kuroshiro's Full Review: Boys For Pele by Tori Amos
It was one of those summer days where it feels like the sun is almost malicious in its overwhelming glory, blazing down on the frail inhabitants of earth with reckless abandon. The air wavered from the heat, and I was trekking through the rocky plateau, a landscape where the only sign of life was an intermittent cactus or a circling buzzard, looking for its next dead meal. I marched on, for I knew my destination was clear:
Boys For Pele.
Those three words invoked stronger reactions that any others when spoken in front of ones familiar with the work of Tori Amos. Some proclaimed it her best and most fascinating experience; others denounced it as a messy, indulgent behemoth of experimentation gone terribly awry. Yet nothing could scare me off from going there; memories of the fantastic, uncharted worlds of Bjork and Tom Waits were still fresh in my mind, and I felt that I could take on any musical journey and emerge both relatively unscathed and enriched from the experience.
Eventually, I came to a very large house, made up of wood haphazardly stuck together and severely burnt by the sun. On the left there was a pig pen, the squeals of the contained animals carrying on the hot, dry wind, and on the right there was a tree, branches ablaze. In front of me was the porch, and there sat a woman. Her legs were crossed, and she had flaming red tresses; she was carrying a shotgun with a smirk on her face. The vision was equally terrifying and awe-inspiring, and she nodded, acknowledging my presence. She gestured with her head to the screen door. I took a deep breath and forced it open, knowing that from this point there was no turning back.
I was in the first hallway, greeted by overwhelming blackness. Suddenly, out of the murk, emerged the sound of a woman singing alone with such a breathy voice as to almost be a whisper. I knew at once that this was the voice of Tori Amos, the same woman that smirked at me from the porch. This was the beginning of Boys For Pele— Beauty Queen. The almost childlike whispers continued, as I felt a hand gently taking mine, easing me into the album, into the subsequent rooms of the house. It was only a slight taste of what was to follow, but it succeeded in fully transporting my senses from the outside world into this one. An appropriate welcome mat if there ever was one, but unlike the houses of Little Earthquakes and Under the Pink, I didn’t need to wipe my feet before entering, for there was much grime ahead.
I sniffed as I sped through the grove of Horses, thinking that the fairy-tale like atmosphere and the vocals were far too coy and reminiscent of her first two creations. Indeed, the grove, with its orange sunlight and sloping ground gave the impression of sickliness. I was eager to leave, and half-expected Boys For Pele to be just that— Under The Pink soaked in orange oil. I soon realized how wrong I was when my bare foot stepped in a cold, dark liquid I knew could only be blood.
Crackling harpsichord filled the air, sounding a menacing Baroque-style melody. The harpsichord was one of my favourite instruments, but never had I heard it used in this was before. Inhuman breaths permeated the room, primal and dark. The floor was made of cobblestones, and became slippery with the blood— I grimaced and lost my footing, stumbling within the song. It had so confounded my expectations of what Tori Amos was supposed to be, I was disoriented. “God knows I’ve thrown away those graces,” she sneered appropriately. The words she was saying were some of the most brutal that I could remember— indeed, when I, gasping, clutched the handle of the door to the next room, her ending groan of “sometimes you’re nothing but meat” was like a blow to the stomach. Still reeling from the sinister energy of the song, I opened the next door.
Strains of the most beautiful piano rang out, and even now whenever I think Tori Amos the opening notes of Father Lucifer go through my mind. The words were delicate and impressionistic, and the room was simple, with yellow hardwood floors and beautiful sepia-toned photographs along the walls. I was shocked at the pure beauty of the song, and the melody of the piano was her most elegant and well-crafted of any of her pieces. Muted horns sounded triumphantly, and beams of yellow sunlight filled the room. The voice split into three, and before I knew it, I was being pulled out of the room unwillingly. It was an oasis of unadulterated, quiet splendour in an otherwise harsh location. And the location was about to get its most harsh shortly.
Stepping into the next room, with the grim title of “Professional Widow,” I was immediately assaulted by my beloved harpsichord, as chords literally blasted through the walls, sending searing shrapnel flying in every direction. That was the power of the song. The room was dynamic and changing. First there was fire raining down from the ceiling, then I was swept off my feet amidst high pitched shrieking. Her vocals were the most energetic and diverse I had ever heard from her— at one moment, she was like a banshee, the next, a sarcastic fruit seller. The words Amos spat were even more brutal than in Blood Roses. “Everywhere a Judas” indeed. I got much excitement from this part of the House of Pele, but I must admit I was more than a little exhausted, and I was less than a quarter of the way through my journey.
“Hello, Mr. Zebra.” These were the words that greeted me upon entering the next room. It was a wildly eclectic and playful room indeed. Fur rugs covered the floor, broken copper mugs and twisted clocks were strewn about, and the stuffed heads of animals hung on the walls. I stepped up to one of them, and read the plaque beneath it “Mrs. Crocodile-dile-dile,” it said. Strange indeed— a dark cabaret, held at some phantasmagorical zoo. Truth be told, I loved the room because it seemed to be one of the few places Tori Amos wasn’t taking herself seriously.
Marianne removed the playfulness of the previous song but kept the bizarre lyrics, and replaced horns with strings. I sniffed and moved on—for a song talking about igloos and mistaken suicide, it was a rather plain room indeed. I was thankful to reach the doorway, hexagonal and metallic. “Caught A Lite Sneeze,” it read. I shrugged and opened it.
I didn’t open the door to just a room— I opened it to a whole world. Here, in Caught A Lite Sneeze, was where all the elements of Boys For Pele came together perfectly. It was the culmination of everything Tori Amos was trying to accomplish when she created this album, and she hasn’t matched it since. The beats were mechanical and dark, both precise and primordial. The harpsichord was immaculate, and as it played leaves rained down from the sky. Her voice was impeccable, whispering, sneering, wavering and soaring at the perfect moments. It was a moment of musical ecstasy, and nothing like I had ever seen or heard before. This experience alone elevated Tori Amos in my mind to the role of a true composer, not just a singer/songwriter. Caught A Lite Sneeze took my breath away, and no matter what had happened before or what would happen after, made the whole experience of Boys For Pele completely worth it. Unfortunately, there was no way she could keep up this level of brilliance.
Muhammad My Friend. Hey Jupiter. This is where the excitement truly began to lag. This is when Pele went a tad astray. These two rooms, though much beloved by others, were simply dull. By the time I had journeyed to the chorus of “Hey Jupiter”, I was ready to take advantage of the shotgun on the porch. “Enough of this,” I muttered, desperately fumbling towards a handle, illuminated by the garish orange stage lights that brought home the fakeness and theatricality of the two preceding rooms. Perhaps they were just mediocre in comparison to Caught A Lite Sneeze, but nevertheless, I moved on, to somewhere completely unexpected.
“Way Down” said a sign in front of me, pointing downwards to a dark hole in the ground. I shrugged and jumped in, and landed softly on some grass. I found myself part of a circle of people around a fire, singing softly with beautiful harmonies, Tori of course taking the lead. Here was the human element I had been searching for all along— it warmed me inside, but it unfortunately left as suddenly as it came. Another door appeared in front of me, and I had no choice but to take it.
My journey took another unexpected turn. I was now in a smoke-filled bar, and I saw none other than Tori on the stage, taking a bizarre lounge-singer persona. “Little Amsterdam”, she said with a jazzy growl. “Got a room and a place for two.” At first I was skeptical, but I soon found myself drumming my fingers on the counter. I smiled for the first time since “Mr. Zebra.” Suddenly, and to my dismay, Tori put on a cowboy hat and the piano turned into a harpsichord. The bar disappeared around me and the patrons were replaced by cacti and tumbleweeds. Even as she sang “Talula, Talula,” I ran. No matter that it used a harpsichord, no matter that it was experimental— Tori was singing a country song, and I had to get out.
And get out I did. It was dark— I couldn’t see anything. The piano faded in, with a quiet, melancholy melody of astonishing beauty. Every note made a star come out in the night sky. “Not the red baron,” whispered Tori, sounding almost on the verge of tears. I watched as blue clouds moved across the darkened heavens, and I shivered at the chill wind that was passing through the room. This feeling of cold did not depart until the ending of the song. “Just another pilot down,” said Amos, and I felt a lump in my throat. I had almost been moved to tears, and that was a rarity among such impressionistic songs.
Unfortunately, the quiet beauty of that place I never found again in the House of Pele. It was attempted many times, in the subsequent “The Doughnut Song” and “Putting the Damage On,” but not truly achieved. These rooms were merely passages lit with a sickly orange light that I remembered from “Horses” at the beginning of my journey. Agent Orange and Putting the Damage On were no better— too slick, and just not up to par.
Eventually, I knew that I was in the last room. The marathon listening of the latest 15 minutes had drained me, and as I said in a wooden chair facing a stage, the exit to my right, I was tired indeed. I saw Tori, with beads of sweat on her forehead, letting out one small gasp of a song called “Twinkle.” The stage lights were no longer sickly, but warm— however, they were fading. The room became darker and darker as the song progressed, and Tori moved farther away. Soon, she was just a speck of orange glow amidst a void of blackness, and then even that was gone. My journey was over, and I left the House of Pele, relishing the fresh air.
I was on the road again, and the sun was still out. I looked back at the place I had just left, and smiled. It was a rough journey, and perhaps I wouldn’t go through it often. But I knew that it had excited me— I knew it was a diverse and varied experience, and that there wasn’t anything like it. I knew that I was glad I had gone through with it, despite its flaws. Finally, I realized that it was a truly powerful album indeed, to evoke so many and such strong emotions. Unique, strange and sometimes unquestionably beautiful, Boys For Pele was a grand gesture from an artist of sometimes terrifying talent.
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