Little Earthquakes, Joe

There's an old lady who lives in a little run-down shack at the edge of town. When I was growing up, everyone used to say that she was a witch. You know how kids are. But as I've grown older, I've continued to wonder. So just this past week, I finally decided to pay her a visit.

Witch: How can I help you, my dear?

Joe: I'm looking for a magical potion or spell.

Witch: Well, you came to the right place. I am a witch. What did you have in mind?

Joe: I have this problem where I can't fully appreciate music if there aren't prominent drums or a strong backbeat. I want that to go away.

Witch: Are you listening to Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes?

Joe: How did you know?

Witch: I'm a witch. People's minds tend to think "witchy" when they hear her music. You're not the first person to come here wanting to talk about this album.

Joe: Yeah, why is that?

Witch: I think that most men are intimidated by strong women, and historically, that feeling manifests in thoughts like "burn the witch!" and all that.

Joe: But that's not how I feel.

Witch: As far as you know.

Joe: I don't want to burn Tori Amos at the stake!

Witch: And yet you feel the need to justify your ambivalence around her music by coming to see a witch and asking for a magic potion?

Joe: So you're saying I'm intimidated by Tori Amos.

Witch: I'm saying that you are intimidated by anything that you don't understand. But it's telling that when it's a strong female musician you don't understand, you feel the need to label it "witchy."

Joe: But let's not conflate my lack of understanding as some sort of deep-seeded sexism. I walked in here saying that I'm having trouble with Little Earthquakes because a lot of it is a musician at a piano, and it completely lacks rhythm. I feel untethered, that's all.

Witch: Is that all?

Joe: Yes!

Witch: Because it just seems like a weird thing to be complaining about at this point. "More drums" sounds reductive. Not all music has to adhere to your likes and interests. Sometimes it's nice to be challenged by something, isn't it? Or do you prefer to listen to music that comforts you for the rest of your life?

Joe: No, I get it. I appreciate the sentiment. It's just that it's tough sometimes, to find that balance. Music you find challenging feels like work, and listening to music should feel like fun, not work, right? I know that eventually, the "work" is worth it, because every album has the potential to bloom into fun and comfort, but that takes time, and some albums require more of that work than others, and sometimes Record Club doesn't allow for that, due to time constraints, plus its constant churn, which requires a new (to you) album every week, even weeks that are jam-packed and busy as hell.

Witch: So now you're blaming Record Club? C'mon, man. There doesn't have to be excuses here. I'm trying to say that the challenge is part of the fun. They aren't opposed. That's all.

Joe: I get that too. I'm just saying that it didn't feel like fun this week. It felt like work. And I don't appreciate that feeling. And maybe I'm flailing around trying to make excuses, yes, but why not? I acknowledge that this is a well-regarded album, critically speaking, and if I don't "get it," then what does that say about me? I'd rather it say that it's because I need more drums than because I'm a sexist or a moron or lazy or anything like that.

Witch: Look, I can give you a potion. I can do anything, since I am a witch, and I have a great grasp on magic. I just don't think it's going to do you much good.

Joe: Why not?

Witch: Well, because you might just find, after drinking down this magical concoction, that it wasn't the lack of drums after all, and then how are you going to feel at that point? Where will you turn?

Joe: What do you suggest I do, then?

Witch: Listen again.

Joe: I've listening to it a hundred times already!

Witch: Listen again. Seriously listen this time. Try to feel. Try to empathize. There are stories on this album that will reveal themselves once you get over yourself and your obsession with rhythm.

Joe: Like what?

Witch: Like "Me and a Gun."

Joe: But that's the worst song! Not only are there no drums, but there is no piano or any instrumentation whatsoever!

Witch: No! You are wrong! Listen again. There is a story here, and you have been too blinded to see it. This is a horrifying tale of sexual assault. This is Tori Amos bearing her soul, and revealing her trauma. This is an act of courage. The lack of "music" is the goddamn point! No distractions, just a single spotlight trained directly on Tori Amos as she stands tall in the face of her anguish. If you can't see this or appreciate it, then no witch's potion will save you.

Joe: Okay, so then explain to me why the songs on this album that actually do contain some semblance of percussion are the best ones?

Witch: Like what?

Joe: "Tear in Your Hand" being the most prominent example.

Witch: Great song.

Joe: Hell yeah.

Witch: But did you know that that song, along with three others, were only created when her label's manager forced her to write a few songs that "weren't centered around the piano." How does that feel, to have similar music sensibilities as some fucking suit-and-tie music exec?

Joe: That... doesn't make me feel good, no.

Witch: And did you know that Tori Amos was a musical prodigy, and she was accepted to John Hopkins' music school at age five?

Joe: Impressive, but what does that have to do with it?

Witch: It's relevant because of how it ended. She was kicked out of school at age eleven because she liked rock 'n' roll music too much, basically. How cool is that?

Joe: Not a good week to be talking to me about getting kicked out of school, but I can see where you're going with this. You're saying that Tori Amos has the bonafides, she can rock out, but the somewhat un-rock-n-roll sound on Little Earthquakes was a conscious choice to eschew that.

Witch: Exactly. You're acting like the focus on piano is some lack of ability on Tori Amos' part to "add more," but in reality it was a choice. You're fixated on what's missing, as if it's a flaw, but you should really be concentrating on what is here, now, on this album. The lack of drums is only a hole if you make it one.

Joe: So a potion won't cure me?

Witch: No.

Joe: What will, then? Can anything cure me?

Witch: I doubt it. Music is subjective.

Joe: But it sounds like you are telling me that I'm wrong.

Witch: Oh, you're wrong, for sure, but what does it matter? It's Friday, your review is due, and you have to say something. Why not something that is wrong? Why not create yet another rickety fictional construct to mask how wrong you truly are? It's served you well in the past. 

Joe: It doesn't mean I like doing it that way, though.

Witch: I think a little part of you does like it. It probably makes you feel smart, talking about an album this way, transcribing a fake conversation with a "witch" instead of just writing a goddamn review like a normal person. And yet, what have you actually said about the album at this point? Anything?

Joe: No. Not really.

Witch: Oh yes, this is an act of sniveling cowardice, that's for certain. You sit here all week, holding in your hand a dense, well-respected, artful piece of music, and you engage with it on a completely surface level, refusing to really dive in, turning away from its true power, instead saying some bullshit about "lack of drums," as if it's Tori Amos' fault, and not yours. What a gutless, weaselly thing to do. And then to sit here and try to cover up your pusillanimity by talking about witches and magic potions. It's all rather pathetic.

Joe: Would it help if I said that this review was supposed to be an act of penance, rather than an act of cowardice?

Witch: No, that's just you trying to have it both ways. Just because you're putting yourself in a position where you can create a strawman out of a fictional witch and knock down any argument that I put up against you—i.e. any argument that you make against yourself—doesn't make it any less true, the things that I'm saying. And I think if you didn't know that, then you wouldn't have had me say those things in the first place. It's really easy to win an argument when the person you're arguing with doesn't exist.

Joe: I'm not trying to win the argument!

Witch: So then what? What are you going to say about Little Earthquakes? How are you possibly going to end this quote unquote "review"? Are you actually going to talk about the music at any point?

Joe: I mean, I'll probably just leave the grade down here and then sign off.

Witch: Well then, what's the grade?

Joe: 3 pukes out of 5.

Witch: But what does that even mean? You're going to write all day about how you don't "get it," and then you're going to give the album a positive grade? How does that work?

Joe: I think you convinced me. The challenge is part of the fun. I respect that.

Witch: I didn't convince you! You convinced yourself! Jesus fucking christ, what a cop out.

Joe: What cop out? This happens all the time. I wake up at four in the morning, I listen to the album on repeat, I type as much as I can, and sometimes the words that come out of my fingertips end up swaying my opinion by the time I get to the end of the review.

Witch: But doesn't that mean you don't have a good handle on your opinions when you sit down to write a review that is supposed to include your opinions? I mean, that's just shitty music criticism.

Joe: I fully acknowledge that. I am, after all, talking to a fake witch, for some reason.

Witch: Yeah, that conceit really fell off quickly, didn't it? Why am I a witch again?

Joe: I don't know. Me and Pam just watched The Witches of Eastwick and The Craft. Maybe I just had witches on the brain.

Witch: In any case, I think it might be better to just write a straight music review next time. Just saying. It'll be less embarrassing.

Joe: Yeah, I agree. This is too much. I'm going to end it now, okay?

Witch: Okay.

Joe: Just to be clear, when I end the review, that means you won't exist anymore. You're okay with that?

Witch: I accepted that inevitability from the very beginning, man. I just want you to remember something.

Joe: Sure.

Witch: I want you to remember that these reviews are fleeting by design. It happens every Friday. You read the reviews, and then that's it, week over. But I want you to remember that the music is permanent. Another week of Record Club is over, but Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes is still here, ready for another listen. You have the rest of your life to listen to it, if you so choose. Just remember that, okay? Remember that it doesn't end here. Music leaves a permanent imprint. That's what makes it so special. Forget about me, the fictional hastily sketched witch in your terrible album review. It's okay. Just remember the music.