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My Story

I am Bambeena.

My work emerges from deep shadows — shaped by trauma, silence, exile, and a fierce refusal to vanish. I was born in a country that teaches its daughters to be silent and selfless. I became neither. I left. I returned. And in the wreckage, I built sound.

My background is not just personal — it is cultural. I come from a fractured European landscape where the past is buried under aesthetics, and women’s voices are often stylized into submission. But I wasn’t trained to entertain. I was trained by fire. My influences do not come from chart trends or conservatory traditions — they come from ruins, resistance, and ritual.

My music moves between forms: part song, part score, part sonic architecture. I am drawn to the sparse textures of post-industrial music, the cinematic tension of Morricone and Badalamenti, the raw edge of early PJ Harvey, the spirit of Diamanda Galás and Nico, and the slow, haunted clarity of late baroque lament. Yet I don’t imitate. I interrogate those lineages — and reshape them through my own voice, my own damage, my own design.

I record alone. Always.
My studio is a sacred space — a bunker, a confession box, an altar. I build each track from silence outward: guitar, voice, distortion, pulse, breath. I use dissonance the way others use harmony. I embrace imperfection when it tells the truth. There is no polish unless it serves the pain.

This is not pop. This is not therapy.
This is composition as resistance.
This is sound as reclamation.

I write for those who feel too much, who were told to shrink or vanish. For those exiled from softness, and still searching for a place to land. My work doesn’t belong to the mainstream — it belongs to the underground, the margins, the listeners who still hear with their skin.

I don’t create for acceptance.
I create because I’m still here — surviving, dreaming, remembering, composing.

This is my story — but it’s also an invitation.
If you’ve been waiting to hear a voice that doesn’t flinch,
you’ve found it.