I Don’t Know What I Want To Say About The Death Of Amy Winehouse

Tragic. Pathetic. Unnecessary. Inevitable. More or less all I can do is sigh. We can have the conversation about substance abusers, destructive behavioral patterns and long-term consequences from internal damage. So why am I writing about Amy Winehouse dying at the age of 27?

I’m not exactly sure, but somewhere lies not just a typical cautionary tale. We got the Just Say No memo. Amy was a talent, but so are many people. She joins the 27 Club of dead musicians like Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix. Nor am I fond of the aspects of cultural appropriation of African-American music traditions or being lauded for using them as a signature sound. When it comes to fame, some things can’t be controlled.

She was a great songwriter, whose lyrics touched me. She had a distinctive way of chronicling the experiences of younger women in a way that isn’t expressed in pop culture today. If you noticed the destructive messiness she fully displayed only emphasized how far off the mark she fell. She wasn’t a guy writing for a female artist — she was a woman speaking intelligibly to other women about us.

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