Atlantic
Alternative Rock, 1998
By the time From the Choirgirl Hotel rolled around in 1998, Tori Amos had done the unthinkable: she got married. The queen of tortured piano ballads had seemingly found some semblance of happiness. But fear not, fans, as she still had at least one last exorcism of her inner demons to unleash upon us, and this album is the result.
Wait! For those clutching their Under the Pink vinyls and yearning for the delicate tinkling of Piano Tori, I have bad news. The piano is still there, but now it’s draped in electronica, slathered in trip-hop, and casually grinding against a synthesizer. This is Club Tori, and yes, we all need a moment to process that.
Tracks like Cruel and Raspberry Swirl are the unexpected love children of a smoky goth rave and an alt-pop fever dream. She’s a club diva now, people. A dancefloor witch. And honestly, it works. Her fiery, almost manic delivery turns these songs into euphoric, nihilistic bangers. Who knew the woman who once wept over Winter had a rave goblin living inside her, just waiting to be let loose?
Still, for those in need of an emotional support ballad, there’s Jackie’s Strength—a shimmering, sentimental piece where Ms Amos invokes Jackie Onassis as her guide through the terrifying wilderness of marriage. I would make a joke about hoping her husband had a longer life expectancy than Ms Onassis’s, but I’m at least trying to keep things tasteful. It’s a lovely ballad, and also a clear sign of something else: Tori Amos is not above chasing the pop limelight. This is polished, radio-friendly, and absolutely the kind of thing that could play in the background of a mid-’90s Meg Ryan movie.
That’s where we hit the existential crisis of this album. It’s good. It’s catchy. It’s even danceable at times. But it also feels like someone took the ghost of Boys for Pele, dragged it kicking and screaming into a studio, and forced it through a mainstream acceptability filter. The result are songs that are half-Tori Amos, half-“Well, I’ve heard something like this before”. This is Tori Amos stretching her wings and experimenting, sure, but it also feels like she’s slumming it a little.
Then, just when you’re wondering if this is all a fever dream, comes Playboy Mommy. Boom. The skies part, the angels weep, and suddenly, we remember exactly why Tori Amos is a force of nature. A searing, haunting, gut-punch of a song dedicated to the daughter she miscarried, it’s Ms Amos at her most devastatingly raw. The storytelling is evocative, the pain is palpable, and by the end, you’re emotionally wrecked but so glad you sat through the rest of the album to get here. It is, without a doubt, the highlight.
So, what’s the final verdict? It’s not a bad album. In fact, it’s quite good. Strip away Playboy Mommy, though, and—dare I say it?—this could have been made by anyone. Tori Amos may be testing new waters, but this time, the results are… a little murky.
