It doesn’t seem many people were surprised to hear of the news of the death of Amy Winehouse. For months, she had been tottering on the nebulous edge of reality, every moment of undignified escapism chronicled in the tabloids, held up for ridicule via sloppy double entendre (“Amy boo-zed in Belgrade”), making less hedonistic heads shake in wonder. What a waste of talent, we said.
Indeed. Hers was a voice we’re not going to see the likes of again for some time.
Indeed. Hers was a voice we’re not going to see the likes of again for some time.
But we said the same about Janis Joplin.
Like Janis, Amy hardly lived up to the reputation of her star sign. A Virgo, Amy reeked of the messy addictions so often attributed to her Sun’s opposite sign, Pisces. Here she was falling out of yet another club, beehive comically askew, stilettos long abandoned, too scrawny, eyes rolling in her head, off her face on God knows what, her family and friends scratching their heads, horror-struck. Where did it all go wrong?
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