We knew she was trouble, we knew she was absolutely no good when she slurred and stumbled into our hearts. She spit on fans, got into bar fights, a well-documented romance that made Bobby and Whitney look like Obama and Michelle, she had an undeniable drug and alcohol addiction, yet she still shimmied her way into our hearts. With 1950′s style mini-dresses and a beehive hair-do that seemed to be designed by God himself, Amy Winehouse was a train-wreck, but we still let her sing her way into our consciousness, be the soundtracks to love’s epiphanies and heartbreaks.

“We could have never had it all; we had to hit a wall, so this is an inevitable withdrawal.” Perhaps, it was sentiments like those heard in “Tears Dry on Their Own.” A shameless honesty soaked in soul and brutalness that was foreign to hear in music, at the time. Winehouse knew how to be painstakingly honest about drugs, alcohol, and her feelings and still sound and feel like a proper soul artist that let room for Duffy, Estelle and Adele. Yet, through the rumors and pictures, we knew that likelihood of us having Winehouse on this earth for too long was a losing gamble.

I, along with most of America, officially fell in love with Amy Winehouse in my hometown of New York City at Joe’s Pub. I was 17 and shouldn’t have been there, but her performance was worth it all. Her fragile body, big hair, and bigger voice consumed the place. She’d swirl her hips, take a sip of her drink, and she was charming. Then, when she’d drink some, the crowd would cheer and encourage it. It seemed like the more alcohol that got into her system, the more heart-felt her lyrics got. Amy Winehouse wasn’t a American beauty nor did she have a vixen body, she seemed like a hero of average, everyday people with something big to show the world. I believe, that was the real connection people had with Winehouse. She seemed so amazingly talented, yet so tangible and relatable. Even if that relate ability was through her misery.
Lyrics like, “I don’t ever want to drink again, I just need a friend” can’t help but chirp in your mind when hearing about Amy Winehouse’s death. The fact that she never quite owned her vice, but it was the only alternative she had in her world or so she felt to being painfully alone. That’s heartbreaking. Self-medicating loneliness and depression is dangerous, but it makes for damned good music.

Of course, Amy Winehouse is one of a long-stream of brilliant artists killed at the age of 27. The numerologist in me is not shocked. 2 plus 7 does equal 9. Nine is the number of completion, it’s the number that most effects humanity. So, it does make sense, in the numerological sense, that our favorite artists that effected the world so deeply would all seem to not make it passed the big two seven. Basquiat, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, amongst others all effected the world intensely with their craft, had their height, and subsequently had their downfall before 28 had a chance to show it’s ugly, selfish face. In the cultural sense, dying at 27 makes no sense especially when you’re amazingly gifted. Dying so young does nothing but bring tears to family, friends, and fans faces and have the public re-think harsh criticisms and how we react to the tortured artists turned celebrity. I must admit, even with my love of Ms. Winehouse, I never really thought she’d die so young. I thought she would go on like an Etta James, Chaka Khan or Ray Charles. They all had their fights in youth, but seemed to make a recovery to be soul legends of our generation. I guess, this world is just filled with Ettas and Janises, too bad that Amy was a Janis.

In her jazz standard, “October Song,” Winehouse sings about her bird Ava being re-born like Sarah Vaughn. That jazz ditty about a dead bird takes on a haunting meaning now that Amy Winehouse is too in death going to be seen to our generation like a Sarah Vaughn or Billie Holiday. The soul temptress that wasn’t allowed to see better days.

With so many drug and alcohol rehab centers out there, you sometimes couldn’t help but wonder if the friends and family of some celebrities who died of a drug overdose intervened or not in order to save their loved ones.

In the artistic sense, it really doesn’t matter either way. Winehouse most likely had a trunk full of unreleased songs and though she died, her music can still be heard and bought. The real pain and mourning, especially for fans and people who didn’t know Winehouse personally, is that when Winehouse died to her addictions and vices, our chances of surviving them seem a little bit slimmer. Winehouse acquired tons of heart-broken, artistic types going through their human wars that found so much relate ability with the songstress. When she died, the probability of them making it pass 27 becomes a lot bleaker. Her songs seem to be a lot more miserable, knowing that she ultimately lost the battles that life bestowed on her. Amy Winehouse is a true human story. No happy endings, no prince charming, no life-changing epiphany, and no rehab. Amy Winehouse died from a broken-heart and her music will live on through broken hearts around the world.

 

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