Either Tori (a) has her vocals transmitted to this box and played to her via the earphone (i.e. so she can hear herself as she sings) I see going up her back and into her wig or (b) she is now battery-powered.
YOU decide.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
One of the main reasons Tori's voice is so awesome this year is...
...explained by the following picture (click to see larger):
Either Tori (a) has her vocals transmitted to this box and played to her via the earphone (i.e. so she can hear herself as she sings) I see going up her back and into her wig or (b) she is now battery-powered.
YOU decide.
Either Tori (a) has her vocals transmitted to this box and played to her via the earphone (i.e. so she can hear herself as she sings) I see going up her back and into her wig or (b) she is now battery-powered.
YOU decide.
Heads up...
As of 2005, the staff of Munchen's Philharmonie im Gasteig, the site of tonight's show, were camera nazis--no pun intended. As a result, unless she pulls, like, "The Wrong Band" out of her ass tonight, this bitch will NOT be risking losing his new camera.
FYI!
FYI!
Dusseldorf...
...was, by leaps and bounds, the best show of the American Doll Posse tour thus far. It was better than 27 of 30 shows I saw in 2005 without question, and better than all but one show I saw in 2002-3. But let's not belittle it with superlatives: the Dusseldorf concert was a shining example of why Tori Amos is the most vital female performer of her generation.
It wasn't just the setlist, which WAS, in fact, flawless, opening with Pip and then into a Tori set opening up with a "Liquid Diamonds" "Caught a Lite Sneeze" one two punch and featuring the debuts of "Glory" "Purple People" "Marianne" "pancake" and a strange song from the early 1980's when Tori was known as "Just Ellen." No.
It was not just the performance either, "Fat Slut" augmented by an improv along the lins of "Fuckers/G8 Summit/Cock suckers/He raped my mother" the shouting throughout "Smokey Joe" or the flawless totality of "Marianne."
It wasn't sitting front row center.
And it's not the fact that Dan Phelps (on guitar) seems to be added on more and more songs each show (he's now featured on "Precious" "God" and played on "pancake" and "Tear" as well).
It's the whole fucking package. The energy. The sass. The fucking pussy. THIS is what "girl power" is, Spice Girls.
Videos will come soon!
And let me say that I only have one (formal) gripe about the tour thus far: TORI, PLEASE GET THE BODYSUITS TAKEN IN. THEY ARE TOO BAGGY AND MAKE IT LOOK LIKE YOU SHIT YOURSELF. KTHXBI!
It wasn't just the setlist, which WAS, in fact, flawless, opening with Pip and then into a Tori set opening up with a "Liquid Diamonds" "Caught a Lite Sneeze" one two punch and featuring the debuts of "Glory" "Purple People" "Marianne" "pancake" and a strange song from the early 1980's when Tori was known as "Just Ellen." No.
It was not just the performance either, "Fat Slut" augmented by an improv along the lins of "Fuckers/G8 Summit/Cock suckers/He raped my mother" the shouting throughout "Smokey Joe" or the flawless totality of "Marianne."
It wasn't sitting front row center.
And it's not the fact that Dan Phelps (on guitar) seems to be added on more and more songs each show (he's now featured on "Precious" "God" and played on "pancake" and "Tear" as well).
It's the whole fucking package. The energy. The sass. The fucking pussy. THIS is what "girl power" is, Spice Girls.
Videos will come soon!
And let me say that I only have one (formal) gripe about the tour thus far: TORI, PLEASE GET THE BODYSUITS TAKEN IN. THEY ARE TOO BAGGY AND MAKE IT LOOK LIKE YOU SHIT YOURSELF. KTHXBI!
Reflections on Paris and A'dam; musings on D'dorf
So, by now you've already read reviews/seen videos/heard bootlegs of both Paris and Amsterdam, so I won't opine to any great extent, but let's just say that Amsterdam was hands down the best performance of the tour and Paris was hands down the biggest let down (though certain parts of it were stellar so it's not the "worst" show by a long shot), mainly because Paris is always one of the top shows of the tour. For my money, this is how I'd rank the shows.
Amsterdam
Florence
Paris
Rome
Milan
In other news, Dusseldorf is nowhere near as digusting as I'd heard it was, though it does seem benign, at best, which is a bit delightful to me after having spent the past two weeks in cities where one feels that he or she may be killed (on a regular basis) while crossing the street. Paris was far dirtier than I remember and Amsterdam was far more confusingly-orientated than I might have imagined. I also seem to have picked up a nasty stomach bug in Amsterdam.
But that qualifies as TMI I think! I'll write after tonight's show.
Amsterdam
Florence
Paris
Rome
Milan
In other news, Dusseldorf is nowhere near as digusting as I'd heard it was, though it does seem benign, at best, which is a bit delightful to me after having spent the past two weeks in cities where one feels that he or she may be killed (on a regular basis) while crossing the street. Paris was far dirtier than I remember and Amsterdam was far more confusingly-orientated than I might have imagined. I also seem to have picked up a nasty stomach bug in Amsterdam.
But that qualifies as TMI I think! I'll write after tonight's show.
Monday, June 4, 2007
RE: Setlist complaints
I've noticed several snide remarks in various corners of the internet regarding a supposed "hypocrisy" to the posts here, specifically about my having said that the Milano show was "redundant." I guess my point is that it's perplexing for an artist like Tori, who goes on and on about her 150+ song back catalog, to play (essentially) the same setlist several nights in a row. Additionally, she's built her touring reputation on her setlist variance. I consider this constructive criticism. For a counterexample, go here.
FYI!
Edit: does anyone else who travels notice that blogger changes languages every time you change countries? I SO do not know Dutch?
Edit 2: Oh! Look at this!
FYI!
Edit: does anyone else who travels notice that blogger changes languages every time you change countries? I SO do not know Dutch?
Edit 2: Oh! Look at this!
Sunday, June 3, 2007
California Love
(and yes, that is a Tupac reference)
I woke my first morning in Rome under, among other things, several effigies of a bizarre celebrity by the name of Renato Zero, who appeared to be Italy’s version of David Bowie, though far less successful at accomplishing androgyny, more likely than not due to his, well, Italian features, bushy eyebrows and all. Then again, women here seem at least moderately likely to shave their faces past age 23, so perhaps that’s not actually too strange. Of all the oddities to greet me at around noon when I opened my eyes, the most conspicuous one was conspicuous only in and of its absence: the sun.
You see, in some Italian apartments, it seems that a utilitarian metal shade on the outside of a given window doubles as a blind—and a screen, which is handy for mornings like these, the latest (at that time) I had woken up since well before I graduated college, though I suppose with the time change, I really woke up nearer to five, which is more typical than anything. Nevertheless, I didn’t see the sun until I had seen the clock (which glowed crystal clear in the shade), and I initially thought said clock was wrong.
That was just shy of a week ago at this point, and when I stepped down into the Rome underground that morning, I felt my clothing stick to me despite the sun that had been absent consisting, at that point, mainly of luminous cloud cover. I’m told that it was pushing 100 degrees then, though I haven’t looked at a proper thermometer in at least five years, so the only evidence I might have to go by is weather.com’s archives, if I choose to pursue that option once I have an internet connection available again.
Today, Milano is waving to me as I shoot backwards out of its Shen-tral-ay Stah-zee-own-ay on the Tay Jay Vay train, the contrast of Dolce and Gabanna models that make David Beckham look like trailer trash, buildings representing the worst of 1980’s mid-rise architecture, and a wintery rain with the Roman May I walked into last week coalescing into a composite of my time in Italy. I’d had extremely high expectations for Italy—mostly as a result of breaking the number one rule of travel—taking other peoples preferences as anything more than free Frommer’s books—and most of them were not met. On the other hand, I was told to expect many things that were not so great—Milano being grey, at best, and Italian men being mediocre lovers, and I’m happy to report that Milano is grey and busy-like, and Italian men are not mediocre (which, in my eyes, qualifies as bad) enough in the sack for me to opine. Let’s just say that I’d like to visit Italy again under different circumstances and in the middle of a summer like the one I thought I’d see throughout. Had I known that the fluke Rome thunderstorm that poured from the sky last Monday was actually a harbinger, I probably would have gotten over my affinity toward summer a few days earlier. It is only now that I shoot backwards from Milano’s Shen-tral-ay Stah-zee-own-ay, a “terminal” stay-zee-own-ay in the sense that you can’t go anywhere beyond on an open circuit, that I am prepared for European winter but hoping that my clothing sticks once again to my body as I enter a given metropolitan subway system.
This is where you come in.
Despite all of our talks regarding the Trans-Siberian railroad and Ljubljana and India, I always see us moving along a desert beach somewhere in Baja, man-planted palm trees replaced by harsh brush that is more than likely indigenous to that area, white Caribbean sand gone in favor of a rockier mix, the larger grains as relatively minute as their third coast counterparts as a result of the breadth—and depth—of the Pacific. I see us mostly naked and in black and white and without speech or sound. Just a silent film of sorts. But no music. Perhaps the sound of waves crashing. I’m not really sure. I actually see one of us with makeup on. But it’s just us. No sea creatures. Lots of seaweed, But only two pairs of eyes.
Well, three if you count the one photographing us.
If that sounds dramatic it’s because it is, because this is a serious subject with serious implications. I used to believe that the world before color pictures and television must have lacked color as well. I believed this until I was at least ten, and even now I sometimes have to remind myself—if only silently—that this is not the case, that the rainforest green of the Italian railway was just as green in 1940 when the railway was new, in 1840 when this particular railway wasn’t here, and centuries ago, when different arteries pumped cargo and people through Lombardy at much slower rates than the one at which the train that just sped by us—with only inches to spare—it traveling.
There will be color in our world, though, once the negatives of the beach scene are being developed by our actions, words, and presences, once the future is present, though I’m not sure what will happen once the present becomes past. My thought is that it might be like a children’s coloring book but it could be a dry-erase board or, worse, a transparency.
As we rise up off the sand at a non-descript hour of a dateless, hourless day, it gains a pale nude color as the half-orange sun de-eclipses pending our backs turning to it. You look at me and open your mouth a few times. I manage to comprehend, and as the last clump of sand crumbles down to grains between the final step of my right foot on the beach and the first step of my left one on to pavement, I respond. “I’m coming back for more.”
I woke my first morning in Rome under, among other things, several effigies of a bizarre celebrity by the name of Renato Zero, who appeared to be Italy’s version of David Bowie, though far less successful at accomplishing androgyny, more likely than not due to his, well, Italian features, bushy eyebrows and all. Then again, women here seem at least moderately likely to shave their faces past age 23, so perhaps that’s not actually too strange. Of all the oddities to greet me at around noon when I opened my eyes, the most conspicuous one was conspicuous only in and of its absence: the sun.
You see, in some Italian apartments, it seems that a utilitarian metal shade on the outside of a given window doubles as a blind—and a screen, which is handy for mornings like these, the latest (at that time) I had woken up since well before I graduated college, though I suppose with the time change, I really woke up nearer to five, which is more typical than anything. Nevertheless, I didn’t see the sun until I had seen the clock (which glowed crystal clear in the shade), and I initially thought said clock was wrong.
That was just shy of a week ago at this point, and when I stepped down into the Rome underground that morning, I felt my clothing stick to me despite the sun that had been absent consisting, at that point, mainly of luminous cloud cover. I’m told that it was pushing 100 degrees then, though I haven’t looked at a proper thermometer in at least five years, so the only evidence I might have to go by is weather.com’s archives, if I choose to pursue that option once I have an internet connection available again.
Today, Milano is waving to me as I shoot backwards out of its Shen-tral-ay Stah-zee-own-ay on the Tay Jay Vay train, the contrast of Dolce and Gabanna models that make David Beckham look like trailer trash, buildings representing the worst of 1980’s mid-rise architecture, and a wintery rain with the Roman May I walked into last week coalescing into a composite of my time in Italy. I’d had extremely high expectations for Italy—mostly as a result of breaking the number one rule of travel—taking other peoples preferences as anything more than free Frommer’s books—and most of them were not met. On the other hand, I was told to expect many things that were not so great—Milano being grey, at best, and Italian men being mediocre lovers, and I’m happy to report that Milano is grey and busy-like, and Italian men are not mediocre (which, in my eyes, qualifies as bad) enough in the sack for me to opine. Let’s just say that I’d like to visit Italy again under different circumstances and in the middle of a summer like the one I thought I’d see throughout. Had I known that the fluke Rome thunderstorm that poured from the sky last Monday was actually a harbinger, I probably would have gotten over my affinity toward summer a few days earlier. It is only now that I shoot backwards from Milano’s Shen-tral-ay Stah-zee-own-ay, a “terminal” stay-zee-own-ay in the sense that you can’t go anywhere beyond on an open circuit, that I am prepared for European winter but hoping that my clothing sticks once again to my body as I enter a given metropolitan subway system.
This is where you come in.
Despite all of our talks regarding the Trans-Siberian railroad and Ljubljana and India, I always see us moving along a desert beach somewhere in Baja, man-planted palm trees replaced by harsh brush that is more than likely indigenous to that area, white Caribbean sand gone in favor of a rockier mix, the larger grains as relatively minute as their third coast counterparts as a result of the breadth—and depth—of the Pacific. I see us mostly naked and in black and white and without speech or sound. Just a silent film of sorts. But no music. Perhaps the sound of waves crashing. I’m not really sure. I actually see one of us with makeup on. But it’s just us. No sea creatures. Lots of seaweed, But only two pairs of eyes.
Well, three if you count the one photographing us.
If that sounds dramatic it’s because it is, because this is a serious subject with serious implications. I used to believe that the world before color pictures and television must have lacked color as well. I believed this until I was at least ten, and even now I sometimes have to remind myself—if only silently—that this is not the case, that the rainforest green of the Italian railway was just as green in 1940 when the railway was new, in 1840 when this particular railway wasn’t here, and centuries ago, when different arteries pumped cargo and people through Lombardy at much slower rates than the one at which the train that just sped by us—with only inches to spare—it traveling.
There will be color in our world, though, once the negatives of the beach scene are being developed by our actions, words, and presences, once the future is present, though I’m not sure what will happen once the present becomes past. My thought is that it might be like a children’s coloring book but it could be a dry-erase board or, worse, a transparency.
As we rise up off the sand at a non-descript hour of a dateless, hourless day, it gains a pale nude color as the half-orange sun de-eclipses pending our backs turning to it. You look at me and open your mouth a few times. I manage to comprehend, and as the last clump of sand crumbles down to grains between the final step of my right foot on the beach and the first step of my left one on to pavement, I respond. “I’m coming back for more.”
Milano...
…was just as “grey” as many people described it to be; that’s really the perfect word for it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, I don’t think. To me, there was a certain…busy-ness to the people of the city that complimented its drab architecture and energy that created an ambiance that was certainly different from the rest of Italy. Whether or not that different was a positive one remains to be seen, and I don’t feel proper making that judgment based off of less than twenty four hours here. Still, there’s something to be said about the contrast of Dolce and Gabanna underwear models (ed: they have to make you pay their prices somehow, eh?) with the worst of 80’s mid-rise stylings over a cloudy backdrop with well-dressed, miserable looking people. Think the Upper West Side meets West Berlin meets the nicer parts of Detroit. Or something.
The show itself was interesting in that it seemed to be a foil of sorts to the Florence show, but far less satisfying, by which I mean that the Florence show started out quite iffy and then proceeded to kick everyone’s ass, and this one kicked ass (see “Teenage Hustling”) from the beginning and then started to sputter (“Cornflake Girl” “God” “Siren” and “Liquid Diamonds” again?) before she even began the solo songs. I’m trying not to be like whateverhernameis, you know, a setlist snob. I can tolerate repetition. It’s just that all but two of the “Tori” band songs were repeats of the previous two nights, and that’s a bit frustrating, especially when she soundchecked “Marys of the Sea.”
I didn’t bother rushing (not that I’m honestly doing that lately anyway), and I actually sat in my seat behind a thousand (or more) standing people during “Jupiter.” Granted, it was probably one of the better version of the song I’ve ever heard, but my tired ass sho the fuck ain’t gonna stand up for a song she played two nights ago. Sorry.
Today I’m traveling via the Tay-Jay-Vay to France and by the time anyone reads this (if they do), I’ll be sitting in my hotel room, which is somewhere in Paris. If you are reading this, then you will know I was able to successfully ascertain a location for said hotel, and if you’re not reading this then, um, I don’t really know. I died?
No, the vegetables of the world are not so lucky. Anyway, I’ll write more during the trip probably and publish it a day later so that it doesn’t look like I’m a loser who takes eight hour train trips by himself with only a laptop to keep him company.
Oh, wait!
The show itself was interesting in that it seemed to be a foil of sorts to the Florence show, but far less satisfying, by which I mean that the Florence show started out quite iffy and then proceeded to kick everyone’s ass, and this one kicked ass (see “Teenage Hustling”) from the beginning and then started to sputter (“Cornflake Girl” “God” “Siren” and “Liquid Diamonds” again?) before she even began the solo songs. I’m trying not to be like whateverhernameis, you know, a setlist snob. I can tolerate repetition. It’s just that all but two of the “Tori” band songs were repeats of the previous two nights, and that’s a bit frustrating, especially when she soundchecked “Marys of the Sea.”
I didn’t bother rushing (not that I’m honestly doing that lately anyway), and I actually sat in my seat behind a thousand (or more) standing people during “Jupiter.” Granted, it was probably one of the better version of the song I’ve ever heard, but my tired ass sho the fuck ain’t gonna stand up for a song she played two nights ago. Sorry.
Today I’m traveling via the Tay-Jay-Vay to France and by the time anyone reads this (if they do), I’ll be sitting in my hotel room, which is somewhere in Paris. If you are reading this, then you will know I was able to successfully ascertain a location for said hotel, and if you’re not reading this then, um, I don’t really know. I died?
No, the vegetables of the world are not so lucky. Anyway, I’ll write more during the trip probably and publish it a day later so that it doesn’t look like I’m a loser who takes eight hour train trips by himself with only a laptop to keep him company.
Oh, wait!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)