Monday Melodies: Amy Winehouse – “Back to Black” (2006)

As tragic as a lost life is, very few of them have this lingering somberness. It’s the feeling of an ellipses mid-sentence, cutting off a verb going into a noun. For most of us, we’ll never have that closure, that feeling of security knowing that a life, at least for this sentence, was completed. 

Not to denigrate the massive achievements of those who lived a full life, but the ellipses lives often resonate the most. One cannot help but wonder “What if?” as the incomplete story plays out once again in their head. This isn’t natural. This isn’t right. There has to be a way of knowing, good or bad, that a story that often had such momentous hallmarks at least got to end on its own terms.

For most people of my generation, July 23, 2011 was one of the biggest shocks in the world. To wake up to the news that singer Amy Winehouse had died was not how anyone wanted to go about their day. It was unfathomable. Whether or not she was free of her addictions, there was always this hope deep down that through sheer willpower that she would make a phenomenal follow-up to 2006 mega-hit “Back to Black.” It had been five years, the perfect length to build anticipation, especially since she had become so omnipresent in pop culture that her trainwreck chic was considered easy to parody, what with her beehive hairdo, dour lyrics about failed love, and that underlying sense that she enjoyed being wasted.

The more cynical read of her death plays into a very specific irony. Not unlike reducing Chuck Berry’s whole career to “My Dingaling,” suggesting that Winehouse’s only noteworthy song was “Rehab” is a tad offensive and underserving of greater talents. Sure it was the hit that made her a household name as she proudly declared “They tried to make me go to rehab and I said no, no, no.” Using that girl group R&B style that predated similar sounds from artists like Adele, she had this confidence, this raspy voice that felt more in tune with a seasoned jazz musician. Even her references were old school, preferring Frank Sinatra to her contemporaries. She was an old soul, even if her brief career would be over by the time she was 27.

But “Rehab” was the haunting irony that very few people could get over. It was one thing to sing about addiction like it was a good thing, but to live it in the spotlight while growing out of control added unfortunate pressure. I remember photos of her ravaged, the press celebrating her downfall like they had Lindsay Lohan before. The 2000s especially were a very dangerous time to be a young female celebrity, and it’s telling that in 2021 we’re barely reckoning with how poorly the media treated Britney Spears. Even Eminem would make a music video where the joke was that Winehouse was an ugly crackwhore whose very sight made people vomit. 

Call it good fun or whatever playful term you want, but it was misguided. The one fortunate aspect of Winehouse’s “Back to Black” was that it was a successful record that promised a new style of singers. She sounded boozy, but managed to turn the dingy bar feel of a blues band accessible to Top 40. She had that voice, so full of anguish that she made songs like “You Know I’m No Good” pop with that excellent backing band of drums, bass, and horns. Lyrically she had a way of turning her most debauched of lovers sound romantic in her sadness. She was honest, claiming “I cheated myself, like I knew I would.” There was a self-awareness that never went away, but it was also foreboding of her ultimate legacy.

Maybe the reason that Winehouse’s death feels so tragic. I was 17 when “Back to Black” came out, 1.5 years from graduating high school. I’d pick up a Rolling Stone Magazine with her on the cover and found myself shocked. How could there be such a frank (no pun intended) singer who went so against the grain? What was this sound? I saw her on late night talk shows performing, or preparing to have a nice run at The Grammy Awards. Yes, I’m sure that I made jokes about her needing to go to rehab. We all did. The sad part is looking back and realizing the complexities of the matter.

Like most people, my views on addiction have grown more complex since I was a teenager. Whereas a young person could look at the matter and argue “I can stop whenever I want,” I’m now able to see the difficulties of that. It could be that I grew up in a time where The Hangover (2009) launched a franchise where alcoholism was considered hilarious box office material, that these idiots deserved their misery. Whatever it is, I’m thankful that the discussion has been altered if just a little to show the pain underneath the coping mechanisms, the psychological turmoil it brings upon individuals, and that addiction doesn’t always start with that in mind. I’m sure there are those who have been to meetings that can discuss this better than me, but I’ll just say I’m more sympathetic to the cause.

Because even from the lazy “addiction makes you bad” angle, Winehouse never fit the bill. Maybe she sang poorly live, but there was something to her spirit. When she cared, there was a passion that couldn’t be achieved with many other artists. She had a somberness that challenged the more upbeat norms of the time. There was a clear vulnerability that came from personal experience, and you believed every word of her storytelling. Part of it was the lyricism, but a lot of it was just that voice, capable of capturing the deepest of pain. Art was her coping mechanism, keeping her alive.

From a modern perspective, it seems a bit crazy to think that she only released two albums in her lifetime. For someone who was riding success of that magnitude, it’s strange to know that the pressure to stay relevant didn’t cause her to release “Back to Black II” even two years later. She lived off the success of one album for those few years, potentially riding the status of one hit wonder and has-been. How long would people keep going back to “Rehab” with the same affection? Sure “You Know I’m No Good” would make a good seductive song for TV and movie commercials, but the next thing would come along, especially when the joke was she was a trainwreck on the constant verge of failure. The media took pleasure in this even as they egged her on for that amazing third album.

It’s a terrible way to treat anyone. I’m not arguing that Winehouse was screaming out for help, but at the same time, nobody seemed to be listening. She had an archetype to play into, and that was all. The bad girl couldn’t be sympathetic, right? We had to laugh at her because she once argued that she would never go to rehab. Was she serious? Who even knew? The irony of failure was enough to grab a popcorn bag and wave a pennant of misery. Nobody interfered, letting this story play out with that tragic ending: alcohol poisoning. At 27. 

I’m sure on some level that day in 2011 felt more cautionary. Even the most talented among us were vulnerable. Maybe I wouldn’t have an addiction, but what’s to stop mental illness or even a freak accident? Life has this crazy way of ending a story before it's over. Would I get to 27 and still be alive, will I have achieved something with my life? It’s a feeling that I didn’t feel again until Anton Yelchin, also 27, died months short of my own 27th birthday. 

How could these artists who had so much to offer just disappear? I would like to think that there’s some comfort in the old saying “don’t be sad that they’re gone, be happy that you had them.” It’s true that making ANY art that resonates makes a momentary existence worthwhile. But you’ll always want more, especially if the talent is imminent, the sense that the sad days can eventually disappear and all that’s left are years and years of solid gold hits. I’ve grown tired of judging personal success by monetary value when the things that I think about a decade later are about the moments I captured that felt genuine to my experience of being alive. 

I’m sure that Winehouse has quietly influenced a new generation of singers in ways that I’m not covering. There’s plenty of moments throughout the 2010s that likely point this out clearly. However, I want to think of what she would’ve given us. It’s true she did have one more B-Sides album that followed, including the fun “Valerie,” but what would an artist who matured into her own fusion style sound like in 2015? Could reassessment in a Me Too Era reveal just how unfairly she was treated early in her career? 

While some of these questions are answerable, the bigger one is that she wouldn’t be here to explain her side. There would be no chance to see her improve personally, possibly become a happier person and write more chart-topping hits. That is what is sad. She is the ultimate ellipses of the early 21st century. She had a greater crossover appeal than anyone of her generation at the time. Everyone knew who she was, and for better or worse fans wanted so desperately for her to be more than that “Rehab” girl.

When she did die, I had a friend who was obsessed with her. He loved how she was bluesy, reflective of a classic tradition. The first time we met after the news, he played one song in particular: “Back to Black.”

She was so on point lyrically that even on this album that she released at 23 she had lyrics that alluded to death and depression. Maybe they were about burying a relationship, but ever since that day it’s hard to read these lines any different:

We only said goodbye with words

I died a hundred times

You go back to her

And I go back to

Black

The music video featured funeral imagery and sadly paid as a perfect self-tribute. It was hard not only to believe that she was gone but how succinctly her music now had this haunting quality. She was a ghost, not unlike David Bowie’s “Blackstar,” which made the record send chills down the spine. You could still feel her pain, only this time it felt more real. The regret was as much on her end as it was ours, the people who maybe should’ve tried harder. It’s difficult to suggest guilt as addiction is a complicated matter, but longing for the time together to keep going on, watching her fade into old age, is something we should all want right?

It’s 10 years on and few celebrity deaths have this aura around them quite like her. Yes, many talented artists are gone before their time. There are even some who did far less than what Winehouse did. Even then, there was something about her specific set of skills that made her departure predictable but also tragic. There was no certainty that she would be a generational talent anymore, at least not for more than two records. She had some phenomenal hits, but the pleasure of success was in the end unrequited. It hurt because she seemed very aware of that. She was too talented to just give up, and you wanted to see her keep going. 

Some days were better than others. There was only hope that more of those were on the way for her. The best that can be said is that she made the most of her time here, and for that I remain grateful.