Tori Amos is not an artist whose livelihood at this point, 10 years into her
career as a solo performer, depends on the usual avenues of pop stardom like
commercial airplay. Radio hits have never played a big role in the marketing of
Amos, and neither have MTV videos. Instead, it was the notoriety surrounding
her controversial debut, 1991's Little Earthquakes (Atlantic), which
included an a cappella recounting of her own rape experience ("Me and a
Gun"), plus the sheer force of her enigmatic yet alluring personality that
initially connected Amos with what's become a loyal cult audience that's about
a million strong (each of her albums has moved more than a million units). And
it's been her ongoing willingness to put her artistry on the line combined with
her ability to tap into new sources of inspiration that has kept her in
business over the past decade. In short, at least to the million-plus fans
she's got out there, Amos is the real deal. Period. Indeed, releasing something
deemed too commercial is often the worst thing an artist in her position can
do.
There's no danger that Strange Little Girls (Atlantic) will be mistaken
for a facile attempt to woo modern-rock-radio programmers or even to reach out
to anyone who hasn't already met her halfway. If anything, the disc is a step
in the other direction by an artist who seems to understand that hit singles
are not necessarily a crucial part of her success. In a music business that
appears once again to be relying more and more on one- and two-hit wonders,
Amos is that rare thing: an album-oriented artist. And Strange Little
Girls, which finds her interpreting an eclectic mix of tunes penned by
other songwriters, reflects the degree to which she seems to appreciate her
audience's desire both to be challenged by and to maintain a certain degree of
intimacy with her.
Amos is no stranger to cover tunes. Early on in her career she gave fans
several revealing glimpses of her musical background by recording with just her
voice and piano an intriguing trio for the 1992 Crucify EP (Atlantic):
Led Zeppelin's "Thank You," Nirvana's "Smells like Teen Spirit," and the
Rolling Stones' "Angie." When you consider that back then Amos was being
treated, not unfairly, as a Kate Bush disciple, it seems clear she chose these
covers to make the point that there was a healthy dose of guitar grit flowing
through the rock-and-roll veins of this piano-playing dream-pop diva. The
Zeppelin tune also allowed Amos to acknowledge her hair-metal past as the
frontwoman of the horribly named '80s group Y Kant Tori Read; the Nirvana song
reminded us that her taste in guitar rock had undergone some major, uh,
improvements. (Two years later, she released another EP, God, with three
more covers: Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You," Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit,"
and Jimi Hendrix's "If 6 Was 9.")
Strange Little Girls isn't simply a guided tour of Amos's record
collection. In fact, it isn't meant to reflect her influences and/or
inspirations at all. Although the thread that ties the disc's dozen tracks
together isn't immediately visible, Strange Little Girls is a
full-fledged concept album inspired by the same gender politics that have
fueled her solo work from the start. And what the album may lack in outright
commercial appeal, it makes up for by delivering the kind of bold statement
that's bound to generate some sensational press.
The material here ranges from old tunes (the Beatles' "Happiness Is a Warm
Gun") to new ones (Eminem's " '97 Bonnie & Clyde"), from well-known
classics (Neil Young's "Heart of Gold") to cult favorites (the Velvet
Underground's "New Age") to fairly obscure surprises (the Stranglers' single
"Strange Little Girl"), from piano-friendly ballads (the Boomtown Rats' "I
Don't Like Mondays") to guitar-based rockers (Slayer's "Raining Blood"). What
every song on Strange Little Girls has in common is that it was written
by a man. Amos's interpretations can take a fair degree of liberty with the
arrangements, particularly when it comes to songs that were guitar-driven in
their original incarnation, though she's joined on the album by guitarist
Adrian Belew (as well as by drummer Matt Chamberlain, who co-produced the
disc). With its pounding drums and abrasive slide-guitar lines, "Heart of Gold"
is almost unrecognizable as the Neil Young song, and Slayer's "Raining Blood"
becomes a meditative ambient piece.
Macy Gray
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But the conceptual framework of the album has less to do with how the songs are
reworked than with who is doing the reworking, because, as Amos has explained
in interviews, she sings each song not simply from a woman's perspective but
from the point of view of a particular fictional female character whom she has
invented. The disc's artwork even includes a striking series of in-character
photographs of Amos dressed and made up to play each role.
For the most part, this aspect of Strange Little Girls amounts to little
more than an entertaining subtext and a chance for Amos to play dress-up. "I
Don't Like Mondays," the Boomtown Rats tune about a 1979 San Diego school
shooting written from the point of view of the shooter, is already a
role-playing exercise, as well as a piano-based tune. So it's hard to imagine
how Amos's conceptual approach would differ from just a regular cover. And her
extended interpretation of "Happiness Is a Warm Gun," which features
spoken-word samplings of both President Bushes and her father on the right to
bear arms, as well as readings from a newspaper report of John Lennon's
assassination, seems to have more to do with gun-control issues than with
anything involving gender. But there's no denying the chilling power of her
reading of Eminem's " '97 Bonnie & Clyde," which is notorious for
being the track where Marshall Mathers fantasizes in vivid detail about
murdering his wife (as opposed to the one where he engages in a bit of gay
bashing). In a near whisper, and backed by little more than a slight beat and a
looped string section, Amos uses her own naked vulnerability to give
flesh-and-bone reality to the cartoonish brutality of the original. It's not
catchy enough ever to end up on commercial radio -- not by a long shot. At the
same time, it's hard to ignore in a way that's almost certain to keep Amos in
the spotlight as she enters her second decade as a solo artist.
Tori Amos plays the Wang Theatre in Boston on October 15 and 16. Call (617)
931-2000.
WITH HER 1999 DEBUT, On How Life Is (Epic), Macy Gray managed to
have both critical acclaim and commercial success. It was the critics who
initially picked up on the plucky Gray, whose deep, soulful delivery and
smooth, contempo R&B moves garnered favorable comparisons with everyone
from Lauryn Hill to Billie Holiday. But in time, commercial radio (and then
MTV) tuned into the disc's first single, "I Try," and turned it into one of the
year's bigger hits, helping to push On How Life Is all the way toward
triple-platinum sales.
Following up a triumph like that is never easy -- for starters, there's the
pressure to match your debut's artistic and commercial success. And Gray's next
move is likely to define how she's perceived by fans and critics for years to
come. If her new The Id (Epic) is seen as a challenging artistic
statement that casual fans of "I Try" (the people who liked the song but might
not remember the name of the person who sang it) may not have the patience for,
then she's off on a path parallel to the one Amos has been on for years. But if
The Id comes off as a collection of radio-ready singles, then she may
end up sacrificing the kind of devoted following an artist like Amos can count
on and find herself relying solely on the whims of fickle Top 40 programmers.
The fact that Gray opted to co-produce the disc herself and brought Rick Rubin
on to help her suggests that she's hoping she can continue to enjoy the best of
both worlds.
If ever there was a producer who's been able to make big commercial albums for
quirky artists without ironing out the quirks, it's Rick Rubin. The disc's
first single, "Sweet Baby," does just that: the easygoing, piano-driven,
R&B groove is smooth and sturdy enough to accommodate any pop radio format
on the soul side of modern rock, and Erykah Badu's vocal cameo doesn't hurt one
bit. But as with "I Try," the musical backdrop is just that -- a backdrop for
that undeniable and now unmistakable voice, thick and sticky sweet as honey
with a sharp, gritty afterbite. Elsewhere, Gray and Rubin play around with
everything from stringy vintage disco ("Sexual Revolution") to horny Philly
soul ("Give Me All Your Lovin' or I Will Kill You") without ever settling for
too long on one sound or style. In a world in which everything's supposed to be
pinned down and target-marketed to specific demos, Gray seems determined to
remain a moving target. And as long as she's willing to hold on to the soulful
quirks that inspire the lyrics to songs like the new "Freak like Me," it's hard
to imagine anyone's getting in her way.
Issue Date: September 21 - 27, 2001
