists, studied music and film and put an enormous amount of time, effort and passion into his craft. That experience matters. He and Lil Hitz have helped shape my no-excuses mentality, while also teaching me patience. They’ve shown me the importance of taking the time to craft a great record instead of treating music like fast food and rushing to put out everything you create.
They compare making an album to making a movie. Every great movie has deleted scenes, alternate ideas and countless decisions that the audience never sees. You have to respect that process and accept that not everything you record will make the final cut. TUNNEL VISION has been years in the making. None of it happened overnight, and we’re all still grinding, but that’s what makes looking back at where we started so beautiful.
Working with Nef the Pharaoh on “Ludacris” gave me another lesson in trust and professionalism. When Nef arrived at the studio, he brought his cousin with him and was eating Popeyes. We talked for a few minutes about what I was doing, the album I was creating and the other collaborations I had. Then we played him the beat.
I remembered seeing Nef explain on Instagram that he doesn’t write his verses down—he creates by punching in. When I asked him about it, he told me, “ion write at all. I’ve always punched in.” Watching that process happen directly in front of me was surreal. It reminded me of the stories you hear about Lil Wayne creating in the booth.
Nef listened to the beat while eating, humming and quietly putting different ideas together. Then he suddenly went into the booth, recorded a few lines, paused, added a few more and continued building the verse piece by piece. Within about five or ten minutes, he had completed his main vocals, doubles and ad-libs. We had everything sounding right in almost no time. That was when I understood what it looks like when a true professional has completely mastered his process. Not to mention we as artists often have one definition for what we view success in the form of a Michael Jackson The Beatles a Drake a Taylor Swift. With Nef he might not be a super mainstream name but he has built a solid career for himself over a decade has connections and the respect of some of the biggest names in music like E-40, Snoop Dogg, Chris Brown etc as well as a solid fan base and following.
Once you start travelling, performing and genuinely grinding as an artist, you realize how difficult this industry truly is. You meet supremely talented people who have dedicated years their craft and are still fighting to reach the same heights as you. It gives you a completely different level of respect for somebody who can say, “I do this for a living.”
Sometimes when I’m flying somewhere, I’ll look around and think, “Man, how incredible would it be to do this every day—to make music, travel, perform and have people praise you for it and never have to worry about filling out a job application again.”That’s the life Nef has built. He has turned his talent into a career that allows him to do what he loves, and it honestly doesn’t get much better than that.
Being around him gave me a firsthand look at what’s possible, but it also showed me the professionalism required to sustain it. The experience taught me that music should still be fun and instinctive, even when you take the work seriously. It made me more comfortable trusting my collaborators, trusting the process and believing that, with enough persistence, I can build that kind of life for myself too.
One of my favorite parts was watching Johnny react as a fan. When Nef said chopper kung pao kick flip bock choy and the Coraline bar , Johnny went wild. We also captured footage of me, Nef and Lil Hitz together in the studio, just enjoying the moment and vibing to the record.
You want Shando Bombs to mean something to people who feel neurodivergent, culturally caught between worlds, socially rejected or unsure where they belong. If you could impart one piece of wisdom here, what would it be?
The biggest piece of wisdom I can impart is this: don’t let your struggles, problems or circumstances determine where you’re going,
I’m more than where I started. I’m more than a neurodivergent kid. I’m more than the socially awkward kid who was overweight and once cruelly called a “school shooter.” I’m more than someone who has dealt with unemployment, depression, loneliness and suicidal thoughts. Those experiences are all real parts of my story, but they aren’t the complete definition of who I am. Regardless of what I’ve been through, none of it determines how far I can go or how high I’m allowed to reach.
My mom always tells me, “Don’t keep telling yourself the same story, because eventually you’re going to start believing it.” That has always stayed with me. You should acknowledge your pain, be honest about it and ask for help when you need it, but you can’t spend your entire life painting yourself as a victim and drown in your sorrows.
Music is my passion and my purpose, and I’m going to give it everything I have. That doesn’t mean the journey is easy or that believing in myself will magically remove every obstacle. It means I refuse to let my starting point alter my leap.
.We all have greatness within us, but we first have to believe that it’s possible and then be willing to work toward it. Your struggles can explain where you’ve been, but never allow them to place a ceiling on where you can go.
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Stream Shando Bombs on Spotify and YouTube.
Connect with the artist on Instagram.
Interview by Amelia Vandergast