In contrast, Di-Dar, her second album of the year—as well as Wong’s final (and finest) Cantonese album—is more atmospheric, almost psychedelic. The spectral dream pop of “假期” (“Vacation”) pairs flickering synths with gothic guitar licks, while “(無題)” (“Untitled”) is a burbling trip-hop ballad that layers Wong’s gossamer falsetto over a sputtering electronic beat and tabla-like percussion. Even its most radio-friendly songs, like the radiant commercial success “曖昧” (“Ambiguous”), adopt orchestral arrangements that give them similarly vivid and sumptuous textures. Di-Dar coheres like an extended dream, yet beneath its haze are vignettes that sketch a deteriorating relationship. The album’s lyrics (with the exception of the Mandarin closer) were written by close collaborator Albert Leung, who fixates on the unease Wong presented on 討好自己 Please Myself, suffusing the album’s romanticism with a sense of anxiety and the burning desire to disappear.
These themes feature heavily on Wong’s last album for Cinepoly, 1996’s insular 浮躁 Fuzao—which best translates to “restless” or “impetuous.” Making no concessions to mainstream tastes, she was more creatively involved on this album than anywhere else in her career. For 浮躁 Fuzao, she pulled away from her frequent Hong Kong-based collaborators, instead turning to Dou and another Beijing rock musician, Zhang Yadong, for arrangements. Despite his lack of involvement for the record, her longtime producer, Alvin Leong, facilitated a working relationship between her and the Cocteau Twins, who had become interested in collaborating after hearing her faithful renditions of their work. They contribute two original tracks that land at the wispier end of the spectrum of their work. While the songs still fit firmly within the group’s oeuvre—the resplendent highlight “分裂” (“Divide”) floats over a bed of gentle synths and dainty coos, while the ghostly “掃興” (“Spoilsport”) staggers atop murky guitar textures—Wong makes them her own, her clearer enunciation lending substantive meaning to a band famous for its cryptic lyrics. Wong composed the rest of the album’s songs, often borrowing liberally from the Scottish group’s style. On “哪兒” (“Where”), she hums, coos, and babbles in incoherent syllables, her voice an extraordinary instrument that imbues each note with joy amid the turmoil.
Yet 浮躁 Fuzao isn’t simply a pastiche of the Cocteau Twins; the album’s producers steep the music in the sounds of Beijing’s nascent rock scene. Dou condenses a decade’s worth of styles into the miniature world of its opener as the song weaves from shimmering guitar to sharp, probing downtempo synths. Zhang’s lighthearted production on the title track is a sweet callback to Wong’s brief infatuation with jangle pop. Her voice bounds between jubilant shouts and apprehensive coos, ripping the song apart until it dissolves into electronic froth. It’s not just those outside influences that set her apart—her reserved yet playfully mischievous nature permeates the album.
Wong would never be afforded the opportunity to do another 浮躁 Fuzao. On her later blockbuster albums, she was forced to balance her idiosyncratic tastes with her label’s commercial objectives. But on these four records, she resists easy categorization, at once ethereal and eccentric, and refreshingly free of the straightforward romanticism of her period peers. Wong pulled the unfamiliar to the surface by highlighting sounds rarely explored and anxieties frequently left untouched, yet her elegant voice offered soothing, intimate comfort. Wong’s music of this period represents a welcome embrace of the undefined.
