Tori Amos: Piece by Piece (34 page)

Away from the venue, she's very personal about her time. She's never gone out on the town. Her night on the town is to go to a nice restaurant with Mark or with Johnny and Chelsea, to be able to just talk about stuff, about
the show, talk about whatever they want but have that distinction between show life and private life. She's never been one to seek the limelight or the gossip columns. Not a chance. That's nonexistent. If it ever did happen it was something that she didn't have anything to do with.

She's an extremely hard worker, and she doesn't sleep much. Even back in the day she was an early riser. We'd walk around the town we were in, do stuff, see what's out there.

ANN:
Sensitivity to her environment feeds the improvisations Amos explores in performance, as she translates the mood of her locale into music. Yet just as she's learned to protect herself from bad food, negative crew members, and overly demanding fans, she has become an expert in creating an oasis in barren locales.

Sometimes the narrative is so strong in a place that it takes you with it, it takes you by the hand and you step into this magical place. Sometimes you're in a place where you have to pull on reserves because everything is off, from the coffee, to the venue itself, to the smell, to the unkindness of the staff. Sometimes I know why the kids have come to the show, because there's not a lot in that town that is encouraging and they're starving. When you walk into a starving town and you haven't been fed, either, that's when your discipline comes in, that's when you have to be strong and focused.

There are ways you can protect yourself in a place that's not feeding you. My dressing room space has always been something I've been aware of as sacred. It's not only where I prepare for the show; it's where I create the night's set list, which is a composition unto itself. We'll often get into a venue and there's nothing on the walls but dingy, chipping paint—this isn't a place where you want to be licking or even touching the walls. It's
just a crash pad, and the night before it might have been the crash pad for a metal band—love you guys, but they will have left the place stinking of vomit and stale semen and pussy oil, still pungent on the couch and floor from the human sardines who had a fuckfest. Yum. The first thing that comes to mind, thinking back on such venues, is my least favorite smell in the world: patchouli incense. But even that would be an improvement over what you get sometimes.

We have to transform the dressing room to begin that transition to the stage. Chelsea and I will talk about colors and scents appropriate to the time of year and the region, and what we think the show might be like that night. It's different every time; you go for different themes. In January, when it's cold, we might go for crimson and lemon chiffon. In the spring, we like sea green and Alice blue, everything very fresh. You can't always do much about the venue itself, the space where you're actually playing, but you can at least create a haven that might help you get through a hard night.

The dressing room is usually where I say good night to Tash on the nights that I perform. Usually that's a great thing, and I can bring a sweet memory of her with me onstage. But, like everything else on tour, it can backfire. I remember one night, in Austin, Texas, there had been some technical problems at sound check and we were rushing to make the show start on time. Tash could clearly sense that we were in a hurry. You know the difference between when a child is kind of just having a tantrum and when a child has lost it? She lost it. She was clinging to me and tears were rolling down her face and she was saying, “I'm not leaving Mummy.” Mark tried to take her away; he said, “Yes, you are, Tash,” and she just started to howl and scream. This went beyond the usual—her being taken away from me at that moment wasn't the start of a tantrum. This was like,
Everybody keeps taking me away from Mummy, and I've had enough.

So I took a minute. I just said, “Mark, why don't you go get a cup of tea?” and he really gave me the evil eye. But there had to be a shift. She needed to see that he was leaving and she could stay with Mommy. Then things changed. Mark went out, and the girls came in. By the time Mark walked back in with tea, he got the big “I love you, Daddy,” and by then she and her nanny, as usual, started laughing, playing dress-up, and it was back to normal. But this little upset put us thirty minutes off the show's start time.

Everything takes time, and two or three glitches can set you back. But Tash is the main thing to me and to Mark. Time stops with her. So I made the decision within myself that night in the dressing room. I looked at Chelsea and I just said, “We might be taking a penalty tonight.”

ANN:
Of all the adjustments Amos makes in order to thrive on the road, nothing has been more complex than the decision to bring her daughter along and remain highly involved in her daily life. Amos and Hawley are working parents who incorporate parenting into their hectic professional lives. The caregiver on the road provides relief in those inevitable moments when both Mom and Dad are busy, but unlike many touring artists who enjoy their families strictly when it's convenient, Amos and Hawley care for Natashya in tandem with the caregiver on a daily basis. In fact, Tash's well-being affects the very shape of the tour—a development that has required attitude adjustments from some longtime crew members, but which ultimately provides a model for a truly feminist and family-friendly rock-and-roll lifestyle.

When I was first on tour, all of those millions of months ago, I didn't know how to exert my authority. I wanted to get on with everybody, which is not always probable, much less possible. When I became a mother, I realized
that my getting on with everybody means Tash doesn't get what she needs at all. Now, we arrange certain things to protect her. It doesn't mean that we're bringing up a spoiled brat, but it does mean that certain things can't be compromised. For example, we do day drives on some legs; we don't always do drives through the night because it's too hard on her. We stay in good hotels, and base out of cities that I know are the most comfortable, with fun stuff for kids that has been researched: where there's a park, where she can be around other little kids. Many people on the tour benefit from these choices. But I don't make these decisions to ensure that everybody else is okay. They're based on mother logic. The adults on tour will be okay anyway.

When people are having a bad day you can try to do everything you can, but after many bad days, it becomes a problem. Again, we're not in a van, where you don't get a shower and you don't get good food. Yes, you try to deal with the internal conflicts, you try to be the mothering force, but at a certain point … there's one toddler on this tour. And when she's handling things better than the adults, then it's time to make them aware.

There's a difference between taking your kid on the road and
really
taking your kid on the road and trying to be with them. With Tori, on days off, the nanny is not on duty, ever. It's completely Tori and Mark, and they make a special effort to try to carve out spaces in the day. It's definitely the priority above anything else. If Tash is sick or if she just fell down before we go onstage, the show's going to be pushed back, no question.

It's really different with the baby being out. We're really separate from Tori. I hardly had a conversation with her on the
Scarlet's Walk
tour. The
playing is the playing, and there is going to be that connection, but as far as hang time goes, it doesn't exist. She doesn't have any time. We used to be all in the same bus, drinking wine, having fun. It's sad—I miss hanging out with her, but I respect that she's trying to make it work with the kid. Every once in a while I'll talk to her and say, “I understand what's going on—don't feel guilty, please don't. You've got such a great kid and everything's great, and we'll hang eventually, in Cornwall.”

Mark and I had dinner alone together twice in six months during the 2003 tour. That's because we didn't want our daughter to be heartbroken. She doesn't have a child friend on tour. It's all adults. So we made a choice, but at the same time it can test us. There's not a lot of time to be alone together.

On rare occasions, if there was no show scheduled and I had a different kind of work, like a radio interview, that would put me with Mark and Marcel somewhere and Tash out playing with the nanny, then Mark and I could grab some dinner before we came back to the hotel and put her to bed. This is the only way it could work, as opposed to, let's say, being with her all day and going out at six o'clock—she cannot handle that. She would cry, “Why can't I come, why are you leaving me?” This was a tender age, it's not about reasoning. She only had just turned two when the
Scarlet's Walk
tour began.

Tash gets certain things from being on the road. I mean, she's with her mom and dad every day, more than some kids in some ways. She's surrounded by people who love her. There are advantages to having Chelsea Laird, who was a nationally ranked gymnast, teaching you forward rolls and backward rolls—Tash is learning how to do it right. She doesn't get somebody going, “Oh, don't tumble around so much.” Instead,
Chelsea's there to say, “Let me show you how to do it without hurting yourself.” It's great to have Matt sit there and play drums with her, and dress-up. One of the great drummers in the world—wearing a feather boa. Tash doesn't care that he's one of the great drummers in the world, but because he is, it affects her. She walks around with drumsticks. She also has a very broad sense of the world. She knows San Francisco's different from New York City, even though they both have a Chinatown— believe me, she can recognize the difference. She knows we're part American and Native American (she always goes for the cute Cherokee look over the Dallas Cowboy cheerleader look) and part British. She is a citizen of the earth.

Now, the downside. She's not around children. There's no playgroup on the road. Her social world is Roz, her nanny on the road; Jen Daranyi, who does my hair and makeup; Auntie A (Alison Evans); and whoever's got a minute on the bus. Or Mommy and Daddy in the pool on a day off. She needs to have her little posse in her life—that's really, really important. When she does, back at home, she doesn't mind so much if Mom's on the phone. On the summer leg of the
Scarlet's Walk
tour, which we called “Lottapianos,” having Ben Folds as part of our musical family was great, because every day Tash and his kids, Gracie and Louie, caused wondrous, stupendous, ludicrous mayhem, thereby taking over backstage. That was really good for everybody, especially all the super–ice cool tattooed people.

Tash is so animated and such an entertainer. I think everybody loves having her around. With her in the mix, there's been a shift in understanding among everybody on tour; we all know there's more at play in the day now. Before, we were dealing with calls from management, calls from the
label, or any number of things that might either cause Tori to be late or something to go wrong or the day to backfire or her mood to just all of a sudden take a dive. But now it's this other factor, and it's much bigger than any of those things put together. Most people on her crew have been with Tori forever, because of the relationship that she builds with people, and now, because of Tash, reality on tour is totally different for many of them. Totally different from the way it was.

There are certain rules and regulations that go along with the baby being on board, but for me she's a joy I mean, the day can be crap and I've just had the most difficult time, but she just comes in and makes us all smile, just being a kid.

Here's how I put it: Tash is antigig. That's a good thing. She flips the script. We get to see it through her eyes and remember a bit more why we're here and what it really is. It's about the stuff that she sees that none of us can see. Little imaginary things. Tash reminds you that this tour and the music really bring the world magic, what Tori's doing you can't touch. It touches you. But you can't grab it. Most days our jobs are nuts and bolts, nuts and bolts, nuts and bolts, nuts and bolts, but we're all really here for the magic, and Tash reminds me of that.

ANN:
The interplay of magic and minutiae defines a successful touring life. Amos has labored long to get the particulars straight, and the road has rewarded her investment, financially, spiritually, and artistically. The many arts Amos must cultivate to keep her caravan alive—boundary drawing, family building, self sustenance—can prove exhausting. But she never forgets that all her work serves one purpose: her ability to keep making that impossibly long, dazzlingly short walk out of normal life and onto the stage.

There are people who work within the organization who are backstage all the time and are never part of the show. Mark brought this to my attention—I was complaining one day, and he said, “Well, do you realize so-and-so is tired because he never gets those thousands of people cheering at him?” I'll be looking at Matt and Jon after they have played, and they're energized, as if they're on the rocket trip of totality. And I'll see other people who look as if they've been drained. The relationship that happens between us onstage is this love affair, this journey that not everybody is a part of. Those others may be in some little cubbyhole dungeon in the venue, dealing with how and why the wheels turn, which is vital to the matter.