Tori Amos: the riot grrl fighting for the fairer sex
‘I come from a long line of warriors,’ says Tori Amos. ‘My great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee who survived the Trail Of Tears in 1830, when thousands of Native Americans were being ethnically cleansed from the southern states. She was one of the few hundred people who survived in the Smoky Mountains for nine months. These are the gals I respect. Wilma Mankiller, the leader of the Cherokee nation who educated herself from nothing and fought for Native rights – now there’s a woman. What a role model.’
For years, people have got Amos all wrong. Some people think she’s some middle-of-the-road pixie, a real-life Phoebe from Friends, trilling hippy-dippy rhymes about fairy tales and cornflake girls. But, over a quarter of a century and 14 albums, she’s been one of pop’s weirdest and most unpredictable artists. She’s the riot grrrl in concert pianist garb, whose confessional songs tackle rape and religion, feminism and power, art and mythology. Even the sonic background – the florid piano accompaniment, the unorthodox chord changes and symphonic curlicues – has always been seriously weird.
‘I don’t see the piano as a polite, passive instrument,’ she says. ‘You can take what Prince, Jimi Hendrix and Robert Plant were doing and contain that energy on a piano. It’s about maintaining that 220 voltage, of having the chops to be able to contain and focus it on the keys, of using intimacy and power. When I first started, everyone was telling me that the piano had had its time. The label initially rejected my debut album, Little Earthquakes. They said I had to take all the pianos off and replace them with guitars. Screw that. I can be as heavy as any rock guitarist!’