Tori Amos
Live @ Teatro Smeraldo, Milano 01.10.09

Three years after the last concert of the red-haired Cherokee, which I had the pleasure of attending back then in Como, I once again wanted to treat myself to the opportunity to probe - seeing and listening with all five senses keenly alert to the performance of the no longer very young Myra Ellen - how much of her then-undisputed talent still remains today.

With the ticket jealously guarded in my pocket, last night I went to the Smeraldo a bit reluctantly, to be honest, like someone who knows perfectly well that they have given in once again to a purchase more out of emotional attachment than out of current real interest. Nevertheless, as punctual as never before, I was seated at 9 p.m. in the third row center in the balcony, right in front of the irreplaceable Bosendorfer. With that, I had spent the entire day with a prolonged listening of the latest CD. Preparation and commitment.

On the stage waiting, grand piano, various keyboards, a bass, drums, and percussion.

At 9:30 p.m., the lights go out, a chorus of screams and applause rises, and as the opening of "Give" from the latest CD begins, there she emerges and presents herself on stage. For the occasion, I even equipped myself with concert binoculars.

The look: ultra-tight pearl-colored latex trousers made even more brilliant by a myriad of tiny sparkling sequins, electric blue clogs/platforms with (minimum) 12 cm heels, worthy of the best Carrà of the golden age, black nail polish on the feet, a light gray top, and over it, an enormous single garment in turquoise color that, starting from the shoulders like a jacket, reached down to the feet, opening into a generous slit right from the height of the groin, revealing the legs sheathed. Here's the Blue Princess, I thought, if not for that loose, straight, fiery red hair and her slightly aggressive appearance, slightly...

She gets on stage and indulges in a strange bow that seems to deposit something on the boards of the proscenium, but actually, in her cupped hands, she has nothing, so I want to imagine it's her magical fluid with which she'll begin her spells. Meanwhile, I think she is increasingly whimsical.

She then starts what actually seems more like what precedes the mating ritual of a seductive cat in front of its suitors than a true dance, slow and sensual. Then she sits, in the usual irreverent way on the edge of the stool with legs slightly apart and a cunning expression, and finally starts to play. It takes me all of "Give", "Little Amsterdam", and finally "Cornflake Girl" to overcome all my resistance and find myself, as always, as it has always been at every one of her concerts, completely at the mercy of her music and her voice, never unsure, never hesitant, still strong, perfectly modulated, intense, completely controlled. We are dumbfounded by her energy, even sensual, as she holds the microphone between her index and middle finger while singing, simulating for just four seconds a fellatio that elicits a roar from the audience, women included. The crowd screams once more when, after "slapping" her beloved piano in time with an uncertain samba on the notes of "Talula", her hands move from it to her body, which she begins to touch with sweet violence, from her breast to the hollow of her legs, while her throat produces a hoarse sound. We are all stunned and excited.

Yet it's nothing new, just another one of the noted performances of the fiery red lady.

But we are still unable not to remain astonished, as she plays like the goddess Kali, piano and harmonium simultaneously as always, standing perfectly at the center of the specular instruments and with the air of a playful lioness. They are only three on stage, but the music they produce sounds like it is played by an entire orchestra, so powerful it is. Two full hours of concert without any break between songs. Just a sip of natural water around the first half of the live show.

Of all the songs presented from the setlist, I particularly remember "Bells For Her", "Winter" (roar), "Girl" (goosebumps), "Put The Damage On" (a touch of tender melancholy for the girl I was thirteen years ago), "Space Dog" (a tearful emotion) "Yes Anastasia" (her sincere exclamation, "Fuck!!" because she was sharp on the high note) and finally the frenzy of "Precious Things" at concert closure, where the given impression was that there was a pair of mechanical arms hidden somewhere to support the beautiful redhead, totally unleashed...

Instead, it was just the performance of a True Professional.

There was only a small off-key note in this simultaneously heavenly and Luciferian vision, almost hallucinogenic:

she has had work done, damn it...even she was influenced by the anti-natural-decline fashion and gave in to the flair of the plastic surgeon who gave her new cheekbones and the idea of a younger skin, but unfortunately took away the well-known funny facial expressions that I liked so much. I did not expect this from her, but I am nonetheless entirely satisfied, and even upon reaching the exit, I continue to have a blissful and somewhat goofy expression that you sometimes see in enraptured children.