The Beekeeper And My Mid 30s
by Jeremy Gloff
PART ONE:
INTRODUCTION
Every morning the palm trees outside my window are a
sign of comfort. These trees symbolize emancipation from my past
and the security of my present. I've believed for a long time
that it's unwise to depend on human beings but I always depend on the
palms.
I look at tragedy from a different angle now. I find myself
unmoved by disaster. Disaster is inevitable and screaming is
useless. It's just noise. And every decade births the next
generation of passionate kids carrying signs, having opinions, and
usually not making much of a difference. I carried a sign
once. And I still have opinions. But there's a fifty percent
chance that I'm completely wrong about everything.
"The Beekeeper" is Tori Amos' best album. Rob couldn't wrap his
head around my opinion. "There's just no Passion on that album"
he told me. I remember how when I was young passion was certainly
spelled with a capital "P". On a long ride home I began to think
about passion. I was wrong for once thinking that passion fades
when you age. Passion can't fade it just changes color.
Now pretend there's a war happening five feet in front of you.
Make believe you are eighteen years old. What does the war look
like? Scream and kick and bang piano keys if you must but the war
won't stop.
Now imagine yourself as a forty-something year old survivor. Do
you find yourself immune to grisly scenes? You are incapable of
shock or awe. Do you recall the moment in your life when
you finally accepted that the fighting will never stop? I
don't remember the day myself... but along the way I decided to
unemotionally take a seat. And from where I sit I have a great
view and I'm certainly not enjoying the show.
Now let's also differentiate coming-of-age fury from passionate
wisdom. Hear the difference between the banshee cries of a
recently raped young woman versus the reflective stories the same woman
will spin many years later? Listen closely. Though her aged
voice may at first seem slightly monotone her observations are acute
and her stories are frightening.
Now listen even closer...
When I bought Tori Amos' "Beekeeper" album in 2005 I quickly dismissed
it as a slick and overindulgent clunker. Years later with the
2009 release of her "Abnormally Attracted To Sin" album (also dismissed
as a clunker) I found myself mysteriously drawn back to the bees.
In this essay I will attempt to explore the different colors of
passion. I will also try to explain how the world looks outside
of my window past the palm trees. And let's also talk about how
Tori Amos' "Beekeeper" relates to my thirty four year old mind.
PART TWO:
WHEN I COME TO TERMS TO TERMS WITH THIS
I have my little
pleasures
this wall being one of them
On the opening track of "The Beekeeper" Tori Amos recasts herself as a
painting. Every other means of defense and protection has
failed. Violence is futile and reasoning has proven itself
useless. The frame of a painting provides an absolute kind of
safety.
And so we face the inevitable. We age. We have
children or we live alone. We graduate college or
work. And with each passing year we are survivors of the ugliness
and indifference of human kind. To a sensitive being there is no
option but to cocoon. To search for a neutral zone. Perhaps
that neutral zone is an apartment in Tampa, Florida. Or a house
in Cornwall, England. Or a painting on a wall without a sea
view. In this song "Parasol" Tori Amos remains dead still...an
observer out of harm's way.
the seated woman with the parasol may
be the only one you can't betray
if I'm the seated woman in my
parasol...I will be safe in my frame...
Those begrudging the slick production must realize that this song
shouldn't exist in any other form. In our thirties and
forties we may find our selves with lovely decorated kitchens and
comfortable living rooms. We may find ourselves domesticated in
our apartments and homes. Or we may find ourselves hanging in a
picture frame within the context of a song with slick adult
contemporary production. If you meet us on the street we probably
won't tell you what is on our mind. We may not even tell our
closest friends what is on our mind anymore. But if get up close
to us and dig past the surface of our shiny pots and pans we may clue
you into the resigned cynicism buried deep beneath our tasty guitar
licks.
Tori Amos is a wealthy woman in her forties living in a comfortable
home in Cornwall, England. The emotional slaughtering of her
twenties has been dealt with and packed away. But nobody
successfully navigates the emotional jungle unscathed. In
the absence of scars and bleeding you may find a weariness for humanity
and a manageable life executed from a bomb shelter of your own
creation. My metaphorical bomb shelter smells of incense and is
home to four Persian rugs. "The Beekeeper" finds Tori Amos
accurately commenting on our alarmingly terrifying present from the
serene safety of her own metaphorical bomb shelter. And in the
process she is not only a woman who burns sage...she has become a
sage. The music on "The Beekeeper" might at first seem safe and
calm and boring as a summer afternoon in rural England. Stop and
let the wind hit you just the right way. Listen. This is
the wisdom of enduring disappointment and its phantoms. A most gorgeous
and subtle kind of sadness.
PART THREE: ARE
YOU POSITIVE THIS IS A FRIEND?
It would be accurate to say I was cordially invited into "The
Beekeeper" via the Jamaica Inn. As goes those perfect moments
when life experience finds itself completely synonymous with a song I
found myself invited into the lobby of "Jamaica Inn". A bright
major key piece of music propelled along by mandolin and gorgeous piano
runs, "Jamaica Inn" shot itself straight into the core of what I was
feeling at an exact time and space. Betrayal. At nineteen
years old perhaps my reaction to betrayal would have been a temper
tantrum, or a rallying up of my troops to wage war. At thirty
four years old I know better. As shattering as it still can be,
people generally will betray you. Including your mother and your
closest friends.
"Jamaica Inn" is a tune about a ship at sea during a storm, being drawn
into harbor by a warm and safe light. As the song progresses we
learn that the light is actually being operated by pirates with the
intention of ill harm and robbery. I find this song rich with
metaphorical imagery and wisdom far beyond Amos' prior work. The
tune's mantra is the repeating line "the sexiest thing is trust."
And in this time of my life when I am questioning the validity of art
and music it's comforting to realize that my belief in trust is
unwavering. There is little that is more heartbreaking than being
shipwrecked by someone you know and did trust. We've all found
ourselves stranded on craggy metaphorical cliffs defenseless to pelting
rain. Even recently I've experienced betrayal at the hands of a
woman I trusted for eleven years. Shocking, but not
unexpected. So within "Jamaica Inn" I found comfort and
solace. As I stepped into the song I was reminded I am not the
only one navigating choppy water. I remember being a child and
looking forward to growing up...confident that all the childish
behaviors that polluted youth would cease during adulthood.
Disheartening it was to find out that maturity did not extinguish the
negativity of the human spirit. As a disappointed adult "Jamaica
Inn" felt like a safe place to hide.
The theme of betrayal continues into the track "Barons Of
Suburbia". As odd a track as any on this album, this one contains
the lyric about "losing a piece to a carnivorous vegetarian". I
think back in amusement to the violent vegans I once knew.
It's a glaring hypocrisy to justify (and sometimes encourage) harm on
each other while righteously not eating animals. And so progress
runs in place.
But I was given perspective by the "Barons". My problems are
miniscule trivialities - just another peg in the big picture. As
horrific as my injustices look up close they are just a "molehill of a
mountain". I take a step back.
It is the closing passage of "Barons Of Sububia" that is the most
bizarre. As the slick and mannered music chugs along Tori gets
increasingly worked up. Perhaps one could recall a vintage Tori
Amos recording with similar vocal inflections. Nestled on a
musical bed of harpsichord and harmonium, the Tori Amos that shrieked
in 1996's "Blood Roses" seemed out for blood and murder. But as
the intensity of the vocals increase during "Barons Of Suburbia" it
seems more probable that at the height of her anger, Tori Amos might
throw a pan across her sunny kitchen when no one is looking. And
it is essential at this point of this essay to realize that this isn't
a bad thing. As we age we internalize. For fuck's sake it's
about time someone made music tailored for the emotional behaviors of
those past the age of thirty one. My thirty four year old
expression of frustration is much more "Barons Of Suburbia" than it is
"Blood Roses". Mannered anger. Restraint. At the end
of "Barons" Tori's time bomb almost explodes but it doesn't.
We've learned how to behave in public. And perhaps unfortunately,
in private too.
Later on the album "Witness" again summarizes the devastation of
betrayal. During the uptempo verses a fury is acknowledged. It is
during this track's half tempo middle break that the entire range of
reactionary emotions are explored. Anger to frustration to
sadness and back again.
PART FOUR: ONE
DAY I'LL BE COMING FOR YOU
It is important to realize that "The Beekeeper" must be taken as a
whole. Never would I have imagined that the album I once felt
didn't have one good song turned out to be the album without a single
misstep. Upon repeated listening I found these songs to be full
of ghostly and unexpected passages. Tori's glaringly Caucasian
stabs at soul at first seemed sterile and mannered. My initial
opinions were dispelled by repeated spins. The choir voices
revealed themselves to be enchantingly haunting. On both the
rising run of notes on the chorus of "Sweet The Sting" and the
melancholy bridge of "Witness", Tori employs the choir to cook up a
subtle brand of voodoo. (This is only further underlined by the
stripped down live versions found on the "Hammersmith Apollo, London,
U.K. 6/4/05" CD.)
One of the joys of truly getting to know "The Beekeeper" was exploring
the different caves and coves hidden in the tracks. "General Joy"
for example, struts along mid-tempo and mild. But tucked away
within the song is a gorgeously eerie passage. As Tori laments
about a dress "matching her eyes when she cries" the music and melody
make an unexpectedly quick turn for the somber. And really how
many songs detail transport via tram?
Equally mysterious is "Martha's Foolish Ginger". The track
commences with a plodding drum beat that preps the listener for a
classic Tori Amos minor key mid tempo. But then the piano enters
major key, bouncing, skipping, and foggily atmospheric. Research
will reveal that "Martha's Foolish Ginger" is the name of a boat but
even that information ceases to inform the listener with the entire
story. Its repeated mantra of "if those harbor lights had just
been a half a mile inland...who knows what I would have done..."
teleports the listener into an ominously whimsical nocturnal
space. "Martha's Foolish Ginger" introduces an element of
otherworldly mystery into Tori Amos' ouvre. Climb into this song
and you will find yourself somewhere ancient, foreign, uncertain, and
most likely European.
The apex of the darkness on this album certainly lies within the title
track. Although the album artwork comes with a high concept
system of dividing the songs into gardens, I am going to avoid
incorporating this into my discussion. Tori's concept of six
gardens and honey combs is fascinating and obtuse at best...but this
framework is secondary to the songs themselves. After I butterfly
stroked through "The Beekeeper's" tracks I approached the garden
concept as an after thought. Only after familiarizing myself with
the tracks did I explore how the artist herself divided up the
songs. Fun but not essential.
With the album concept nonwithstanding, the title track stands alone as
a milestone and center piece. I remember upon the albums' initial
release fans took well to this song due to its "Choirgirl-esque"
textures. But while "from the choirgirl hotel" was an about loss,
"The Beekeeper" is about loss prevention. Namely the loss of
Amos' own mother.
Perhaps the most haunting song in Amos' entire catalog, "The Beekeeper"
is a chilling tale of a quest to meet the maker in a desperate attempt
to spare her mother's passing. "Anything but this...can you use
me instead" asks Tori amidst a swirl of droning organs and a
pitter-pattering electronic pulses. If the beekeeper is a
derivative of God and the queen bee is Tori's mother...the song itself
is heartbreaking. In her younger years Amos sang haunting tales
of rape, misogyny, and violence. This song's disturbing and
uncertain nod towards immortality is yet another milestone in a woman's
evolution.
I'm the one who taps you on the
shoulder when it's your turn...
Don't be confused...one day I'll be
coming for you...
No one is spared.
PART FIVE:
BALLOONS LOOK GOOD FROM ON THE GROUND
Refreshing is "The Beekeeper's" keen and accurate
analyzation of adult
companionship. "Love" as it truly exists can be quite
boring. But a song like "Sleeps With Butterflies" neatly packages
the tribulations that exist when two adults make a lasting and long
term commitment. It is interesting to hear these complexities
explored within the context of modern pop music. Sweeping and
gorgeous, "Butterflies" tackles the issues of intimacy vs. space and
freedom vs. commitment all in under four glorious romantic minutes.
Equally gorgeous is "Ribbons Undone," a moving and sweeping audio
portrait of Amos' daughter. I've heard fans complain that this
song is too syrupy for their taste but on the contrary I find "Ribbons"
to be one of Amos' most moving and majestic compositions.
Perhaps sometimes it is to Tori's disadvantage that her current work
will always be measured against her chaotic, dark, and brilliant back
catalog. I do believe that had "The Beekeeper" been Tori Amos'
debut album it would have been given a much warmer reception.
"The Beekeeper" gives a voice to outsider thirty and forty-somethings
just as precisely as "Little Earthquakes" did for outsider
twenty-somethings. "The Beekeeper" emotes the same maternal
warmth to be found on some of Carly Simon's classic mid-1970s
output. Think "Hotcakes" for the 21st Century. Photos of
"Beekeeper" era Tori Amos found her at her most gorgeous -
emoting a natural, simple, and beautiful warmth.
"Original Sinsuality" texturally returns Amos to the piano and voice
approach of her early solo recordings. However with thirteen
years of wisdom accumulated since her debut album "Sinsuality" could
only properly exist on "The Beekeeper". As the chorus of the song
kicks in, a studio vocal effect is placed on Tori's voice. This
further adds to the tracks successful quirkiness.
Original sin?
No, it should be original sinsuality.
PART SIX: IT
NEVER WAS THE CARS AND GUITARS THAT CAME BETWEEN US
And in the year 2009 what is really daring anymore? When playing
the music game slick pop artists are usually given critical credibility
for later-period experimental and so-called edgy projects. The
public tends to reward grittiness. Perhaps we need to reconsider
the commonplace belief that one must be jagged and untamed to be
authentic.
For an artist like Tori Amos who began her career releasing obtuse,
challenging, and off-the-radar material, "The Beekeeper" is perhaps the
most daring experiment possible. Eight albums into her career
wouldn't it make sense that Tori would want to challenge the boundaries
of her music? Even if it means a temporary detour into the
well-produced? Would we not all agree that it would be a farce
for her (or anyone) to remain edgy only for the sake of maintaining
public expectation? Given the topic matter of the material, her
age and location while writing this material, and the time period in
which the material was released, it only makes sense to me that "The
Beekeeper" emerged exactly as it did. Amos certainly didn't lose
her fire. She was in a safer place, and damn well her music
should reflect that. Do we want an artist to suffer with, or to
grow with?
The moments most repellent to me upon my initial listen in 2005 have
turned out to be some of my favorites. "Ireland" is about as
feel-good as a song can come, complete with the unjustly cringe-worthy
introduction line "driving in my Saab on my way to Ireland..."
But let's pause for a moment. Tori Amos has always written music
that is a hundred percent representative of her exact time and
space. As a middle-aged mother do we expect Tori to drive a
clunker? Or do we expect Tori to omit the name of her car to
avoid being judged? If Tori is to remain a reporter of the
times...wasn't it ballsy as fuck to proudly proclaim her moment in the
Saab? Perhaps it is a flaw in us that we are only willing to give
artistic creedence to those who are poor, or those who disguise
themselves as "street smart" only for the sake of marketing and
sales. I find it a signature mark in her audio-autobiography for
Amos to boldly acknowledge her comfortable financial standing.
With a wealth of truth and wisdom to be found elsewhere in the album's
many tracks no points are deducted by me.
"Cars and Guitars" is another strange tune. The number opens with
Tori making odd chugging sounds over the warm and poppy musical
introduction. As the verses emerge we find Amos making
passable (but not brilliant) analogies, comparing her body to a motor
vehicle. It is only when we reach the chorus that the song truly
soars...and once again "The Beekeeper" comes out a winner. Once
Tori gets past the "it never was the cars and guitars that came between
us" and moves along to the "what if I keep on drivin'" section, the
track is elevated to an emotionally charged cathartic climax. Our
imaginations are transported to that moment we've all
entertained. The moment where we've considered flight. The
moment where we've considered the temporary freedom of the endless
highway. But as quickly as that thought (and musical section)
comes, it leaves. And we are back again to the strange chugging
of the introduction.
"Hoochie Woman" is in a way the "Happy Phantom" of this album.
Short, silly, and singable. It is undisputably cheesy for anyone
to sing about dropping coffee and bringing home the bacon. But
again this is a matter of autobiographical songwriting reporting
accurately. It is safe to assume this song isn't about
Tori, but an extension of some character that exists in her mind.
I find it hard to accept that the female heroine that lives within
"Hoochie Woman" would be drinking a bloody mary or a Bud Light.
She just HAS to drink coffee. So as the character spills said
coffee her man runs off with yet another hoochie woman. Hopefully
our character didn't stain her smart beige blouse.
PART SEVEN: AS
MARS SAUNTERS THROUGH HIS DOOR
There are a few "Beekeeper" tracks I didn't mention that I would like
to acknowledge. "Marys Of The Sea" is epic and majestic. Closing
track "Toast" is a the touching eulogy to her recently departed brother
(he is also mentioned in a backup vocal on the title track).
"Mother Revolution" is a heartfelt. The bonus DVD contains the
lovely "Garlands" and some moving and descriptive commentary from Amos
herself. Especially touching are the backstories behind "Jamaica
Inn" and "Ribbons Undone".
But it is the "Beekeeper's" two most emotional tracks that are its
best. The first is found third song from the start, while the
second is found third song from the last.
"The Power Of Orange Knickers" is easily the album's most catchy
track. Propelled by a guest vocal from Damien Rice, one of the
songs more memorable hooks lies in the repeated question of
"won't somebody tell me now...who is this terrorist." And while
Tori asks this question in this track, the answer is found in nearly
all of the album's remaining songs. Terrorism is found in the
people that betrayed us in "Jamaica Inn," "Barons Of Suburbia" and
"Witness." Terrorism exists in the wars grown men created within
"General Joy" and "Mother Revolution." There's terrorism in the
infidelity of the bored partner in "Hoochie Woman". There's even
terrorism in the hypocrisy of organized religion tackled in "Marys Of
The Sea" and "Original Sinsuality."
By track three gone is the guarded and quiet observationalist found in
"Parasol." "The Power Of Orange Knickers" builds until it
climaxes with a final verse sung in full voice. Even Damien Rice
jumps an octave, singing this final verse in his higher register.
The final moments of this track are riveting and goosebump worthy.
Just as emotional is the album's seventeenth track, "Goodbye
Pisces." Armed with some of her most exquisite and poetic lyrics
Amos recounts the damage a departing partner can cause at a
relationship's end. The music is subtle, beautiful, and
heartbreaking. But while many heartbreak songs wallow in maudlin
sentimentality, the major key "Goodbye Pisces" has the bounce that
comes once failure is accepted.
So how will I go back on
Back on the shelf
With a smile with a smile to the
customer
And say for sale by the owner
By the final notes of "Goodbye Pisces" Tori Amos has beaten the war on
terrorism.
PART EIGHT:
CONCLUSION
And so here I sit at 2:29 alone on a Wednesday night. I once
spent most of my evenings dancing in the throes of escapism. These days
I've come to enjoy the sizzling introspection and my nights away from
casual acquaintances. In the moonlight my palm trees look
mysterious and skeptical.
I am thankful I discovered "The Beekeeper" when I did. (Once I
realized she was singing "sea view" and not "savior" I was sold.)
It took the release of "Abnormally Attracted To Sin" to remind me how
much I loved her prior album "American Doll Posse." And after
spending a little time with the Posse it was then I gave "The
Beekeeper" another go round. And not a moment too soon. In
a time of my life when I was feeling a lot of remorse and anger the
album provided a soothing lotion to troubled thoughts. These
songs haven given my worn adult mind a means to process and understand
the bleak wounding of modern humanity. I don't know how to scream
anymore but I do know how to sit and watch. It's good to know I
am not alone on these sidelines. (I do wonder if years from now
"Abnormally Attracted To Sin" will emerge as a masterpiece in her own
right.)
"The Beekeeper" is as comfortable and warm as the bed I've slept in for
the last eleven years. It is as welcoming as my sunny kitchen is
at eleven o'clock in the morning. As existence continues to
pellet me with curve balls I will probably remain too mannered to claw
or scream or kill. Like Tori Amos and probably a lot of other
people my age I have become the seated woman with the parasol.
It's the only way I cannot be betrayed.
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