23, bassist from the high desert outside Sedona. She doesn’t talk much, but when that Fender Precision hits, the whole room feels the weight she carries. Long dark hair curtains her face as she hunches over the road-worn bass, cracked pickguard etched with her own Hopi symbol. Oversized jackets, beat-up overalls, one turquoise bead at her throat. She wrote “Barbed Wire Hair” after another night of family land getting harassed. Inside her Orange Terror amp sits a small medicine bag no one is allowed to touch. Ever.