By Cassie Bustamante

When one of my favorite musical acts from my teen years announced a nearby tour stop last year, I quickly snagged two tickets. Tori Amos, piano virtuoso and singer-songwriter known for her powerful, thought-provoking ballads, released her solo debut album, Little Earthquakes, in 1992. It served as the soundtrack to my high school career, which began the very same year. Track two, “Girl,” expressed how I felt as I grappled with who I wanted to be: She’s been everybody else’s girl, maybe one day she’ll be her own.

The last time I saw Amos perform live was during her 1996 tour, when my friends and I caught her — and “a lite sneeze” (IYKYN) — at Springfield Symphony Hall in Massachusetts. Now, almost 30 years later, I step into Charlotte’s Ovens Auditorium — a fitting name on a sweltering June day — for Amos’ 2023 Oceans to Oceans Tour.

Dressed like something straight out of My So Called Life, my concert cohort, Chandra, wears a babydoll frock with Doc Martens, while I’ve donned a long bohemian dress with Birks. Chandra, who accompanied me to Nashville for the Eras Tour, peers at the concert-goers around us. “Much different crowd from our Taylor Swift experience, huh?”

She’s right. The fans are “mature” — and I suddenly feel well aware of my own age — and there’s a lot less pastel and glitter, more goth and grunge.

After finding our seats, three men around our age sit to the left of Chandra. One, wearing a pride bracelet, explains that he’s been a fan for years. “Little Earthquakes helped me find the strength to get out of an abusive relationship when I was in my 20s,” he says.

Looking around the auditorium, I wonder how many of us have been pulled through crises by Amos’ lyrics.

To my right, two seats remain unoccupied through the opening act’s set. But after the band exits the stage, two women plop down, visibly tipsy.

The taller of the two, a natural redhead like Amos, turns to us, bright blue eyes glistening with excitement — or maybe it’s booze — and shouts, “I can’t believe we’re here! I love Tori!”

She asks our names and we return the question. “Funny you should ask because I know my name and it’s not the one my mom gave me. She named me Jennifer, middle name Kelly — Jennifer Kelly! I mean, how ’80s can you get?” She leans in a little too closely to me. “This is the face of a Laura, isn’t it? I know I am a Laura.”

We nod politely, turning back to our own conversation, but Jennifer Kelly is not having it. “I am such a fan. Actually, I am a stalkeress.” My eyes widen in horror — not even at the stalking, but at the proud shameless admission. Oblivious, Jennifer Kelly continues, “Yeah, I found her house in Ireland and roamed around her property. I didn’t see her, but I was there!”

We try to disengage, but Jennifer Kelly is at this concert to be heard.

“I am going to warn you right now, I know all of the words and I plan to sing along loudly. And I trance dance.”

Trance dance?

Finally, the lights go down and Amos takes the stage. For such a vocal powerhouse, she’s much more petite at 59 than I remember.

Without so much as a word, she sits down at her piano and plays a long prelude, soon recognizable as “A Sorta Fairytale,” a fan favorite.

While I fully expect Jennifer Kelly to sing loudly, I don’t anticipate what happens next. She talks to her friend. Nonstop. Throughout the entire song — and the next few.

But, as Amos begins tapping the piano keys for her fifth song, Jennifer Kelly suddenly slumps her head, swaying it from side to side. Her hand grabs her friend’s knee.

Seconds later, her mouth is running again.

“Um, you can’t be in a trance one moment and then talking the next,” Chandra mutters in my ear. Trance dancing — which I google from my seat — by definition, is a spiritual experience that requires one to escape from themselves for a moment and move in a state of half-consciousness. Got that, Jennifer Kelly?

It’s clearly an act, one that goes on through the remainder of the concert. We do our best to focus on who we came here for, but it seems we’ve inadvertently bought tickets to the Jennifer Kelly show.

Just before the encore performance, Jennifer Kelly and her pal exit. I breathe a sigh of relief as Amos begins singing “Cornflake Girl.” In a crowd of hundreds, it feels like Chandra and I have the last two songs all to ourselves.

Exiting the auditorium, I laugh and say, “We have a lot to talk about in the Uber ride back!”

And then we see them, standing outside.

“Keep walking,” I whisper as I accidentally make eye contact with Jennifer Kelly.

“Girls!” she shrieks as if we’re old friends. “Sooooo . . . what did you think of the show?”

“Tori was fabulous,” I say as I hustle past. Then, under my breath, “What we could hear of her anyhow.”

We pile into our Uber, Jennifer Kelly a red-headed glimmer in the rearview mirror.

While Chandra and I recap the absurdity of our Tori Amos concert experience, I can’t help but feel grateful that her music comforted me while I figured out who I was. Some people, it seems, are still searching for that identity. And it isn’t Jennifer Kelly. But it might be Laura.