Review of Tori Amos' _Little Earthquakes_

[ez003338@rocky.ucdavis.edu (Tara)]

This appeared today in my school's newspaper, _The California Aggie_.  I
though people might be interested in seeing it, so...

TORI AMOS CREATES BIG, EMOTIONAL EARTHQUAKES
 
You may have seen her in _Rolling Stone_.  Or heard her on MTV. 
Or on KWOD [a local "modern rock" station].
 
But you have truly *heard* Tori Amos until you have listened to
her album, _Little Earthquakes_, over and over again.  The debut
from this North Carolina discontent will find a cozy, intimate
nook somewhere in the middle of your heart, and neither
understanding nor explaining that is going to be easy.
 
Perhaps it's the way her piano sounds like raindrops in the
background--light, ethereal and unpretentious behind the thin
veil of her voice.  Or perhaps it's got something to do with the
airy, high-altitude quality of her lyrics, the way her poetry
brushes over critical ideas without so much as a misplaced mild
preaching.  Or even the melodies of her songs--they are slight,
inspired, articulate.
 
But most of all, Tori Amos' work will make you *feel*.  After
hearing the distanced intimacies of her rich soul, you will want
to call her by her first name.  It seems impossible that somebody
whose words breathe through your mind with such familiarity and
agility is not a member of your family.  A sister, maybe.  Or a
guardian angel.
 
Amos began her long career in music at the Peabody Conservatory
in Baltimore at the age of five; six years later, she was
expelled--for playing by ear.  This early refusal to conform to
standards continues to mark her as one of today's most staunch
female performers; in a time when women are assumed to present
certain specific attitudes about sexuality (i.e., a woman is
either feminist or anti-sexual [?]), Amos stands up and insists
on being recognized as the cynical, sexual, vulnerable *human*
being that she is.
 
>From the opening cut, "Crucify," you get the feeling this is not
going to be any ordinary album.  Amos politely yet firmly
requests your attention and holds it, in this gritty, modern-day
expression of emptiness and angst that growls, "I've been raising
up my hands--drive another nail in / got enough GUILT to start my
own religion."
 
_Little Earthquakes_ is full of moments of sheer, gutting,
exquisite pain--pain that seeps out through the carefully placed
cracks in the floorboards.  Amos wants you to catch the droplets
of innuendo that she intentionally lets slip through her music
and words, wants you to hear the curious lacunae and wonder.
 
"Leather" is definitely a work that inspires a bit of hint and
wonder [?].  "Look I'm standing naked before you / don't you want
more than my sex / I can scream as loud as your last one / But I
can't claim innocence," is how the cut begins, with a kind of
simpering pattern of regular chords to back up the startling
words.  "Leather" eventually devolves into a sensuous
improvisational jazz-piano riff, a technique that reminds you of
a '30s bar, or something forbidden.
 
"Mother" invites a questioning interpretation; based loosely on
the story of Hansel and Gretel, this song speaks from Gretel's
point of view.  The longest song on the album, at nearly seven
minutes, this is also the most musically experimental.  Amos'
unsettling, drumming piano dances about the disconcerting words
in an unbroken pattern of unrest.
 
And of course, "Silent All These Years" cannot go without
mention.  This is possibly the most accomplished work on the
album, because it blends Amos' impressionistic vocals with the
floating lyricism of her piano playing.  Amos' sound has nuances
of the preternatural quietness of Kate Bush, as well as the
shapely distillation of her bright harmonies.
 
"Silent All These Years" opens with one of the most irresistible
questions in memory--"Excuse me, but can I be you for a while?" 
Amos continues to draw on this thought, pleading for the person
who causes her pain to see her situation from her point of view. 
"It's your turn now to stand where I stand," she reminds him in
the last stanza.
 
But an essential part of the beauty and pathos of Amos' work is
her unfailing compassion.  Instead of being vengeful or
resentful, when her work fades to its stilling, stirring close,
she both comforts her injurer and reaffirms her own worth in this
schema of recovery and questionable redemption.  "I've been here,
silent all these years."
 
- Rosemary A. Peters

-- 
 |Tara Marchand        |  "I am you,  |   "To live is to fly, low and high,   |
 |---------------------| and you are  |  So shake the dust off of your wings  |
 |---------------------|    not me."  |   And the sleep out of your eyes."    |
 |ez003338@ucdavis.edu | -REM, "LMR"- | -Cowboy Junkies, "To Live is to Fly"- |