I am sad to hear about Amy Winehouse. It’s really awful. I didn’t know her, but I loved her music, and her incredible voice, and although she was very young, her eyes looked out from an ancient soul. That deep, rich well of sadness where she drew her startling contralto from, the dark depths of her humor and tragedy – seemed like it had been around for centuries. I hope she comes back around again, in another form – a happier one. We will all be gone by then, but our children will have another stunning idol, and they will bask in her glory. And this time, she will win and win and win and win. She deserves that.
Whenever I saw her latest disaster unfold in the tabloids or on blogs, I wanted to wrap my arms around her. I felt sad for her because I’ve lived that – not in such a grand or public way, but I have had my share of drug and alcohol rages, nights I couldn’t believe I awoke from. I’ve been alone in hotel rooms with all my demons present and not a friend among them. It’s something I could see in her, and when I saw her there, crying in her elegantly cascading beehive hairdo and slightly too big but still expensive ballet flats, rare vintage beaded cardigan daintily perched on her birdlike shoulders, I saw myself ever clearer. I’ve got those red jeans, even though they might be 12 sizes larger. I’ve walked a mile in your flats girl. I never put drugs in my hair, only because I have never worn it up, but that was a good idea. I always thought that.
I’ve actually been weeping about her on and off all day, grieving for her and her family and friends and fans and for myself and what drugs have given and taken from me. I guess I always had luck on my side. I always managed to get up and keep going. I didn’t want to go to rehab either. We are all just trying to make it after all. I thought that there was more time for Amy Winehouse though. I thought that her little tiny body with the great big voice had countless comebacks left. She seemed so tough and strong, bigger than life. Maybe it was the booming power of her pipes, the resonant chambers of her lovely Modigliani face bringing forth a sound that singers like me long for in the studio and onstage. It comes along once in a generation, if we are lucky I suppose. And we were lucky to have her as long as we did. Wherever we go when we die, I hope she is happy there. I hope that she is entertaining the dead with the magic she brought to us in her life. I hope that she can breathe free with a sigh of relief that her suffering has now come to an end.
I send all my love to her family and friends and many many fans worldwide. What a life she had. Extraordinary and brief – all too brief. Perhaps God is selfish and just wants the truly exceptional creatures he has made all to himself, so he bestows his finest gifts to those he knows will not spend too long on earth. Maybe he just wanted Amy Winehouse to serenade him in the big rehab up in the sky. Wherever she is, she will be missed.