Atlantic
Alternative Rock, 1994
Tori Amos’s Under the Pink is the sound of an artist who has escaped the wreckage of Little Earthquakes only to wander aimlessly into a surrealist art exhibit, scribble some cryptic poetry on the walls, and call it an album. Sure, one can’t expect Ms Amos to stay mad forever, but this album feels like she’s not entirely sure what to say—so she just says everything in increasingly perplexing ways.
If anything, this marks the beginning of Ms Amos’s habit of writing lyrics so abstract that only she, a few woodland nymphs, and possibly the White Rabbit of Wonderland truly understand them. And heaven help us, this also spawned a very particular breed of fan: the kind who insist they “get it” and will condescendingly explain—no, lecture—you on how Yes, Anastasia is actually about [insert wild theory here]. These are the same people who look down on you for not finding divine meaning in Space Dog. We were never the same after Under the Pink gave these fans their manifesto.
That being said, the album isn’t all bad. Pretty Good Year is exactly that—pretty good—if one can decipher what Ms Amos is actually crooning about. Past the Mission sounds gorgeous, even if it could just as easily be a hymn or a warning from a Victorian ghost. Cloud on My Tongue is your standard ethereal ballad about… well, something.
But let’s be honest: by this point, Tori Amos’s lyrics had reached Roxette levels of English-as-a-second-language absurdity, only with an added layer of performance-art seriousness that makes it all the more bewildering.
It’s only with The Waitress that she seems to wake up and choose violence, as she hisses, growls, and seethes about wanting to murder a co-worker. Now that’s some clarity we can work with! Then there’s Icicle, which is about, uh, self-love upstairs while the family prays downstairs. Subtle.
Musically, Under the Pink plays it a bit too safe. The raw emotional breakdowns of Little Earthquakes are swapped for a more polished sound, which is fine, except that much of the album blends together into a vague, lethargic piano haze. Cornflake Girl and God at least inject some energy into the proceedings, while Space Dog is as aggressively something as its title suggests. But much of the album feels like the diary musings of an angst-ridden art student, hastily chopped up and rearranged by a producer who hoped it might accidentally make sense. Spoiler: It does not.
Taken on its own, Under the Pink is fine—it’s pleasant, it’s occasionally striking, and it has its moments. But as the follow-up to Little Earthquakes, it’s like watching a tsunami of raw emotion crash into shore, only to be followed by… a few slightly concerning ripples. The drama is there, the talent is there, but the sense of purpose? Seems to have gone past the mission, ahem, and into another dimension.
