TW: This review contains mentions of sexual violence.
“I was gonna take a year off, but the songs just demanded that I tell their story, and their story was about life under the pink. That’s why the album is called Under the Pink. These are just some of the different lives that happen in that world. If you ripped everybody’s skin off, we’re all pink, the way I see it. And this is about what’s going on inside of that.”
Amid the grunge and angst of the ‘90s, Tori Amos remains one of the most idiosyncratic forces to rise during the decade. Her piano ballads are melancholically pensive, exploring topics from religion to womanhood to politics and the interwoven relationships between them, which she presents through lyrics that can be likened to enigmatic poetry, continuously gripping long after listening.
After fronting Y Kant Tori Read, a short-lived synth-rock band, Amos developed her singer-songwriter craft with her solo debut, Little Earthquakes, which became a success, with critics highlighting its emotional depth and art-pop sensibilities. Shortly after, the songstress released her sophomore album, Under the Pink. This also received wide critical acclaim, and 30 years later, its themes resonate with a chilling touch.
“Pretty Good Year,” the album’s opener, has a graceful, almost ethereal piano introduction, painting a seemingly blissful world. As Amos sings, however, the notes quickly become heavier, echoing the doubt that comes with time passing. The song is inspired by a letter she received from a fan in which he expresses his hopelessness; as the song builds to the chorus, she sings “They say you were something in those formative years / Hold onto nothing as fast as you can,” conveying the dissatisfaction he has with how he’s evolved over the years. She follows with the chorus, “Well, still, pretty good year,” presenting numbness as a response, a sort of coping mechanism for that dissatisfaction. At the same time, though, she paints the big picture; getting through the year is inherently “pretty good” when it feels difficult to get through each day.
The frustrations in “Pretty Good Year” blossom into “God,” where Amos sings about God’s unreliable nature. Though God is seen as this all-encompassing power who’s supposed to always care, it’s sometimes difficult to realize that, which Amos expresses, belting “God, sometimes you just don’t come through” throughout the song. Amos’ piano and Steve Caton’s electric guitar meld together, creating a cacophony that sounds like it’s pounding in a cathedral, reflecting a chaotic world that welcomes tragedy and heartbreak despite God’s presence.
“Past the Mission” also evokes religious themes, and is arguably the album’s most cathartic addition. Amos has said that the song discusses “a personal experience with sexual violence,” referring to when she was assaulted at 21, and “healing from that experience.” The “mission” and the “prison tower” in the song seem to carry a literal meaning, the church, but also represent the endless loop of compliance that can come with victimhood. But as Amos repeats, “Past the mission, I smell the roses,” she confidently expresses hope, journeying toward liberation and freeing herself from that oppressive loop.
Under the Pink discusses another specific topic: female friendships and the slow, shaky destruction they can endure. “Bells for Her,” the first occurrence of this, features underlying bells that sound dissonantly haunting, depicting the friendship’s ending as ominous and wholly unresolved. Amos sings of a woman who has given up on supporting her friend because she can’t find any more ways to help her through an abusive relationship, but at the same time, she “can’t stop loving.” She will always care.
“Cornflake Girl,” one of Amos’ most well-known songs to date, delightfully upbeat and undeniably catchy, describes rivalries that can come between women. “Cornflake girls” are the women who betray other women for their own benefit, which may not feel real to the victims at first, but as Amos bitterly sings “You bet your life it is,” the pain resounds, feeling more real than ever.
“Space Dog” is a standout, bouncing back and forth between funk-layered verses that feel like a transcendental dream sequence to a more structured, melodic chorus. Something particularly distinguished is the song’s outro, with an echoing voice saying, “Those bombs, our friends, can't even hurt you now,” which could tie back to the commentary on friendship, emphasizing the feeling of invincibility that can come with freeing yourself from people who put you down – or perhaps something even more ambiguous.
One thing for certain, though, is that Under the Pink has many moments ridden with anxiety, authentically capturing that inescapable anxiety that comes with being stuck in your head. “The Waitress,” an undoubtedly powerful song perfect for blasting through the rooftops, is simultaneously claustrophobic, depicting what it feels like to succumb to desires you can’t control. The narrator in the song doesn’t want to be violent, wanting to “kill this killing wish,” but the wish lingers despite Amos relentlessly screaming “I believe in peace,” which pierces throughout the chorus. “Cloud on my Tongue” is also anxious, the narrator shutting herself off from the world and seeking captivity in her ceaseless rut, and “Baker, Baker,” though sounding sentimental, harbors guilt, Amos pleading “Make me whole again.”
Despite the heaviness cloaking Under the Pink, finding its way in all of the seams, the underlying promise of liberation returns in the end, encompassed in the album’s nearly 10-minute closer, “Yes, Anastasia.” This song is inspired by the story of Anastasia Romanov, which, though tragic, demonstrates a sharp vulnerability that is only found when you are at your lowest. Amos concludes by singing “Come along now little darlin' / We'll see how brave you are,” finally willing to face herself and address her inner truths. Although that seemed difficult song and song again, it is now possible.
But the second verse of “Pretty Good Year” continues ringing. Amos sings “Maybe a bright sandy beach / Is gonna bring you back, back, back / Maybe not, so now you're off / You're gonna see America / Well let me tell you something about America” with the piano crescendoing into a minor segment following “America,” sounding much darker than the rest of the song. This tonal shift signifies uneasiness, and it comes and goes so quickly because the thought of delving into that uneasiness is daunting. Considering the times we’re living in now, with the future of American democracy being a mystery, albeit one lacking hope, that moment in the 30-year-old album feels more timeless than ever. As we rip the skin of America and face life under the pink, our hope is that we, too, can seek liberation when we need it.