A flame

For us she was a flame. Daughter of a cab driver. Voice of a soul siren. Heart of a lonesome poet. Amy Winehouse came into our collective consciousness a blaze of behemoth beehives and tawdry tattoos. But once we heard that voice we knew, we knew we’d been given a gift. That delicious ache, that raw nerve, that naked vulnerability. She was at once something so fresh yet so familiar. True talent always is.

Her troubles were no secret, those that kept her off the stage and in the tabloids. But we never really knew her demons, those that drove her to wring beauty out of pain. Or those deeper ones that took her away from us all too soon. So much written about her during her life was almost cautionary – my own words included. Still others mocked her mercilessly as the punchline to her own life. Those who make sport of others suffering found an easy target. Yet when it happened, somehow, it still felt like a shock to me. And, Jesus, was I gutted.

Gone at 27, that supposedly haunted age for our golden gods of music. Jimi. Janis. Jim. Kurt. And now Amy. Those who burned too hot and too fast and are now forever subject to the task-tsking of history. But this is no time for I told you so’s. Such talent. Such talent, gone.

I feel so much for the people who loved her and the people who tried to help. But I also feel a profound loss for all of us. It’s selfish, so selfish. But, my God, the music we're missing. The songs. The sass. The slur of unapologetic humanity. We won’t be able to see what would come next. What wonders awaited. What she would woo us with, all over again. Not too long ago, I told a friend I felt like I had been waiting for a new Amy Winehouse album my entire life. That it will never come seems incomprehensible. Cruel, even. Though I supposed we should be thankful that we had her at all. And, for her voice, there will be no final frame. It lives on forever. Find peace, darling bird. Thank you for the music.

A losing game

In my book, Amy Winehouse’s “Love is a Losing Game” belongs among the pantheon of great, tragic torch songs. It’s simple slow-burn speaks in the universal language of a broken heart. When she sang it at the Mercury Prize show earlier this year, I got goosebumps. I still do. Which is why the single’s new video is so heartbreaking. Ostensibly there is nothing truly terrible about the clip, except that Winehouse herself clearly wasn’t involved in its making. In fact, for a while I wasn’t sure if it was a tribute video or the official release. But the Universal Records tag at the end (as well as other media reports) confirms that this is indeed the real thing. Take a look.

Seems Amy didn’t make it to the scheduled shoot, so instead the label improvised using old concert footage, still photos and extreme close-ups. Throw in some behind-the-scenes shots and even a couple glimpses of her husband Blake, and you’ve got a fanvid any amateur YouTuber could be proud of. Amy’s inability to make it to a video shoot, inability to make it through a concert and inability to keep from wandering the streets of London in the middle of the night shirtless, shoeless and senseless breaks my heart, again. As do all the shots of her looking dazed, drugged and bedraggled. This is not the transcendent artist we know she can be.This woman is blazing talent capable of transporting us through the power of her voice alone. With each listen, her staggering album “Back to Black” reveals untold truths. I’ll freely admit that I’ve fallen hard. But with love comes the need for tough love. Not to oversimplify the problem and get all Mr. Mackey on you here, but drugs are bad, m’kay. At this rate, I half expect to wake up one morning and read that she has become another sad rock and roll statistic. Don’t break my heart, Amy Winehouse.

Thursday beauty boost

I always feel like Thursday gets the short shrift when it comes to days of the week. It’s not quite Friday, the glamorous gateway to the weekend. It’s not Monday, the notorious super villain. It’s not Wednesday, the naughtily nicknamed Hump Day. Fine, Tuesday gets the shaft, too. So this week in an effort to boost Thursday’s self esteem, I’m going to adorn it with beautiful things. That, and I couldn’t think of another way to tie these disparate, delicious things together. Above, Rachel reflected in her new film “The Brothers Bloom.” Below, two divine things that go divinely together. Kate and Meryl, the mad gorgeous hatters. Oh, the power of a perfectly placed hat.And, finally, say what you will about her life, but her voice – sweet Jesus – her voice. She may have lost the Mercury Prize this week, but she continues to win my heart.

My Weekend Crush

From the second I first heard Amy Winehouse, I knew I was a goner. That voice – so smoky, so sultry, so seductively slurred – spoke to the deepest, darkest, most damaged places in my heart. Yet at the same time, her music manages to soothe the savaged soul. It’s that long, tall drink at the end of a long, hard day. Which is why nothing breaks my heart more now than her hell-bent-on-destruction spiral of late. Wandering the streets of London a bloodied, dazed mess of smudged eyeliner and dried tears, she is the poster child for sad self-fulfilling prophecies. She is becoming a caricature of every song she sings.

It has been said often that true genius is touched by madness. Billie Holiday. Edith Piaf. Janis Joplin. What is it about the sirens that makes them suffer so? Winehouse aches with talent. But it’s the woman herself that fascinates us most. Underneath the behemoth beehive is someone who is honest to a fault. Yet her hedonism seems to come from a place of profound vulnerability. Perhaps that is what draws us to her in the first place. Life is so much more interesting when dismantled. Great for art, not so great for the soul. May she find a healthy balance for both, and find it soon. She may go back to black, but we don’t want her to fade to black forever. Happy weekend, all.

Host this

My plan was to do another live(-ish) blog, a la the Oscars post, about the MTV Movie Awards, but I was so stunned by Sarah Silverman’s spectacularly enormous brass cojones in her opening monologue that I was unable to type for about 15 minutes as I had to both pick up and reattach my jaw from where it fell onto the floor. Seriously. I mean, Paris was sitting RIGHT THERE. That, my friends, is the definition of ballsy.

So in lieu of the live blog, I’m going to give you the three moments that really mattered. The rest was pretty much a two-hour commercial for the Transformers movie and Orbit gum.

1. It only took Sarah 4 minutes to rip on “300,” “Spider-Man 3,” the MTV Movie Awards producers, Jack Nicholson, every actress Jack Nicholson has ever slept with, “Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End,“ Cisco Adler’s balls, the paparazzi, famous vaginas, Tobey Maguire, Lindsay Lohan, Alec Baldwin and Paris Hilton. The latter was…well, just watch. (Viacom hates YouTubers, so you'll have to watch it HERE now.)

(p.s. I know I shouldn't have, but I felt the teeniest, tiniest bit sorry for Paris as she squirmed in her seat, particularly because later that night she surrendered herself to authorities to begin her jail sentence. You know all that clapping and cheering is going to be ringing in her ears all 23 days. Ouch.*)

2. Sarah and Jessica Biel showed super-human restraint while teasing millions of horny men and lesbians with their up-close-and-personal moment. Hot girls don’t kiss; Will Ferrell and Sasha Baron Cohen do kiss. Has the world gone mad? (Again, blame Viacom...See it HERE instead.)3. Amy Winehouse. That’s all.

*Well, there goes the last vestiges of my pity for her, now that her 23-days turned into about 75-hours.

Hail, Britannia

Call it a case of serious Cool Britannia envy, but lately all I’ve been listening to are lovely London lasses. These days the most brash, most fun and most neo-feminist performers out there aren’t sassy yanks (sorry Pink, I know you’re trying to hold up your end), but outspoken Brits. Lasses like Amy Winehouse, Lily Allen and Lady Sovereign. Of course, this isn’t news to their fellow Englishmen and woman, or most Europeans. But stateside, many people are just catching on to these talents. What sets them apart from so many American stars is that while they party hard and look sexy (well, Sovereign looks butch, but lots of people find that sexy), they seem in control of their lives and images. OK, with all the gossip and reports about Winehouse, perhaps she should say “Yes, yes, yes” to that rehab stint.

Still, unlike the Britneys, Linsdays and Parises of the States, these women may be hot messes, but never victims. And, best of all, they aren’t manufactured products made by mega corporations for mass consumption (paging Jessica Simpson, Jessica Simpson, please use the white courtesy phone).You’ve got to love that. Plus, these birds can really sing.