Untitled Document

TORI AMOS
Sunday Telegraph - 2004

According to a friend who was there the fight to buy Tori Amos tickets the other week was “a bloodbath”. I can only imagine - I’m sure a lot of Dungeons and Dragons figurines got smashed in frustration that night.

In case you didn’t notice, and unless you belong to a student medieval society there’s a good chance you didn’t, Tori has a new album out. It’s a little wan for my tastes but it’s a pleasant enough affair and I’m sure it will have Toriphiles the world across sobbing in dark rooms. A fact which, unfortunately, only seems to confirm the ambiguous relationship I have with Tori Amos.

Unfair or otherwise the fact remains that Tori Amos’ fans present a seemingly insurmountable barrier to an appreciation of her music. A psychiatric flash card of Tori’s face would elicit some of the following associations: “purple, crushed velvet dresses”, “scented candles”, “role playing”, “S&M”, “ferret breeding”.

And no, in case you’re wondering, none of these are positives.

On the one hand my instinct is to admire her: like joining the Hari Krisnas being a Tori Amos fan might be slightly unbalanced but I can respect the dedication it requires. On the other hand her wilful obtuseness sparks the cynic within: if you can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time then Tori has definitely opted for the latter.
Indeed, I suspect that behind the facade of the loopy, damaged redhead lurks an extremely astute businesswoman. Like Morrissey and Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails (is it a coincidence that they used to go out?), Tori Amos knows she’s not going to be a threat to 50 Cent any time soon. So she relies on a relatively small but highly obsessive fan base to buy every single thing she has ever released – in ten different types of packaging… plus the bonus interview disk.

I have never rated Tori in the first ranks of songwriters - occasionally brilliant she may be the simple truth is that her albums are padded like an Arctic jacket. What she does have, however, is the rare capacity to make her audience feel part of a privileged conversation. Forget singer/songwriter, Tori Amos is a singer/psychiatrist.

By confessing everything, most famously her rape at the hands of an obsessed fan, she seems to privilege the listener and create what could only be described as a therapist/patient relationship; which is probably why she is the subject of so much psychological transference, not to mention demented loyalty.

Ultimately, therefore, it seems impossible to accuse Tori Amos of cynicism. Her decision to record (seemingly) every tune that has ever popped into her head has less to do with career longevity than with the peculiarly obsessional nature of her talent. What I like least about Tori Amos, therefore, namely, her ability to inspire a fanatical cult of personality that seems to transcend all reasonable criticism and forgive all musical self-indulgence, is probably, paradoxically, what I like most.

This probably means that I respect Tori Amos more than I enjoy what she does. But I’d pleased if you didn’t pass that on. I’m afraid of being found mysteriously dead, my body mauled by ferrets.