Maeta: Writing Songs Into Existence
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PHOTOGRAPHY: FILMAWI / STYLING: Cara Hayward / CREATIVE DIRECTION: CHARLOTTE MAYUMI PHIPPS / MAKE UP: KAREEM JARCHE / HAIR: NAZ SÖNMEZ / WORDS: AMBA MENDY
There’s something unmistakably modern about Maeta. The voice, the presence, the dry humour. But underneath it all, there’s a classic energy too. One foot in old-school soul, the other in digital-daydream chaos. She’s a lover girl in a Wi-Fi world, learning how to move through it on her own terms.
“I think I was addicted to the songs,” she says, reflecting on a relationship she definitely should’ve left sooner. “I just kind of loved the drama because I got to go to the studio and cry and make all these sad songs.” That self-awareness hits like a lyric. Real, raw, and a little bit funny. It’s the Maeta formula: emotion, but never too soft.
Music was always a form of manifestation. Even before the heartbreak was real. “When I was younger I used to write songs that hadn’t happened yet. I would make stories up, and then they’d end up happening. So I think this project was me manifesting happiness.” She pauses. “It worked. I do not care anymore.”
That might be the most powerful lyric she’s ever written. She doesn’t say it like a punchline. She says it like a fact. Maeta has officially entered her “don’t call me, just text” era. Unless she likes you. Then you might get a FaceTime. But only if you're lucky.
She’s just come off tour with Chris Brown, performing in packed-out arenas across the US. Boston stands out. “I was the second opener, but the place was full. Completely full. That was probably the best stage I’ve ever been on. I had so much fun.” The scale of it hasn’t numbed her. If anything, it’s made the small things mean more. “Any time my mom sees me on TV or people come up to her and say they’re fans of mine, I love that. I don’t get excited about much, but I like making my family proud.”
“I don’t get excited about much, but I like making my family proud.”
Her taste is specific. John Mayer’s Stop This Train is a certified tearjerker for her. Beyoncé’s 4 and Continuum are desert island albums. Perfume? Not sharing. “I’m tired of telling people what I wear.” Favourite item? “Brown lip liner. Or Zara. Honestly, I should be the new face of Zara.” She means it. And she’s right.
She’s got a fantasy about disappearing, not in a sad way, but in a spiritual one. No phone. No socials. Just an island, a flower shop, and her middle name, Rose, on the front door. “Even though I don’t believe in Plan Bs, that’s always the plan B.”
If she wasn’t a singer, she says she might have been an animal rescuer. “I don’t know why, but I think about it every night before bed. All the animals in the world that need help. I would move to Africa and save them. Something with animal saving.” The conviction is soft but real. You can feel that she means it.
Live, she’s evolving. “I’m clumsy, awkward, I think too much on stage. I wish I moved better. I’ve gotten a lot better, but I’m still learning how to let go.” Her honesty is disarming. It’s not self-deprecating, it’s just unfiltered. “Also... I wish I could drive better,” she says, laughing.
Her senses are unusually sharp. She talks about smells like memories trapped in bottles. “If I smelled something ten years from now, I’d be like, that was this day. I don’t know why, but I can remember smells like a detective. Like a beagle.”
“I can remember smells like a detective. Like a beagle.”
Growing up, she was a cheerleader. Then a cross-country runner. She’s still got that competitive edge. But these days, the goal isn’t a medal. It’s a feeling. She wants her music to sound like something real. Something messy. Something that doesn’t resolve neatly.
“I love love,” she says. “I think about love all day long. If my life were a movie, it would be a romantic comedy. Something dramatic but sweet. Definitely a lot of crying and a lot of kissing.”
Even her ideal aura has layers. Burgundy for the sexy moody parts. Dark blue for the overthinking. Neon yellow for the bursts of energy that come out of nowhere. It makes perfect sense. She’s soft but spiky. Sweet but not to be played with.
“I love love. I think about love all day long.”
Musically, she’s genre less by design. Gospel, country, rock, folk. It's all in there. She's from Indiana, which she says isn’t super country, but it gave her enough of a grounding to want to explore all of it. And when she talks about the artists she's opened for, Chris Brown and Jazmine Sullivan, there’s admiration, but also curiosity. She pays attention to how people move. How they protect themselves. How they stay sane.
“Jazmine was the most insane vocalist I’ve ever seen. But she was private. Tucked away. You’d only see her when she walked on stage and walked back. I liked that.” And Chris? “He’s a machine. He would wake up at 2pm and be on stage a few hours later, killing it for two hours. I don’t know how he does it. I need 12 hours of sleep and a hot tea before I sing.”
“I used to write songs that hadn’t happened yet. Then they’d happen.”
She laughs when she says it. But she’s serious too. She needs space. She needs recovery. She needs dessert. “I have a sweet tooth. Chocolate, candy, anything. Just dessert. I freaking love dessert.” If she had a last meal, it’d be from Bestia in LA. The bone marrow pasta. No notes.
Maeta knows what she likes. She knows what she wants. And when she doesn’t, she makes something up and sings it into reality.
Now, she’s writing things she wants to feel. Things she wants to believe. And slowly, it’s all becoming true.
