There's nothing quite as dehumanizing as feeling out of place in your own body. It's one thing to feel like an outcast among your peers or even your family. But when you've internalized your shame so much that you'd blame divine intervention for feeling uncomfortable in your skin, that's next level.
Gregory Dillon's debut album is a collection of songs diving deep into the singer's journey with loneliness, but it garners its title from a broad statement he's contended with for most of his life: Heaven Hates Me.
Hidden within nostalgic 1980s synthwave beats and euphoric pop sounds, most of Dillon's songs are seeping with sensitivity and desire. From the title track, "Heaven Hates Me," which gets at the singer's long-held feelings that there was something inherently wrong with him because of his sexuality, to the outro ballad, "What If We Were Wrong," about the haunting notions of late-night reflections, the LP explores relationships, spirituality and life.
"I've always been pretty tempted by the idea of just wanting so badly to rip this identity out of my existence," Dillon says, "but it was a spiritual battle for me to really make that statement."
Growing up in Catholic school in New Hampshire with only a few friends, he found himself spending hours after school in the chapel learning to play piano and compose pieces of music. As Dillon got older, his growth as an artist stemmed from that loneliness.
"I never really was much of a confident person, and a lot of this seemed to kind of come out of just trying to feel like I belonged. So I definitely relate to the person that has that kind of feeling of unworthiness or wanting to be a part of something," Dillon says. "I feel like most of my music tends to be very vulnerable. I want to pretend that I'm a f— boy, that I'm just a little pop punk rebel, but underneath it all I'm a sensitive boy."
Dillon began releasing singles in 2018, and some of his early songs hit on the same emotions he's grappling with in Heaven Hates Me, such as on "Lovely," "Love Again" and "Painted Blue." But it wasn't all dour, as he also released songs that were generally upbeat, such as "Alien Boyfriend" and "Plastic Ferrari."
"I'm having a full arc moment of having gone through a lot of the pain of writing more of the suffering, and I'm actually kind of finding closure and all of that, and I'm starting again to write much more uplifting things kind of like 'Plastic Ferrari' and 'Alien Boyfriend,'" Dillon says. "I didn't always know how to relate to those songs. And it's funny, because a lot of people still really connect to them."
Before there was Heaven Hates Me, there was an epiphany that his 2023 move to Hollywood wasn't working out as expected. However, just before his planned departure to New York, Dillon and his friend were injured in a car crash in Los Angeles (an experience he chronicles in "Hot Scars, Pretty Lies"). After that, he decided to ditch the New York move and relocated to Stamford, Connecticut.
"I had left LA kind of feeling like a failure, and I returned to suburbia, which was for me, a place I used to find nostalgia in," he says. "Returning to it was more dark than I realized because I felt really lonely, and so this album started becoming a way to escape."
As Dillon tried to escape that loneliness by pouring it into his album, he realized he felt trapped in a place he'd already escaped once before.
"I just found myself living this small-town life that I tried so hard to escape when I was growing up," he recalls. "I felt like it was very honest for me to say I don't feel like I am figuring this out for myself, and I feel very not liked by the universe, and something is not making sense."
He knew he wanted to be someone hopeful and perseverant. Someone who could create space in the music industry inclusive of other up-and-coming queer musicians like him. But at the time he just didn't think it was attainable, which felt like a dark revelation.
Once Heaven Hates Me was released in November and found an audience, he had a chance to reflect on the emotions he had simmered in months prior.
"It's interesting being on the other side of it now, and seeing how important it was for me to go through that loneliness," he says. "It can be really scary when you feel so out of place, and I guess I felt empowered that I admitted something I was so ashamed about."
With the album finally in existence, he began to feel the pressure for a commercially successful debut. He fixated on his song's streaming numbers, monthly listeners and what his record label would think until a "nosedive breakdown" led him to seek advice in a random monastery.
"A monk asked me 'Do I love myself enough to fail at this?' and that really paused me in my tracks for a minute," Dillon says. "I had a realization that I don't know if I could answer that question with a 'yes.'"
Now as Dillon prepares for his West Coast tour (which stops at The Chameleon on Sunday, March 2), he makes it a habit to write down "I love myself enough to fail" every day. It's something that's brought him some semblance of peace as he plans to take his "monstrosity of an immersive show on the road."
For the past three months, Dillon says he and collaborator Cory Savage have been building a "Lady Gaga mega set" in their basement that he says will be reminiscent of the pop singer's early days when she performed in IKEA parking lots.
"This show is super theatrical and experimental, and it requires audience participation. But it's also a funeral. And it's also heavy with a ton of old '90s TVs and technology," he says. "It's a concept that stems from the album, which is about a boy having to accept that he's about to die and so the show starts off as a funeral service, and then takes a glimpse backwards. It's definitely a dark topic, but I think the way we're incorporating the music is almost to the point of madness. It is kind of hard to describe, but I think that's what's exciting about this show."
While Dillon plans to play most of his discography, he says he's looking forward to performing "Burning Kisses" and "Catatonic," which will lead and end the show, respectively. "Burning Kisses" starts with ominously beautiful Gregorian chants, lending itself perfectly to the funeral service.
"'Catatonic' just feels so good to sing, and I know that when I'm out in these small towns that I've never been to before I'm gonna feel really free to just go for it," he says.
After Dillon's done touring the West Coast with his immersive pocket rave experience he plans to throw himself into another project that sparks joy and nostalgia — minus the sad boy vibes?
"I'm going to get certified to teach step aerobics. It's a weird personal goal that I want for myself, and actually, it's going to be part of the show as well," he says. "You're going to hear a demo I'm starting to write for another album of material that is very much for just myself at this point, but it's all '80s cardio music."
If Heaven hates him, maybe for Dillon, letting his body be the temple is the answer. ♦
Gregory Dillon • Sun, March 2 at 7 pm • $15-$18 • The Chameleon • 1801 W. Sunset Blvd. • chameleonspokane.com
