Women's rapid rise in rock has produced many new role models, but some of them require a second look before they're confirmed as worthy.

Take Tori Amos. For all her musical gifts and guts, she's no more of a true though twisted genius than the overrated Courtney Love, registered instead as yet another tortured soul whose excesses are hailed as profundity.

Like another era's Jim Morrison, Amos has made her career an ongoing therapy session to rebel against a repressive childhood. (Morrison was the son of a strict Navy man; Amos is the daughter of a Methodist preacher.)

For Amos, 32, this impetus colors her new album differently than the first two.
On those, she was boldly exploring her sexuality and womanhood. Now she's asserting emotional and creative independence, self- producing the disc after splitting from her producer and boyfriend of eight years, Eric Rosse.

But while Amos seems more confident, she isn't more controlled. Her melodies meander, and her provocative lyrics and album photos bespeak juvenile impudence more than inspired artistry. In Muhammad My Friend, Amos indulges her feminism in a heretical, history -defying concept, informing
us that Jesus Christ was female. And in her album's lavish photo spread, she appears to breast-feed a piglet before sprawling on a backwoods porch, mud-splattered and cradling a rifle.

That may fly for fans who tap in to Amos' emotional intensity and starkly stirring performances, or who expect rock's women to all fit the same angry mold. But for others, she's an acquired taste at best -
even if you already like Kate Bush.

What does it mean? What does it matter? It must be good.


In effect, Amos takes Bush's torch and lights it at both ends.


Like Bush, she plays eclectic blends of pop, blues and soft jazz while relying on the elegance of a classical core. And like Bush, her vocals are alternately breathy and belting.


But Amos is more fierily outspoken than Bush, railing against patriarchy and describing her own rape, and she's also an offbeat New Age seeker, having become a devotee of a Hawaiian volcano goddess. (The titles Pele refers to that, not soccer's superstar.)


While her subjects can be sobering on this 18-song, 70-minute album, their expression is often far from eloquent or even coherent.

Amos' symbolism is obtuse to the point of nonsense, and she sacrifices meaning for rhyme and wordplay. Just try explaining, "The weasel squeaks faster than a seven-day week / I said Timmy and that purple Monkey / Are all down."


Melding such words with her inspired singing and piano work, the music, at least, sounds good. Even with minimal accompaniment, Amos' performances can compensate for rambling material.
Most galvanizing here is Caught in a Lite Sneeze, a rare rocker accented by inventive percussion and Amos' beloved harpsichord.


She details her breakp with Rosse in the sorrowful and jarringly tender Hey Jupiter, assessing herself as "this little masochist."


In that and other spare but vibrant numbers, Amos flings away emotional baggage. While you may not like where she's flingning, she does pack a punch.


Even when her words need deciphering, the emotions behind them ring clear. And in pop's often barren landscape, the fire of fervent feelings can warm many listeners.


But an artist should aim for something than flaunting her soul's
hard-earned scars in ranting, anything-goes exhibitionism. In actors that's called chewing the scenery. In singer/songwriters, it's often applauded as admirable confessional zeal.


But mere extremism is no substitute for meaningful communication.

Even though I love Tori and her music more than anything in the world, everyone has a right to their own opinion, which means that not everyone has to like Tori. So here is an unfavorable review on Boys for
Pele. The recording was given two stars, four being excellent, and two being fair.