Tori Amos: Piece by Piece

by Amos, Tori

  I heard this message from certain wise people whom I met when I was thirty-five. They would say, “You have to see that middle age means midlife.” I was saying, “No, no, no, I've only had a few records out,” but these guides were being realistic. If I make it to seventy, which is a few years shy of the average life expectancy of an American woman today, then I'd hit my midlife at that point.

  We're in a business and a culture that doesn't accept such changes for women. We're still supposed to be wearing our little midriff tops and staying perpetually twenty-five. Some of the men in my field have made the transition to midlife quite elegantly. Neil Young, for example, or Bruce Springsteen. But for those artists, it's always been about the content. So I shifted perspective in my musical career, too; I said, “Okay, let's go back to my content. Let's go back to the power of the pen.”

  There were other inspirations I could tap into for this transition, coming more from the world of visual art. Georgia O'Keeffe made it as an old lady. Dorothea Tanning is in her nineties and still painting and writing poetry. I found some examples in the jazz world—Ella Fitzgerald performed into her seventies, despite health problems; Rosemary Clooney made a comeback in her late sixties. Myself at thirty-five, I felt that though the business is so much about the image, there is still a place for the songwriters singing the songs and not just handing them over to the next ingenue.

  A lot of younger women have said to me, “Looking at your generation is the scariest thing in the world. What we have to look forward to is very bleak if our so-called role models aren't happy with who they are and wish they were more like us.” They want somebody to turn around and say, “Middle age is a great place to be; you will want to arrive at this place.” The songs that have been coming to me lately, with their varied points of view, have been helping me to see how many different aspects of the self there are and that there is so much to work with, for each of us, at every stage.

  I'm beginning to see myself less and less as the one going out with the ships and sailing the seven seas. I did that. Okay. I've breastfed pigs. Then there came a time when I had to realize that it's now for other women to traverse that particular territory. I think I'm in a place where I'm trying to realize again what my role is. And it's not sitting there half-naked with a guitar between my legs. When others try to tell you what your role should be, and you can't pull it off, it's a problem. After all, you've got to wake up with yourself in the morning.

  The Native sages who came to see me gave me another message, which came true. It's a conversation about business. The message was, in the tribe, women realized certain benefits as they aged. They were then included in discussions they couldn't join when they were younger. The Western, capitalist worldview doesn't recognize the usefulness of women's experience. Imagine if we treated men the same way—we'd lose so many of our poets and visionaries. Popular music is so focused on the outer being that it's hard for everyone to survive and stay in the game. And if you think about it, the women who have lasted are the ones who've kept themselves looking a certain way—Cher, Tina Turner, Madonna. However they did it, they maintained their looks. But it's interesting to note none of those three women is a composer. They might play at it, but they're not writers like Neil Young or other rock males. The women who are great composers, like Joni Mitchell, but who maybe haven't tailored their image to the modern consumer, aren't out on the “circuit” as much. So for female composers about ready to turn forty, the industry is not banging down your door. Yes, if you're an icon you will be able to play Merriweather Post, but you may not be sitting alongside Dave Matthews on the playlists at radio. Herein lies the challenge: to be able to traverse pop culture's addiction to imaging, all the while infusing your pencil not with lead but with estrogen.

  A lot of leading men are just happening at forty. By that age, they know how to be clever, they know how to listen, they supposedly have experienced life. They might not be as cute as younger guys, but they're often sexier and almost always more powerful. In rock, it's somewhat different, even for men. We are drawn to the young king. I think it's messianic. And it's also obviously sexual. Americans, especially, still aren't comfortable with adult sexuality. It's like, your mommy and daddy have sex—no, no, no, no. There's a general denial, even though some people may leak it, even mommies at playgroup.

  What I've experienced in Europe is that there's a place for mature sexuality; there really, really is, and there has been historically. And it isn't necessarily trashy. There's dignity and elegance to sexuality, because it's part of your life. And because there's a place for it, sex is not just everywhere, randomly emerging, as it does in our popular culture now, which is what many parents are so afraid of.

  Becoming a parent has helped me see the proper place of things in my own life. When you're a mommy you have the opportunity to get very clear. I can deal with the music business now and not lose too much energy over its obnoxious aspects, because I know where my priorities are. What matters, in terms of work, are the songs. That doesn't mean I'm not willing to do the other work that's necessary. But when difficult situations come up, now I can see that there's an inner working to it all. There was a time when I believed that making records was separate from life, and I began to hear from other people that it wasn't. Wiser people than I advised me that no, it's part of your life. That's why you need to have a studio close to where you live, really trust your collaborators, and integrate and balance all the elements.

  Mark's father gave me some wisdom before he died, and I remember it most days. He said, “If I could be any age [he was in his midseventies at the time] I would want to be forty.” I said, “Tell me why.” I was really surprised. I wasn't forty yet; I think I was thirty-five. He said, “That was when I was old enough to know the what and the how of it all, and still young enough to do it.”

  Some people feel they've lost something as they get older. For me, I feel like I've gained a thing I was desperately looking for. I'm not saying there aren't days when I look in the mirror and say, “Jesus Christ, I look old.” But there's a quality within me now that I was hungry for, starving for, looking for, in my midtwenties, and I didn't find it. I found it later, outside the music industry, when I started choosing my friends wisely. I made a choice not to stay in L.A.; I made a choice to leave London. And I knew that my relationships would develop with the people who should be part of my life, even if they lived six thousand miles away, not just those I ran across as I pushed my career. Friendships are based on being tested. Being backstage when the champagne is flowing because you have your hands on a huge success is not really the time when a friendship is tested.

  The miscarriages—I wouldn't wish them on an enemy, but they really brought me to a place of bitterness and loss. And instead of wallowing in that, at a certain point I could begin to take the gall out of it. Nearly everyone is faced with some kind of health problem at some point, and when you are, that sense of immortality goes, that arrogance. Maybe there was a time when I thought I was immortal; I think a lot of people do. But certain physical struggles have come to me, and the best thing about them is that I have so much more compassion for what people go through physically, and for their losses. I'm beginning to accept that the body goes through changes. Lots of changes. Sometimes when I'm onstage in the middle of a show I feel better than I've ever felt in my life. When I turned forty I was doing a show and I thought to myself, “Why didn't anyone tell me how great you could feel at forty?” Then of course there are those days when I'm just trying to put one foot in front of the other.

  SONG CANVAS:“Jamaica Inn”

  I've always been drawn to fire. When I was seventeen I chased it, when I was twenty-seven I danced with it, and when I was thirty-seven I nursed it. Like women, fire changes. In one moment it can be warming, in another moment it can burn everything around you to the ground. These days I'm entertaining the idea of a flame contained. The idea of a lighthouse. When I was being told a bit of Cornish history I was fascinated with the stories
of the wrecker. Wreckers did not bring accidental destruction upon a vessel. By holding up a light, wreckers gave ships the false signal that it was safe to come in. Daphne du Maurier's book Jamaica Inn goes into detail about the Cornish custom of wrecking. Apparently, even vicars would hold a false light up so that once a ship was wrecked they would be able to sustain the local village with the goods that were smuggled out of the water. When I was driving down the coast from Bude to Padstow, I was drawn into this modern-day idea of I homewrecking. In my car I started to sing the chorus for the song “Jamaica Inn” after seeing a small boat through the gales that I found myself in. Could I have written this song in sunny Southern California? Probably not. After all, I was physically in the land of Daphne du Maurier's Jamaica Inn, which was a real place, as well as Rebecca, another one of her books that took place in Cornwall. I reference both of these books in the song because they are the antecedents. I still don't know to this day if my character survives the shipwreck that she is in …

  With the gales my little boat was tossed. How was I to know that you'd send her with a lantern to bring me in? “Are you positive this is a friend?” the captain grimaced. “Those are cliffs of rock ahead, if I'm not mistaken.” The sexiest thing is trust. I wake up to find the pirates have come, tying up along your coast. How was I to know the pirates had come? Between Rebecca's, beneath your firmaments, I have worshiped in the Jamaica Inn.

  When I was younger I looked for lighthouses—as one of those wild ships on the sea in my twenties. I found a lot of other wild ships out there just like me. Some of us were trying to board one another's ships. But there weren't a lot of lighthouses.

  If you look at it through the medicine wheel, my generation is moving slowly from west now to north. We're having to move because we're getting shoved out. You cannot always be the one with the blazing lights that no one has seen before. But a lighthouse is something you can depend on. You see land in the distance when you are that new ship, and little do you know that there are monstrous underwater cliffs with hooks that say “50 percent” on them, and boy, you could sure use a lighthouse.

  There are women to whom I look for guidance, and they have been walking that dark walk. They have been around long enough. Having to carve out a path with just a little matchstick, in some instances. But still I could go have a cup of tea with these mentors; they had an open door. But that role has been so marginalized in our popular culture. To me, that's why you see so many people chasing youth. Yet these young ingenues who define our standards cannot be the high priestesses, because they haven't walked the road. They haven't gone to visit Persephone and faced their own reflection while on their knees.

  A good way to think of it is, you're part of something. Not the center. You make choices to be effective, and telling stories is a way for people to step into different worlds with you without leaving our chairs. There are some days as a songwriter when you look out at five thousand people and say to yourself, “Well, I can either take them on a giant rollerskate ride or down the cave of a projectile-vomiting dragon.” And you really don't want to do the latter. So I apologize in advance if you find yourself in this dragon's cave at any of my shows. But I also know some cute dragons …

  There are artists who really feel they are the seductress. And some of them are. Some of them hold the codes to this archetype, and watching them move is akin to watching flowers turn themselves into liquid perfume. This is a delicious archetype to play with, but it can also be a double-edged sword if the seduction has blinded the performer to her own inner beauty. This eventually can become a nightmare and a painful place to be because of the lonely narcissism of it, and the risk. The fall is great. The chroniclers who first defined the role of the artist understood this. In ancient days, there was no confusion about whether the artist was the king or the subject. He was not. But the chronicler was sovereign as he tried to pinpoint what was going on in the village. I'm trying to get back to a sense of what it means to be an artist in a community. The storyteller brings forth what is hidden, and what is being erased.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Tori:

  First, a thanks to Husband for patience and perspective, and to Natashya for giving up “Tash Time.” Ann, it's been a privilege. Chelsea, I could not have done this without our daily two-hour international brainstorming. Johnny, many thanks for dealing with all the headaches so I didn't have to. To Mel for being so giving of your art and vision for the cover. Rakesh, you warrior you … Gerry for believing and Sheri for the beauty you give.

  To Mom and Dad as always for their sense of humor.

  To those who have given good counsel—Phil, Jim, the Wolf, Jamie, John, and Heather.

  To the Crew, near and far, and for those interviewed: Keith, Andy, Matt, Jon, Ali, Joel, Jen, Dunc, Marcel, Miss Karen, and Dan. To Cody and Hayley for book nitpicking in the nicest possible way. Hugs to Marie, Beenie (Nancy), Super-Debs, Kelsey, Helen, Adam, Loren, Mike, Neil, Manny, and everyone at Martian.

  Ann:

  Undying thanks to Eric Weisbard for incredible patience in a time of great craziness, and to Rebecca, simply for existing. Tori, your brilliance, curiosity, and heart made this experience more than I could have hoped for. I echo all of Tori's thank-yous, from Chelsea onward, to the family that has formed around Martian studios and on the road. A special thanks to Alison Evans—my pally on the bus.

  Rakesh Satyal had the vision and Gerry Howard had the faith to make this unique project a reality. My agent, Sarah Lazin, is unparalleled in fighting for what her clients need; this is one of so many thanks I owe her. Catherine Mayhew helped with the details. Bob Santelli and my colleagues at Experience Music Project gave much-needed time and understanding, as did Craig Marks and Rob Tannenbaum at Blender. Kelley Guiney transcribed hours of conversation and offered important insights. Carrie Lehenbauer gave crucial support and feedback.

  This book wasn't the only newborn to enter my life during this period. I thank the staff at Open Adoption and Family Services, especially Katie Ruprecht Stallman, for leading us through an extremely intense experience; their support allowed me to keep sane enough to work. More than anyone, I thank Mallory Blaschka, and her mom, Kelly, for their incredible strength and generosity in joining the gift circle that surrounds our daughter, Rebecca Brooklyn Weisbard, the spark that lights all my writing efforts now.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  tori amos is foremost among the artists who have redefined the role of women in pop in the last decade. Her piano-based music revived that instrument in rock and roll, and her complex yet accessible songs have pushed the parameters of pop writing. Since the double-platinum success of her solo debut, Little Earthquakes, in 1992, Amos's albums and tours have reached millions of listeners worldwide. She is the co-founder of the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN). Her ninth recording, The Beekeeper, was released in February 2005.

  ann powers has been writing about popular music and society since the early 1980s. She is the author of Weird Like Us: My Bohemian America and co-editor of Rock She Wrote: Women Write About Rock, Pop, and Rap.

  She was a pop critic for the New York Times from 1997 until 2001 and an editor for the Village Voice from 1993 until 1996. She has written for most music publications and her work has been widely anthologized. She is currently a curator at the Experience Music Project, an interactive music museum in Seattle, Washington.

  PHOTO AND ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

  Insert photographs by Loren Haynes, copyright © 2005 by Loren Haynes. And grateful acknowledgment to the following for permission to reprint: page 52, The Art Archive/Musée du Louvre, Paris/Album/Joseph Martin; page 80, Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid, Spain/Bridgeman Art Library, New York; page 88, copyright © Herb Kawainui Kane/Hawaiian Paradise Trading Co., Ltd.; page 105, The Fine Art Society, London, UK/Bridgeman Art Library, New York; page 155, Dahesh Museum of Art, New York USA/Bridgeman Art Library, New York; page 162, Whitford & Hughes, London, UK/Bridgeman Art Library, New York; pa
ge 202, Louvre, Paris, France, Peter Willi/Bridgeman Art Library, New York; page 244, Scala/Art Resource, NY; page 325, Borromeo/Art Resource, NY; page 338, copyright © Mimmo Jodice/CORBIS.

  TORI AMOS: PIECE BY PIECE. Copyright © 2005 by Tori Amos and Ann Powers. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

  BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit our Web site at www.broadwaybooks.com

  Page 353 constitutes an extension of this copyright page.

  Tori Amos: piece by piece : a portrait of the artist : her thoughts. her conversations. / Tori Amos and Ann Powers.—1st ed. p. cm.

  1. Amos, Tori. 2. Rock musicians—United States—Biography. I. Powers, Ann. II. Title

  ML420.A5874A3 2005

  782.42166′092—dc22

  [B] 2004057538

  eISBN: 978-0-307-49204-3

  v3.0