Number 1 of 2005 — Tori Amos: The Beekeeper

“Everyone’s got one good record in them if they’re half decent. But then once you’ve done that, you’ve used the best of your picks. That’s your style. People know your style after the first time and then you have to develop skill as a songwriter” (Tori Amos, Piece by Piece)

It could be argued that after Tori Amos’ ‘proper’ debut Little Earthquakes, her subsequent albums merely ambled away from that record. Each release being slightly different to its predecessors, but obviously teasing the Tori musical galaxy in new directions as she developed new skills and became more confident in her abilities as a songwriter, musician and artist. Each release scattering autobiography amongst her ever present triad of myth, religion and female empowerment, culminating in the reflective but political Scarlet’s Walk – perhaps the most Tori-like of all her albums.

Because The Beekeeper is markedly different to what has come before. Big Momma, Tori’s new B-3 Hammond organ is partly to blame, given to her by her husband one Christmas. Sat in her Cornwall studio, oozing its sonic sensuality, impossible to resist, and a contrast to the demanding relationship that Tori has with her Bösendorfer. The other influence: her family, more obviously now than on Scarlet’s Walk.

But before I get into The Beekeeper, I need to say a bit about reviews. I’ve written before about the ludicrous nature of reviews in newspapers, and the recent content from Music Guardian has done little to sway me. Let’s face it, outside the realm of obsessed music journals and bloggers, music reviews are dreadful. Is it any wonder that popular music is in such a dire state, or indeed that its industry commodifies music to such an extent that it becomes worthless in the eyes of many? I couldn’t be a professional music reviewer. Imagine being thrown a bundle of new albums, and given only one week to provide a review. That’s a shocking prospect. Some albums need time to ‘bed in’, otherwise they might be disregarded. The Beekeeper is one such album (and that term is appropriate). Listening to it again whilst I write this review, I’m startled that my original opinion of this album (which thankfully I never blogged) was so wrong.

The Beekeeper is not what I expected, but it’s the album that changed my relationship with Tori’s music forever. My Last.fm play-count is witness to this. Let’s find out why:

Like Scarlet’s Walk, The Beekeeper is founded on concept. This time, a hexagon combined from a merging of the archetypal chalice and blade symbols, each resulting segment a separate garden, and the whole referencing both Demeter (from Greek mythology) and Deborah – with the beekeeper tending to all gardens. Each of the 19 songs (20 if you include Garlands, available on the limited edition DVD version) is planted in one of the six gardens, but the album is not sequenced garden by garden: Tori might have a concept, but she’s not going to let that override the music. What’s astonishing is that now as I write this review, it becomes obvious to me why each song was placed in a particular garden. Correspondingly, unlike many of my reviews, this one is difficult to discuss sequentially, so I’ll be flitting all over the place. Bee-like, if you will.

Still, Parasol, launches the album. It’s a type of song which could turn up in one of those mid-album lulls that many albums seem to have. It doesn’t appear to be a great start to The Beekeeper, being fairly subdued, but, by the time you’ve heard it a handful of times, the opening lines ”..When I come to terms to terms with this / My world will change for me” turn into a statement of defiance rather than mere acceptance. The immediate introduction of the Hammond (it holds the first note), and the blink-and-you’ll-miss-them funky electric guitar riffs signal the intent for the rest of the album. Sweet the Sting follows, with the Hammond underpinning the entire track and marking the first appearance of the London Community Gospel Choir. It contains the smoothest transition to and from a break I’ve heard in years – illustrating Tori’s mastery of songwriting. The same occurs between verses and chorus. However, this isn’t an album dominated by organ – there are many piano-led pieces. If anything, this album is more dominated by her voice, because ultimately there’s less of everything else on this album.

The third track, The Power of Orange Knickers, returns to the now familiar ‘band’ structure with Matt Chamberlain on drums and bass played by Jon Evans. It’s a duet (of sorts) with Damien Rice, using underwear as a means of defying personal terrorism (and emotional blackmail), whilst noting that the ability to terrorise lies within everyone. Astrology and the breaking of china come together in Goodbye Pisces. A nice burbling love song that indicates that whilst Tori is driven by her emotions, she realises that she and her partner are basically the same, matched. It’s not entirely clear – Tori tends to inhabit persona in songs.

General Joy is perhaps the best illustration of the vocal emphasis of the album: the piano work is indeed present, but muted, particularly on the choruses, and there’s greater use of backing vocals. It continues Tori’s disquiet with the wars being raged in the name of terror “and I know you will always love Sorrow”, suggesting the need for a “soldier girl” which itself might be a nod in the direction of the 2008 U.S. elections. Mother Revolution continues this idea, and recalls again terrorism and apocalypse, through the misuse of power – “Lucky me / I guessed the kind of man / that you would turn out to be”.

Sleeps with Butterflies is the first of a handful of familial songs – Ireland (more on that later) and the terrific Ribbons Undone being the others, that show that Tori has reached peace and contentment in her life. Sleeps with Butterflies might be the most commercially accessible song Tori has written. It asks “Are you having regrets about last night?”. Feisty Tori’s not, apparently, because despite this, “I’m worth coming home to” and “This girl only sleeps with butterflies”. In amongst a rather traditional musical arrangement is a song about love, passion and above all else, fidelity. Jamaica Inn, from the same Roses and Thorns garden, however uses the Daphne du Maurier novels Jamaica Inn and Rebecca to build an allegory for the ultimate betrayal of trust in a relationship. This idea is continued on Martha’s Foolish Ginger, the name of a boat in which the female character sails, backed by military percussion and similarly rhythmic piano.

A dancing piano line underlies Barons of Suburbia, which segues back and forth through a slower Hammond-led section. It’s a song about “takers” – work colleagues or friends who stick with you until one critical moment causes them to take on their own interests, and grab what’s in it for them. Vocally, it’s the fiercest Tori gets on this album. As she remarks in Piece by Piece, “Can somebody tell me what is wrong with the idea of a win-win” (thereby noting the relationship between bee and flower). In that book, this text is located in the chapter The Lioness: Surviving the Music Business, because it recounts the terrible dispute she had with Atlantic Records. The lyric “I am piecing a potion / To combat your poison” recalls the use of the live CD on Boys for Pelé and the Strange Little Girls project as means of fulfilling her contract with Atlantic. The furious finale of song “She is Risen / She is Risen / Boys / I said she is Risen” shows that victory was achieved.

Ireland is either a rank reggae-funk song with execrable lyrics, or a quirky joyful ode to friendship, that rapidly switches to Irish myth and beyond. Personally, I believe it to be the latter. Instead I reserve the occasional lyrical blundering of Cars and Guitars to be the low point of this album, despite its attractive musical interludes. Ribbons Undone is one of the loveliest songs Tori’s written, with the softest backing – strummed guitars, brushed percussion and multi-tracked vocals – a song of love for her daughter Tash and Tori’s mother. In a sense it’s a companion piece to Winter, from Little Earthquakes. However, these blissful songs are balanced by the themes in The Beekeeper – her mother’s illness – remarking that death is merely part of the cycle of life, hence “Don’t be afraid / I promise that she will awake / Tomorrow.”, and finally “I’m just passing you by / But don’t be confused / One day I’ll be coming for you”, and even then, everything will be okay. Then there’s the elegiac final track Toast (a tribute to her brother, Mike, who died in a car accident in November 2004), which is one of the best songs on this album, having the sparsest arrangement, where the nuances in the delivery of piano, voice and guitar mean everything.

The cycle of life reappears on Marys of the Sea. Born from historical Ring Lord culture (implemented as part of Sumerian municiple government) and a folktale based on the power of the ring myth (which also led to Tolkien’s trilogy), Marys of the Sea also acts as an excuse to use the Gnostic Gospels to confirm her view that Christianity is a patriarchal religion. Tori has brought this subject up before – indeed it’s one of the continuing themes throughout her music, driven by her experiences as a child – and on many interviews in support of this album. Those who don’t know this album might expect to find The Beekeeper dominated by such material, but it isn’t – although concert opener Original Sinsuality directly employs the story of Sophia as a instruction to “penetrate the patriarchy”.

Which brings me to Witness. It’s phenomenal – and I’ll accept no argument to the contrary, okay? It’s this song that changed my view of this album the first time I heard it, using the gospel choir as both backing vocals and instrumentation. First, the staccato falling elevator vocals get you, then, towards the end and out of nowhere comes the break with the Voice (“Is there anyone? / Is it any wonder… / I’m out the door” etc.), before the song revs up again. Some songwriters would write an entire song around this break. But perhaps in Tori’s case, she wrote the rest of the song for this break.

Hoochie Woman lives in the same garden as Witness and Cars and Guitars. Its foundation is a strong repetitive piano bass line, which shows that the Bösendorfer can do sexy just as well as the organ, but only temporarily so, because as Tori states in Piece by Piece, “Wearing the same garment does not a hoochie woman make.” She takes this idea further, because Hoochie Woman also derides those women whose pinnacle in life is to be owned, subordinate or trivial, hence the “I bring home the bacon now” refrain which, in my head at least, surpasses the live actioning favourite of “girls that eat pizza but never gain weight” from Father Lucifer (Boys for Pelé).

Now, do I count Garlands as belonging to this album? Maybe: its presence in Piece by Piece indicates that it might have been intended for this album. It’s a solo piano piece with lyrics chronicling the relationship between two lovers through the lithographs of Marc Chagall. As such, this doesn’t really fit into the concept of The Beekeeper, but it’s glorious.

Given all of this, how has the album changed my view of Tori’s music? I think maybe, it’s not just the album. Sure it’s an album which has grown considerably in depth and complexity over the months that I’ve listened to it, and I weep for those who have dismissed it. Indeed during one listen I felt physically embraced. But there’s also Piece by Piece, the book Tori wrote with music journalist Ann Powers. I listened to all of Tori’s albums back-to-back whilst reading the book, leading me to a greater understanding of her and her music than I had before. She’s remarkable.

[Amazon UK]
[iTunes UK]
[Tori Amos: Piece by Piece]

Number 2 of 2005 — The Cardigans: Super Extra Gravity

I’ve wracked my brains, and wrecked ‘em, for a couple of weeks trying to decide how to review Super Extra Gravity. I had this not so bright idea of comparing it to their previous album, and masterpiece Long Gone Before Daylight. Because Super Extra Gravity is a few steps on from that album, experimental in different ways, less focussed, but with more balls and more drums. But that makes for a very short review. Indeed, since you’ve just read my comparison, that’s the review done.

So what about the lyrics? Long Gone.. was a collection of autobiographies, perhaps from one person, sequenced as a countrified musical. Don’t doubt me on this point. It was exactly that, okay? This time around, the stories look outwards as well as within a relationship. There’s a lot of dancing featured in the stories, including the literally waltzy Overload, providing a great big metaphor for the stupid listeners amongst us.

Some stories are subtle: the incredibly sad, multifaceted Don’t Blame Your Daughter (Diamonds) [video], others less so, such as the marvellous I Need Some Fine Wine And You, You Need To Be Nicer [video] (and that comma is so important). The latter comes on like some deranged wedding song, but at least shows that Nina hasn’t given up alcohol. I’m sure she’d never spend less than £3.99 on a bottle. And there’s a lot of wine on this album. Nina still writes the most fulfilling, expressive lyrics, condensing ideas into just a few sentences “I’m gonna take you to the wilderness / I’m gonna show you things you might have missed / I’m gonna kiss the parts that you have lost / It’s gonna cost you, but you might hurt less” (Drip Drop Teardrop)

Musically, Tore Johannsson returns as producer after his banishment from the Long Gone sessions, and there’s more fun as a result. Drums are bigger – booming out from the early bars of Losing A Friend and the guitars get to express themselves in all sorts of new ways. Check out the buzz in Give Me Your Eyes and the imaginative instrumentation on Holy Love.

But, if there was any doubt as to the relationship with Long Gone.., it’s clarified with And Then You Kissed Me II. Borrowing much of the phrasing and some lyrics from And Then You Kissed Me, the album concludes defiantly, warning that “love is a powerful force”. Compare this to the loneliness expressed in Long Gone’s 03.45: No Sleep and you’ll see that this is probably the end of this phase of The Cardigans’ development.

Unlike the bonus tracks on Long Gone.., the two bonus tracks here are essential: Give Me Your Eyes is a fun reflective song with a break that’s breathtaking. Slow is the second and last bonus track – full of depressing imagery, perhaps a counterpoint, prequel or sequel to And Then You Kissed Me II.

When I wrote about Godspell last October, I reckoned that The Cardigans were the best band on the planet. Despite the obvious influences, there’s a meticulous detail to arrangements and songwriting resulting in every note, every measure being a rewarding experience. An essential album for every music lover.

[Amazon UK] (just ignore the ignorant Amazon review)
[iTunes UK]

Number 3 of 2005 — Juliet: Random Order

The perfect specimen. Quite how much of the Model turned Singer story you believe depends on which websites you visit. But this is Juliet Richardson’s third attempt at musical success. Previous incarnations saw her as a member of 1 plus 1 (who?) which was then reformatted as MNQNN (who?). In 2004, she teamed up with a pre-Madonna Stuart Price, to record this album over a two week period.

The perfect specimen. There’s the familiar adage that dog owners look like their dogs. In Juliet’s case, this music sounds exactly how she looks, perhaps better than any other artist, if indeed, this is a required trait. It’s angular, bare and passionate, best demonstrated in the video to Ride The Pain, where Juliet repeatedly clambers over dozens of people trying to drag her away from her mic stand. And notice this: it holds two microphones. It is, as I remarked in my first track of the day from this release, a faultless album.

But why? For something produced so spontaneously, the music is meticulously executed. The structures unfold, build, collapse and rebuild exactly how they should do, regardless of the song or style. This is, for a lover of music, a genuinely jaw-dropping album. Pardon the clichés, but every one is true. First track AU, starts with the clearest vocals and effected spiraling bassline. Gradually, the backing builds before it drops briefly to introduce one short guitar riff and a sliver of dead air which is shattered by what follows. The snippets of autobiography which dot the lyrical landscape start here, perhaps.

Club hit Avalon, documenting two facets of the velvet rope: the cult of celebrity and the superficiality of clubbing with all of their attendant consequences, (yeah, just listen), doesn’t drop. It just builds over its seven minutes until a mournful piano reflects the ultimate emptiness. Nu Taboo converts this into an obsession with craving new experiences, adding synthetic squalls.

Then there’s Ride The Pain. Casual listeners might think we’re onto the third facet of the velvet rope (probably best documented in Janet Jackson’s 1997 album). But we’re not. Instead “ride the pain into the pleasure” refers to a personal struggle, finally banished. Now you understand the video, and why Juliet has two microphones.

I’ve not written much about the music, but that’s because I can’t. To explain the nuances in each track that determine and define their utter brilliance would take weeks. Everything is positioned with exquisite precision.

But I will try to explain Puppet. More velvet. Not rope this time. Just velvet. It’s extremely luscious, sexy and domineering. Musically, it uses the cut-up sample techniques of Mirwais, particularly with respect to the guitars. However, the overall sound is chock full of curious found sounds, that barely fit together. That’s up until the CR78 drums and harpsichord break drop in. Both so unexpected, but oh so beautiful. They come back into the rest of the song, sounding like they were always there in the first place.

We’re back to the clubs for On The Dancefloor. The simplest, most uplifting song on the album. Genuine dance music. And, if you never experienced the joy of clubbing at the Banshee in Manchester in the 1980s, this will take you there. It’s the core gothic riff: it was always the punks who were miserable, anyway.

Fortunately, the album isn’t full of straight-on dance. The extended intro of Waiting has timewarped guitars over which Juliet’s heartbroken lyrics tumble. They then fall into a pneumatic yet understanded backing, that breaks me every time I hear its first bar. Probably the highlight of the album.

New Shoes criticises serial relationships. “And if i don’t have you I don’t have nothing at all”. It’s this song that perhaps best demonstrates Juliet’s vocal powers. She’s no mere auto-tuned diva. Curiously, the later Untied, simultaneously craves and despises relationships. It’s the sparsest song built essentially on two riffs until the William-Orbit-pings, whereupon every breath and moan that accompanies its conclusion brings further depth. The middle of this triptych is the multifoiled Would You Mind.

The closing track, Pot of Gold, is the most telling. Over acoustic guitars and slower beats, Juliet tells us that she’s finally got what she wanted, maybe personally, maybe professionally, which leads us into considering ourselves.

Unfortunately, this is where third time lucky appears not to be the case, because despite a generally positive critical reception, there have been no further singles released, and her official website hasn’t seen any updates for seven months. Last heard, Juliet was writing tracks for her second album. The forum’s dead (but it was never really alive) and her myspace page has gone.

And that news hurts the most.

[Amazon UK]
[iTunes UK]

Number 4 of 2005 — Sleater-Kinney: The Woods

Oh, how I’ve wanted to write that title for ages. Excuse me if this review is badly written – it’s because I don’t think I can adequately explain what makes this album the most exciting one of last year.

I would guess that to fully appreciate this album, one has to know the musical history of Sleater-Kinney: to have experienced each of their releases; each future one referring back to earlier albums, whilst trying something new. Remembering that Sleater-Kinney were (are?) torch-bearers for both riot-grrrl intellectuals and queer-punk.

I admitted in a post earlier this year that I was scared to play this album. I’ve been listening to music seriously for twenty years, building up a collection of perhaps 1,700 albums, and this is the only one that I have resisted playing. Resisted playing for seven months.

But I needn’t had worried. Whilst The Woods rocks, big time (particularly on the eleven minute Let’s Call It Love), and the dualling vocals of Corin Tucker and Carrie Brownstein are perhaps more dissonant, The Woods is a beautiful album to listen to. Provided that you have headphones, accommodating neighbours or you live on an island. Because it demands to be played loud.

The Woods doesn’t draw you in. The first song The Fox explodes right from the start. This is how it’s going to be: crushingly heavy guitars and drums with flailing vocals. Claustrophobic. No way out. If you survive this, you might just survive the rest of the album. As Pitchfork put it: “Those who make it to Wilderness will have passed a test of sorts.”

Well, I made it. Wilderness has more in common with their earlier albums, turning personal conflicts into frustration with U.S. politics (“a two-headed brat / tied to the other for life”). Oh yeah, and guitar solos and riffs that come straight outta Throwing Muses. If anything, it’s the tunes and grooves that are the surprise discovery on this album. What’s Mine Is Yours, has them, breaks them apart, then introduces a meandering guitar solo, backwards effects and colossal reverb, before a bass-line leads it back into the rest of the song, almost Patti Smith-style. Except, of course, there is no bass player: Corin plays a baritone guitar, and Carrie tunes hers down.

Jumpers [video] exhibits beauty in personal catastrophe: “There is a bridge adored and famed / The Golden spine of engineering / Whose back is heavy / With my weight”. This song is probably their finest creation. “Four seconds was the longest wait.” Jumpers is followed by Modern Girl, which provides an alternative to suicide. After 11 years Sleater-Kinney are still defiant and angry. Dave Fridmann’s production grunges out the ending. But if it’s grunge you want, take the conclusion of Rollercoaster, which crushes the guitars almost beyond recognition, but still finds so much space for the harmonies.

Entertain [video] sonically reminds me of the video for Radiohead’s Karma Police. I’m in the car and it’s Sleater-Kinney lighting the match, this time over the top of military drumming. “All you want is entertainment / Rip me open it’s free;” the anaesthetising of the entire modern world.

If there’s one album I can compare this to, it’s Throwing Muses eponymous final album. Both were recorded quickly and both sound like a bunch of people who know one another and their music so intimately that the songs just pour out of their souls and onto tape.

Steep Air re-iterates their anger with sexual inequality, or perhaps provides more commentary on the state of their country. It’s probably also a teaser for the following Let’s Call It Love, which is an invitation to the dance or to the fight, complete with sporting metaphors. Unable to reach any conclusion about relationships except the title. The song ends with a massive band improvisation, but the group don’t improvise around the song. Instead, they wander all over the place, before, somehow, managing to segue into the final song Night Light. A ghostly finale: “How do you do it / With visions of worst to come / Live in the present / And spin off the rays of the sun”

Throwing Muses disbanded after they released Limbo, then came back together six years later for their 2003 album. On 27 June 2006, Sleater-Kinney announced an indefinite hiatus. I’m hoping too, that this isn’t their final album, fitting though it is, because the world needs more of their music.