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Baha’s Hyderabadi blood, variously infused with Bombay’s spicy smoke, Ohio’s beige breezes, the weird honesty of Austin, and the universal centrality of New York Fucking City, has now found a rhythmically warm and happy home in the heart of San Francisco. She started making music about giant bindis (the dots of dots not feathers) at age 2 with a harmonica and no shame, surrounded by a family so in love with music that her father warned her mother before they got married that music would always be his first wife. Now, armed with a guitar, a salty-sweet voice, and, if possible, even less shame, Baha is folking herself apart and then popping herself back together on stages (and in an occasional alley) across the Bay Area.
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