Amy, Amy, Amy

It’s funny the events in one’s life that are recalled with crystal clear clarity. I’m a writer who loves William Shakespeare but cannot recite his dialogue at will. Yet, I can quote chapter and verse when it comes, for example, to Neil Simon comedies as well as episodes of The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, Batman, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, All In The Family, The Odd Couple, Get Smart, Roseanne, The King Of Queens, The Flintstones and Bugs Bunny cartoons. I have the sort of weird memory that only recollects movies I’ve seen but also the theatres I saw them at and the audience reaction to certain scenes. (Yeah, I know, it’s a gift.)

Music affects me the same way. I can remember where I was when I heard certain songs or artists for the first time. For example, one time I was visiting a friend of mine who worked at The New Yorker magazine’s mailroom. My friend had music playing softly on her office computer when I walked into her work area. What I heard literally made me stop in my tracks. (It was a musical Michael Corleone-meets-Apollonia moment.) The voice coming through the speaker was that of a youngish lady– one as influenced by Mary J. Blige as by Dinah Washington – singing with an unusual maturity over a tough infectious funky groove.

The singer I quickly found out was a British teenager named Amy Winehouse. The song was the eleven-minute plus closing opus “Amy Amy Amy” from a then-import only CD entitled Frank. Within the hour, I was on a line in the Virgin Megastore – hey, remember record stores? - purchasing her album. For the next couple of weeks, Amy had tip-top rotation in my computer, my CD player – hey, remember them too? – and my I-Pod.

If I was only comparing her to other white female soul singers, I’d have to say that Winehouse was a combination of Lisa Stansfield’s vocal dexterity and Teena Marie’s idiosyncratic lyricism. (By the way, the latter still remains the platinum standard of Caucasian soul.) Except where Teena Marie’s songs treated love as a mystical, magical concept, a Winehouse composition was hip-hop blunt and street-smart direct. Her two best tunes on Frank were prime examples of this: “Fuck Me Pumps” was a cautionary groupie tale and “I Heard Love Is Blind” found her trying to explain her discovered infidelity to her lover. Then she’d flip the script and perform inspired covers of jazz standards like “Mister Magic” and “Moody’s Mood For Love.” No doubt about it, Frank was an impressive debut from a major talent.

Winehouse’s next work Back To Black was even better. Where Frank cautiously melded hip-hop and jazz influences, Back To Black confidently overlaid a Phil Spector -Motown -Stax soulful sheen onto Winehouse’s dusky, defiant bluesy vocals. And the lyrical content was even more candid with witty tales of alcohol and drug-fueled debauchery – along with incisive allusions to folk like Slick Rick, Donny Hathaway and Sammy Davis Jr. - besides heartbreaking tales of lost love. It was a great album showcasing the sound of a singer/songwriter who’d explosively come into her own.

Then came….nothing. No new album or music. Nothing except tabloid headlines, embarrassing concert appearances played ad infinitum on the internet and repeated interventions both public and private until Winehouse’s truly tragic demise earlier this year at the age of 27.

I have to admit I was genuinely saddened by Winehouse’s death. (Saddened but not surprised.) As such, it took me a long time to play her music. In fact, this past weekend was the first time I listened to Back To Black since Winehouse passed away. It was a sobering – pun intended – experience to say the least.

“Rehab” – with her cries of ‘no no no’ and a determination not to ‘go go go’ – now seems like willful self-destruction. And Winehouse’s cry of how ‘I just need a friend’ is heartrendering while “You Know I’m No Good” with her talk of ‘cheating herself’ seems distressingly prescient. “Some Unholy War” and “Me And Mr. Jones ” - with her chilling cry of ‘what kind of fuckery is this?’ – painfully details the allure of self-destructive liaisons whereas “My Tears Dry On Their Own” and “Wake Up Alone” show the agonizing ache of post-relationship depression. And the druggy delivery of “Back To Black” – with the now excruciating line of ‘I died a hundred times’ – and “Love Is A Losing Game” merely heightens Winehouse’s internal torment. What was once a bright brilliant pop record of youthful defiance has been transformed into an artistic and emotional last will and testament on the order of the Billie Holiday masterwork Lady In Satin.

Strangely enough, the only song for me that still maintains the original sense of rebellious verve is also the most overt on the album: “Addiction.” Unfortunately left off Back To Black’s stateside release, the song finds Winehouse gently, rhythmically, chiding her girlfriend against a driving Motown backbeat. It seems her pal’s beau has been dipping into Winehouse’s weed supply without replacing it. Perhaps, it’s the warm conversational tone Winehouse adopts throughout the tune that robs it of any posthumous sting. Yet, it has her most revealing couplet. ‘It’s got me addicted/Does more then any dick did.’ (Talk about your candor!)

To her credit, Winehouse always dealt with her audience with uncommon honesty. (It wasn’t an accident her first album was named Frank.) It’s just too bad that so many of those adoring aficionados paid more attention to catchy pop trappings then the desperate pleadings of a young lady battling her demons out loud. And because of those demons, an incandescent performer has flickered out. Forever.