The death of Amy Winehouse was tragic. I feel for those close to her, any parent would rather it was them than their child. Twenty seven years is no time on Earth but some people acheive more than others. Amy's second album 'Back To Black' was glorious. One of those collections of songs that got played over and over again. Those songs, that voice. It was quite brilliant and marked her out as a major talent.
And then nothing.
The difficult third album (in this case) never came. Instead we were treated to headlines that got worse, speculation on her marriage, disapproval and the odd wobbly appearance here and there. She became more famous for her disintergration than for her music. I don't know who was to blame, I don't know the music world beyond bumping into some of its practicioners and survivors, but I've never got close enough to understand the way drugs and rock and roll - or in this case R & B - affect the mindset of a young performer.
My daughter brought me the news. Was I shocked? Barely. It's aterrible thing to say but I'm betting so many of us had the same reaction. It was expected that she'd die young. I dare say she'll now become a poster girl for an anti-drugs anti-drink campaign and I hope her death makes some mark on those youngsters who choose to drown themselves in chemicals rather than live for the day and have a love of life.
What we're left with is one amazing collection of songs and the promise that there is enough material for a postumous album. I hope that material measures up to her best, I fear it won't. If there was enough material surely it would already have been released.
Books will flood the shops, posters will appear - who knows, that beehive may become the Che Guevara poster image for a generation.
So, goodbye Amy, the truly terrible thing about your tragedy is that no-one is surprised.
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