Published on Sep 21, 1997
It’s been over six months since I reviewed Tori Amos’s
Boys For Pele, and I think there are still people who
haven’t forgiven me for raking that album over the coals.
There once was a time when I thought Tori Amos was one of the
most exciting new musicians to hit the airwaves. She put new hope
into piano-based music since Elton John first hit the scene, and
she could rightfully be called a new voice in folk.
Back in 1992, Amos released her first solo album
Little Earthquakes, and I don’t think she’s ever topped this
masterpiece. Even five years later, people are drawn to this album
like moths to a lightbulb; look at the resurgence in popularity for
the track “Silent All These Years.”
Coming off a disastrous attempt at fronting a heavy-metal band
(and, brother, I would kill to get my hands on an original copy of
Y Kant Tori Read just to hear it), Amos withdrew into the
shell – or, rather, the hell – that had been her life to that
point. A victim of rape earlier in her life, Amos bunkered down
with her piano in front of her and recorded
Little Earthquakes in a style that made it seem like she was
pouring her life into it.
In fact, she was – this was the story of her life, recorded for
posterity in case she never again was given the chance to record
her music. The brutal honesty of the lyrics combined with the
beauty of the music is what makes this album so special.
“Winter” was the first track I ever heard off
Little Earthquakes, and it was the one that sucked me into
Amos’s world. While I admit I’m grasping at straws for the meanings
in many of her songs, it seems that this song tells about the
changing relationship between Amos and her father: “Hair is grey
and the fires are burning / So many dreams on the shelf / You say I
wanted you to be proud of me / I always wanted that myself.”
Whether the relationship has become strained or is improving over
time I’m not sure, but the song is a poignant reminder of the
changes that occur between parent and child.
“Me And A Gun,” with all its a capella power, is Amos reliving
the rape she experienced; the lack of instrumentation makes the
message all the more powerful. The trauma is slowly being replaced
by righteous anger: “Yes I wore a slinky red thing / Does that mean
I should spread for you.” The track seems to be a cleansing for
Amos – a purging of the demon, if you will.
But more powerful is “Silent All These Years,” a song which I
freely admit I don’t understand. In one sense, I want to say this
is Amos lashing out at the person who raped her; on another stanza,
I want to say it is Amos lashing out at someone she loves (loved?)
who could never love her the same way. Maybe I’ll never fully
understand the message in this track; all I know is it is one
beautiful song that I never get tired of hearing.
Other songs on
Little Earthquakes contain some powerful moments, such as
“China,” “Mother,” “Crucify” and “Precious Things.” A few others,
however, just don’t do anything for me, such as “Leather” and
“Happy Phantom.” Still, one or two minor misfires do not ruin the
remainder of this album. (I still have yet to view the home video
for
Little Earthquakes – it’s sitting right next to me as I
write this review.)
I don’t know why this album moves me so much while others that
have been just as honest don’t. Maybe it’s in Amos’s piano playing;
she knows when the mood calls for a gentle touch on the keys and
when it calls for thundrous pounding. Maybe it’s in her vocal
delivery. Maybe it’s in the orchestration on some of the tracks.
Whatever it is, it
works – and Amos has not been able to recreate it since.
Little Earthquakes is an album that holds appeal for both
men and women, though I will admit that men would probably have to
keep a more open mind about the album. If you do so, you’re in for
one emotional ride – and one incredible performance.