Musicians comment on life in America all the time. Few, however, can deliver insightful critique without being too caustic or syrupy. Tori Amos navigates a winding path of issues on her latest album, Scarlet’s Walk, and creates a diverse soundscape to match. The disenfranchised, from a murdered woman to Native Americans to gay men, all have a place in Amos’ cryptic lyrics and circular melodies.
The 18 tracks on Scarlet’s Walk bring Amos’ multifaceted vocals and piano skills back to the forefront, after her past several albums fumbled through the ephemeral integration of a band. Amos still finds a place for her “groove machine” on the album, with Jon Evans on bass and Matt Chamberlin on drums, but they support the songs rather than drive them.
The album is mapped not only by America’s landscape but throughout Amos’ dabbling in sound throughout the years. The first single, “A Sorta Fairytale,” is deceptively rosy until the third verse: “I knew that he was looking for some Indian blood…we may be on this road but we’re just impostors in this country.” The song is beautiful and catchy, but underneath its layered halo of vocals lies a thorny subject matter.
Many of the songs follow suit–airy sounds coupled with heavy lyrics. Amos’ sharp poetry is dense with imagery, but her themes come through in snippets of clarity. The opening track, “Amber Waves,” depicts a woman who went from “ballet class to a lap dance,” maybe Amos’ parable of patriotism gone awry.
The jaunty track “Wednesday” is a throwback to Amos’ piano bar days, brought to life by a thread of funky guitar. Its chorus seesaws and circles as her voice commands the tempo of the song with nuances of tone.
Though her lyrics and persona don’t usually betray it, Amos is the queen of subtle changes, even amid a maelstrom of orchestra or shimmying drums. The drama of songs like “Carbon” and “I Can’t See New York” builds up slowly with layer after layer of images and vocal lines.
On “Pancake” she breaks out her politics, looming piano and signature growl. Not since Under the Pink has Amos so masterfully conveyed her discomfort with country and religion, “Our direction a dash of truth spread thinly/ Like a flag on a popstar.”
The album winds down with “Gold Dust,” which meanders before swelling into a finale complete with a full orchestra playing backup. It is at once over–and understated but it leaves a unique impression of Amos’ vision of herself and America.
