Artistry doesn’t come more distilled than through the work of Tori Amos. Her albums — from ‘Little Earthquakes’ to ‘Night of Hunters’, including her seminal album ‘Under The Pink’ and its international hit Cornflake Girl — have always inspired me. Tori’s music has intentional doors with locks that make some of her work inaccessible, and I’m drawn to that. She doesn’t give it all up at the first. She’s not begging for attention, to be known or noticed. No, this is not The Tori Show. Tori Amos has created a space to allow the music flowing through her, with its foibles, nuance and wholeness, stand centre stage. Do I think she’s in contact with a creative force? Yes, I think that’s exactly what’s going on. The respect with which she holds the integrity, honesty and purity of her art is — well — artistry at its finest.

In interviews Tori has said that as a pianist and vocalist, she goes to drummers for a sense of rhythm, and turns to other instruments and visual art for inspiration. In the same way I go to her, to her music and her dance with the muse, for inspiration, because like any great alchemist, Tori Amos has the ability to hide messages in her songs. The dialogue her music wants to have with her audience is weaved into harmonies, instrumentation and arrangement. It’s also, needless to say, directly vocalised, loudly and delicately, in her allegorical lyrics.

Tori Amos’ artistry in I Can’t See New York from the album ‘Scarlet’s Walk’ 2002

I Can’t See New York is a pointed statement on Tori Amos’ cinematic album ‘Scarlet’s Walk’, released in 2002. The album is a sonic landscape which takes the listener on a journey from coast-to-American-coast, and as chilling as it is, the song I Can’t See New York on the later part of the album was written pre-9/11. (Tori Amos has stated in interviews it was, however, recorded post 9/11).

So why is I Can’t See New York an example of high-level artistry, and more, why does it inspire me? Because it starts with the first verse over airplane cabin white-noise, before slamming into the body of the song with two enormous drum crashes and sharp high-hats to illustrate the planes hitting the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001.

I Can’t See New York inspires me because the haunting lyrics are from the point of view of a passenger between worlds, ghostlike and ephemeral. And Amos doesn’t waste a word. Her sophisticated songwriting and performance is evident in every vocal line, with imagery like ‘crystal meth in litres of millions, on the Earth’. For me, that evokes TV-memories of downtown Manhattan covered in dust after the towers’ collapse. I Can’t See New York‘s artistry extends through the second half of the song with ambulances and emergency crews heard in wailing guitar sirens, that fade and shift into a melodic resolution before the song ends. I Can’t See New York is heartbreaking sonic excellence, and for me, exemplar artistry.