Nostalgia is a powerful drug. We often look back at our youth, and the way the world was, and pine for days when things seemed simpler, when things seemed to make more sense. What we often forget is that nostalgia is very much like the rose-colored glasses we talk about in metaphor; it gives us an illusion of history filtered through polarized lenses that push the inconvenient memories to the background. That's if we're lucky, of course. Remembering the past as better than it was is the preferable alternative to only remembering the black clouds and not the silver linings.
Twenty-five years ago, I was not listening to Dilana's first declaration of herself. I was turning seventeen, and I was playing Tonic's "Sugar" album on an endless loop while falling in love with musical poetry as The Wallflowers were on the verge of releasing "Breach". Dilana was, quite literally, half a world away from me at that point in time. And yet, when I think about the past, I often think about it in terms of the eras themselves, of which "Wonderfool" is certainly a part.
The turn of the millennium was an interesting time for music, with a fascinating blend of gloss and angst percolating in the mainstream. We were still living in the echo of Alanis Morissette's raw honesty, and Meredith Brooks hitting the charts by calling herself a bitch, but it was done with shimmering guitars and productions that put a candy coating on the truth so we didn't realize our demons traveled with us no matter how peaceful the world might have seemed. These were the times that gave us "Torn", where we heard a lovely pop song, and didn't register that it was about being so heartbroken that depression teamed with gravity to make it impossible to get up off the floor and keep living.
That was the time in which Dilana released "Wonderfool". Her music wore the costume of guitar sheen the same way the pop princesses of the day wore the costume of 'fuck you' attitude. They were opposite avenues leading toward the same focal point, toward the audience that wanted to feel like they knew the musicians they were listening to, while fully aware they didn't actually want to know what extended beyond the image on a poster hanging on the wall. Some artists were pin-ups to display, others possessed voodoo dolls in which they stuck pins in our hearts. A few plunged so deep they remain stuck there to this day.
From the very start, Dilana had an ability to communicate her soul through her voice, whether she had penned the message of a song or not. Her performance on "When You're Around" remains a highlight of her career all these years later. What could sound like a simple love song is something far deeper because of her, as the texture of her voice tells us a complicated story. There is the warmth of love there, but also a keen understanding of how love falls apart, how it crumbles and floats away if we blow a kiss too hard in its direction. No matter how many times I have heard that song, I am still captivated by how much her voice is saying, how honest that sound is irrespective of the words. Her life's story is contained in her vocal, if you know how to listen.
On "Secret Of My Soul", she sings "When I hear your voice I get shivers down my spine". That's the sensation she has always given to me, and it's more of an admission than a line in a love song. She is tapping into a reality of life wherein some people connect to us on deeper levels; chemical, even electrical. It is as if they are the batteries needed to power our hearts, and without them our blood comes to a standstill. The true secret of a soul is that they are all cut in curious shapes from the image of God, and we spend our lives searching for one that fits along the edges of our own.
"Kissed A Butterfly" and "Do You Now" were the front-and-center pop songs that were meant to power the album's climb up the charts. They do their job, giving us sweet and sticky melodies for Dilana to use to smirk and snarl her 'over it all' attitude. There are hints in these songs of knowing where music was going to go, and knowing she was not destined to be a part of that scene. This was an album discretely giving the finger to the cultural powers that be, the ones that were never going to appreciate someone who didn't fit inside the mold. Dilana was too strong a personality, and too unique a person, for such things.
In that way, "Wonderfool" was Dilana's subversive way of finding her true self by showing how ridiculous it would be for her to try to fit in with the mainstream. She was a beauty who could look the part, but she would never be that plasticine, nor able to sing vapid songs written by men behind the scenes who literally put syllables together without considering what they meant. "Wonderfool" is an album of its time, but it's the one true mirror in the funhouse, the one time we get a glimpse of reality in a panorama of distortion.
Over the last twenty-five years, Dilana has grown and evolved, and these songs are not the woman she is today. They are the woman she was, and they tell an important chapter in the story. Without "Wonderfool", Dilana may have never found her voice, may not have fought to be able to bare her soul with us as she has. The experience of trying to be what was expected showed the perils of taking the same road as everyone else. There is so much traffic you get lost, you miss your exit, and no one sees you amidst the sea of humanity.
"Wonderfool" was an album for the people who saw what the world was, and wanted someone who could cut through the absurdity with a sharp one-liner and a delivery full of snark. Dilana was a heroine for everyone who knew music could be more. Her jagged little pill was prescribed to fewer people, but it lives on in our blood.
We can sum things up thusly; I'm a fool for Dilana, and she's a damn wonder.
