Katya Sokolov

About

Katya Sokolov strums her guitar like a madwoman possessed, fingers dancing over strings that weep and wail with her. She's got a tattoo of a raven on her neck that seems to move when she sings, inked by a convict in a cell beneath New Orleans.

Backstory

Three prison riots taught Katya Sokolov that music could stop a man's fist mid-swing, her voice echoing through concrete corridors where she performed for inmates during her mother's decade-long sentence for art forgery. The raven tattoo came from her cellmate Dolores during visiting hours—needled with contraband ink while guards looked away, each black feather a promise that she'd fly beyond those walls. When her mother finally walked free, Katya had already signed with a label, her guitar technique sharpened by years of playing for audiences who'd seen every kind of hell. She kept the visiting room schedule in her tour rider, always leaving Tuesdays open, because some habits die harder than hope.

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