Each song began amorphously, with Amos cooing over the first few unrecognizable bars and eliciting joyful cheers when, at its own pace, the song fell into place. Amos was in top form: Sans band, her particular magic—crafting intimacy even in the vastest arenas, melding public and private space—was shown at last to fruition.
After the second encore, Amos left the stage awash in applause and cheers. Armed with two backstage passes, my chosen accomplice, Alicia Menendez ’05 and I headed to the stage door, where the chosen few lined up to have their passes examined by Joel, Amos’ bleached-blond bodyguard.
“Where’s your pass?” Joel demanded of the young man in front of us. He shrugged helplessly, clearly hoping to slip through. Joel shook his head.
“Bye,” he said curtly. “I’ve been around way too long to fall for that.”
After the lawfully backstage crowd had been assembled, we were led down a series of staircases and hallways into a room, barren but for some tables and chairs. Another security official checked our names on the list and then informed us that we would be called.
Most of our companions appeared to have obtained their passes through an Internet auction, the proceeds of which went directly to RAINN, the national hotline Amos founded for survivors of rape, abuse and incest. I asked the fan sitting closest to me, a middle-aged man, how much he’d paid in the highest bid.
He thought for a moment. “About a thousand dollars,” he said. I asked him how long he’d been listening to Tori Amos. “Since “Bliss,” he said, referring to a single released in 1999. “You?”
“Since Under the Pink,” I replied, placing me at 1994. My eyes fixed nervously on the security guard with a clipboard who was heading in our direction. Were we next?
“Irin Carmon?” he queried. Alicia and I rose slowly and, with scattered other press representatives, lined up outside a room down the hall.
Amos was waiting inside, looking worn out, but smiling valiantly. She recognized me after a cloudy moment, her face clearing to exclaim, “Well! It’s been awhile! And how have you been?” After I introduced Alicia, we briefly discussed the show and then gave her the books she’d asked for. In addition to the latest album by Marianne Nowottny, a young independent artist inspired by Amos, we’d brought Inga Muscio’s Cunt (my choice), Cristina Garcia’s Dreaming in Cuban (Alicia’s), and a book on the mythology and archaeology of motherhood, which combined her interest in archetypes with her own new motherhood. Amos accepted all gratefully, posed for a photograph, and gave me a warm hug.
I’d been anxious to retain impartiality in writing my review, and then realized that perceived objectivity wasn’t as important as being able to both see clearly and speak candidly, fortified rather than hampered by my history of listening to Amos. In truth, the fan experience had come full circle—from girl with the drugstore fairy wings to girl with the tape recorder and back.