Tori Amos: Piece by Piece (41 page)

Power. Delicious Power. Herein lies an unknown. Will the judicious voice of the goddess Maat be stronger inside the soul of those whom we call music attorneys, or will the voice of delicious power drown Maat's voice out? It would be great if there were laws in place whereby we as artists aren't at the mercy of what goes on at the eighteenth hole on a golf course. A couple years of my life have been decided at the eighteenth hole. “C'mon, Emmenthal, c'mon Stilton,” my music attorney says to the big Record Company Cheese at the end of the eighteenth hole. “Just let her go,” suggests my attorney, who with much duplicity is just trying to get everyone to think with a clear head. “Is that what she wants?” asks the label Cheese. “Hey, you know, you can sell her, make a profit, and get rid of the headache. Stilton? Emmenthal?” “Is that what she really wants?” asks the Cheese again. And your attorney, as he thinks he's closing the deal, says, “You know it would be best for both parties.” And then the Cheese's putt misses the hole. He looks up from his ball and says, “Fuck her.”

It was raining, not that refreshing spring-in-New-York kind of rain, but that it-should-be-snowing-not-raining miserable kind of day. I'd flown in;

I was on tour. I'm now a member of the PLE (post-limousine era), but at the time I was a member of the PSUVE (pre–sports utility vehicle era). In the limo there was a variety of suits: one of my lawyers, John Branca, my manager at the time, Arthur Spivak, and my tour manager at the time, John Witherspoon (now one of my managers). At this juncture with Atlantic Records there were things that needed to be said. We were at a crossroads. It was no longer just a given that I turn over these song Beings to people who might be in a job that they just should not be in. Should not be in because the definition of this job would mean that they are capable of receiving an artist's music compositions. Assuming that once they receive these music pieces that they would know what to do when putting them out to the world, without denigrating them in any way. Imagine that …

Everybody who had been there when I signed with Atlantic had moved on to other ventures, such as Jason Flom, who heard me sing in a little bar back in 1983 in Georgetown. Although Jason signed me to Atlantic in the eighties, at this juncture he was no longer in my jurisdiction and I wasn't in his. Doug Morris, who really got my career off the ground, had jumped out of the equivalent of a Warner Zeppelin (and I don't mean the band, I mean the big air transport device). He had jumped out of this Warner Zeppelin with his golden parachute, taking Max Hole, who had facilitated the breaking of
Little Earthquakes
, with him over to Universal. So that day my team was focused, sitting in that limousine, and agreed that yes, if there were changes made, then a relationship could be workable for both sides, but issues had to be confronted. Now was the time.

We left Johnny to make calls back to the crew at the venue that was hundreds of miles away, making sure everything for the show the next night was in place. We went in, the three of us, meeting with “those who were they,” the Cheeses representing Atlantic. Branca led off with our
grievances. So, just to clue you in as the reader, very simply, there were seventy right answers to our grievances. But the response we got was as far away as it could possibly be from one of the seventy right answers they could have given. Their argument was, “Look, we felt we did everything we possibly could, from our point of view.” That was it. It was war. The die was cast.

I took the floor and said, “A lethargy has set in to this company by which the stock shares of each person at this company seem to mean more than the music.” The retort was, “We disagree.” I said, “Do you disagree on who is running this label?” And they asked, “What do you mean by that?” I said, “It's clear that no one here can seem to agree on who is running this company. I feel I've gotten caught in a power play here.” They responded, “Well, we don't see it that way at all.” I said, “There isn't much to say anymore, but I will do everything in my power not to hand over as many of my musical children to you.” To me they were the Hand That Rocks the Cradle.

At this point, one of them stood up with a piece of rolled-up paper in his hand, pounding it in the air like a judge's gavel, saying, “I own you, Tori Amos, I own you.” I walked out of the room, leaving the other two to gather their coats. Found Johnny, found the limo. I said to Branca, “Get me off, sell me, sell me to somebody.” He said, “Let me see what I can do.” I said goodbye.

Johnny and I got on a plane headed for the gig. The label would have never known if I had made that gig or not, because they had nothing to do with the live performance and nothing to do with making the records.

A few weeks later I was in New York again. Somebody from the label asked to meet me for coffee, privately. He told me he was sorry that the meeting hadn't gone the way I'd wanted it to. I explained that I thought it could have gone well for both sides. They could have acted as if they
gave a shit and I would have gone on giving 100 percent like I always do. Instead they pretended they continually give 100 percent, when we both know they had refused to genuinely promote my work. It should have been standard practice, for example, for Atlantic to purchase a block of tickets to my concerts and distribute them to the higher-ups at various radio stations, to interest them in promoting my work. Atlantic was buying tickets to my concerts, all right, but instead giving them to the radio hon-chos and saying,
Here's a little handout—as a return we'd like to promote a different
(newer, more “potentially moneymaking”)
artist in exchange.

He was shocked that I knew anything about that. I asked if at least this strategy was working to break the other artist. He couldn't look at me when he told me that Atlantic didn't think my song was a radio hit so they used the tickets they had received for my show as a trade for another artist's career push. I told him I was glad I could help out.

He asked, “Do you know what you did by questioning who holds the power at Atlantic? Do you know that you stirred up a hornet's nest?” I said, “Everyone who knows anything about the situation at the label is also questioning who is holding authority to make the decisions there.” He laughed as he put down his espresso, saying, “Yes, but this is the first time Atlantic was confronted face-to-face about this particular issue, especially in a power meeting like that.” I said, “It doesn't matter; Branca is going to sell me.”

Silence. “Hey” I said, “are you okay?” He waited, reached for both my hands, which wasn't his style, and whispered, “Oh, Tor, I don't think Branca can bail you out of this one.” “What do you mean, ‘bail me out’? I didn't think I was in prison.” He looked away and said, “Call Branca.” “Right now?” “Soon.” “Okay, I'll call him, but not until you say what your instinct wanted to say to me just then. Jesus, c'mon, whose side are you on?” “Look, Tor, Warner, Atlantic, AOL, whoever the fuck, they write
my paycheck.” “No, old friend, I write your paycheck. Robert Plant writes your paycheck. All the artists on the label, even those who have been fucked over by the big Cheeses, write your paycheck.” “Okay, okay … The Cheeses, as you call them, have chosen to exercise their option and keep you under wraps, so to speak.” “Oh, Merry Fucking Christmas—what are you talking about? Speak American, for Chrissake.” “Tori, wake up. It's over.” Silence. “What?” “They won.” “What?” I said in shock, in a walking nightmare kind of voice. “They won. They've got you sewn up for three records. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Tor. I think they want to bury you.” “How can they bury me?” I said, somewhat dazed. “I can play a full house at Madison Square Garden with or without Atlantic.” “Yes, but they've got you sewn up for three records and by then they say you'll be …” “What, be what?” I said, now with tears running down my face in this small little café, with the waiters bringing me napkins for the dam that was about to burst. “Be what?” I whispered, through tears. He lowered his voice and said, “Oh, honey—too old. And then …” “And then, what?” I demanded. “And then no one will want you.” Dam burst all over me, all over the coffee, all over everywhere. Flooding the little table. “Too old,” I cried. “Well, of course I'll be older, fuck them, fuck all of you.”

With gasps of hysteria in between teary, slobbery breathing, I was able to warble two words, “Tina Turner.” He just stared at me, and I said, “Was she too old when she showed all the cool chicks how to be hot? Was she too old when she captured the hearts of all of us? Did she break the chains of her own kind of prison? Was she too old?” Response: “Tor, they are not expecting you to survive this, to even think about being around as long as Tina. You know that in this industry Tina is one of the only ones in the history of the music business who at fifty started her solo career.” By now the café was getting rained on by me, so I started to grab my things. He
grabbed me and gave me a hug and said, “You know, in my own way, I've always been there for you, Tor.” I looked at him and said very quietly, “This is guerrilla warfare. You know that, don't you?” He just stared at me and said, “What can you possibly do? Believe me, they know the contract.” And in that moment the only thing I could think of to say was “Just you wait, Henry Higgins”—I blew my nose—“just you wait.” Another blow. I left first. I guess it was a good thing nobody in there spoke English, not even us.

I got back to my hotel room and called Jamie and John. “Hey, guys.” On the conference speaker I hear two somber voices saying, “Hey, Tor.” I proceeded to tell them everything that had just been revealed to me in that little café in New York City. The phone line got quiet for a moment, and then the two of them said, almost simultaneously, “Tor, they won't let you go.” “What?” I was sure that they would be able to conjure something up. “John, Jamie, get me off, if somebody tells me they own me, then fine, sell me to someone else.” The somber voices answered back, “We've tried. We've really tried to show them the advantages to selling you, and they have just dug their heels in. They won't let you go.” A thousand guns were pointing at my song children and me in that moment, as I heard the drums summoning all of us to the record company guillotine, me and the songs together, in a line. I held the phone to my head in disbelief, asking John and Jamie, “Is this revenge?” John responded, “They won't look at it that way, even when pressed. Their strategy is tight. Their response is that you are a valued artist, so why would they want to let you go …” “John, Jamie, c'mon: the marriage is over, there are no conjugal rights, it's a dead marriage. I want a divorce from them.” “Yes. Tor, we understand this. But they are saying they won't let you get a divorce, and your contract says that it's their option.” “So I'm their prisoner, in actuality.” The somber voices drummed on. “They want your product.” “Yes. I understand they want to
take my product, hoping all this will diminish my value on the street.” “We're sorry but we didn't do this early development of your recording contract.” “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I know the drill, guys. I know when I've been put in check on the chessboard. So how many years of my life do they own from today?” I was having this conversation in December 1998. “You're looking at around four years of your life, based on your past productivity.” Jamie said this trying to be brave, but I heard the sadness in her voice. “Then, Tori, in four years, you should be free to go.” Free to go. Free to go. “Free to go where? In four years, with no promotion of my work except on a minimal level, we all know the interest will diminish … and then I will diminish. I'm not totally stupid.” There was silence on the end of the phone, and I knew that they knew that I knew that my future looked very bleak indeed. And John, as a last-ditch effort to cheer me up, said, “I've warned them, Tor, that you could do what Prince has done.” “Yeah, and what aspect of what Prince has done have you warned them I will do?” He said, “By performing on television and writing ‘slave’ on your face.” And, without any emotion in my voice at that point, I said, “Of all the moves I can make right now, guys, and there are not many, some white girl with red hair who has a bank account with at least something in it, who writes ‘slave’ on her face, will not only have no career left, but won't have any friends left, either. I mean, for Chrissake, let me have some friends here.” Believe it or not, they laughed. Believe it or not, I laughed back. I thought to myself in that moment,
If the Cheeses take that away from me, then they have won. If anyone can take that away from me, then they win.
I thought for a second and then I said, “Listen, you two, I need to think. I need to go see the medicine women. I'll call back in a week to restrategize.”

I did go to see the medicine women. They all said the same thing. Then I saw my friend Lorraine Neithardt, a mystic. Whether I like it or
not, what she reads into a situation, for good or ill, is always spot on. So I knew the grim walk that lay ahead of me. Although I could hear the information that spoke of this grim walk, I felt more shattered than capable of taking on my jailors. And for all those spiritual skeptics out there: I don't disagree with your skepticism, but you know what? Logic had failed me. The law had failed me. Any sense of loyalty from the record label had failed me. Using my trump card, which is my fan base, was something I could not do, because to drag them into this is like dragging others through shit and puke. You can ask that of somebody once, but it had better be worth it. And, frankly, these people were just not worth it. They weren't worth risking that relationship. So I called on the warrior goddesses and I started to construct a shape that I would step into to combat this malevolence. That kind of vitriolic posturing that you get from insecure power. Looking back, it's kind of amusing now, only in that I can see the difference between raw male power being exerted with a clear intent and distorted male power that at its root is a record company Cheese with erectile dysfunction.

I remember Branca and I having a coffee over breakfast not so long ago. We were having a laugh about the past after the success of
Scarlet
in the States, and he said to me, “I know you miss Polly.” He was referring to Polly Anthony, with whom I partnered at Epic Records once I left Atlantic. And John Branca sat at that breakfast and said, “Donnie [Donnie Ienner, head of Sony Music, the new Cheese I report to] is a powerful guy, and you will find he has a different style than Polly.” And John looked at me and said, “I know you and Polly had become friends but are you open to the changes at Sony?” And, as ever, I smiled at John and said, “Why wouldn't I be open to the changes at Sony? I have never had an issue with powerful men. I usually get along with them quite well. It's the men who aren't powerful that become little tyrants because they don't know how to
exert their power—that, I have an issue with. So if Donnie is truly a powerful guy, then I'm sure we'll get along like wine and … Cheese.”