Ode to Amy Winehouse:

But to walk away I have no capacity...

For every musician I deeply love, I dwell in their music in recurring waves, feeling something new with their work with each phase of myself. I have claimed Amy as one of my artists for as long as I can remember. The pamphlet in the Back to Black CD my father showed me was wethered by my touch, I was enamored by the seduction of her mile long winged eyeliner. I couldn’t believe a woman of her looks and individuality could have such a hold on the world, but there was never a doubt that she should. I think people were so drawn to her because she sounded like an open-wound but appeared as a masked figure- the mix of vulnerability and mysticism was just so alluring. I immediately thought of her as a great and enormously important artist and have never changed my mind on the matter. She cultivated a hybrid of jazz, blues, and soul that stayed raw and sophisticated while still achieving mass appeal.

For whatever reason I had never really spent time with Amy’s lyrics. This is a strange thing considering I even do so with artists I feel indifferent towards. It wasn’t until I played her on a whim last week that I started recognizing how similarly my thinking aligns with hers. I guess that means the words started to apply to my life, for better or for worse. It shocks me how incredible her literary voice is. It’s actually irritating because it was so natural to her, it’s not like she had a dedication to schooling to cultivate her skills, rather words just poured out of her like gorgeous, sticky honey. To be both prolific and profound is the making of a true artist. I hope she is always remembered as such and not her tortured fate.

I went to a coffee shop and spent two hours just reading lyrics as a compulsive need to define the syllables of her sultry voice. It stopped me in my music-consuming tracks. I’ve listened to hardly anything else since because I cannot get over how mesmerizing she is in every sense of the word. There is certain lines you hear spoken by another and it feels like a blow to the stomach in the best way possible. To me, Amy Winehouse is a good pain. A great one, actually. She gives me someone to share my heartache with; at least we are stupid and pathetic together. And I get to be showered in jazz chords at the same time, what a deal.

Though I adore the standard version of Black to Black and think Mark Ronson worked genius with the production, I’ve found myself drawn to her demos at the current moment. I couldn’t physically separate from the original version of “Tears Dry” off Lioness if you payed me, it is, in my eyes, a perfect song. The mix of an upbeat tempo with heartbreak, self-deprecation, and realism shows her ability to confront and feel from all perspectives. She is a vision and I cannot look away. I say is instead of was because her music is as alive and relevant as it was upon its release, like the narrative of a book her work will never die.

I’ve fallen asleep rewatching the 2015 documentary Amy the last several nights and have been reminded at how truly heartbreaking and upsetting her story is. She could’ve given us so much more, but at least we have what she did...

And here is some of my favorites:

Even if I stop wanting you

And perspective pushes through

I’ll be some next man’s other woman soon

I cannot play myself again

I should just be my own best friend

Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men

Over futile odds

And laughed at by the gods

And now the final frame

Love is a losing game

My destructive side has grown a mile wide

You probably saw me laughing at all your jokes

And how i did not mind when you stole all my smokes

We only say goodbye with words

Memories marmy mind; love is a fate resigned

His fierce in my dreams seizing my guts

He floors me with dread

Soaked to soul

He swims in my eyes by the bed

Pour myself over him

Moon spilling in

And I wake up alone