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Dolores had a sad face that day. Those months. That year. 1994, I cannot forget. My sad youth, that period. I was only 13 years old, years with a bittersweet, sharp taste. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. Dolores had a sad face. She reminded me of my mother: smiling in pictures, yes. But sad. Her eyes were so melancholic, like mine, and she cried, alone, not to be seen. The white of the background, the brown of the sofa, and the black of their clothes. Quite the characters. Met by chance, then travel companions for at least seven years. I get a shiver when I hear the opening riff of "Zombie", when "I Can't Be With You" reverberates inside me with its frenetic rhythm, when the loneliness of "Everything I Said", of "Ode To My Family", and of "Daffodil Lament" moves me. When "No Need To Argue", finally, kills me. Sweetly. A bit like Thom Yorke with his Sarah.
I get a shiver when I listen to this music. So complete, so distant, so dark yet at the same time so sweet. I get a shiver when I hear Dolores's voice. The real Dolores, the angry one, the sad one, the one with the urge to scream. Not the calm, sly, saccharine one of the later years. The contented one.
The seaside wind. Rough sea, unmanageable, like those of Ireland. Cirrus clouds. I had all this in front of my house, too bad I didn't have Dublin either. And Dolores. In the last fifteen years, I have rarely listened to an album that could instill such sensations in me. The Cranberries did not repeat themselves. I had to wait for Radiohead and Sigur Ros, and I discovered R.E.M. too late.
Exceptional work, dear Dolores and co., the most successful of your career. It's all there, even your hearts as young, ambitious Irish at the rhythm of Guinness. Why did you stop here? Dolores was sad, yes. But at least, back then, she communicated it with her eyes and her powerful, angry, distant voice.
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