When Mariana de Miguel, known as Girl Ultra, emerged from Mexico City in 2017 with her debut EP, she was hailed as the bright new promise of Latin R&B. Since then, the 26-year-old singer has expanded her horizons, releasing a number of exquisitely layered tracks that draw from a variety of moods and styles.

Her new EP — El Sur, referencing the Southern side of Mexico City where she grew up — is a sophisticated party album with barely hidden shades of longing and regret. From the nervy post-rock energy of lead single "Punk" — a collaboration with fellow DF band Little Jesus — to the electro-soul coolness of "Cosas Que Nadie Ve," El Sur finds the wispy-voiced artist in a decidedly experimental mode.

Girl Ultra spoke with GRAMMY.com about her '90s fetish, the occasional bout of impostor syndrome and the need to learn how to love.

Some of the most dance-friendly songs on the EP are also deeply melancholy.

It’s the kind of energy that defines me as a person. There’s always a melancholy tinge deeply ingrained in everything I do, no matter what the BPM may be. You can be sad and still find solace dancing in the clubs.

There is a factor there — something strange and nostalgic. Also the choice of specific chords and arrangements may lead you to a feeling of emptiness. Moby’s Play is a good example of that. An album full of upbeat tracks, and still you feel sad when you’re done listening to it. That bittersweet feeling on the dancefloor sums up what daily existence is all about.

There’s a really nice effect on the track "Bombay," around the one-minute mark, where the melody suddenly changes key. Was that designed from the beginning? 

Definitely. We wanted to make a house track that was dark and disruptive. That dissonance you mention creates a jarring effect — and then the playful vocals harness it all back together. In a way, that moment signifies what we wanted to achieve on the entire EP. To challenge ourselves, break away from what could be expected from a Girl Ultra record. I also have a taste for the weird.

What’s your songwriting process like?

I usually sing a melody on top of chords that I like. I can play a bit of keyboards or guitar during songwriting. On this particular EP, it was a room full of people and we all knew what our specific role was. I enjoyed directing these great musicians and seeing what comes up.

I prefer to capture the inspiration of the moment, write the melody and finish the lyrics on the same day. I’ve tried the exercise of taking the melody with me and thinking up new lyrics, but then you’re searching for that Holy Grail moment when the song can be considered complete. Ground zero is a valuable tool for musicians — the moment a song is born. Nothing will ever be the same. There’s something sacred about that specific moment.

Was there a specific moment when you realized you have a gift for crafting great songs? 

I’ve always lived with the impostor syndrome. I’ve been writing since I was little — not necessarily songs, but I’m always leaving fragments of texts all over the place. Songwriting walks hand in hand with life itself — sometimes you write a song in an hour, then there’s a dry patch that can last a couple of months. I’ve learned to be perceptive and find inspiration in other people’s stories, distorted memories or bits of conversations I may hear in the street. It’s a muscle that I had to develop in order to be productive. 

What was it like, growing up in "El Sur" — the southern side of Mexico City?

It’s a quiet area. People who live there say that the law doesn’t quite make it to the South side, unlike in the most gentrified neighborhoods. It’s a wide area, so you have the upper class sector and the hood. I had friends all over the South — I could go to a party at Colonia del Valle, but then it could turn into a perreo event at Azteca. I was always moving in that same area. Whenever I go back, I regress to those memories of time and place.

On "Amores de Droga" you say: A mí nadie me enseñó a querer — no one taught me how to love. Why? 

There are not many love stories in my family. All of them have ended. "I wasn’t born to fall in love," the song begins. But you’re still addicted to love — you seek out your own resources in order to learn how to love. No one can really teach you. There’s no manual available.

"Para Que Te Acuerdes De Mí" has an almost trip-hop vibe. Are you obsessed with the '90s? 

I totally am [laughs]. I think the '90s was the last decade when humanity was hopeful. There was a lot of speculation about what the future would look like, and everything sounded fantastic. Then the new century began with the realization of global warming and the world went to shit. Music changed radically, and a collective depression set in.

We’re an emo generation, and we look up to the '90s because of that. I especially admire how raw and visceral the music from that time sounds — how immediate its message was.

You’re starting a new tour soon. Is it scary, stepping onstage in front of so many people?

It is, but lately I’m beginning to see it as a therapy of sorts. I’m a very nervous person — to give you an example, I’ve been singing a cover of Miguel Bosé’s "Morena Mía" for the longest time, and I still flub the lyrics sometimes. So I need to write out the chords and keep them in sight as a precaution. Sometimes I’m so nervous my hands get numb — then again I can come out screaming and have a great time. I think the moment you manage to connect with yourself and the band, then everything is fine.

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