Tori Amos: Piece by Piece (32 page)

“But you need us. The big shows are next week.”

“Yes, and no. I don't need anybody. I came into this world with a piano and I will leave this world with a piano. I
chose
to need you, and right now I'm ready to
choose
to need someone else. The ball's in your court, guys, but the clock is ticking.”

At this point Keith politely says, “Five minutes to sound check, lads. Tea, then?”

And off they go.

ANN:
Amos has developed the strength to intervene if a crisis hits the tour, but as important is her commitment to communicate with crew members on a daily basis. People tend to remain on her crew for many years, partly because she believes in offering technicians and support people a chance to fully realize the creativity of their positions, in collaboration with her.

Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt

There's more to working with Tori than just playing music and getting the paycheck and getting out. There's a whole idea of communicating things. Tori has things to say onstage, and I try to accent it with lighting. I listen to her music, I've talked with her about her ideas, about the songs or the overall space of the tour, and then I just try to create more environments on top of it.

I'm going out with Eminem after this tour is over. I'm more of a hired hand there. If I'm ever called into the dressing room, it's a bad thing. It's not that he doesn't care how the show looks, but we're not going to sit there and share ideas. It's more like he says, “This is how I want it.” That's the usual reality on a tour. But with Tori, there's collaboration. If she starts to play new songs, even during rehearsals, I'll just throw lights up to
just try to create something in my head that goes along with what she's playing, and she'll stop and say “That's pretty what is that?” We'll have a back-and-forth, and my work evolves from that.

ANN:
Despite everyone's best efforts, conflict is inevitable on tour, especially when it comes to the daily schedule. More than most audience members know, every minute counts.

Even well-oiled machines need tune-ups. Very simply if a squabble on the road has made its way into my jurisdiction, then obviously it hasn't been dealt with correctly. And once it's on my radar, then I will be putting in my two cents. All the crew members learn this quickly, and some learn it by being handed a plane ticket—I don't mind where, but off my ship. Do we run a tight ship? Yes and no. I don't care what you eat or how you sleep or with whom, as long as everyone is consenting. Some bands have security cops that follow people around on their days off and watch what they eat—vegan watchdogs. If a band has members in Alcoholics Anonymous, some tours will employ antialcohol cops to make sure that the crew remains sober, so that if the musicians go out with them then they are not tempted to drink. Frankly, I don't care what people eat or drink, but I do care if you can't do your gig. If I start doing your gig, and you will know that I am because Andy Solomon will come and tell you that I am, then it's not going to go very well for you. We are out here to be the best. Now, we are not the only touring act that is out here to be the best. But we are part of a privileged group of troubadours that have a reputation so that year after year people will come. If you are on my crew, you have to love touring because I pause for very few reasons. If you can't cut the pace, then you need a slower tour.

You're only as good as your crew. Let me repeat myself … you're only as good as your crew. Hear me, young future superstars—even if only in your own mind. If you are a good performer (not great—let's be honest here, radio gods and goddesses) and you have a great crew, the perception will be that you have a great show. If you are a great performer but have a mediocre crew, it'll sound shit and look shit, and it's hard to shine through shit. Riveting stuff, but very simple. I ride the crew hard. But I'm fair. And I reward them. You've got to reward your crew. Sometimes we're rolling on six shows a week with shorter, radio-sponsored shows on the off day. If some “genius suit” (from the business side of my world) suggests that the crew doesn't need the most expensive lager on their buses after load-out, then, through my “favorite suit” (Philip-the-Good, officially Phil Holthouse, my beloved accountant), this “genius suit's” suggestion will be knocked on the head during a business conference call with the words “The artist, whose money it is, incidentally, reminds us that the crew is doing six shows a week while some of ‘us’ are having a cozy weekend sitting on our fat asses. Next?” “The suits” have their role, but they don't always make the right call for the right reasons. The crew must feel as if “said artist” respects the fact that they are breaking their balls. So if the best lager or better after-show food helps to make broken balls happy balls, that's important. Do the crew members think I'm a motherfucker? You'll have to ask them. If so, hopefully they think I'm a fair one.

There are a lot of elements being juggled on any given day. We might be a few performances into a tour already before Tori even runs into some of the crew members. The pace can be manic—radio shows, meet and greets, interviews, and more. Tori's had a full day before she even walks into sound check. She doesn't expect crew members to cover her side of
the day for her, and in return, she expects the technical side of the show to be working. One of the most important things for her is rehearsal. She sound checks every single day for at least an hour. For her it has to run like clockwork. That is the most important thing to her. The hours are long but when you have a good show everybody feels it, from the stage to the sound board to the production office. It's why we all ultimately do this, for that payoff.

Because a tour is essentially a flow, and it has to keep rolling, time is often the biggest area of dispute. There are two areas on tour about which you can't negotiate, timewise. One is a child's schedule, and the other has to do with penalties. In many venues, because the staff is unionized, if a show goes past a certain hour, you have to pay a large overtime fee. The penalty can also include running over your designated sound-check time. If we're running fifteen minutes behind, sometimes we're fighting to get that fifteen minutes back all day. And if it's just one of those days when you're doing radio or telly and we're behind because the driver was late or Tash got sick that morning, it can be harrowing. We're playing catch-up. If we don't make it, I'll have to choose to cut the show down or take a financial hit.

Sometimes I'll take that hit, and sometimes I won't. I might say that instead of doing three eight-minute-long songs, we'll do three four-minute-long ones. Songs that I know people really love but will still let us meet our time. So I'm sitting there fiddling. That's when you have to know time, but not just clock time. You have to have an internal sense, which includes improvised live song timings. And those obviously change from night to night. So you have to have a sense of your own rhythm, the band's rhythm, the crew's rhythm—is it a blue day? Is it a triple-espresso
day? All of this affects tempos and could change the show by ten minutes, which is a huge amount in penalties. This timing is something you either develop or don't. It's not something that can be taught. Over the years, either you gain the skill because of a certain intuitive mixed sense of rhythm time and real clock time, or it just doesn't click. I can't really write music out and I can't count very well. But I have a sense of the time of each song, to the second, almost.

For acts that blow their schedules all the time, that can be a $5,000 penalty, at the least, night after night. Poorly made decisions can cause a tour to shut down. How many acts do you know that have had to cancel their tours recently? I'll tell you why. It's because record companies, who typically extend no-interest loans to artists to finance their tours, say, “We cannot shoulder this anymore. We just fired a thousand people this week.” These days the touring artist isn't allowed to run up a ridiculous bill. And tours are costly, with trucks, buses, food, salaries, venues—you're talking lots of money. The record companies are hurting because of changes in the industry, and they can't afford even the loaned support they once offered. Now, I've never taken tour support. But the economy's downturn has an impact on my organization, too. Times are tight, and this is affecting everybody: the labels, the artists, the crew, sound system suppliers, bus companies, truck companies, catering companies and all the employees— and the fans, of course, who would like to come to the show but can't afford the tickets.

Tori the businesswoman and Tori the performer are both included in the decision to cut a performance short. Because my performances are more than two hours long, I don't feel I'm shortchanging anyone if I play for ten fewer minutes. Sometimes you can't get sentimental. You have to make a decision very quickly. You're rewriting set lists, time is eating away. You know how long the show is. You already know you can't make
it. Above all, you have to keep things running. I've always believed in the balance. Why can't we live like human beings on tour
and
pay our bills?

ANN:
Despite the daunting economics of touring, Amos makes choices that others might consider luxurious—and not only for herself. Creating a nurturing environment, she allows for everyone in the caravan to maintain health and inner harmony.

Playing music is hard work, you know! There are so many things going on during a performance, and you have to be able to concentrate. Getting sleep helps. Tori never drinks before she goes onstage. Matt or I might have a beer or a glass of wine or something, but we never really indulge. Especially with all the travel—this tour is so much traveling, often on really bad roads. You can end up with serious sleep deprivation. Like you'd actually get shaky and your insides feel like they're just trembling; it's the worst feeling. But you have to keep up with this pace. You can't stop and say, you know, “You guys, I'm going to go to a spa for three days and regroup.” You have to keep going. You can't get sick. You just have to take care. So you try to sleep when you can and eat as well as you can. Sometimes it's just not possible to keep the regimen going. You know when you feel run down, you just want something that tastes good? That plate of fries is not necessarily what you need. Later you feel even worse. So you go through these little cycles, and it's really hard. There's no easy answer on that.

A tour is a long race, and if it takes a personal chef and a nanny to help make your life better so that you're not so beat up, hire them if you can,
because this will beat the hell out of you. Whatever it takes, really, to preserve Tori so that she can keep doing it, that's what we need to maintain. Look, if she cancels a long tour because she's burned out, or gets ill, then we're all out of maybe one year's work and salary. Most tours get a crew signed on months before they go out, so you can't just get another gig that easy. She's made some really smart choices in that. She knows it all hinges on if she can maintain. She knows what she wants to eat; she knows what she needs to keep going, and she puts systems in place that help perpetuate the whole thing.

People ask me if Tori's a diva. What is a diva, anyway? I don't know. Tori has always been very particular, which some people have a problem with, but I like it very much. At least I know what she wants—because
she
knows what she wants, right? And if there's anything to go wrong between the execution and the request, it's just a communication breakdown. So no, I never saw her in that way.

Back when I was just a girl with my piano and a small crew, I would make the tours pay for themselves, but when you get a huge entourage, one more bus, one more truck, the costs multiply. Matt and Jon count for more than two people—they have techs who look out for them, and with their gear we need another bus, and now we have a nanny … It's big, you know.

I guess there are some very successful artists who don't have their musicians staying in the same hotel as they do. I can't do that. That's not right, especially if you can afford it. Now what does “afford it” mean? Does it cost a lot of money? Are you kidding? Of course it does. Would I save thousands and thousands of dollars—six figures—if I had my band and crew stay in a Motel 6? Substantially. But it's worth it. We also have
catering on the road, which a lot of people don't have. Most tours pick up local catering. With your own catering crew, you don't have the same old fried chicken and Sloppy Joes every day. You try to have salads and soups, healthy food. A vegetarian option, a fish choice, some meat, whatever. I'm trying to treat people as I would want to be treated.