At the end of November, Spin magazine listed Tori Amos as number 6 on the 40 greatest musicians of the last 40 years. Granted, no list is authoritative or objective and all lists leave out someone or something great because biases for better or worse are biases; nevertheless, this list caught my attention because it’s not often Tori Amos shows up in relatively mainstream media.
Little Earthquakes entered my life my sophomore year in high school. Surprisingly, it was my best guy friend who introduced it to me on one of our many drives between Canyon and Amarillo. The interior of his car was no doubt thick with a John Paul Mitchell hair product/CK One concoction and probably both of us were some level of heartbroken. Otherwise, I can think of no good reason why we would choose to listen to that cassette over and over again. And while Tori Amos’ songs were never on mainstream radio, “Silent All These Years” did often show up on MTV’s 120 Minutes. I won’t wax nostalgic, but I will say I’m grateful I had the opportunity to be caught off guard by music videos rather than go searching for them.
This album is naked in every way an album can be naked. Or maybe I mean vulnerable. Just take a listen to “Me and A Gun,” and you’ll get it. Like so vulnerable, it’s uncomfortable. Every song has its own grief; has its own wish. For a long time, “Winter” ranked as my number one. Lyrics like: “When are you going to make up your mind? When are you going to love you as much as I do” struck me and still do. At the same time, “Tear in Your Hand” always managed to run a close second and now when it’s very late on a Friday night and I’m brave enough to listen, I’ll scroll to that track, still remembering it as the second to the last on the B-side. And without even looking, I know the half-line “cutting my hands up every time I touch you,” knowing I got it then, but also that almost 34 years later, perhaps I get it better now.
Of course, Spin ranked Tori Amos according to her whole catalog, not Little Earthquakes in particular, but there is something about songs you hear when you’re sixteen that will always sit with you. And there is something about sitting shotgun in plush stone gray seats with one of your besties in search of an all-night diner and a perfect chocolate milkshake.
Patricia Marie Perea 