The catchphrase of the day is, “Who didn’t see this coming?”; a global reaction to reports that singer Amy Winehouse was found dead today at home in London.
Amy joined the elite 27 Club today, home to many musicians who made it to the advanced age of 27 before dying in some tragic way. Some of them, it seems, had to go; Jimi Hendrix, for instance, might’ve been too big for this world. Or maybe some felt they had done their work and had no reason to stick around. I don’t think Amy’s death is the fulfillment of any sort of morbid superstition, just the result of the way she was living. She had more going for her than most people, in that she identified her talent and was celebrated for it.
Money and fame and success didn’t make Amy happy, seemingly. Her family tried to save her, and maybe she had a few non-parasitic friends that truly cared about her as well. Self-destruction was inevitable, but why? Nothing could save Amy from herself and at some point, most people who loved her must’ve been resigned to that. You can’t stop a runaway train; you just pray for a quick end. I wish for her sake that Amy had had a quick end, since she had to go. She didn’t. This train wreck lasted years, and it’s sad that she’ll be remembered more for lurching around London being incoherent, than for her beautiful voice.