Jessie Mazin

“I cut out my brain and shoved it in my back pocket,” Jessie Mazin sings, “Then I went about my business as usual.” These are the opening lines of a song that shares the same evocative phrase “i cut out my brain” as its title — a phrase that means something very specific to Mazin, but also captures a sentiment not unfamiliar to anyone who has lived through recent years’ political upheavals and fantasized about shutting down, tuning it all out. “i cut out my brain” is the conclusion to Mazin’s long-awaited debut EP untitled.jpeg, but the final word is not one of pure disenchantment. Across six songs, Mazin catalogues societal turmoil and romantic angst alike, never shying from the heaviness of contemporary life but emerging with the defiance to keep on living anyway

Mazin began singing, basically, as soon as she could talk. Following a childhood spent exploring musical theater and teaching herself to write songs on a ukulele, she began learning guitar when the pandemic hit. While closed off from the world, she started sharing her songs online. With a weaving, emotive voice and lyrics that ranged from incisively political to unflinchingly emotional, she soon found a community and audience of peers also figuring out how to navigate the increasingly tenuous landscape of the 21st century.

“I write songs to process the world and my place in it,” Mazin explains. “My social justice songs and introspective relationship songs come from the same place. I pick up my guitar and whatever happens, happens.

Thus far, many of Mazin’s listeners know her from TikTok, and a particular kind of songwriting ecosystem: bare acoustic performances, workshopped in real time, posted with an immediacy capable of responding to current events or fan feedback. Offscreen, Mazin has long been experimenting with how her songs manifest in the studio, from a series of “trial and error” recordings in high school to fruitful collaborations during a stint at the famed music school Berklee. When it came time for the full statement of an EP, she began sifting through her trove of material and finding songs that lived together in the sonic world she was building.

For untitled.jpeg, Mazin considered how to adapt her spare guitar songs into a hybrid of her interests, touching on old folk singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell’s and contemporary heroes like Phoebe Bridgers alike, existing in a more atmospheric style nodding to ‘90s alt-rock. Partnering with producer Carlos de la Garza and producer/songwriter Adam Melchor, Mazin experimented with arrangements as maximalist as the originals were minimalist. Though capacious enough that listeners could attribute their own meaning, the name untitled.jpeg is also a nod to the visual language Mazin developed, inspired by the retro computer imagery of the ‘90s and ‘00s. It began as childhood nostalgia, but instead tied her back to a history of protest music, citing the righteous anger of ‘90s punk scenes.

“I feel angry a lot these days,” Mazin says with a relatable mix of wry bemusement and wearied frustration. Still a pre-teen when Trump won his first election, Mazin underwent a political awakening young. This was just the beginning of a coming of age happening alongside the pandemic, global BLM protests, an ever-present awareness of impending climate catastrophe, regressive politics, and more wars that most of us didn’t ask for. “Writing songs about the world became a coping skill for tragedies, a way for me to care but not be weighed down by it all,” Mazin explains. “These are the songs that came out of me after I realized who I was, and how I fit into the world.”

Fittingly, untitled.jpeg opens with “the man with money in his hands,” a scathing indictment of power orienting around the hyper-rich elites while material realities grow increasingly difficult for the rest of us. Though “the man with money in his hands” and “i cut out my brain” — Mazin’s attempt to understand the enemy’s perception — bracket the EP with political statements, there is also room for the human experience that still unfolds against the backdrop of semi-apocalyptic times. “alive” arrived during a disenchanted stretch while Mazin was at college, and ended up grounding and recentering her as she began figuring out what she wanted life to look like. “the precipice,” “love is a flightless bird,” and “throw me in the water,” are a yearning triptych, following a recurring character from infatuation to heartbreak. Considering her approach more akin to that of a novelist, Mazin is always drawing on visceral experiences but placing them in fictional stories. Each song is still anchored by Mazin’s voice and guitar, but now augmented with ghostly textures, as if to echo the overwhelming brain fog of simply existing in 2026.

Throughout, Mazin is seeking catharsis and clarity, never wallowing. “I’m not a spokesperson,” she emphasizes. “But for the left wing of Gen Z, there is this dark cloud hanging over us and we all know it whether we want to or not. I think that’s why my songs resonate with people.” For now, untitled.jpeg builds upon Mazin’s early work, introducing her with her voice and viewpoint already crystal clear. But it’s also an opening salvo, forecasting where she will go from here.

“I’m coming out the gate completely honest and strong in my beliefs,” Mazin concludes. “With my first project, I’m setting a tone where I’m not going to back down. I believe what I believe and I’m unafraid to speak on it.”