Have you ever found yourself finishing a line to a song that you know you’ve never heard before? You’re not psychic, because over time certain words have become lyrical mainstays, turning the act of listening into a passive role. But you can't predict the lyrics from Mariah the Scientist, a former biology major who has turned herself into a different type of alchemist. “Every now and again when I’m writing a song and I don’t like the word or it’s too basic, I go to google and find some sort of synonym,” she shares over the phone from Atlanta, her hometown. “It’s kind of impromptu and it’s only when I’m really, really stuck.” By testing phrases and finding the right formulas to turn colloquial chit-chat into blistering farewells, her growing discography has already expanded the vocabulary for her listeners to ponder theories on self-destruction, redemption, and mourning a social generation’s apathy to intimacy.
“Initially when I made music, there was no structure. It was just a run-on sentence. If I were to make a metaphor for that science-wise, it would be that my songs were a cell with no cell wall,” she said. “That cell wall keeps everything together and in place. I didn’t really have that, but eventually, I started to come up with some type of structure — so a verse or a hook, another verse, then a hook again.” Over beats reminiscent of quiet-storm but rooted in Atlanta’s distinctly soulful 90s hip-hop, with an R&B lean, her music presents love not simply as a physical feeling that leaves you low or aching for tomorrow, but which compels your brain to recalibrate itself while reeling from grief.
