Whatever happened to Tori Amos

“If music be the food of love....” then that explains why I’m a fat bastard. Because I love music and I’ve been collecting it since I could first afford to. “The Green Fields of France” by the Fureys and Davey Arthur was my first single (and I still sing it in the shower) and my first album was a one third share in “Best Moves” by Chris De Burgh. I got the lyrics, my sister got the instrumental arrangements and my brother got the responsibility of explaining to the world why we spent our Christmas money on something as cringe inducing as Chris De Burgh.

In our defence, I think Chris was a respectable rock star before he lost his interest in music and developed a passion for nannies and minor members of the British Royal family that led him to write the disaster that is “Lady in Red”. That vinyl copy of “Best Moves” is long gone, having been the centre of a messy custody battle between myself and my siblings. I made up for it recently when I bought the CD version of the album and damn the begrudgers, it’s a mighty fine piece of work. Even if “Patricia The Stripper” evokes memories of teenage parties that are best left on the cutting room floor of a therapist’s surgery.

Back filling is something I’ve been doing a lot of recently. Maybe it’s a factor of age or being grumpy but I’m fast reaching the conclusion that nothing good has been produced since 1990 and nothing original has come out since Bob Dylan realised you could plug guitars into amps. So having dabbled in Eninem and Missy Higgins, I’ve recently decided to revert to the Artists I knew and loved in my twenties and teenage years.

This coincided with a significant moment in my musical journey. After three years, I have finally managed to load all 350 of my CDs onto my Ipod. This process turned up a number of oddities. Why exactly did I buy a “Blind Melon” CD? Who are “The Connells”? And why do I have two copies of so many albums? Including ironically, two copies of “Beethoven’s 9th Symphony”. Ironic because it’s the only classical album I own.
It also highlighted the absences in my collection. Where is the Sade that I knew and momentarily loved in the early 80’s (she waved to me once from a tour bus and my gaping mouth didn’t close for two days)? Where is Michelle Shocked, who won me massive cool points when I enquired after her availability in Dundalk’s painfully named record shop “Slipped Disc”?

But the absence that struck me most was Tori Amos. For a while in the late 80’s, before I fell for the charms of female country singers, I thought I’d dip into the pool of melodic pop. Tori’s voice and quirkiness appealed to me and a cassette of hers helped me through the misery of sitting on London’s M25 every day on the way to work. I heard a track of hers recently on the West Wing and as those TV inserts are designed to do, I was prompted to log on and check where she’s been. It turns out that she’s been busy doing that touring and album releasing thing that artists get up to.

So instead of asking “Whatever happened to Tori Amos” she should be asking whatever happened to me.

Luckily, Melbourne is the place to be if you like 80’s music. Madonna was 50 on Saturday, or at least that’s what the Madge tribute band that I went to see in North Melbourne were claiming. I haven’t really been keeping up with Madonna’s birthdays lately, ever since I got no thanks for the large crucifix I bought her for her 21st. I deleted her from my birthday list and have been stalking other 80’s stars since.

The music you get into in your twenties will stick with you for the rest of your life. I’ve dabbled with techno and garage but as I get older I’m drifting back to Abba and the rock anthems on that seminal genius Meat Loaf. 80’s music is a dirty word in Ireland but Australia has no such inhibitions. In fact if you walked into a suburban Melbourne pub on a Saturday night, you’d almost think it was 1985. The fashion doesn’t seem to have changed since then. Mullets are still common and the occasional set of flairs can be seen. And on stage you’ll invariably find a five piece knocking out the music of Gloria Gaynor and Tina Turner.

Live music is popular here in the way that people think it is in Ireland. When in fact in Ireland, you only hear it in the sort of pubs frequented by American tourists and South Armagh Republicans. The Madonna tribute band was typical of what you see here. An all girl band who knocked out 80’s hits like the Berlin wall was still up and the Soviet Union were leading the medals table in the Olympics. Madonna songs were the highlight of their set, but Abba got everyone out of their seats. Dancing Queen will get every woman over the age of thirty swaying their hips and pointing to imaginary objects in the sky.

Abba are massive here and have survived the embarrassment factor that we European fans had to suffer through the 90’s, before they became retro cool again. Movies like Priscilla and Muriel’s Wedding kept the flame burning when the rest of the world thought Abba were the preserve of gays and under tens. There weren’t many members of those social groups in evidence when I recently went to see “Mama Mia” in the picture house. Abba fan and all that I am, I came away thinking that I’d just spent two hours of my life that I’d never get back. It made me think that I need to be pickier about my musical nostalgia. Which makes me think, whatever happened to Suzanne Vega?