Alison Wonderland has never been one to fit the mold—she builds her own and invites the world to dance inside it. A classically trained cellist turned globally acclaimed DJ, producer, and now mother, Alison’s creative evolution has always been guided by emotion rather than expectation. Her sets are electric confessions, moments when vulnerability meets velocity, and when thousands of strangers become a single pulse under her command. “If I’m not into it, who else is going to be?” she says, embodying the radical authenticity that defines her artistry.
Before she was a festival headliner, she was a quiet kid who found solace in the music room—her cello the first instrument through which she spoke. Those early foundations evolved into a hybrid sound: cinematic emotion stitched with heavy 808s, trap beats, and shimmering synths. Refusing to be boxed in, she has carved a soundscape that is both hauntingly intimate and explosively global.
Her career is also a story of resilience. Facing skepticism and sexism early on, Alison turned doubt into drive—recording her own hands mid-set to silence critics and mastering every layer of her craft. Today, she’s one of the most respected names in electronic music, known not just for her production prowess but for her emotional honesty.
Motherhood has only expanded her creative universe. Between studio sessions and headline shows, she balances life, love, and sound with fierce empathy. “I’m creating life and creating music,” she says. “Peak creative moment.” For Alison Wonderland, the drop isn’t just in the music—it’s in every moment she turns vulnerability into power, proving that truth, like bass, always lands hardest when it’s real.
Your name “Wonderland” has become so iconic—it feels like a portal in itself. Were you escaping or creating when you chose it?
This is honestly the least glamorous story ever—and you’re going to laugh. I didn’t even have a DJ name when I started. I was just playing underground clubs, closing out the night, and the crowd started growing. One evening, the promoter called my best friend—who’s now my manager, Garth—and said, “We can’t keep putting her on the flyer with no name. People keep asking who she is.” He gave him five minutes to come up with something. Five minutes! So Garth, being cheeky as always, said, “Just call her Alison Wonderland.” I remember saying, “Fine, we’ll change it in two weeks.”
We never did.
There was no big brainstorm, no marketing plan—it was pure spontaneity. Sometimes the things meant to define your life arrive without warning, and I kind of love that about it. It was effortless. I think there’s beauty in that.
Before Wonderland became a global name, who was the girl behind it?
A quiet one. Honestly, I was that kid who never quite fit in. I had friends, but music was my best friend. I was a classical cellist before I ever touched decks. While everyone else was outside at recess, I was in the music room with my cello. I didn’t think much of it then—it just felt safe. Looking back, I realize I was communicating through sound before I even understood that’s what I was doing.
Music has always been the constant thread—from feeling alone to finding my people, to building a world that finally made sense to me.
What were some of the sounds or artists that shaped that world early on?
My mom used to play The Beatles to me when she was pregnant, and I think that somehow rewired my brain from birth—melody just felt natural to me. But the moment my path shifted toward electronic music was when I heard Silent Shout by The Knife. It was the first time I realized something made on computers could make me feel that much. It was eerie, emotional, and cinematic. That album changed everything.
From there I fell in love with artists who broke structure—Hudson Mohawke, Rustie, The Prodigy, Fatboy Slim, LCD Sound System. I was obsessed with the emotion of electronic music but also the rhythm of hip hop. Outkast, especially. Those Southern drums, those 808s—they had soul. I wanted to merge that world with the emotional depth I loved from The Knife. I didn’t know what to call it back then, but I was building a language that didn’t exist yet—a mix of vulnerability and chaos.
You taught yourself how to produce?
Yes, pretty much. I reached out to an Australian producer named D Cup—he gave me a cracked version of Ableton, some loops, and showed me the basics. I just sat down every day and experimented until I figured it out. It’s funny, because I had all this classical training that technically should’ve made it easier, but producing electronic music is like learning an entirely new instrument.
I always say producing is like learning a language that evolves every year. You can never master it completely, and that’s what keeps me curious.
You’ve said before that producing and DJing are two completely different skills.
Totally. Producing is internal—it’s therapy. You’re in a dark room with your thoughts, building something from scratch. DJing, on the other hand, is explosive. It’s about energy and connection. When I’m DJing, I’m giving everything outward. When I’m producing, it’s reflection and stillness.
I love both, because I need both. One feeds the other.
Your art lives between fantasy and reality—you even said duality is your favorite word.
Yes, I’ve always been fascinated by opposites. Everything extreme is connected—joy and sadness, chaos and calm, fantasy and reality. They’re all part of the same frequency, just vibrating differently. That’s what Wonderland represents for me.
And maybe it’s the Libra in me, but I’m always searching for balance—even when I’m dropping something heavy, there’s always softness in it somewhere.
When you entered the music industry, women were still fighting for space behind the decks. What illusion did you have to break?
The illusion that I had to prove myself twice as much—which, unfortunately, was true. People didn’t believe I was actually DJing. Some accused me of not producing my own music. So I started setting up GoPros on my hands during shows just to shut people up. It was disheartening, because music is the only thing I’m great at. I’m terrible at sports, can’t cook to save my life—this is my world. So to have that questioned hurt. But it also fueled me. I practiced until no one could doubt me again. Looking back, I’m grateful. It made me sharper, more disciplined, more dangerous—in the best way.
You’ve been open about mental health for years, long before it was a trend.
For me, it’s not about being brave—it’s about being human. I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression my whole life. Pretending it’s not there doesn’t help anyone. I’ve had fans come up to me and say that hearing me talk about it saved their life. That’s why I keep doing it—because I know what it feels like to think no one understands.
Vulnerability is strength. It takes more courage to say “I’m not okay” than to pretend everything’s perfect.
On stage, you hold entire crowds in your frequency. What’s that like for you?
It’s the most real I ever feel. When I’m up there, I’m not performing—I’m transmitting. It’s pure connection. I’ve cried on stage. I’ve healed on stage. I think people can feel when something is genuine—and when it’s not.
Your songs often feel like confessionals that turn into anthems. How do you turn pain into power?
I don’t plan it. I hit record and let whatever needs to come out, come out. Later, I’ll listen back and realize—that’s everything I didn’t know how to say. The studio is my diary. It’s where I process everything. And when I share it, it’s like closing the loop—someone else feels the same thing, and now it’s not just mine anymore.
You’ve said “music saved me.” Would you call it your religion, your rebellion, or your revolution?
All of them. It’s my life. It’s everything.
If you could hide one code in every song you’ve ever made, what truth would you want people to find?
That joy is real—and it’s possible. I actually hide frequencies in my tracks that are scientifically proven to make people feel good. It’s nerdy, but it’s my little secret. I want people to feel happiness, even if they don’t know why.
Let’s talk about motherhood. It feels like this era of your life is the most powerful yet.
It’s funny because early on someone told me, “I hope you never have kids, it’ll ruin your career.” That stuck with me—and became fuel. Because motherhood amplified everything. It made me more creative, more intuitive, more present. I even headlined EDC Las Vegas nine months pregnant, and Coachella eight months pregnant. I was creating life and music. I felt double alive.
Having a child softened me, too. I see everyone as someone’s kid now. It made me more empathetic, more grounded. And it didn’t stop my career—it evolved it. I want my children to see that you can nurture life and still chase your dreams fiercely.
How has it influenced your artistry?
It’s made me a better artist. It forced me to manage my time, but it also gave my work more purpose. When I sit in the studio now, I’m not just making songs for me—I’m building worlds my kids will grow up in. My son already loves music. He’s two and sits in the studio with me. He’s even on one of my new tracks—his little voice is in there.
What do you hope your children feel when they read this one day?
That they were loved before they even arrived. And that they’ve already headlined festivals in the womb. (laughs) That’s a pretty badass way to start life.
The new visuals for this era—the Northern Lights, the surreal tones—feel otherworldly. What inspired that?
I’ve always been obsessed with the Northern Lights—how something so real can look so unreal. That’s the aesthetic I wanted: reality, but slightly bent. I call it fantasy realism. You recognize it, but something about it feels like a dream. That’s how my world feels right now—motherhood, music, identity—they’re all merging into this glowing, surreal reality.
You’re releasing your new album soon, “GHOST WORLDS” on December 5th. What can we expect from this next masterpiece?
I’ve been working on it throughout this entire pregnancy. It’s the truest representation of me so far—the highs, the heaviness, the surrender. It’s my most authentic work to date, and I can’t wait to share it with the world.
If your life right now were a track, would it be a drop, a build, or the silence before it hits?
(laughs) I want to say a drop—but I also love the silence before it hits. There’s something sacred about that pause right before the chaos. Maybe it’s both.
If you could send one manifestation into the universe right now—something you want this album, this moment, to bring into the world—what would it be?
That it reaches the right people. That it finds the hearts it’s meant to. That’s all I ever want.
Written by Rebecca Inès Perez
Photography by @AnaWigmore
Styled by @Tripl3lex
