Chasing Amy?

Life was a losing game for Amy Jade Winehouse. It was not a five story fire that came bearing modest flames; it was a raging, towering inferno from which she could not flee in time. She sang it all too well. From the deepest and darkest depths of her soul, the pain spilled out in velvety torrents of melancholy, mediated by a deep, powerful contralto voice that shocked first time listeners with its unparalleled expressiveness. Clearly, the frail-looking petite that burst onto the UK music scene in 2003 with her debut Frank had a raw, brazen and sultry talent that belied her tender years and hinted at the greater things to come in her budding music career. But life was more than Amy could stand. She battled drug and alcohol abuse, violent outbursts, and an eating disorder. Her every self-destructive move was documented by the paparazzi and scrutinized by the public at large. Many, including her family, were surprised she lasted as long as she did with all the demons that tormented her ravaged soul. She was incredibly gifted but immensely troubled. It has often been said the stars that burn the brightest, burn the quickest. And Amy burned faster than you could blink. Laughed at by the gods, the odds were stacked too high against her to successfully combat the ills that plagued her life. I discovered Amy years ago on some forgettable reality tv show about geeks and beauty queens when “Rehab” came on in the background during one cringe-worthy scene. As mediocre as that hitherto unnamed show shall remain, that unforgettable, insane voice of Amy’s caused me to go on an internet rampage. I was floored. Who was this dazzling soul-tress? The new Badu? A viable successor for Lauryn Hill? My generation’s Nina Simone with a touch of Macy Gray thrown in there for good measure? Amy seemed to defy categorizations and simplifications. Her sundry musical influences were apparent at once but just as equally hard to pinpoint with certitude. She could croon like the jazziest of them, her vampy voice rising and shaking with heartfelt sentiment. But she also had a funky groove going on, with “frank” lyrics to match her indolent swagger. That Amy was in a league of her own, nobody could dispute. And after Back To Black, she sealed her place on the exclusive list of influential artists of all time. This album represents everything I love about music and it reinforced my nagging conviction that “real” music by a female artist, or any artist in general, was not a dying breed. Shunning auto-tune and all the dressings of spic-and-span studio polish, Back To Black stands as an astonishing testament to the gifts musicians possess and the power of music to transcend genres and borders. It’s a throwback to the 60’s doo-wop era of girl groups, like the Supremes, and Amy’s sensual voice takes center stage over the harmonizing backup vocals. The album effortlessly mixes a Motown R&B sound with modern, soul scorching lyrics. On a personal level, Back To Black (along with The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots) almost single-handedly nursed me back from a gut wrenching period in my life. To the mournful tunes of tracks like “Back To Black,” “Love Is A Losing Game” and "Wake Up Alone," I sobbed an untold number of times on my pillow, trying to find a way to mend a fragmented heart. After exhausting all my emotional reserves, I could rebound to the sassy subject matter of “Tears Dry On Their Own” or “You Know I’m No Good.” I knew Amy was broken, which made her music all the more real to me; I didn’t need to go that far to understand her sorrow and struggles. Her intimate words were there for me, not to dissect and critique, but to commiserate and connect with on those endless nights when the prospect of a new day held absolutely no luster. Like many, I was not surprised to hear Amy had died but possibly, like a few, I had held out hope that she would be able to defeat those horrid demons aching to claim her for their own. Perhaps because I’m no stranger to dysfunction that I could relate to Amy’s plight. I too had struggled with depression, alcohol abuse and an eating disorder in my younger years, albeit, away from the limelight. Believe me, it takes an incredible amount of time, therapy and sheer will to “recover” from these afflictions and sometimes, there will be those who simply can’t make it to the next round of the game if they have a losing hand. Amy’s death shook me; it reminded me that I could have died had I not found the strength from somewhere to carry on and give those traumas meaning. At 27 years of age after playing and making a mess, she reached the final frame of her life. Life was a losing game- it was more than she could stand, and I can’t help but feel that I lost some part of myself with her death.