Talent?  Check! Skills?  Check!  Excuses? None what so ever!  Enter the torch/pall/water bearers. Extremists burdened with various forms of malignant derangements arising from worldly, historical, social, and/or family dysfunctions.

In all their intangible lingering, we try to accept, understand, exploit, and conquer these illnesses in all their sick nature and multiple forms – philosophy D.E.A.D – Detach. Evolve. Assimilate. Destroy.

In our quest for mastery, to be the all supreme, to be the all conquering, we channel these energies through beat & rhyme, plus other artistic outlets at our disposal.

The number-one-volunteer-to-be-a-terrorist-army of soldiers who carry a world of hate on their mighty shoulders, toiling and battling steel swords with razor sharp tongues, poisoned pens and murderous beats without an end.

Our music is presented in a non-popular, beyond-convention form of Hip-Hop, which surfaces from the dungeons buried deep underground in the heart and mind of Hip-Hop-Kind spread throughout the universe in all its greatness.

Poor. Unhappy. Disturbed destroyers. The people who make dirty, ugly, terrible, sadistic noise with the manipulation of sound waveforms and smashing guitars, pianos, and accordions. We crush poetic meter and cadence with broken syllables of decadent verbs that strike discords of forbidden truth and understanding.

For anything less isn’t worth our time.

To say that we go against the grain would be giving undue credit to the cringe-worthy bullshit that South African society chooses to categorize as Hip-Hop, our eagle wingspan hovers too high to be pigeonholed with such impotence.

Arrogant, braggadocious, vain. Are a few views people may have about the way we choose to go about things, but we boast because we deserve to.

It is manifest in the level of artistry put behind the music, which we have paid great attention and determination to this in the last five years, as BaseMental Platform, and many more as individuals before BMP.

A great sense of the historicity of Hip-Hop music and culture exists within each and every individual here, from its inception in the late 70’s, to its rebirth at the close of the 21st century.

Its such an understanding that makes us prevail with the determination to keep the torch burning, so that these gift that we possess may be passed on to future generations in the proper and better form, so as to punish and kill the sins of wack men! And their children.

At no cost whatsoever can we afford to be dictated upon by the fiends of popular culture, the vultures that hover above to consume your very soul and substance.

History

It was in the year of the lord nineteen hundred and ninety eight [1998], in the filth-ridden-pigeon-infested streets of Johazardousburg, one bright and sunny noon after.

On the corner of one Main and Eloff Streets, a gang of MC’s had gathered and huddled up beneath the shelter of a bus terminal of one Van Der Bijl Square [today Gandhi].

It was to be a great day for Hip-Hop on this continent this day, a daring master plan had been inaugurated, 360 Degrees Ciphers, how Great!

It was to be a compilation album showcasing the best of the very best there ever was, talk of money for the project was made; its own hand had shamefully decapitated an army.

In the sun cycles to follow the mass had dissipated, only a few remained, they sustained and became stronger force; they became masters at their craft focused toward unprecedented levels of victory in a time not yet born. The beautiful terror was spawned. BaseMental Platform was BORN!

The seed had planted, watered and germinated, growing toward the heavens to rob the sun itself of its mighty shine.

Forward they soldiered on painstakingly.

“Be kind also to the poor unhappy destroyers who make sadistic noise on the radio”

After one circumnavigation of the Earth around the sun, in the year of the lord nineteen hundred and ninety nine [1999], the youthful tree was in full bloom, bearing great fruit for those who nurtured and sheltered in the shade of the tree.

A twelve track demo album called ‘Urban Knoize’ was this fruit, never before had such a precedent been seen in the land of golden hills.

Those who had fled in fear from the scorching sun to the depths of the valleys and into the many mainstreams found themselves stuck in the mud of the banks like the greedy hogs they are, for the conquering tree had soaked up all the waters of the land to nourish and sustain its own livelihood.

The word on the street spread like a plague as the masses came in their numbers to buy tapes in the streets, and reap the fruits they had been famished of for so long. The real shit had finally hit the streets, the harvest was good and for the remainder of the year unaccounted copies were sold and given away, approximately 350 in number.

Through hand-to-hand combat, and tape-to-tape bootlegging, the project managed to make its way down the coast to Durban, Port Elizabeth, and eventually Cape Town.

A lack of strategy meant that everybody was broke and very satisfied, back to the lab we had to go.

In the following two thousandth year of the lord [2000], a video was dropped with the title ‘BMP with’’ and it was never released as a single on record.

Time warp three years ahead, feeling that the demo-album and the video did not fully achieve our objectives – we decided to write the final chapter: ‘Experimental Plateaus/Extended Playback’, literally an extension/continuation of both the ‘Urban Knoize’ and ‘BMP with‘’

A sixteen [16] track EP where ‘the old is giving way to the new’, those who know the origin are the ones to whom it is directed.

New jacks may find it especially disturbing, although they are bridged into the future with a taste of new flavaz of new joints.

To the ones now who just started, I’m saying proud to be you. – Big Juss.

The MC’s

CAPCYNICALTWO a.k.a. GIDEON GUILLOTINE

The Guillotine’s loose: Heads are rolling.

The flawless maturity and rhyme cadence is definitely killed shamelessly while the lyrical skill is highly maintained to chop off jugulars of MC’s who can’t juggle the verb on a dope beat.

The streets of Johazardousburg are even more so when the Strangler’s loosely G strutting dusty township streets and Jozi dirty dungeons killing phaggotmen and junk shit, his Almighty function. 

Need I, reiterate who the best be?
My team remains the sole entity in our league.
Affiliated: strictly by potency.
A combination of poisonous noise: too deadly for JHB.
We grab mics; injecting phonetics with Haemohhroid Infested Venom.
Letting loose, monstrous styles that get MC’s
Acquiring Insipidly Deranged Syllables

– Lumen.

C-DO a.k.a. THE DASHDOER

The DASHDOER adds a compliment to the unit with his keen ability to present colorfully vivid images relevant to the typical urbanite residing in Jozi. The DOER is remarkably talented at utilizing the most basic of words to describe complex phenomenon presiding within the streets of Johazardousburg. His ever laidback style surpasses the inanity of a dogmatic artist assuming the ears of the general public.

S-curl activator!
A New World of hair-do
I’m here doing
Low cut fades – in wave format
Permeating Permanents
In your local guys and dolls
Turned mannequin masquerade on my living day
Split – went bananas without the cream
Spilt-milk adjective

– Banana Split Daze.

JUSTO a.k.a. ERICK PETKOWSKIE

A former terrorist who then turned weapons advisor to Stalin. He later wrote a classic piece on deception, which was adopted by the KGB, and was celebrated as a periodical that provided a soundtrack for the torture years.

Growing ever more psychotic from the blood and gore, he fled to Yeoville, JHB.

His words, wrought with nightmares, are the stuff an MC dreams; he is master of the many levels.

Off the head like dandruff
Off the head like stroke
Just to nourish vigorous expression
Off the chest like penny Hynes breast stroke
You can suck your mothers’ milk and get choked
History’s final crisis
Incorrigible apostle of apartheid die-hard racist
Stab brutality to death
Destruction of inheritance
Sick animal from the deep tropical forest

– Idol threats.

TREVOR AUTOMATIC a.k.a. ST. EVAN STALKS

TREVOR AUTOMATIC: because manual was outdated for the techno maniac era. Who gets the bills?

Fidelity deserves pride of place amongst the virtues. ST. EVAN STALKS has always been charmed by betrayal, with TREVOR AUTOMATIC maintaining wisdom by being a shining example of unconditional forgiveness.

Got friends in high places so next time you pay visit, meet him at the Skyscraper.

Judge him by appearance and you limit the vision, you will realize how tall this dwarf is. Genius in essence, he prays for guidance coz if he prays for strength, he will beat everyone to death.

SOTHEMBA THE DISLOYAL MEMBER a.k.a DUNKEN HENDRIKS

“Az of yet I don’t give a fuck what you did last night”. The Disloyal when derogatory in rhyme is still a cat amongst the bueaurocrats.

The Hendriks legacy is that of a tongue that spins a fine thread, that binds his immediate reality into a fine point of break-it-down-as-it-is on order and for those whose necks fit the noose get slit “for ignorance is a problem if the alternative is to be a rebel”. 

Behold before I quote’
The truth unfolds 
And Fuck!!!
I’m crying about the milk that was spoiled
So children suck
Artificially boiled 
The games been sold
And Hansie Cronje is an example of how the score’s
Settled
A stroke from the mental

-Straightjacket.

NON-DEPICTION a.k.a. HUMPHREY NOHEART

Befitting isn’t it? [The name IDIOT!] Rhetorical question, don’t answer that stupid, your five seconds are long over anyway! A heartless motherfËãVer, but these suckers don’t see that, they couldn’t.

When NOHEART kills it with a gold plated cadence, its plainly laid out as to why the cats, and this one in particular, are so nice.

He delivers the milk straight to your doorstep with the skills so basic[ally] dope; you ask yourself how he does it so simple. Or is it? [Simple stupid!]

For instance I got toys thinking they burn the same:
Just because their pieces stand adjacent to my
Variety; seen and heard but un-captured
Read it between the words is what’s preferred
To catch the lines
That I enslave and at the most spur moment
Un-mastered these are chronicles of a writer
Challenged to find a balance

-Straightjacket

End

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