Mead alerted me to a review of Tori's June 26, 2005 performance at the Glastonbury Festival at glastonburyfestivals.co.uk.
You can also read the review below:
How long has it been since 'Cornflake Girl'? Twelve years? More? Nevertheless Tori Amos is received like some form of visiting angel and, toall intents and purposes, that's exactly what she is. Never mind being voted as Borderline Boiler number 26 - or whatever it was - in Viz years ago; as far as the Sunday night Acoustic stage is concerned, she's a divine and sublime vision, come to touch our drab little lives with her presence and leave us as slack-jawed believers, with puddles of drool collecting in our laps, armed with just two pianos and that haunting, shrill voice.
You see, it doesn't really matter if you know nothing except 'Cornflake Girl'. Hell, a whole generation haven't even heard it, so you could be a Tori virgin and you shouldn't care diddly-squat, because if music soothes the savage beast, she could pacify a randy bull with a matador's spear hanging out of it's arse. It's that voice. The fact that she croons the most starkly beautiful and heartbreaking poetry is immaterial, and that's her appeal. She could be singing the Weed World catalogue or the menu from a burger stall, and all you'd care about would be the sound of this exquisite, provocative instrument.
Cooing, mocking, lamenting, making you clasp your guts and sigh at the sheer sensual pleasure of it all, like sliding into a warm scented bath surrounded by candles that someone has created purely with your seduction in mind. She just takes you away, to another time, another place, another you, even. Calling siren-like to those forgotten corners of your soul and leaving them helplessly exposed, Tori Amos' voice is simply not of this earth, and if your idea of a Sunday evening chillout is crying non-stop while she hangs your soul out to dry, then this flame-haired potty-mouthed temptress will tick all the requisite boxes and then some more that you didn't know mattered.
'Crucify' and 'Silent All These Years' are delicate and passionate, and even a requested cover of Simon & Garfunkel' s 'Feelin' Groovy' purrs soothingly with a wry sauciness, but it's 'Leather' that makes the heartbeat quicken and the mouth dry. "...I'm standing naked before you, don't you want more than just my sex?..." she croons, all lounge-jazz sleaze, with the musky air of a hippy strumpet who could break your heart and steal your wallet in the time it takes for you to unzip your flies.
"You're f**king great, Glastonbury and I love you!" she squeals before 'Barons Of Suburbia' weaves a spell of limb-trembling anticipation and desire over the assembled throng. Amos has still got it, whatever 'it' might be, and here's no way that watching some Manc monkey or dance act after this can even compare, so for the sun to go down on Glastonbury for the last time in two years while her voice and piano still echo in your head, there really is no better reason to call it a night and go back to your tent for sweet love and dreams. And not a cornflake to be had anywhere.