I didn't know Amy Winehouse. I've never even met her. I wasn't even a fan. Her lyrics were too raw for me. Too real. It hurt to listen to them. I've turned on a few songs here and there, but could never listen all the way through. Dizzy, aching, blushing, exposed; I turned the dial with shaking hands by the end of the first chorus.
But what I can say, is that I relate to Amy Winehouse. What we do have is shared feminine idiocy; there are some ways in which only women can be stupid. Oh, we don't talk about it much. and our girlfriends sympathize and hate the cad on our behalf. But yeah, in the quiet places behind and between the brave front or the martyred visage, we're banging our heads to a mantra of Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid to trust, stupid to show our hearts, stupid to admit to weakness or want. But I'm a coward.
Amy was brave. Whatever else you want to say about her, the woman was brave. Aside from her formidable talent and a voice that sent electric chills that made you promise to be a better person, the woman was hard core. A berzerker Amazon warrior. She would rip out her own heart and beat you senseless with it, and you'd end up dizzy, aching, blushing. Exposed.
There's a phrase that keeps floating back to me on the zeitgeist regarding Amy, and that is, "What a Waste." What waste? I don't know what they're talking about. I read words like "squandered talent" and "wasted gift" and I kind of have to wonder - do these people think that Amy owned them something? That by having a talent or a gift, she was obligated to live only to share it with them? That she owed them something? Anything?
I keep reading about all the songs she would have song if she hadn't died so young, but all I can see is a young woman who will never hold her own baby. All I see is a life full of joy never realized, of pain never learned from, and it has nothing to do with talent, just the very human journey of growing up, growing old, and looking at life from every angle. That's what I see missing.
I often write about artists struggling with their own gifts, and it's a theme I like to explore in my books. The idea of the 27 Club isn't really new, only mathematically curious; the idea of the good dying young and the talented being called home by the current God is older than rock and roll by centuries. Is it mythology? Is it destiny?
For people of Amy's caliber, a great talent is a double-edged sword. In some ways, just having that kind of talent breaks you. Causes damage. It's as though the qualities that help normal people cope with everyday life have to make room for the talent - as if there isn't enough space in their heads for both. Maybe it's just common sense, maybe it's some kind of rationalization or even some kind of resignation, that allows us normal people to get along without the kind of self doubt that cripples.
But to create the kind of art that buckles knees and rips away masks, well, you have to be able to rip your own heart out first to make a mold. And that doesn't come without a price.
The only person who knew if the price was worth it was Amy. After all, it was her gift.
I hope, in the end, she found that it was.
