Tori Amos: Piece by Piece

by Amos, Tori

  TORI:

  Because Johnny, Mark, Marcel, and I basically came up together and became friends, and because I didn't have a band in those early days, I bonded with the crew. Some crews you might not want to bond with in that way, just because they're living a whole different experience. But I've seen artists who are so far removed from how the organism works that they get duped. They're controlled and they don't even know it. I have sometimes known what was going on with an artist more than the artist did, just because crews talk when they cross each other's paths. And if I know what's going on with another artist's tour, then he or she does not have the right team. So I made a decision to be involved. Being married to somebody who's from that side of it has made it very difficult for anyone to shine me on. There's no hiding the information. I'm democratic in my approach, but at the same time I know when I need to be the boss. It doesn't make me feel strange or make them feel strange. But we all treat it as shifting the gears on a car. The term boss has such weird, jacked-up connotations; I see it more as allowing the Artemis archetype to lead me with her bow and quiver.

  As I've grown older, I've realized that problems are going to happen. How can they not with so many people? But maybe because I married Mark, I realized the crew is my backbone. Many crew members come back time after time. I try to be fair, though sometimes I'm tough. To be a real leader you have to be able to deal with confrontation. You have to be able to say, “Dude, this is uncomfortable to talk about, but we need to deal with it.” And if you can't do that, then you have to turn that role over to somebody. Usually I don't have those conversations. They can be embarrassing for the crew member, so they are delegated to someone else. But if things land on my plate, I've got to deal with it. And I will deal with it.

  Too often, artists turn over their power when they go on the road. I've seen it firsthand—managers and tour managers taking a bribe (a backhander, as the Brits call it) from the equipment companies, from the sound company, so its equipment will get on a big tour. It might not be the best thing for the artist; it might not be the best sound you can get, or the best lighting rig you can get, or the best bus and truck company, or the most reputable tour accountant. I've seen tour managers fire crew members who might have been good for the artist but were getting too close and might have shared too much confidential information about what management was up to. I made a decision to be aware of what was going on with my support system. I've kept my ear to the ground. That means knowing things that aren't necessarily going to make my day happy. But if I'm paying, I want to know what I'm paying for. There are people whom I do trust, but ultimately I trust myself. I trust myself to say, “This support person lost it today and can't make a clear decision. If I'm the one who can't make the decision, if I'm too emotional, then I'll delegate to whoever I think can make it best for me. I delegate a lot. I give a very wide berth. But there are rules. There is a discipline.

  For the art to be taken out into the world, you need people around who can help you present it. You create a tribe around you. We have to see what everybody's abilities are and understand how to use those abilities. But the thread running through all this is how we treat each other. When someone starts treating others offensively, then there are consequences. The whole tour can suffer if it's not dealt with.

  ALISON EVANS:

  On this tour, there's a really strong family vibe. I think we all appreciate the level of maturity. Not to say we're all over the hill, but everybody kind of has a life somewhere. People have houses and spouses and girlfriends and dogs, and the camaraderie extends from the general understanding that this tour is just one part of our lives. We take care of ourselves. We don't stay out drinking all night; we really want to get our sleep so that we can enjoy the next day.

  It's almost like a lesson, just living this close to people, many of whom you didn't know before. You can't be a bitch; you can't be difficult. On days when you want to be that way, you just have to go and hide. Because you've got to make it work. Everybody's too close and depends too much on one another to make the show happen.

  ANDY SOLOMON:

  Mark keeps tabs on the technical side of things, and John is the final word as Tori's manager. My job is to keep the details in line across the board. What I've learned working with Tori is that if you put together the right team, you can give people space to be responsible. My personal style is loose reins, big pasture, and when you're at the fence you know where it is. That seems to work with this group of people. We've all become very, very, very close friends, but there's a line you don't cross. I've known Mark for fifteen years, from before either of us knew Tori, but I'd never use that connection to slack off. People on this tour understand how to balance their personal connections. You have to stand up and perform, and you can't use anything as a prop. This is a very performance-oriented tour, and though it may seem odd to say this, in this business I don't think that's the norm.

  TORI:

  When there's trouble I'm there in the trenches, but at the same time I have no problem saying, “We must get rid of this person, this one and this one, goodbye.” Because I've seen what happens when you don't. I've seen how one person can pull a whole crew down, a whole tour canceled. Over. Bands splitting up. Not on my turf.

  I provide a lot of freedom and a place for people to express their opinions. But there is a protocol and a way you treat people. If you're passive-aggressive I'm going to smell you out quick. And if you think that you're going to manipulate things, then you get to meet the lioness. Not a problem; I will rip your throat out. I've made it here with myself and my piano, against all odds, having pissing matches with chairmen of Warner Brothers. I have no problem facing a lighting guy who happens to have the Bitch from Hell Mother complex.

  Attitudes can be contagious, like colds. People start reacting to a mood and they don't even know where it comes from; sometimes they're taking it personally when things aren't addressed. I have found more often than not, people aren't even aware of how they're treating others. They're going through something, or somebody said something and they just reacted. Loose cannons, dangerous things. It's different when you can go home from work, when home and work are separate. But month after month after month after month of working and living as a group, you can't have the cancer within. You'll bring the whole thing down.

  “Okay, when did you talk with them about it?” I ask as Keith, our tour manager, pulls up a chair.

  “I spoke with them about the bitching and moaning exactly four days ago.”

  “Let's get them in here, pronto.”

  “You have radio promo.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay ladies; let's take ten for you to get a coffee, and Keith, let's get the guys in, and I want you, my friend, to witness what is about to transpire. After all, you will be overseeing sending these two out and bringing their replacements in. How long till the big shows in a row?”

  “You got five days, T.”

  “So only two days to train the replacements?”

  “That's it.”

  “So Keith, do we have them on hold?”

  “Their tickets are already booked and I've already brought them up to speed. They want to come.”

  “That's the right attitude. That's what I like to hear. But they realize it isn't a done deal, right? Not until our guys have failed the final test, which I'm hoping they won't do, but the glass carriage is already part pumpkin and the clock has just struck twelve.”

  “It's all been made very clear that there is one more chance, but it is the final one.”

  “Let's go. This can take only seven and a half minutes from the moment you shimmy out the door.”

  “I'm shimmying, and T …”

  “Yeah?”

  “It's well overdue. They've had plenty of chances.”

  (Door opens three minutes later with Keith and the other two.)

  “Hey, Miss T” “Hey, Tor.”

  “Hi, guys. So, you two were asked to sort your differences out and it continued. So th
en you were asked to sort your shit out. And now your alls’ shit has made it into my dressing room. Your alls’ shit has now, today, become the center of this tour.”

  (A bit of throat clearing.)

  “Look, T, we're cool. It won't happen again.”

  “No, get clear—you may think it's cool, but I am boiling here. You've heard of a sleeping volcano? Well, she just woke up. By tomorrow's sound check, if you two haven't sorted out your negativity, your bitching, and your attitude, although I'm going to miss your creativity, you gotta go.”

  “But, Tor, we're all a team.”

  “No, get clear—we are all a team until we do things that bring the team down. Then we are a team divided. Instigated and held hostage by certain individuals—who will be taken off the team so as not to facilitate the whole group to self-destruct.”

  “But you need us. The big shows are next week.”

  “Yes, and no. I don't need anybody. I came into this world with a piano and I will leave this world with a piano. I chose to need you, and right now I'm ready to choose to need someone else. The ball's in your court, guys, but the clock is ticking.”

  At this point Keith politely says, “Five minutes to sound check, lads. Tea, then?”

  And off they go.

  ANN: Amos has developed the strength to intervene if a crisis hits the tour, but as important is her commitment to communicate with crew members on a daily basis. People tend to remain on her crew for many years, partly because she believes in offering technicians and support people a chance to fully realize the creativity of their positions, in collaboration with her.

  Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt

  DAN BOLAND:

  There's more to working with Tori than just playing music and getting the paycheck and getting out. There's a whole idea of communicating things. Tori has things to say onstage, and I try to accent it with lighting. I listen to her music, I've talked with her about her ideas, about the songs or the overall space of the tour, and then I just try to create more environments on top of it.

  I'm going out with Eminem after this tour is over. I'm more of a hired hand there. If I'm ever called into the dressing room, it's a bad thing. It's not that he doesn't care how the show looks, but we're not going to sit there and share ideas. It's more like he says, “This is how I want it.” That's the usual reality on a tour. But with Tori, there's collaboration. If she starts to play new songs, even during rehearsals, I'll just throw lights up to just try to create something in my head that goes along with what she's playing, and she'll stop and say “That's pretty what is that?” We'll have a back-and-forth, and my work evolves from that.

  ANN: Despite everyone's best efforts, conflict is inevitable on tour, especially when it comes to the daily schedule. More than most audience members know, every minute counts.

  TORI:

  Even well-oiled machines need tune-ups. Very simply if a squabble on the road has made its way into my jurisdiction, then obviously it hasn't been dealt with correctly. And once it's on my radar, then I will be putting in my two cents. All the crew members learn this quickly, and some learn it by being handed a plane ticket—I don't mind where, but off my ship. Do we run a tight ship? Yes and no. I don't care what you eat or how you sleep or with whom, as long as everyone is consenting. Some bands have security cops that follow people around on their days off and watch what they eat—vegan watchdogs. If a band has members in Alcoholics Anonymous, some tours will employ antialcohol cops to make sure that the crew remains sober, so that if the musicians go out with them then they are not tempted to drink. Frankly, I don't care what people eat or drink, but I do care if you can't do your gig. If I start doing your gig, and you will know that I am because Andy Solomon will come and tell you that I am, then it's not going to go very well for you. We are out here to be the best. Now, we are not the only touring act that is out here to be the best. But we are part of a privileged group of troubadours that have a reputation so that year after year people will come. If you are on my crew, you have to love touring because I pause for very few reasons. If you can't cut the pace, then you need a slower tour.

  You're only as good as your crew. Let me repeat myself … you're only as good as your crew. Hear me, young future superstars—even if only in your own mind. If you are a good performer (not great—let's be honest here, radio gods and goddesses) and you have a great crew, the perception will be that you have a great show. If you are a great performer but have a mediocre crew, it'll sound shit and look shit, and it's hard to shine through shit. Riveting stuff, but very simple. I ride the crew hard. But I'm fair. And I reward them. You've got to reward your crew. Sometimes we're rolling on six shows a week with shorter, radio-sponsored shows on the off day. If some “genius suit” (from the business side of my world) suggests that the crew doesn't need the most expensive lager on their buses after load-out, then, through my “favorite suit” (Philip-the-Good, officially Phil Holthouse, my beloved accountant), this “genius suit's” suggestion will be knocked on the head during a business conference call with the words “The artist, whose money it is, incidentally, reminds us that the crew is doing six shows a week while some of ‘us’ are having a cozy weekend sitting on our fat asses. Next?” “The suits” have their role, but they don't always make the right call for the right reasons. The crew must feel as if “said artist” respects the fact that they are breaking their balls. So if the best lager or better after-show food helps to make broken balls happy balls, that's important. Do the crew members think I'm a motherfucker? You'll have to ask them. If so, hopefully they think I'm a fair one.

  CHELSEA LAIRD:

  There are a lot of elements being juggled on any given day. We might be a few performances into a tour already before Tori even runs into some of the crew members. The pace can be manic—radio shows, meet and greets, interviews, and more. Tori's had a full day before she even walks into sound check. She doesn't expect crew members to cover her side of the day for her, and in return, she expects the technical side of the show to be working. One of the most important things for her is rehearsal. She sound checks every single day for at least an hour. For her it has to run like clockwork. That is the most important thing to her. The hours are long but when you have a good show everybody feels it, from the stage to the sound board to the production office. It's why we all ultimately do this, for that payoff.

  TORI:

  Because a tour is essentially a flow, and it has to keep rolling, time is often the biggest area of dispute. There are two areas on tour about which you can't negotiate, timewise. One is a child's schedule, and the other has to do with penalties. In many venues, because the staff is unionized, if a show goes past a certain hour, you have to pay a large overtime fee. The penalty can also include running over your designated sound-check time. If we're running fifteen minutes behind, sometimes we're fighting to get that fifteen minutes back all day. And if it's just one of those days when you're doing radio or telly and we're behind because the driver was late or Tash got sick that morning, it can be harrowing. We're playing catch-up. If we don't make it, I'll have to choose to cut the show down or take a financial hit.

  Sometimes I'll take that hit, and sometimes I won't. I might say that instead of doing three eight-minute-long songs, we'll do three four-minute-long ones. Songs that I know people really love but will still let us meet our time. So I'm sitting there fiddling. That's when you have to know time, but not just clock time. You have to have an internal sense, which includes improvised live song timings. And those obviously change from night to night. So you have to have a sense of your own rhythm, the band's rhythm, the crew's rhythm—is it a blue day? Is it a triple-espresso day? All of this affects tempos and could change the show by ten minutes, which is a huge amount in penalties. This timing is something you either develop or don't. It's not something that can be taught. Over the years, either you gain the skill because of a certain intuitive mixed sense of rhythm time and real clock time, or it just doesn't click. I can't rea
lly write music out and I can't count very well. But I have a sense of the time of each song, to the second, almost.

  For acts that blow their schedules all the time, that can be a $5,000 penalty, at the least, night after night. Poorly made decisions can cause a tour to shut down. How many acts do you know that have had to cancel their tours recently? I'll tell you why. It's because record companies, who typically extend no-interest loans to artists to finance their tours, say, “We cannot shoulder this anymore. We just fired a thousand people this week.” These days the touring artist isn't allowed to run up a ridiculous bill. And tours are costly, with trucks, buses, food, salaries, venues—you're talking lots of money. The record companies are hurting because of changes in the industry, and they can't afford even the loaned support they once offered. Now, I've never taken tour support. But the economy's downturn has an impact on my organization, too. Times are tight, and this is affecting everybody: the labels, the artists, the crew, sound system suppliers, bus companies, truck companies, catering companies and all the employees— and the fans, of course, who would like to come to the show but can't afford the tickets.

  Tori the businesswoman and Tori the performer are both included in the decision to cut a performance short. Because my performances are more than two hours long, I don't feel I'm shortchanging anyone if I play for ten fewer minutes. Sometimes you can't get sentimental. You have to make a decision very quickly. You're rewriting set lists, time is eating away. You know how long the show is. You already know you can't make it. Above all, you have to keep things running. I've always believed in the balance. Why can't we live like human beings on tour and pay our bills?