They never say which of the three New York shows they are referring to, but it is an interesting read. Most everyone thinks the review is of the March 6, 2003 show.
Many think it is March 6 because Tori wore the silver dress that night and sang the songs mentioned in the review (Precious Things, Winter and Landslide).
You can read this review online at villagevoice.com or below. Thanks to Woj for bringing it to my attention.
The Sound of the City
March 12 - 18, 2003
Posture of the Lioness
Seven white spotlights converge on the woman straddling a grand piano bench. In her flashing silver gown, black boots, and jeans she fulfills all three of her storied personae: diva, witch, and hippie chick. She's mic'd so close you can hear her lick her lips. She launches into "Winter," a hit from 10 years ago, and the audience, prepared to sing along, is mesmerized instead. "Snow can wait . . . I forgot my mittens. . . . " Her huge piano has a hint of reverb shining on the harmonics and underlining the bass notes. She teases lyrics with beats of hesitation, dropping lines to a whisper; all you can hear from the crowd is rapt silence. Outside, there is fresh snow; inside, Tori Amos is in control. She gives it to us like a full-grown woman, working each of her dream biographies through four or five moods, crooning in a lower voice and standing up to thrash the keyboard for a "rocker" like "Precious Things." She channels Carole King or Stevie Nicks (lingering on "Landslide" 's refrain, "I'm getting older too").
One doesn't have to be a Tori-mytho-manean "ear with feet," in their slightly embarrassing parlance, to dig a female singer-songwriter, nearly 40 and the mother of a young child, outside of any conceivable trend (where's Kate Bush these days?), coming out with her best album in four years and commanding the stage at Radio City for three sold-out nights. One doesn't have to, for example, have been a 14-year-old girl when Under the Pink came out, have listened to it under the covers, on cassette, afraid the earphones would slip out of your boom box just as she belted, "So you can make me come, it doesn't make you Jesus." It's enough to be with her in this moment, blinded by the fuchsia lights, along on a tour called "Scarlet's Walk," with porn stars, goddesses, and lots of Indians, "lost in a place called America." - Anya Kamenetz