Amy Winehouse died, and while we laugh…
It wasn’t funny.
Now, of course she died unnaturally- she was crushed by a bulldozer, right? That saddens me, because my instincts tell me that she was on to bigger and better things, and by that I mean more top-chart songs and catchy old-timey swoon songs. Lady-crooner shit.
But, she’s dead, and unless you’re a banshee, you can’t sing when you’re dead (Although, as a human, she was probably as close as a banshee as you’ll ever get; she’s tied with, like, Paula Abdul or Lindsay Lohan).
This post is in loving memory of our dearest Amy Winehouse, who, contrary to popular belief, was actually born Amy Jade Winehouse. In her 2003 debut album, Frank, she captured the hearts of millions with songs like “F**k Me Pumps” and “In My Bed.” She later released “Back To Black” in 2006, which confirmed fans’ suspicion that all her songs were metaphors for either sex or drugs. Nobody minded, not at all. That’s how they do things in Britain, anyhow (ever watch the British Office?).
While the tattooes (she had seven *that we know of*) and the beehive hairdo led you to believe she was old and banshee-like (I’m not complaining, guys, her voice was incredible),
she was 27 when she died.
She was nineteen when she released “Frank.”
I seriously thought she was well into her thirties. Maybe forty.
As a younger boy, I was fascinated with her appearance and her voice when my mum started listening to her. Mum constantly reminded me: “Tom, she does drugs,” or “Don’t date a girl like Amy.” I didn’t plan on it. She reminded me of a Veela, from the Harry Potter books, which always creeped me out- seductive bitches. In this case, Winehouse had her voice, but not much else.
I had a thought one day on what drugs do (I was going through the rigorous but totally unnecessary DARE programme- ‘Drugs Are Really Evil’ or something really stupid like that. Of course I won’t do drugs, but I don’t need to be bribed with stuffed lions in cop clothes.
Okay. I do.)
and how they affect Amy Winehouse and her lyrics and personality and stuff.
I guess these lyrics are some of the more prolific ones she’s sang:
“The man said ‘Why do you think you here?’
I said ‘I got no idea
I’m gonna, I’m gonna lose my baby
So I always keep a bottle near.’ ”
(- from “Rehab”)
Even though she never got pregnant, and was in most fields successful (she had won five Grammies with “Back to Black”) she definitely kept a bottle near. In Serbia, she was booed during a performance, as she tripped over things on the stage and never officially sang anything. She was apparently “too drunk to sing.”
On that happy note, I’ll write a short eulogy for her, that will inevitably be lost in cyberspace among the millions of other words written for, about, and against her:
Amy, you were pretty cool, and drugs are bad, yo. It’s a shame that you died because you’re one of the few British people I’m actually down with. I’ve lost a lot of respect for Tom Felton recently (for viewers: search ‘Feltbeats’ on Youtube), and I’ve always enjoyed listening to you if not staring at a creepy picture of you. You’re like the Salvador Dali of singing: No one really wants to give you their attention because some aspects of you freak them out, but they have to, because you’re unique and junk. “The Persistence of Memory” is easily rivalled, if not overpowered, by songs like “Tears Dry On Their Own” or “You Know I’m No Good.” If you were a writer, you’d be Sylvia Plath, and she shoved her head in an oven and baked herself to death. I hope you went to heaven and not hell, because hell sucks.