Amy Winehouse, the British singer who died in London yesterday at the age of 27, was 22 the year she recorded “Back to Black,” the record that made her famous. Hard living was her métier.
A bad breakup, and the liquor, tears and Shangri-Las records that followed, were what first prompted her to leave behind the showy, neo-jazz soul stylings of her 2003 debut, “Frank,” and make “Back to Black” — a grown-up’s record with the hurt to match.
Winehouse always seemed older than she actually was, and her music seemed far older than that. In a masking coat of makeup and a towering beehive hairdo, tattoos winding up both arms, she looked like a drunken Ronette on the run from a treatment facility. The reality, at least then, was more complicated.
“Back to Black” was a product of craft as much as it was one of excess. Made with producers Salaam Remi and Mark Ronson, and the virtuoso Brooklyn soul group the Dap-Kings, the record was wickedly charming, compact and, more important, self-aware: “Rehab,” her Grammy-winning retort to her record label’s attempt to put her there, was more a lucid (if dark) joke than a drunken lament.
The music on “Back to Black” was backward-looking, but smartly so. Winehouse’s voice was an alto croak that suggested damage she hadn’t yet done to it. Her allegiances to ’60s soul and ’40s jazz were deep but conditional. From the girl groups she so lovingly referenced, Winehouse cherry-picked the most modern ideas: the tragic and tactile storytelling of songs like “Leader of the Pack,” say, rather than the unquestioning euphoria of “Give Him a Great Big Kiss.”
Winehouse’s affinity for hip-hop, which ran as deep as did her love of soul, showed in her eye for detail and her way with an idiom. “What kind of f***ery is this? You made me miss the Slick Rick gig,” she sang on “Me & Mr. Jones.”
It was this sort of casual but grounded ease that moved her music away from homage and toward something more her own, and she was recognized for it: five Grammy Awards, millions of records sold, and an unending line of young English women who followed in her confident footsteps, among them Adele, whose “21” is currently 2011’s best-selling record on both sides of the pond.
Listeners are selfish. We are happy to let artists labor in agony for decades, or waste away in 50-hour coke-fueled recording sessions, to create the work we treasure, and we tend to treasure the work over the person who makes it. After “Back to Black,” Winehouse never released another album, and her disoriented early morning walks across whatever city she happened to be in became a familiar tabloid sight, along with the bruises that crawled up her arms and face, and the blurry photos of her clutching what appeared to be drug paraphernalia.
Her public disintegration was no secret. But we prefer our Billie Holidays with a little blood on them. When Winehouse sang “You Know I’m No Good,” most of us were all too happy, whatever our misgivings, to simply nod our heads and agree.
Twenty-seven is a mythical age for rock star death, but not a particularly surprising one. At 27, like those who came before her, Winehouse was old enough to have made something great and reaped the years of benefits and poisons that inevitably followed. Her swift bundling off to the land of Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain in the aftermath of yesterday’s news reflects just how badly we are conditioned to want the myth, even as we attempt to mourn the person behind it.
There is no real doubt Winehouse belongs to the ranks of the illustrious dead she’s now joined —“Back to Black,” a great record to begin with, has just been given over to posterity. But better to have had her here for longer.
A bad breakup, and the liquor, tears and Shangri-Las records that followed, were what first prompted her to leave behind the showy, neo-jazz soul stylings of her 2003 debut, “Frank,” and make “Back to Black” — a grown-up’s record with the hurt to match.
Winehouse always seemed older than she actually was, and her music seemed far older than that. In a masking coat of makeup and a towering beehive hairdo, tattoos winding up both arms, she looked like a drunken Ronette on the run from a treatment facility. The reality, at least then, was more complicated.
“Back to Black” was a product of craft as much as it was one of excess. Made with producers Salaam Remi and Mark Ronson, and the virtuoso Brooklyn soul group the Dap-Kings, the record was wickedly charming, compact and, more important, self-aware: “Rehab,” her Grammy-winning retort to her record label’s attempt to put her there, was more a lucid (if dark) joke than a drunken lament.
The music on “Back to Black” was backward-looking, but smartly so. Winehouse’s voice was an alto croak that suggested damage she hadn’t yet done to it. Her allegiances to ’60s soul and ’40s jazz were deep but conditional. From the girl groups she so lovingly referenced, Winehouse cherry-picked the most modern ideas: the tragic and tactile storytelling of songs like “Leader of the Pack,” say, rather than the unquestioning euphoria of “Give Him a Great Big Kiss.”
Winehouse’s affinity for hip-hop, which ran as deep as did her love of soul, showed in her eye for detail and her way with an idiom. “What kind of f***ery is this? You made me miss the Slick Rick gig,” she sang on “Me & Mr. Jones.”
It was this sort of casual but grounded ease that moved her music away from homage and toward something more her own, and she was recognized for it: five Grammy Awards, millions of records sold, and an unending line of young English women who followed in her confident footsteps, among them Adele, whose “21” is currently 2011’s best-selling record on both sides of the pond.
Listeners are selfish. We are happy to let artists labor in agony for decades, or waste away in 50-hour coke-fueled recording sessions, to create the work we treasure, and we tend to treasure the work over the person who makes it. After “Back to Black,” Winehouse never released another album, and her disoriented early morning walks across whatever city she happened to be in became a familiar tabloid sight, along with the bruises that crawled up her arms and face, and the blurry photos of her clutching what appeared to be drug paraphernalia.
Her public disintegration was no secret. But we prefer our Billie Holidays with a little blood on them. When Winehouse sang “You Know I’m No Good,” most of us were all too happy, whatever our misgivings, to simply nod our heads and agree.
Twenty-seven is a mythical age for rock star death, but not a particularly surprising one. At 27, like those who came before her, Winehouse was old enough to have made something great and reaped the years of benefits and poisons that inevitably followed. Her swift bundling off to the land of Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain in the aftermath of yesterday’s news reflects just how badly we are conditioned to want the myth, even as we attempt to mourn the person behind it.
There is no real doubt Winehouse belongs to the ranks of the illustrious dead she’s now joined —“Back to Black,” a great record to begin with, has just been given over to posterity. But better to have had her here for longer.
PHOTO: ZWE/WENN
Winehouse and her husband Blake Fielder Civil in 2007. They divorced in 2009.
PHOTO: Tom Curtis/Wireimage
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