The Tori Amos Interview

Music can be a sanctuary or a torment; it's all about how you navigate the journey.

Hey everybody, I'm Rick B. I recently traveled to the south coast of England to interview one of my favorite artists, Tori Amos. Over the past three decades, Tori has captivated audiences with her deeply personal lyrics, brilliant piano work, and unique approach to songwriting. From her breakout album Little Earthquakes to her latest work, the EP White Telephone to God, Tori has remained one of the most innovative and influential voices in music. Here's my interview.

Tori, welcome! Thank you for coming. I want to talk about your upbringing and kind of how you got into music.

Well, the crazy thing is I could always play since I can remember. I can't remember life without playing. I wasn't taught at first, and I guess in some ways, that comes with its gifts and its downsides. I could hear things and play. My dad was a preacher and would go to the Methodist Church in the morning. Once he left, my mother would take off her apron; she’d worked at a record store, so she would play me her record collection, which consisted of stuff from the '40s onwards. Then, my brother, who was 10 years older than I, would come home and bring in records like The Doors and whatever '60s music, saying, "Learn this before Dad gets home. You're going to need to play it while he's reading the paper, but you can't say what it is 'cause it's devil music." So, that was my early beginnings.

Then, people in the church suggested that I needed formal training, and they were proper musicians. So, I auditioned at the Peabody Conservatory at 5 and was accepted on a full scholarship and then started.

What did your initial piano lessons consist of? Were you reading right from the beginning? They had a specific way of teaching then, and we have to remember this was 1968. So, I’m sure they would teach differently now, but this is how it was taught. Unfortunately, at such a young age, I could play, you know, the Beatles catalog, scores of musicals, and then they taught me with Hot Cross Buns. I went from this wealth of amazing music to Hot Cross Buns, which was a real torment.

I mean, it was depressing. This thing that I love so much, this thing called music, became like a torment. I was taught with quarters on my hands for positioning, and you can't—rulers go underneath. You know, that's part of my technique, and there are parts of my past that I guess, how do you say it, I'm made up of all these things. How I play is made up of these things. But I think for the first year of my life at the Peabody, I cried all the time—in private. Then, I got to Bach and the music that he was writing for children and Mozart, and that changed everything. But that took about at least a year and a half to get through Mary Had a Little Lamb and Hot Cross Buns. It was like a punishment. You can play all this music, and now you're being punished by playing this horrible music.

Did you continue to play the music? Did you continue to learn songs, or would you only practice your classical music? My father thought I was practicing pieces as the years went on, and what would be happening is my brother would keep on bringing in music. So, I’d be doing variations on Led Zeppelin, and him thinking that I’m doing Bach. He didn’t know; my father was kind of tone-deaf, so he didn’t really know what I was up to. But I got to play devil music in a classical style, and that’s how I survived.

So, would you say you improvised right from the beginning? I think so, and it was easy for you to figure out these songs, right? Beatles songs, things like that. I don't know.

=> 00:06:05

Creativity thrives in the space between rules and rebellion; sometimes, the best music comes from bending expectations.

Punishment can take many forms, and for me, it was the experience of playing music that I found unappealing. You know, you can play all this music, and now you're being punished by playing this horrible music homework. Did you continue to play the music? Did you continue to learn songs, or would you only practice your classical music? My father thought I was practicing pieces, but as the years went on, my brother kept bringing in music. So, I would be doing variations on Zeppelin, and my father would think that I was doing Baroque. He didn't know; my father was kind of tone-deaf, so he didn't really know what I was up to. But that’s how I survived—I got to play devil music in a classical style.

So, would you say you improvised right from the beginning? I think so. It was easy for you to figure out these songs, right? Beatles songs, things like that? I don't know about the word "easy." I was guided. I've always had the muses with me. Some people call it different things, you know, the universe, their guides. If you're religious, you might call them angels. I don't know, but for me, they were muses.

I had told you yesterday when we met that the first thing I ever heard you play was on the radio. It was your cover of Smells Like Teen Spirit. It was in 1992 when your record Little Earthquakes came out. When I heard it, the combination of your incredible singing and the piano arrangement was so beautiful. I kept thinking, "Who is this person that is playing?" It sounded like Poff's arrangement of Nirvana's song. When I first heard Smells Like Teen Spirit, I thought it was a tragedy. I was listening to a contemporary work of tragedy, and it was clear to me that that's what it was. I was crying in a hotel room, I believe in Sweden. I saw the video, and I had tears running down my face because it affected me in that way.

That's the power of them and their performance, the piece itself, and its construct. It ripped my heart out. So, it was clear the piano wanted me to bring it to her, and I offered it to her. She guided me along with the muses too. They work as beings; they exist. You know, this is alive; they're alive to me. People that are really skeptical, like the person sitting in there, have seen songs just come through that I've never played before. He happened to be rolling tape when one of those songs, called Maryanne, off a record called Boys for, came through. I've never been able to play it like that since. I do a variation on the theme, but I can't do it where it smells like Teen Spirit.

I took it to the piano and worked with it, refined it a bit, and we recorded the version that you heard. It has the power in your piano arrangement, capturing that visceral energy of the three-piece band of Nirvana playing it. You do it through the dissonances that you use, creating that angst.

I'd like to play it, actually.

Lord up, God bring your friends, fun to lose and to pretend. She's overboard and self-assured. Oh no, I know a dir...

Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello...

I'm worse at what I do best, and for this gift, I feel blessed. A little girl has always been and always will be until the end. Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello...

With the lights out, it's less dangerous. Here we are now, entertain us. I feel stupid and contagious. Here we are now, entertain us...

Yes, that is so beautiful—the phrasing, the points where you just take a breath in the piano part. Is that just one performance all the way through? Oh yeah, that one. Your choice of where to go, like going up into the upper register during the chorus and then returning back down, is that just something you naturally feel? Do you just say it needs to go here?

I went to the song itself, not the artist that wrote it. I go to the piece and say, "If I'm supposed to serve you in any way, show me." I surrender to it. There's something very much about respecting that I'm not the mother of that song. I'm the mother of many others, but I'm not the mother of that. So, I must ask permission to serve it, but not...

=> 00:12:25

True artistry comes from surrendering to the music itself, not just the creator. It's about serving the spirit of the piece and letting it guide your expression.

Yes, that is so beautiful, the phrasing. The points where you just pause, there's a breath in the piano part. Is that just one performance all the way through? Oh yeah, that one. Your choice of where to go, like going up into the upper register during the chorus and then returning back down, is that just something that you naturally feel? Do you just say it needs to go here?

I go to the song itself, not the artist that wrote it. I go to the piece and I say, if I'm supposed to serve you in any way, please show me, and I surrender to it. There's something very much about respecting that I'm not the mother of that song; I'm the mother of many others, but I'm not the mother of that. So, I must ask permission to serve it. But I don't go to the creators because they are the mothers; I go to the spirit of the piece, and it will tell me. There have been pieces that are just like, T, I don’t think I’m for you. I can have a drink and hang out, but you shouldn’t cover me. That's okay.

So, I went out the next day and I bought the "Five S" EP and I bought "Little Earthquakes." You had "Angie" and "Thank You" by Led Zeppelin on there. Can you talk about your relationship with their music? Well, I had a huge influence, believe it or not. It always made sense to me that music always made sense to me. It had so much light and so much of the Goddess energy, and I felt that there was so much of the Magdalene in their music. Sacred was sacred, you know.

I played the bars for a long time. I turned pro at 13, doing weddings and funerals. My dad would get me two-for-one: a funeral in the morning and a wedding in the afternoon. I always liked the funerals better. I had started doing that around 9 or 10, and then I got kicked out of the school by the time I was 11 because I wanted them to teach the Beatles. Somebody said a professor there remarked, nobody will know who they are in 30 years from now. I had a smart mouth at the time and I said something, so I lost my scholarship. You know, on a vicar's salary, we couldn't afford it, and they didn’t want me there anyway. So, I turned pro at 13.

The only place that would have me was a bar. My dad knocked on doors, and nobody would give me a chance. Then, this guy with gold chains standing outside of a door said, hang on, let me get the manager. The manager came out and said, let's see what she's made of. You'll play for tips. What was strange about that was I noticed quite quickly there were no women in the room; there were only men. After a while, one of them came up and said, why is your chaperone in costume? I said, oh, that's not a costume like the Village People. I said no, he's a minister. Then it was explained to me that I was in a gay bar, and that was my start.

In playing the bars, to answer your question, I would play "Angie" and I would play "Thank You." So, it was part of my piano bar repertoire that I developed over the years. Those songs were very close to my heart. When they said, can you do an EP of songs? they just came to me as just very close friends.

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And all of a sudden, you started appearing everywhere. I saw your song, Excuse me, but can I be you for a while? My dog won't bite if you sit real still. I got the Anti-Christ in the kitchen yelling at me again. Yeah, I can hear been saved again by the garbage truck. I got something to say, you know, but nothing comes. Yes, I know what you think of me; you never shut up. Yeah, I can hear that. But what if I mermaid in these jeans of his with her name still on it? But I don't... sometimes I said sometimes I hear my voice and it's...

Been silent all these years. That opening piano line is so unusual. I had never heard anything like that in a song that was being played on MTV, with the counterpoint and the high melody notes. I thought, this is brilliant. How do you come up with a style like that?

=> 00:17:45

Finding your true voice often means rejecting the noise and expectations of others.

For a while, my dog won't bite if you sit very still. I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yelling at me again. Yeah, I can hear it. I've been saved again by the garbage truck. I got something to say, you know, but nothing comes. Yes, I know what you think of me; you never shut up. Yeah, I can hear that. But what if I were a mermaid in these jeans of his with her name still on it? But I don't know. Sometimes, I said sometimes, I hear my voice and it's been silent all these years.

That opening piano line is so unusual; I had never heard anything like that in a song that was being played on MTV. The counterpoint with the high melody notes made me think, "This is brilliant! How do you come up with a style like that?" Well, I think I had my finger on the button when I was five, before I entered the conservatory. Over the years, I had written many songs and been turned down many, many times by record companies. It wasn't silent all these years; it wasn't that style exactly, but I was working towards something as a teenager.

After so many rejections, I mean, I couldn't count them after a while, I started listening to people in the industry. That was a big mistake, but I did, and I started chasing things that I was hearing on the radio. The problem with being able to play a lot of what you can hear is that there's a curse here: just because you can doesn't mean you should. So, I started to dilute my style by becoming everything else, which is just a palette of colors all smudged together. I lost my voice, my uniqueness, and became a poor copy of many other things.

I think somebody called me "why can't Tor Reed a third-rate Benatar." I'd say it's about a fifth-rate Benatar, but anyway, that was your previous band, yes? That I was in with Matt Storm. Yes, that's right. I had to learn a pretty harsh lesson, but it's one of the best lessons I've ever learned, which is failure. I remember walking into a restaurant off of Santa Monica Boulevard, one that I had frequented, and I heard people giggling quietly. It was an industry hangout, and I had just been called a bimbo in Billboard.

I got back to my little apartment and started to cry on the floor. I asked myself this question: "How do you go from prodigy to bimbo?" Because, Tor, you've done that; that's what you've achieved here. I went over to a friend's house; I didn't even have a piano. I had torched all that, metaphorically, of course, and she had a piano. She was smoking some weed, and I just started to play. She said, "This is what you need to be doing—this music, whatever this is, this is you." I got a piano in my little place, and I haven't really looked back.

So, silent all these years was the story of my life at that point—picking myself off the floor. My mother said, "This is the best thing, honey, that could ever happen to you," because I was worried I'd never get out of that. Was it the same record deal that you were signed to? Doug Morris wouldn't drop me; interesting. I begged him to, and he said, "I'm not doing it." I said, "Well, I'm going to write my own music, and it's going to be piano-based." He goes, "I love Elton John." Like, "Dory, I love Elton!" I'm like, "It's not going to be Elton, and I love Elton too, but it's not going to be that."

When I did hand in Little Earthquakes, the first version of it, they wanted to take all the piano off and replace them with guitars. A very famous producer suggested this, and because I'd had the failure—because I'd spent four years picking myself off the kitchen floor—it took four years for me to do it. I was in a place where I had made the commitment to this, and I said to myself, "You know, I have to wake up with self-respect as a musician." If that means I have to go back to the piano bar, which I had done since I was 13 years old, and now I'm in my mid-20s easily.

=> 00:23:12

Sometimes saying no to what doesn't resonate leads to the creation of something truly meaningful. Trust your vision and the right support will follow.

In reflecting on my journey, I realize that it's not going to be Elon and I, although I do love Elton too. However, when I handed in the first version of Little Earthquakes, there was a significant push to take all the pianos off and replace them with guitars. This suggestion came from a very famous producer. Having experienced failure and spent four years picking myself off the kitchen floor, I was determined to stay true to myself. It took me four years to reach this point, and I was in a place where I had made a commitment to my music. I told myself, you know, I have to wake up with self-respect as a musician. If that meant going back to the piano bar, where I had performed since I was 13 years old, then I would do it. I was now in my mid-20s, and I was ready to compose music that I respected, both for the instrument and for myself.

I went to see Doug when he was in LA and said, sell me, sell me. I urged him to sell me to Gary Gers, believing he would buy me. Doug responded, if Gary wants you, I'm not selling you. I explained that the only way this would work was if I didn't have to promote it; I wouldn't be part of it if they took the pianos off. I offered to give him four more songs, but he pointed out that the producer I had just worked with had blown the budget and left me with no money. He said, well then you're going to have to go back and work at the piano bar, aren't you? He added, you'll never forget this lesson. Ultimately, he agreed not to take the pianos off, but he asked for one more song. To be fair, I offered four, and he accepted them. The record wouldn't be the same without those four songs.

I did go back to the piano bar, and that experience taught me a different type of lesson. Friends came together to help me create those four songs, and I co-produced the record with Eric Ross. We pulled in friends to play, and they did so for very little money. Eventually, Doug accepted the record. After a couple of weeks, he told me, I understand this now, but I like the four songs; they've made it a better record. He wasn't wrong. Taking the pianos off would have been wrong, but adding more to it was right. Sometimes, how we arrive at a finished album involves saying no to certain things while being open to others.

The song Silent All These Years became a success, and the crazy thing is that when I wrote it, I had no idea Anita Hill would be on television discussing her assault and declaring, I will be silent no more. I was watching that in the autumn of 1991, knowing that Silent All These Years was set to come out in October, just a month later. As a songwriter, you often have no idea when world events will intersect with your personal journey. Anita's personal struggle became a political phenomenon that changed women's history forever.

When my song arrived, we cannot forget the energy surrounding the time of this explosion out of Washington, DC. I was in England and witnessed its impact there, as well as in the States. There was a consciousness ripe to hear something like I will be silent no more, reflecting the sentiment of many who had been silent for years. In 1992, MTV was incredibly important to music, a fact that many young people today may not fully appreciate. It was a powerful platform that could change careers; if it ignored you, you could easily be forgotten. We had no social media back then, which made MTV's influence even stronger. The video for my song was a great production, and I was involved in the creative process, shaping the idea of what it would become.

=> 00:28:20

Trusting your collaborators can lead to magic; sometimes, it's about letting go and embracing the process.

In the aftermath of an explosion that had just occurred out of Washington DC, I found myself in England at the time, witnessing the impact it was having on the country, not to mention the states. There was a consciousness that was ripe to hear something like, "I will be silent no more," because I had been silent all these years.

In 1992, MTV played an incredibly important role in music, a significance that many young people today may not fully appreciate. It was a very powerful platform that could change your career; if it ignored you, you could easily be forgotten. Back then, we had no social media, which made MTV's influence even stronger.

When discussing the video production, I was fortunate to work with a brilliant woman named Cindy Palmano. She not only shot the artwork for the album but also conceptualized the videos for "Little Earthquakes." Cindy had a brain the size of a planet and was an incredibly visual being. We spent a lot of time discussing the songs, their influences, and how they were channeled.

As for my involvement in the cut of the video, I can't recall all the details clearly because I had so much faith in her. I wanted to be present as an artist, in front of the camera, and allow her to direct me. I aimed to be as genuine as possible, even with a crew of strangers watching. I trusted her completely, and it turned out to be the right decision. I enjoy being collaborative in that way, giving people the freedom to explore and express themselves. If something doesn’t turn out right, we can always try again.

When you have a hit song back then, does the world change overnight, or does it happen gradually? For me, it changed fast, and to be honest, I didn’t know how to handle it. Sometimes, I possibly handled it quite badly. For instance, I would receive messages from people I admired, asking to meet for lunch, and I wouldn’t go—not because I was aloof, but because I was terrified.

One of my heroes was not Led Zeppelin, but I did eventually get to work with Robert Plant, and that was a wonderful experience. We collaborated on a duet called "Down by the Seaside," which was very collaborative in the studio. However, going back to 1992, I was terrified. I didn’t know what to say to some of these people whose music I had played for years.

I lacked media training, not that anyone really had it back then. It wasn’t about feeling sorry for myself; I just didn’t realize that I was actually an introvert. I played the role of an extrovert, knowing what was expected of me, but at that time, I couldn’t separate the songwriter from the performer. That was a crucial lesson I had to learn in 1992. Eventually, I figured out that I needed to leave the songwriter back in the dressing room.

=> 00:33:42

To truly connect with your audience, you have to embrace vulnerability and invite them into your world.

For years and years, I found myself doing variations on the theme. I didn't have media training, not that anybody did, so it's not like I was a "poor poor Ginger me." No, it was just that I didn't realize that I was actually an introvert. I play that I'm not, but I know what's expected of me. At the time, I was just the songwriter, and I couldn't segregate the songwriter from the performer. This was something I had to really learn how to do in 1992. Eventually, I figured out for myself that I needed to leave the songwriter back in the dressing room. I won't say I had to invent something new, but I had to morph into something else, into this energy force, so that the songs could come through me. I was serving them in a different way.

Of course, I knew how to play live because I've been playing since I was 13, but it was the media attention that I didn't know how to deal with at first. It took a little bit of time to figure that out. Now, regarding the BOS Andor piano, I asked you just before we started if it has extra keys on the bottom, and you used the entire range of the piano. Have you always played these pianos? Well, the Boo Andor was at the B buddy, so I was fortunate enough to play them. When I got to a point where I could choose, I decided I would always go for Boo and D. For me, the P doesn't sound right in the room.

Are you uninspired, or if it sounds amazing, do you suddenly have ideas? I think I don't really think about this. Sure, you know, when the piano sounds amazing in a room, all of a sudden, you have ideas.

When you perform, you pedal with your left foot and always face towards the audience when you sing. Is that something you did back when you were young? Depending on where the instrument was placed, sometimes the instrument would be an upright, and the keys would be here while the audience would be there, so it would be more like that. As I moved onto the stage, it seemed to be the only way to do it in my mind because there needed to be a conversation.

In '92 and '94, it was a one-woman show, so I was reliant on the instrument, but I was also reliant on the audience in a way; they were the band. We needed to collaborate, and it seemed like the only sensible thing to do was to open myself up and include them, inviting them in to collaborate. I changed the show every night, which was something I had to find.

I guess, you know, this is going from piano bar, but thank God I had all those years. I don't want to downplay that; I'm so grateful because I wouldn't have been able to do six shows a week for a year by myself. There was no drummer to turn to, no Matt Chamberlain or Ash, to say, "Just give them a nod," and know they could take it with the bass player. I had to include getting a sip of water into the rhythm of the audience because you can lose your stage within moments. I've seen it happen, and that was terrifying to me.

So, it was about not trying to be David Copperfield; I didn't want to make this an illusion but rather make it magic. Water is part of it, even if you're talking to them while drinking and having these conversations. In the old days, I think I chatted more, so it was more inclusive. But I had to find this in front of hundreds of people every night.

We're back to having faith in them. When you have faith in the people who are coming to see you, it sounds like a paradox, but you're commanding your stage by surrendering at the same time. This is your song "Precious Things," and this is from a...

=> 00:39:55

True magic happens when you surrender to the moment, trusting both your band and your audience to create an unforgettable experience together.

In discussing the essence of performance, it's important to remember, "okay don't try and be David Copperfield; don't make this an illusion, make it magic." Water is part of it, even if you're talking to the audience while you're drinking water. These conversations create a more inclusive atmosphere. In the past, I think I chatted more, which added to that inclusivity. However, it was a challenge to find that connection while performing in front of hundreds of people every night.

We must have faith in the people who come to see us. It sounds like a paradox, but you're commanding the stage by surrendering at the same time. This brings us to my song, "Precious Things," which is from a live gig in 2003.

Applause and music follow.

As I ran faster, I recalled my loyalty and the time I injured my ankle in the seventh grade while running after the rain. The groove is heavy, and everything about the performance is rock-driven. When I come in, the energy is palpable. The ensemble sounds so full, with Matt Chamberlain on drums and John Evans on bass and pedals. When you're playing with musicians of that caliber, you have to step it up. They are power players, and to see them at their best, my skills must also be at their peak.

Having played with them for several years, we developed a musical connection that felt like a marriage—emotional and built on trust. When Matt is behind the drums, he truly is like Thor's hammer; it's not just noise. His inner timing transforms the performance. His cymbal work is delicate, contrasting with many drummers who thrash about. Instead, his style is like a ballet.

I was in awe of playing with both Matt and John, and I experienced immense joy during my recent tour with Ash Z and John Evans. It felt like a trio again. Listening to the music, I perceive a dynamic where there is a trio and then a singer. It’s as if the three of them are playing together, and suddenly, "oh, there's a singer here with the band too."

When I sing and play, it feels like two different events are occurring simultaneously. There’s the player who wants to be part of the band, communicating and almost crossing the galaxy with them. It feels like we are traveling through the galaxy together, and time is suspended.

While the rhythm may not always be right, that’s the true magic of music for me. The studio experience is different; magic can be created together there, but in a live setting, you are in communion with everyone who has come. You’re not just hurtling through the galaxy with the other players; you’re doing it with the entire tribe.

=> 00:45:47

The true magic of music lies in the freedom to improvise and connect, creating a unique experience that evolves with every performance.

Piano playing as part of the band and then you're singing is just you on your own. I feel like there are two different events occurring at the same time. There’s the player who so wants to be in with the band, I mean with them, and communicate with them. It almost feels like we are crossing the Galaxy together, hurling through the Galaxy, and time is suspended. Although the rhythm is not right, time is. That’s true magic for me in music.

When you’re in the studio, the experience is different, and magic can be created together. But when you’re live, you’re also in communion with everyone who has come. So, you’re not just hurdling through the Galaxy with the other players; you’re going with the tribe, the whole tribe.

When you are just playing with the three of you and you’re not singing, is it different than when you’re actually singing? Do you think of yourself as just being part of the band at that moment? Oh yeah, because you have these long, extended jams where you’re just playing piano. I love that! We did more of it on this past tour than I think I’ve ever done. It became a thing, and it was my favorite part every night. A lot of it was maybe there was a top line, but a lot of it was call and answer between me and John Evans, and then Ash would come in and become part of the conversation. We wouldn’t know where it was going; we just didn’t know from night to night. That was, I think, the joy of the exploration.

As a musician, yes, you’re playing, but you’re having to listen so intently to what they’re doing in order to not make it about you. If you do that, then you’ve missed the whole point. It’s about this fluidity, and that’s where I think the magic happens in music. Sure, sometimes people take a solo, and that’s part of a construct, but when there’s this crossing dimensions back and forth, I don’t know where it’s going most of the time because we’re improvising. I really love that because I don’t know where we’re going, and I love not knowing where I’m going in that instance.

In life, I think I’m the opposite; I want to know what’s happening next week. I really do. When you have a tour, you kind of know where you’re going to be for the next year, but when you’re improvising, really improvising, then no, I have no idea where we’re going. I just find that it’s like fairies; they really exist.

Do you guys talk about these things, or do you just start playing? We might know what songs can hold a jam better than others, so we might have talked about it in soundcheck. We’ll say, “We’re going to throw this one in tonight” as an intro to a song or something like that. Perhaps they’re coming back on stage after the solo section. I might do a song or two by myself, like “Silent All These Years,” and as they’re walking on, I might be noodling around, and then they start to noodle with me.

A lot of music that I hear today, and when I go see a concert, I see very little improvisation. I don’t know if it’s that people have a lack of confidence in doing that or if everything needs to be so scripted. What are your thoughts on that? There’s not a lot of freedom in that, right? Being able to react to the energy in the room from moment to moment is so exciting, at least for me.

We’re back to faith; there has to be faith in the players that you’re playing with and faith in the audience. You can have freedom, but you have to have faith that they’re going to go with you. That means the show can change every night, and we can react to what is happening in that city that day.

I’ll never forget a note that got back to me years ago. We were in a country where there had been a terrible tragedy, and children had died horrendously. A note came back and said, “Please don’t play…”

=> 00:50:45

True artistry thrives in the moment; it's about having faith in your audience and the freedom to adapt, creating a unique experience that resonates deeply with the here and now.

In the room, from moment to moment, is so exciting—at least for me, anyway. We're back to faith; there has to be faith in the players that you're playing with and faith in the audience. You can have freedom, but you have to have faith that they're going to go with you. This means that the show can change every night, and we can react to what is happening in that city on that day.

I'll never forget a note that got back to me years ago when we were in a country where there had been a terrible tragedy and children had died horrendously. A note came back saying, "Please don't play 'Winter'." I talked to people from that country backstage and pulled them aside, asking them to tell me what this meant. They said, "We're grieving. We can't hear this song about a young girl and her father or her grandfather because so many of us have lost a niece or a nephew, and some have lost children that will be here tonight." This feedback changed the whole design of the show for me. It didn't just affect "Winter"; it affected other songs that had that child relationship.

It's moments like that—and that is an extreme example of it—that remind me of the importance of knowing what a city is dealing with. The show is designed for the audience, and it will never happen again in the exact same way. Even if I had the same songs in the show, which I rarely do, it won't be the same because it is designed for them. I don't finish the setlist, and I drive the crew insane. I do not release it; there are people standing outside my dressing room door knocking, including my husband, who says, "Who needs a setlist anyway? She's going to change it halfway through the show!"

We can do that too; we don't have to follow the setlist. I adjust based on the energy I'm feeling from the crowd. I think, "It needs this now." When you talk about new artists, I wish they would allow themselves to feel that and experience it. We're back to these ideas of a paradox: to have such ability to go anywhere you want to, but you have to surrender to the moment. It makes me sad to think that other musicians aren't having that experience because, truly, there's nothing like it in this world. It's the most wow thing I've ever experienced.

What makes a melody beautiful? It's more than the notes, that's for sure. Sometimes it's the silence, the phrasing, the pauses. When writing a song, does the music come first, then the melody, and then the lyrics? Typically, it varies all the time. What would be a song where you had the lyrics first? Is there something that comes to mind? It's rare, but from the old catalog, sometimes things would come together at the same time, even if it's just a phrase or a word.

It'll have to be that word. Ninety-nine percent of the people I've interviewed—songwriters—say the music comes first. They usually will have a wordless vocal that will have a couple of words in there that will end up being in the song. I think I read that with the Beatles, every song had the music come first, except for "Across the Universe," where John Lennon had the lyrics first.

It's a mystery sometimes how these things come together. Someone can say something, and all of a sudden, a whole world opens up. Someone can mention the name of a town, and I might not have heard of it before or been there, and suddenly, it's not about the town; it's a way into talking about a young woman whose pain is so great. Yet, there we are, and I don't know how these triggers happen. Yes, I could write a song every day, but I don't think anybody would want to hear it. That's not the ephemeral magic that we're talking about.

=> 00:55:56

Creativity isn't something you can summon on demand; it's about embracing the uncertainty and allowing inspiration to flow when it chooses to.

John Lennon had the lyrics first; it's a mystery sometimes how these things come together. Somebody can say something, and all of a sudden, a whole world opens up. For instance, someone might mention the name of a town that I might not have heard of before or been to, and suddenly, it’s not just about the town; it’s a way into talking about a young woman whose pain is so great.

There we are, exploring how these triggers happen. I don't know why it works like that. Yes, I could write a song every day, but I don't think anybody would want to hear it. That’s not the ephemeral magic that we're talking about. I know you can't buy it at Selfridges, and I know I can't order it from Amazon, which I love doing. However, I can't just make it happen on demand; it doesn't work like that for me.

I know of some songwriters who go in from 9 to 5 or whatever time and just woodshed. They are out there doing it, but it doesn’t work like that for me. However, I will say that when I come in here, there’s a little door that closes normally, and I’m inside the house, as we call it. I just allow myself to fall on my face, you know? I allow myself to not create something beautiful. I allow myself to just not come out with anything that moves me or anybody else the next day, and I try not to get blue about it.

This can happen day after day after day, and it’s like I’ve got nothing. On the last record, I was driving myself crazy; I know I was close to divorce, and while they were mixing, I was still writing. The song that you were playing, "Flowers Burn to Gold," was written while they were mixing because I had just been out on the cliffs in Cornwall. Somehow, Mary, my mother who had passed away, just her spirit came to me.

I think I ran into the room over there where there’s a little upright piano in the hallway because they were mixing in the control room, and it was just coming together. I knew the phrase "flowers burn to gold," which is a beautiful, evocative phrase. Before I even listened to that song, when I saw the title, I said, “I’m going to that song first.” I was reading down the list, thinking, “What does that song sound like? I’m going to play it.”

As I reflect on the music, I remember the beautiful piano part—the way they rolled into the chords, the full chords, the spread triads I call them in the left hand. The way you’re using the low register of the piano is so evocative; it’s just beautiful. It starts right out, and sometimes I feel like I’m just living in a haze when a song is taking over my being, guiding me to this beautiful creature.

At a certain point, you throw all the technique away, and you let her play you. I just have to hope Mark is capturing it, and he usually does; he’s usually got the record on all the time. I must say there’s a lot of useless crap that’s recorded, but "Flowers Burn to Gold" was just one of those moments where I was trying to honor Mary. The funny thing about it is that sometimes I am crafting a narrative; I’m trying to craft a story.

=> 01:01:54

Creativity flows when you let go of control and embrace the moment, capturing fleeting inspiration before it slips away.

I am just guided to this beautiful creature, and at a certain point, you throw all the technique away. You throw it all away and you let her play you. I just have to hope Mark is capturing it, and he usually does; he's usually got the record on all the time. I must say, there’s a lot of useless crap that’s recorded, but "Flowers Burned to Gold" was just one of those moments where I was trying to honor Mary.

The funny thing about it is that sometimes I am crafting a narrative; I’m trying to craft a story. I felt her presence out on the Moors and was trying to reel her in and hold on to her as long as possible while telling the story at the same time. I knew that as I was playing, I had to let her go. It’s that loss I think that’s in the phrasing, trying to hold on and not let her escape. With each note, she’s leaving. She came and stayed with me for just a while, and I hadn’t felt her presence in quite a while. Knowing that as I’m playing this, she’s going to be gone again, it’s a bittersweet realization. Once it was done, and she was gone, that three and a half minutes, that four minutes of "Flowers Burned to Gold"—such a beautiful image. I don’t even know what it means.

Well, that’s why I feel like the muses drop these things, and I’m kind of frozen by them for a minute. I’ll jot it down somewhere; in the old days, it would be anything I could get my hands on. I usually carry something, even if it’s a receipt, to write something down when it comes. These things do happen; they’ve been happening over the last week, but they hadn’t happened for months before then. Sometimes, I feel like I’m out in the desert and getting nothing.

Do I get frustrated? Yes, I do get frustrated, and I get sad because they usually come, but sometimes it’s not on my timeline. It’s not coming as fast as I want it to come. I might be trying to push it, but nothing is really coming together. When I get these nuggets, I know there’s something there, but I don’t always know how to find it or go about finding it.

For example, I might come in here and there was this song, "Bells for Her." Having that motif was something that was circling me at the time, and I couldn’t get away from it. I didn’t know the story yet, but I was living and breathing that over and over again, like a music box. John Philip Chanel had come and prepared this old upright piano, and I was able to bring it to that. Because of the sound of this prepared piano, it began to develop. I knew then what the story was about—two women whose friendship was on the line, who had been very, very close, and something had severed between them. It came from a real place, but it was because of the motif and then the sound that brought it all together.

Do songs come in all different ways? Oh, they come in all different ways, sometimes at the most inconvenient moments. But when they’re coming, it is a different feeling than when I’m just messing about. I can mess about all day long, and nothing really moves me when I listen back. Then, out of nowhere, something can happen.

=> 01:07:37

Creativity flows from a deeper connection, revealing the difference between mere messing around and true inspiration.

Something had severed between them, and it came from a real place. However, it was because of the motif and then the sound that brought it all together. That song is BS for her. Songs come in all different ways; oh, they come in all different ways, and sometimes at the most inconvenient moments. But when they're coming, it is a different feeling than when I'm just messing about. I can mess about all day long, and nothing really moves me. When I listen back, and then out of nowhere something can come, I know it's not just coming from me. I know the difference.

Some people might not believe me, and that's okay. I mean, I think my daughter questions this sometimes. She'll be like, “You know, Mom, really, come on, come on, just admit that you’re denigrating yourself by not saying that this is coming from you.” In a way, I mean, that's not being a feminist mom, you know? But it's true; there are these beings that I call the muses, and I can tell the difference. I know when it’s just me, and yes, I do co-create with them, but I know when there’s this other force that’s interacting.

If I said to you, “Tori, what's your favorite song to play live?” the question would be, “With who?” When it's the trio, yeah, with who's playing. When it's by myself, it’s a little different because I think I go more usually minor key and not so groove-oriented. But when it’s with the guys, then I love to find that pocket. So it’s a different thing. Having the pocket on your own doesn’t mean you can’t groove by yourself, of course you can. If you can groove—not everybody can groove, no, that’s true.

I knew this great piano player I had a lot of respect for, and she said, “I can’t groove.” I said, “I know, sunshine, I’m sorry, but I know.” She then asked me, “Well, can you teach me?” I said, “Well, I don’t know.” See, I studied Stevie Wonder as a little kid. When you talk about grooving, this really good piano player was playing from her hands. I kicked the stool away and said, “Okay, put your hands on my hips.” I’m not being weird, and she did. Then I said, “You play from here; you don’t play from here. These are just things that go on the piano keys, but you play from here.”

So she asked, “Well, can you put your hands on my hips?” I said, “Yeah, I will if you’re not…” I was working with her in her hips and said, “If you start working with this every day…” I saw her again like three or four months later, and she said, “It’s changing,” and she showed me. It was changing! Now, I’m not saying she was Stevie Wonder yet, but who is? I mean, who is? When you’re talking about just moving with your body, if Ash were in the room and John was in the room, then this would become a whole other thing.

Within ten bars, we could move into something else, and that’s when playing with other people becomes special. That’s when the jams start to go, and I live for a jam live. How many songs will you write for a record? I always wonder about this. The more ideas you get, sometimes you realize how not so good some of the other ideas are. So the bar starts changing because then I realize who this creature is, who this record is becoming, what this energy is, and where we are going. I thought we were going somewhere else, and now we’re going somewhere I didn’t know.

So, I mean, this can happen. That’s the beauty of being in the unknown.

=> 01:13:13

Embrace the unknown in your creative journey; sometimes the best ideas emerge when you least expect them.

Whole other thing—within 10 bars, we could move into something else, and that's when playing with other people becomes significant. That's when the jams start to go, and I live for a jam. I often wonder, how many songs will you write for a record? The more ideas you get, sometimes you realize how not so good some of the other ideas are. So the bar starts changing because then I realize who this creature is—who this record is becoming. What is this energy? Where are we going? I thought we were going somewhere else, and now we're going somewhere I didn't know.

This can happen; you're in the unknown. I mean, I'm in the unknown, feeling it completely surrounding me. You have to set the bar high for yourself. I realize that some records don't relate to people, and I also know that sometimes people aren't in a place to receive a certain record. If they're not in a place, say, to receive grief, then I don’t know if "flowers burned to gold" is something that they would want in their sphere because it is very much about dealing with grief. Certain songs are not received at a certain time, but then people have come to me and told me that certain songs took 20 years for them to resonate and align with them.

And you know, that's okay too; it's really none of my business. The songs have told me this—it's none of my business once they leave here. I always feel this moment when we finish the mastering process, and they leave to head out to the record label and beyond. There's always a moment when we, as a team, sit and just realize they're not ours anymore. That's a huge moment for me; it's a difficult moment. I see the girls go down; you know, I've always said some have lunchboxes with tequila in them, while others have mocktails. I know they're not mine anymore.

How do you know when a record is finished? That's a good question. You can really screw it up. The stories I've heard over the last decades reveal that the band, the artist, or the producer— or all of them—do not know when to stop. I've heard both sides of this. Sometimes, a band hasn't recorded enough and has allowed that material to not develop, so they've set the bar too low and didn't push it far enough.

But the heartbreaker for me, the one that gets me every time, is when I've heard usually the mastering engineer or someone like that say, "God, we had it." He or she created this most amazing work, and then day after day, they started to mess with it because they were looking for perfection. Yet, they had the magic—everybody was moved by it. Then they began cutting it up, adding more stuff, getting different takes, replacing this, tweaking here and there, and then it's gone. You can lose it in a mix.

The thing is, what you can't do is fix it in the mix. If it's not there before the mix, it's never going to be there. Don't let anybody tell you differently because then it's not in the plane. The faders should come up, but that doesn't mean we can't do some Lippy—a little Lippy. The first few records were pretty much a couple of years apart: Little Earthquakes in '92, Under the Pink in '94, Boys for Pele in '96, and From the Choirgirl Hotel in '98.

During that time, this was all pre-internet, right? So, on these tours, there were going to be new songs that came in that we tried out. Well, we were trying out the jams, and that was the new material. But as far as songs go, I usually don't roll out a song—not usually. Sometimes something will be written when we're improvising, and there…

=> 01:18:27

Embrace the evolution of your artistry; it's all about adapting and finding new energy in every phase of life.

Let anybody tell you differently because then it's not in the plan, right? The faders should come up. That doesn't mean we can't do some you know, a little Lippy. We can do that. The first few records were pretty much a couple of years apart: you did Little Earthquakes in '92, Under the Pink in '94, Boys for Pele in '96, and From the Choirgirl Hotel in '98. So, you get these things, and during that time, this is all pre-internet, yeah, right?

So, on these tours, there are going to be new songs that come in that you try out, I'm sure. Well, we were trying out the gems, so that was the new material. But as far as songs go, I usually don't roll out a song—not usually. Sometimes something will be written when we're you know improvising, and there, yes, there might be a little diddy that comes before a song. Those things happen, but rarely do they turn into a new construct for new composition. So, I don't really try out material live, or I haven't used the internet in that way historically.

You know, when I would go see bands in the '70s and '80s, they would play songs off their new record before the record came out, and they would try them live to see which ones worked. Oh wow! And you can't really do that now. Comedians complain about not being able to try material out because it's on YouTube the next day. Well, right, yeah, if they use a joke or something like that, right? That's a hindrance, yeah.

Do you ever go back and look at performances of old concerts? Somebody made me do this in the last year, and so I did. Yeah, I did, and it was wild because I remember the time so well. I thought to myself, "God, where did all that energy go?" I had so much more energy than I think I do now—not think—than I have now. There was a lot of energy, a lot of power, and that's been the one thing that I'm having to come to terms with. That shifting, you know, for a while, I've been bummed about it, but at the same time, I have to make those adjustments.

So, I design music that has breath built in, maybe an interlude or something like that. Yeah, that's right. So, the constructs have instrumentals in them or moments of playing or moments where we can improvise. The industry has changed dramatically since really since 1999 when Napster happened. Up until then, it pretty much functioned the same; the music industry functioned the same. It was flawed, but we had an industry. Then the industry floundered for years until they figured out the streaming model, which is not a great model.

Do you use things like Spotify to listen to music? Do you ever make your own playlists, or how do you engage with music typically? In Florida for a while, Tash had gotten me and Mark this little record player, and we were getting LPs. I was really enjoying that; I was getting lots of things from the '70s, and I was enjoying that because it brought up memories for me. But yeah, I will listen to a streaming service, sure, when I want to search for something. Yes, but at the same time, because we have access here, you know, when we want to listen to something in the control room, we’ve got the PMC’s, the Jennies. Yeah, you know, it's a great way to listen to a record.

And you know, when you're married to a sound engineer, he's able to get up anything really, so on any format. I don't think we have a CD player, though, anymore. I think we have an LP; we have a turntable. What is a go-to album that you always love? If you're in a certain mood, is there something that—or maybe a few different albums—that you think are just perfect albums?

So, Peter Gabriel, I go to that a lot. It really hits on every level: the songs, the singing, the sound. Yes, perfect album. There are so many, though, that I love. If I'm honest with you, Joshua Tree—I remember going out to Joshua Tree right after that came out with Beanie, one of my best friends, who bless her. We would go out and just stay in the desert for a couple of days.

=> 01:23:37

Music has the power to transform our experiences and remind us of our resilience, even in the toughest times.

We have a turntable, and I often find myself wondering about a go-to album that I always love. If I'm in a certain mood, there are a few different albums that I think are just perfect. One of those is Peter Gabriel; I go to that a lot. It really hits on every level—the songs, the singing, the sound. Yes, it's a perfect album.

However, there are so many that I love. If I'm honest with you, Joshua Tree comes to mind. I remember going out to Joshua Tree right after that album came out with Beanie, one of my best friends, who bless her. We would go out and just stay in the desert for a couple of days, having listened to it. I hadn’t been to Joshua Tree before I heard it, and to take a pilgrimage there after hearing that music at that time was something special.

That's the thing about some of these records. I mean, when you hear Hotel California, wow! I remember hearing it for the first time. It was one of those moments where the harmonies struck me. The intricacies of that band—oh my gosh, those harmonies! Hearing it for the first time, I felt so fortunate. We were so fortunate to hear Joni Mitchell for the first time, and Stevie Wonder—oh my God! Some of his records are my favorite go-to records; they never cease to blow my mind.

When I interviewed Daniel Lanois, he produced both Joshua Tree and another record back to back in '86 and '87. I didn’t know that! I asked him about it, and it’s fascinating to me that those two monumental records were done by the same producer, yet they sound so different. It made me think about how he could work on one record and then go to the next, creating these different sounds. How does it feel to be him? I mean, that’s pretty cool!

Here I am talking to you, and I didn’t know that someone said this guy did this thing on Little Earthquakes. I was in not such a good place, to be honest with you; I was pretty blue. But it gave me this injection, this reminder that I’m not dead yet. Be grateful! Look at what I have and do something with it. Sometimes, you know, all of us need that.

I will say, if you live long enough, team out there, you're going to have to face that sexy lady menopause or manopause because it’s real for men too. I think it might show itself differently, but anyway, you’re going to face it. Everybody feels included in that. It can really be a monster, and I won’t shy away from acknowledging that because I know it’s not the most sensual thing to talk about. But if you can get through it and find a way to the other side without it completely destroying your self-confidence, then I think there’s a new way of seeing things.

There is something to be said for experience. I couldn’t appreciate it when I was first going through it, but once you get through it—I'm not saying there aren’t days where I slip—but you don’t have to think about it when you’re 30. It is a gift coming your way, my friends, and you can get through it. You really can and make the shift so that you can have a fascinating journey.

Well, there was a reason that I had the radio on, and I heard that song on my 30th birthday. I was introduced to your world, and the next day that inspired me to go right to the record store. I found both CDs: the five-song EP and then Little Earthquakes. I bought those, and I still have the CDs. I’m fortunate to have a place where I can talk about music and these records that have been really important to me.

You are so important, and it’s an honor to get to sit with you today. I appreciate it, and I had always hoped that I could interview you or have a conversation with you. Yes, it was so fantastic! I really appreciate it. Thank you, Rick. Thank you, Tori, for your music.

I’d like to once again thank Tori for being my guest today. Remember to hit the subscribe button and leave a comment. Thanks for watching!