T ori Amos just released her 18th studio album, In Times of Dragons, a dark, allegorical work that stands as her most politically charged record to date. At its center is a character called the Lizard Demon, an amalgamation of powerful, predatory men. Amos is evasive about the specifics: “I’m not saying that’s in Washington, D.C. We’re not mentioning names,” she says when we ask. Instead, she constructs a narrative in which her protagonist is trapped in a life of luxury, married to this mysterious bad guy, before ultimately escaping.
Though Amos typically writes on her own, In Times of Dragons marks a rare shift: The album includes contributions from her 25-year-old daughter, Natasha “Tash” Hawley, who will graduate from law school this year. The collaboration emerged almost by accident. After she’d mapped out the album’s narrative, Amos found herself stuck on the music. The breakthrough came when Tash resurfaced months-old recordings of the two casually improvising at the piano. It’s just one way that this album stands out in a career full of surprising choices.
Rolling Stone caught up with Amos ahead of her European tour to talk about the new album’s urgency, her life lessons in the music industry, why she skipped Lilith Fair in the Nineties, and the creative path that has defined her career from early rejection to reinvention and beyond.
Your daughter has three co-writing credits on this album, which is rare for you. How did that happen? I was struggling with this record, and I told her and she said, “Mom, six months ago, we were hanging out and I recorded us just jamming at the piano in Florida.” And I said, in my menopausal mind, “We were jamming?” And she sent me “Strawberry Moon” and “Stronger Together.” That gave me the launch.
You’ve made political albums before, but this one feels so much more raw and urgent. What made it different from your other political albums? Come on, nobody really needed me in the Obama years. [On this album,] the Lizard Demon [character] is based on real people. It’s an amalgamation of men. We’re not mentioning names. So now we’re walking down the fork in the road that goes way back. What if I would’ve chosen a different man in my life? I had to allow myself to make that choice to write this record because this had to be a narrative. If you’re going to document our times, the only way is through allegory, I think, to allow other people in so they can join the story.
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How did you find your voice as a singer at the start of your career? It took me a while. I imitated everybody. I’ve been called a third-rate Pat Benatar. I played piano bars, so I did the covers. That was my big teaching. You listen to other singers, Stevie Nicks, the whole gamut, and you’d find the ones you can do. I’d stand in front of the mirror and try to do “Magic Man.” So you try and emulate these women and find your voice vocally.
What advice would you give to your younger self when you first released your debut, Little Earthquakes? Don’t piss off the suits. Open champagne instead of thinking you can piss on their desk. Just open the champagne and drink it and tell them how great they are, instead of telling them the truth. That would’ve served me so well.
What do you wish someone had told you about performing live? Study Prince. Study Robert Plant. Study Jim Morrison. The muses told me that, and I did. So I got that right. I studied them. I watched them plug into a voltage. If you go out there as yourself, that’s where you get it all wrong. You need to leave yourself in the fucking dressing room. Be a channel. Let the muses and the songs come through you. The thing about performing is it is not about you. If you get that, you get it right. Ego at the door. You must serve. You surrender. The piano must play you.
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When did your muses start appearing? When I was really young, but then I lost sight of them when I started chasing to make it in the music industry. After seven and a half years of being rejected and me going, “I can’t do this piano-bar thing for too much longer …” Luckily, the piano found its way back to me, but it was that crash and burn before I made Little Earthquakes [in 1992]. I’m so grateful for that because in the dark times during Boys for Pele [in 1996] — that was such a controversial record, it was such a tough time. If I hadn’t had that experience in 1988 where [my early band] Y Kant Tori Read went scorched-earth, I wouldn’t have been able to withstand the heat in 1996. Because of that, I made a commitment to stay true to the muses.
You never performed at Lilith Fair. In your 1998 Rolling Stone cover story, you said, “This isn’t just about eating some chicken and hearing your favorite female singers. You walk into my show, you walk into my world. It’s a film every night. I can’t impose that on Lilith and vice versa.” What are your feelings looking back? I’d send that to Sarah [McLachlan] — she’d find it funny. She’d laugh her ass off. She’s got a good sense of humor. [Lilith] was a great business model. She did a great thing. I’ll be honest with you, I’ve got to give it up to her. She asked me to headline. I have a lot of respect for Sarah. At the time, I was trying to find my sovereignty. Being a part of a festival like that didn’t feel like my path to find it.
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What is your favorite city in the world? London. Hands down. I first came to London in 1991. I didn’t know anybody. So I would go to the Tower of London with my sandwich and talk to the dead queens. I would imagine Anne Boleyn coming through Traitors’ Gate. I would sit there on a bench and wait for her to come. And she came every time. And she and I would have these conversations. They were usually very mundane.
What did you guys talk about? She would say things to me like, “Tori, don’t try too hard to make friends. Keep coming back to Traitors’ Gate. I come every day. So you can come talk to me. Just take a step back, and don’t be too eager, and you’ll be fine.”
Photographs in illustration:
Kasia Wozniak; Rob Verhorst/Redferns/Getty Images
