SAMANTHA BAHAR
Samantha Bahar makes music for people who remember when pop had weight.
A synth-pop singer and songwriter, Samantha draws from the soul of the 1980s and shapes it into something entirely her own: cinematic, emotionally precise. Her sound is anchored by deep basslines, crystalline synth textures, and a vocal presence that moves between intimacy and grandeur without losing either.
What sets Samantha apart is what's underneath. Ask her about ghosts, mermaids, or the things most people write off, and she'll make a better case than you expect. The glamour is real, but so is everything beneath it.
She didn't grow up thinking she would end up here. Music came late for her. It took seeing something in her before she let herself wonder if there was more to her than she had given herself credit for. Still, it took years before she trusted it enough to act on it, and longer still before she understood that the confidence others saw first was something she'd have to build for herself on her own terms.
An only child who spent a lot of time inside her own imagination, Samantha grew up close to her mother, drawn early to mermaids, the supernatural, and things other people couldn't quite explain. That pull towards what's beneath the surface runs through everything she makes.
Her debut album traces the relationship she carried for years before she was ready to write about it. The record moves through it in pieces: how it started, what it became, the moment it broke, and what it took to put herself back together on the other side.
Letter from Samantha
There's a version of this story I could tell you in order. How it started, how it ended, all the things in between. But that's not how it lives in me. It lives in pieces. It's taken years for those pieces to settle into something I could actually look at.
This is about someone I knew a long time ago. A first conversation that felt like the ice actually breaking, the kind of moment you don't recognize as a beginning until you're already inside it. Then a stretch of time where I was so under the spell of someone that I might as well have been a different creature entirely. Half myself, half something I was becoming for them. I used to think that was romantic. Now I think it was just quiet.
And then a phone call. You know the kind. The kind where you can hear the sentence changing shape before the person even finishes saying it, like a chord resolving somewhere you didn't expect.
This album is what happened after that. Not right after. I mean the years-later after, when you're finally able to look at something without flinching. Looking Back isn't nostalgia. It's clarity, which is its own kind of gift, even when the view isn't pretty.
And Coming Back Together isn't about getting back with anyone. It's about getting back to myself. Putting the pieces down in an order that finally makes sense, even if it's not the order I lived them in.
I make music the way I process everything else, slowly, in layers, until the shape underneath finally shows itself. These songs are that shape.
I wrote them because I needed somewhere to put all of it. Now I'm giving them to you instead.
— Samantha