It's not because of her verbal-salad babble as an American Idol judge last year, nor her Glitter-period crackups and cancellations, which for a while raised alarms that she might suffer a similar fate as her musical model/rival Whitney Houston, nor her more recent domestic Instagram dottiness.
It's not her singing, either, though it's true its melismatic loop-de-loops sometimes come off not just as cartwheels of virtuosity but as anxious evasions, as if she can't settle on a note and accept the consequences. In the run-on title of her 14th album, Me. I Am Mariah... The Elusive Chanteuse, out this week, she may be joking about the years-long delay of its release, but she's also tagged her own duck-and-weave vocal style.
Mariah Carey makes me nervous. If you’re a fan, that might sound silly, but if your history with her is more touch-and-go, you might understand what I mean.