REVIEW: Tori Amos purges men’s songs
Unlike the music of Sarah McLauclan and Alannis Morrisette, Tori Amos’ songs have always been jagged little pills the general public has not swallowed. Sure she sells out everywhere, but songs about guns, God and rape generally don’t go over well with the masses. Amos’ albums are art, collections of songs which contrast her beautiful voice with often-ugly lyrical images.
Her latest record “Strange Little Girl,” is no exception. The album is a haunting exploration of men from the strangest little girl herself. All 12 tracks were originally recorded by men, but Amos purges the songs of their testosterone, telling familiar stories from an unfamiliar perspective. The album is violent yet sensitive; challenging yet relevant. Although she did not write the songs, they are unmistakably hers: Twisted and manipulated to fit inside her dark world.
“Strange Little Girl” continues to deal with Amos’ typical preoccupations with murder and gender. Consider Bonnie and Clyde, in which Amos turns Eminem’s wife-killing fantasy inside out, reinterpreting the original tongue-in-cheek rap as a whispering confession. The song crawls beneath the skin, inspecting the disease within a killer’s mind. Yet there is a sense of optimism found in the restraint Just the Two of Us, as if the dead woman is returning to comfort her child.
Happiness is a Warm Gun is almost as unnerving. Supposedly, Amos’ interpretation is from the perspective of the prostitute who accompanied Mark Chapman after he murdered John Lennon. Various vocal snippets by the likes of Daniel Bocking and George W. Bush are sampled above a cool and collected keyboard and screeching guitars. Amos’ vocals are impassionate, almost pleading “Happiness is a warm gun … mama …”
As the song unwinds, it settles into a bass-driven blues and seems to mourn for all of America. You can hear the violence in the streets and feel the terrorism in our skies in the naked vulnerability of Amos’ voice. After nearly 10 minutes, there is no resolve, only piano fading out into nowhere.
Often, Amos’ versions sound nothing like the originals. In Raining Blood, originally performed by Slayer, Amos’ trembling piano provides emotional depth where there was once only shallow aggression. The song sounds like wind at a cemetery, Amos’ voice resonating as if it is echoing off bells.
Her re-creations are not always successful. She stripped The Boomrats I Don’t Like Mondays of its power, softening the impact of the song’s violent imagery with music which sounds better suited for nursery rhymes. Neil Young’s Heart of Gold is put in a blender when Amos’ wasp-like vocals are matched with guitar which sounds like a siren. It is an unrelenting track showcasing Amos’ versatility by abandoning the artist’s original intent. Young’s hopefulness is practically hijacked by Amos’ defeated screams.
But respecting a song’s original message was not the point. It would have been easy for Amos to transform every song into a slow piano lament, like she did to Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, or the Rolling Stone’s Angie.
It is a relief that Strange Little Girl is so varied, not only in its instrumentation and tempo but the songs themselves. The album draws from the commercial appeal of Depeche Mode, the poetry of Tom Waits and the style of Lou Reed. The fact the album is so cohesive is a testament to Amos’ ability. She threads the record together with unsettling instrumentation, bleak lyrics and a voice that can express the nuances of any emotion.
On Enjoy the Silence, Amos sounds schizophrenic, harmonizing with herself. While her vocals in I’m not in Love lurk at the surface, casual and composed, hiding a secret while hinting at the deep emotion beneath.
On “Strange Little Girl,” Amos’ vocals and words make mothers of men. It is her statement against how male singers have misrepresented women and in this respect Amos is preying on the predators.
On Real Men, Amos sings, “If there’s a war between the sexes then there’ll be no people left.”
There is a sense of loss in her voice, as if women have already lost the war. Maybe “Strange Little Girl” is her attempt to sort through the debris, to make sense of the sexism and murder of man. Gone are the straight pop songs that softened “Little Earthquakes” and “Under the Pink,” replaced by the cold realities of her art. The album is one of unanswered questions and untreated wounds. It explores every shade of black and somehow gets submerged in the shadows.
Album Grade: B