Amy walking funny. She captioned the photo: "Taken outside the pub about four months ago, I dunno what I was trying to do."In 2006, Amy Winehouse told me, "I remember you saying you don't drink. I've met a lot of people of late who are the same, like an all or nothing situation, and I don't want to be there, yet it interests me………"I met Amy on the Internet close to a decade ago. "Are you Jewish?" She asked. It was on a dating site back when the Internet was still new. She was young, I was older. If we were French it wouldn't have been a big deal. She was a flirt and it was teenage stuff, innocent. She was in London, and after a while she mentioned working with David Bowie and Massive Attack. I ignored it. Men used to run away from their wives and into the arms of fat strangers because of the Internet. She sent me a couple letters of the flirtatious variety, perfumed with photos and, once, a demo tape. Her voice was real.Her first album, Frank, was crazy. It was all her, the kid I knew from emails. Back to Black was a benchmark. It was also a big mess of denial. She could still sing while trashed at that point, and crowds cheered her and passed her drinks and spliffs.
Amy and gig musician. She sent this in between trips to record labels when she was shopping for a deal. This was 2002/2003. She captioned the photo: "…was taken on my 19th birthday bout a week ago, before I went to sing at a wedding."We used to talk Elmore Leonard and Tarantino. Mos Def and Frank Sinatra. She dropped off the face of the map when she got married. She resurfaced, broken-hearted. Over the last year she turned into the kind of person who responsible writers would have an obit ready for. She'd Skype me, nearly incoherent. Our conversations were one-sided. She'd slur and miss everything I said back. She'd flirt when she was straight, and be trashed the next time we spoke. She'd take off her top when she was drunk. It got real sad. It was hard to listen to her. She'd want to Skype when I was trying to crash and I'd minimize the screen. Slurring words. Unresponsive to conversation.When she was lucid she'd ask why we never met, why nothing ever happened. It pleased her to say I'd groomed her. She started to look healthy, like she had stopped getting high and started eating. Her heart was bad, she said. Our last conversation was about Jamaica. She said she wanted her band to call her a Jewmaican.
And now she's dead. Amy, who used to write copy for a newswire. Amy, who did all the things she was rumored to have done. Amy, who didn't want to meet in London because she had a boyfriend. Amy, who still thought she was attractive, despite her incoherence and the damage she'd done to her body. Amy, who didn't get it. Amy, who had a voice, sensibility, and song-writing abilities that made her exceptional. Amy, who became a punchline. Amy, my internet-only friend.Is it corny to point out that for some people it ain't all fun? That addiction kills?ANONYMOUS
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