Back to Black

Amy Winehouse died earlier today in London at 27. I had no idea that she was my age; I always assumed that she was older.

I remember Whigwam introducing me to her in the form of her song, "Rehab" (which, incidentally, confused me--I couldn't imagine that it wasn't factitious).

I love Amy Winehouse's voice--low, a little raspy, strong, with an edge of anger. I love Amy Winehouse's presentation--the eyeliner, the hair, the tattoos. It was over-the-top, but it was a mix no one else had. Her music is vulnerable and openly treats her struggles. It makes the rest of pop music seem saccharine and silly.

A friend of mine described her death as perhaps inevitable. In one sense, yes--everyone's death is inevitable. In another sense, no: I think that the point of Christianity is that nothing is inevitable; it's that we have to keep fighting and struggling against what we called in the Pentecostal church where I was raised our "easily besetting sins." It's that there's hope.


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