Tori Amos & The Cutting Edge: An Appreciation

The other night I was watching HBO and saw Juan Manuel Marquez drink his own urine, and almost vomited. I saw him sit in a chair and sip from a cup and grin strangely at the camera, like a child caught with his hand down his pants. I thought, "Great. He's retarded." I had been so close to being on his side before this unsettling and disgusting spectacle. Then I watched Floyd Mayweather, who I've never really liked, get a pedicure, and I was caught in a dilemma. The two discomfiting images, juxtaposed, represent both ends of the spectrum of stereotypical "masculinity." Which side do I fall on, I wondered?

The middle, thankfully. I realized this today because I was about to watch The Cutting Edge and then picked up my iPod and saw that it was paused on an old episode of "The B.S. Report with Bill Simmons" with Mike Lombardi as the guest, and they were talking about the upcoming season of the NFL. I nearly began to salivate.

Then I saw that there were less than thirty seconds left, which meant I'd listened to the whole podcast already. I then scrolled through my list of artists whose albums I have on my Touch, and settled on Tori Amos. From the Choirgirl Hotel began to play, and I got to "Iieee" before I noticed the opening credits of The Cutting Edge had begun to play. That was fine by me, because I had to hear "Talula," one of the tracks I deemed worthy of my Touch. It's on Boys for Pele, which is a double album with a lot of fat that I cut from my iPod. Let's face it: no one needs to hear "Doughnut Song" more than--well, ever.

Truthfully, though, once you get past the "fairy" weirdness that she believes, as well as the army of faithful dramatic lesbians that comprises much of her fanbase, you have to admit that Tori Amos is amazingly talented. Her songs can break up into mini-suites inside of the main melody, and then return seamlessly to the chorus. At times, she shows the, uh, cutting edge avant-cool of some of The Beatles' later recordings. They sound nothing alike, but a fearless experimentalism runs through both of the musicians' recordings.

But wait! Moira Kelly (who ranks near the top of my "Underrated Hot Actresses" category, along with Famke Janssen, and I think this is due mainly to her limited filmography of note) and D.B. Sweeney (who's your typical male schlub) had just gotten into the Olympics and were about to celebrate with a night of drunken revelry. At the end of the night, she tries to woo him, but he reluctantly, though nobly, refuses her advances because her judgment is not pure. Eventually, he leaves her room, scorned, and ends up drinking more, alone in his hotel room. The American female half of the other qualifying team then knocks on his door. Surprise surprise--they sleep together and Moira Kelly goes in the morning to his room to apologize, and is incredulous when the other female skater opens the door.

When he finally confesses his love right before they skate, she consents to the dangerous "Pamchenko Twist" maneuver (brilliantly lampooned in Blades of Glory with the finale that previously ended in decapitation when it was introduced in North Korea) that heretofore she had dismissed from the routine. They nail the reconfigured routine, kiss on the ice, and the credits roll. It's a sweet moment, saccharine really, but I've learned to do what Cameron Crowe says, and "embrace the cheese."

Tori Amos, meanwhile, is not cheesy, but she lies on the opposite end of the spectrum of feminine predilections. She is the Mayweather to Moira Kelly's Marquez. However, there is a huge difference between the two sets: Tori Amos doesn't flout her girlishness, and Moira Kelly doesn't drink urine.

R