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Back in 1992, the music world was being overrun by grunge, with Pearl Jam and Nirvana spearheading the Seattle radio invasion, and Madonna was showing us what she had for lunch via her, erm, artistic book subtly called 'Sex'. Boyz II Men were crooning about the "End Of The Road" and Whitney Houston was murdering Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" and trying to convince us she could act. Who would have thought, then, that from seemingly out of nowhere a fiesty redhead armed with nothing more than a piano and a suitcase full of angst would sweep some of us off our feet and make us fall completely in love with her debut album. (The Tori fans among you will be about to mention Y Kant Tori Read at this point, but in your heart you know that wasn't a true representation of what Myra Ellen Amos was, and is, all about.)
I count myself luckily enough to have accidentally stumbled across Tori Amos just as Little Earthquakes came out, thanks to, of all people, the old Hairy Cornflake himself, Dave Lee Travis who had been sent a promo copy of Winter which he promply fell in love with and played on his show. I distinctly remember hearing it and sitting bolt upright (it was a Sunday morning, following a heavy Saturday night, but all that was forgotten once the hypnotic melody began bleeding from the speakers), thinking "who is this?" and "this is beautiful".
I took myself off to my favourite record shop at the earliest opportunity (Selectadisc in Nottingham, as it happens) and snapped up the album. I rushed home and stuck the CD into my relatively new CD player, which had recently surped my turntable and sounded the death knell for my vinyl collection, and lay back on my bed to listen. From the opening line of 'Crucify' I was hooked - as an insecure teenager, Tori's first line, "every finger in the room is pointing at me", was a line that I could immediately identify with. While confident and outgoing to the rest of the world, I had always fought against an inherent shyness and this one line encompassed the paranoia that I had felt as a teenager. As Tori put it, "nothing I do is good enough for you". Crucify was a hymn to the disenfranchised of the world, to those who had never quite felt they were good enough, all placed on top of a simultaneously fragile and confident piano refrain.
'Girl' follows, its' haunting piano underpinned by some quite breathtaking yet subtle guitar work from Steve Caton (who actually joined Tori live from Boys For Pele onwards), acting as a springboard for a tale of submission and compromise in which we learn "she's been everybody else's girl, maybe someday she'll be her own". Another tale of insecurity in which the subject of the song desperately tries to fit in at the expense of her own identity. Another tune that spoke to my teenage insecurities. Though Tori was a fair way from being a teenager at this point, these songs were obviously sourced from her experiences of youth and the crushing insecurities and disappointments that it brings.
Next up is 'Silent All These Years', the breakthrough track in the UK. A gentle piano refrain underpinned with a subtle strings arrangement, this is a bitter song about a relationship breakup. "So you've found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts" is deftly followed up with "boy, you'd best hope that I bleed real soon". Nasty, very nasty, but then again, you can't deny her rage - Hell hath no fury and all that.
'Precious Things' is next, conjouring up images of playground vendettas and Catholic school angst - "so you can make me come, doesn't make you Jesus". It's a sorry tale of isolation and rejection, neatly summed up in the line "no-one told me, where the pretty girls are". Marginalised, isolated and alone, the teller of this particualr story is not a happy bunny, and not someone you'd want to meet in a dark alleyway.
In complete contrast, the aforementioned 'Winter' is a beautiful, haunting lullaby to the innocence of youth, a child's love song to their father. More than this, though, it's the realisation that we all have to someday break away from the security of our parents - "you must learn to stand up for yourself, 'cause I can't always be around". It's a reflective look back at the advice given many years previously but unheeded until now, as is often the case - "things change, my dear" is not only a sound piece of advice, but also a warning to be ready for life's rollercoaster of highs and lows. The coda of the song, though, "never change", implores our heroine to retain the qualities that make her who she is. In just shy of six minutes, Tori Amos manages to impart more wisdom that you could hope to be privy to in a lifetime. Listen and learn.
'Happy Phantom' brings some light relief, with a jaunty piano refrain accompanied by a smattering of percussion and slide guitar. Tori wonders "will I pay for who I've been", but this is a happy song, extolling the virtues of becoming a phantom and "chasing nuns out in the yard".
If 'Winter' was a tale of caution, 'China' is a tale of regret. This is a tale of two people separated by a great distance, and not necessarily a geographical one. This is that old familiar tale of being with someone who isn't really there. They may be there physically, but their mind is elsewhere, and may as well be in China. This song is the sad realisation that a relationship is drifting away. On the musical front, there is a beautiful and urgent vocal delivery that occurs three minutes into the song that is nothing short of breathtaking.
Leather' is a plea to be accepted, desperately searching for reasons why her paramour isn't interested in what she has to offer. "Look I'm standing naked before you", Tori informs us, before asking "oh God, why am I here?" and asking him to hand over her leather. A tale of opening up to the wrong person that we're all familiar with.
'Mother' is Tori's love letter to nervous first dates and prom nights. Hoping that the date will be wonderful but fearful that it will all up horribly, she sets off with butterflies in her stomach. "He's going to change my name", she hopes, but isn't quite sure and sets of with some trepidation. If this is all beginning to sound like a Cameron Crowe movie, then you're in the right ballpark. Little Earthquakes is all about awkward relationships and self-doubt and works wonderfully for it.
'Tear In Your Hand' is the other side of the fairy tale. "So you don't want to stay together anymore", we're told. Tori tells us that her ex's new love is just "pieces of me that you've never seen", echoing the confusion and bewilderment that accompanies being dumped by the love of your life. I could be everything she is, maybe, but then again, maybe it's time to wave goodbye."
Rarely can a pure acapella be so captivating as 'Me And A Gun', Tori's frank and emotional recollection of her real life rape. As she recounts her thoughts, you can't help but think what a dehumanising experience this must have been. I, thankfully, have no point of reference for this song, either from a personal or vicarious point of view, but I defy you to listen to this track and not come away in a seriously reflective state of mind.
The starkness of 'Me And A Gun' leads us into the title track, a haunting, mesmerising epic which is a metaphor for being on the outside, for being marginalised, for being torn apart by forces outside of our safe little lives. The force of these little earthquakes, Tori tells us against the rhythmic heartbeat of the drums, "doesn't take much to rip us into pieces." The song, and the album, pleads with us to "give me life, give me pain, give me myself again", and provides some emotional release for the journey that we've been on.
Little Earthquakes is possibly the most honest and moving album of the early 90s, perfect for a generation that was feeling increasingly isolated, and who was to soon lose one of its' heroes, Kurt Cobain, whose Smells Like Teen Spirit Tori regularly covered in her live sets. Not an instantly accessible album, but one that if you give it some time will work it's way under your skin and stay there, and you'll be eternally glad that it did.
I count myself luckily enough to have accidentally stumbled across Tori Amos just as Little Earthquakes came out, thanks to, of all people, the old Hairy Cornflake himself, Dave Lee Travis who had been sent a promo copy of Winter which he promply fell in love with and played on his show. I distinctly remember hearing it and sitting bolt upright (it was a Sunday morning, following a heavy Saturday night, but all that was forgotten once the hypnotic melody began bleeding from the speakers), thinking "who is this?" and "this is beautiful".
I took myself off to my favourite record shop at the earliest opportunity (Selectadisc in Nottingham, as it happens) and snapped up the album. I rushed home and stuck the CD into my relatively new CD player, which had recently surped my turntable and sounded the death knell for my vinyl collection, and lay back on my bed to listen. From the opening line of 'Crucify' I was hooked - as an insecure teenager, Tori's first line, "every finger in the room is pointing at me", was a line that I could immediately identify with. While confident and outgoing to the rest of the world, I had always fought against an inherent shyness and this one line encompassed the paranoia that I had felt as a teenager. As Tori put it, "nothing I do is good enough for you". Crucify was a hymn to the disenfranchised of the world, to those who had never quite felt they were good enough, all placed on top of a simultaneously fragile and confident piano refrain.
'Girl' follows, its' haunting piano underpinned by some quite breathtaking yet subtle guitar work from Steve Caton (who actually joined Tori live from Boys For Pele onwards), acting as a springboard for a tale of submission and compromise in which we learn "she's been everybody else's girl, maybe someday she'll be her own". Another tale of insecurity in which the subject of the song desperately tries to fit in at the expense of her own identity. Another tune that spoke to my teenage insecurities. Though Tori was a fair way from being a teenager at this point, these songs were obviously sourced from her experiences of youth and the crushing insecurities and disappointments that it brings.
Next up is 'Silent All These Years', the breakthrough track in the UK. A gentle piano refrain underpinned with a subtle strings arrangement, this is a bitter song about a relationship breakup. "So you've found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts" is deftly followed up with "boy, you'd best hope that I bleed real soon". Nasty, very nasty, but then again, you can't deny her rage - Hell hath no fury and all that.
'Precious Things' is next, conjouring up images of playground vendettas and Catholic school angst - "so you can make me come, doesn't make you Jesus". It's a sorry tale of isolation and rejection, neatly summed up in the line "no-one told me, where the pretty girls are". Marginalised, isolated and alone, the teller of this particualr story is not a happy bunny, and not someone you'd want to meet in a dark alleyway.
In complete contrast, the aforementioned 'Winter' is a beautiful, haunting lullaby to the innocence of youth, a child's love song to their father. More than this, though, it's the realisation that we all have to someday break away from the security of our parents - "you must learn to stand up for yourself, 'cause I can't always be around". It's a reflective look back at the advice given many years previously but unheeded until now, as is often the case - "things change, my dear" is not only a sound piece of advice, but also a warning to be ready for life's rollercoaster of highs and lows. The coda of the song, though, "never change", implores our heroine to retain the qualities that make her who she is. In just shy of six minutes, Tori Amos manages to impart more wisdom that you could hope to be privy to in a lifetime. Listen and learn.
'Happy Phantom' brings some light relief, with a jaunty piano refrain accompanied by a smattering of percussion and slide guitar. Tori wonders "will I pay for who I've been", but this is a happy song, extolling the virtues of becoming a phantom and "chasing nuns out in the yard".
If 'Winter' was a tale of caution, 'China' is a tale of regret. This is a tale of two people separated by a great distance, and not necessarily a geographical one. This is that old familiar tale of being with someone who isn't really there. They may be there physically, but their mind is elsewhere, and may as well be in China. This song is the sad realisation that a relationship is drifting away. On the musical front, there is a beautiful and urgent vocal delivery that occurs three minutes into the song that is nothing short of breathtaking.
Leather' is a plea to be accepted, desperately searching for reasons why her paramour isn't interested in what she has to offer. "Look I'm standing naked before you", Tori informs us, before asking "oh God, why am I here?" and asking him to hand over her leather. A tale of opening up to the wrong person that we're all familiar with.
'Mother' is Tori's love letter to nervous first dates and prom nights. Hoping that the date will be wonderful but fearful that it will all up horribly, she sets off with butterflies in her stomach. "He's going to change my name", she hopes, but isn't quite sure and sets of with some trepidation. If this is all beginning to sound like a Cameron Crowe movie, then you're in the right ballpark. Little Earthquakes is all about awkward relationships and self-doubt and works wonderfully for it.
'Tear In Your Hand' is the other side of the fairy tale. "So you don't want to stay together anymore", we're told. Tori tells us that her ex's new love is just "pieces of me that you've never seen", echoing the confusion and bewilderment that accompanies being dumped by the love of your life. I could be everything she is, maybe, but then again, maybe it's time to wave goodbye."
Rarely can a pure acapella be so captivating as 'Me And A Gun', Tori's frank and emotional recollection of her real life rape. As she recounts her thoughts, you can't help but think what a dehumanising experience this must have been. I, thankfully, have no point of reference for this song, either from a personal or vicarious point of view, but I defy you to listen to this track and not come away in a seriously reflective state of mind.
The starkness of 'Me And A Gun' leads us into the title track, a haunting, mesmerising epic which is a metaphor for being on the outside, for being marginalised, for being torn apart by forces outside of our safe little lives. The force of these little earthquakes, Tori tells us against the rhythmic heartbeat of the drums, "doesn't take much to rip us into pieces." The song, and the album, pleads with us to "give me life, give me pain, give me myself again", and provides some emotional release for the journey that we've been on.
Little Earthquakes is possibly the most honest and moving album of the early 90s, perfect for a generation that was feeling increasingly isolated, and who was to soon lose one of its' heroes, Kurt Cobain, whose Smells Like Teen Spirit Tori regularly covered in her live sets. Not an instantly accessible album, but one that if you give it some time will work it's way under your skin and stay there, and you'll be eternally glad that it did.
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