It was an autumn afternoon in Euston, in my little room at the halls of residence when I downloaded the album called Back to Black to listen to that crazy woman who refuses to go to rehab. I listened to the first track and danced in my room and by the time I got to track 5, listening to the opening notes of » back to black » for the first time, I had to sit down, because I knew I was listening to something incredible, something that was truly an art form.
There have been many upsetting events this month, that have devastated the world. But I felt the need to write about the event that has shook me most. The loss of Amy on the 23rd of July. She was found in her Camden flat deceased in the afternoon.
I had a conversation with someone about a year ago. In October, in Cambridge I met a friend for drinks in a pub. And he asked me what kind of music I listened to. The first and obvious answer was Amy. She might be good, he said but I don’ t like what she is doing with the drugs and all and I can’t listen to her. Since when do you have to agree and know about the artist’s lifestyle to like their work, I asked. Why can’t you appreciate and like her music? He said they are all connected. I disagreed.
And now, after her death, so many people come out and say, yeah it was expected, we knew it was coming, there was nothing to be done. Was there really? How did they all know it?
Amy’s music and lyrics have sustained me in my loneliness and in my own personal rough times and it might seem childish, creepy even to suggest that if you start to feel the lyrics and understand them you construct a connection to the artist. Amy was fighting her addictions and herself essentially. But aren’t we all fighting similar daemons? Maybe not drug addictions but other kinds of addictions. I know what it feels like, not being able to think of nothing else, not being able to resist the desire and not being present in your own life but thinking of your obsession constantly and having time and life pass you by whilst you look for it. Call it smoking, sex, gambling, we all have daemons swirling around our necks, whispering in our ears sweet words, promising us temporary paradises. For me, Amy’s downfall and troubles were a juxtaposition of my own troubling mind. I felt stronger knowing she was around, getting help and was planning her comeback.
Seeing her in Serbia last month, I was troubled but I felt confident that she would get the help she needed and would bounce back. And that gave me hope also. It is possible to sink low but there is a way back. Seeing her coming back would let the world know there is always hope for second chances. Not all the mistakes we make are fatal and bear irreversible consequences.
But now I do not know anymore if there is hope for the wicked. Her loss has hit me, and made me realize that there is not always light at the end of the tunnel, you should perhaps not live your life to the fullest, but by the rules if you wish to survive longer. With her gone, i realize that it is possible to die.
And now the final frame, love is a losing game…
Nice post. I could’ve been the person who didn’t agree with her lifestyle (though I obviously wasn’t, ‘coz I’d never go for a drink with you in Cambridge), not because I am one to judge the lifestyle, but because of the example it sets to those half-wits walking around Camden and Brick Lane looking like her.
I can’t judge her music, ‘coz I’ve never really listened to it, except for the hits on the radio, but because I do respect your opinion on the music, I’ll give it a listen one day. I didn’t appreciate Kurt Cobain until after he died, so… go figure. Again, nice heart felt post. It’s especially nice to read it from s.o. who isn’t a celebrity and who doesn’t adopt that lifestyle.
Thanks. but what did you mean by not a celebrity? May I remind you whose picture is covering the whole wall of King’s College?