Back to Black

When I was a kid, I remember the longest, humid summers when Amy Winehouse played on the radio without end. It was played enough for me to know the lyrics for many of her songs even now, more than a decade later. Though those memories of sweltering summers are now long in the past, her lyrics remain a well-worn part of my shower-and-car-singing oeuvre (complete with many wrong words). Her music means much more to me now than it ever did as a child. Lines like ‘we only said goodbye, with words, I died a hundred times’ just feel different in what I believe is a crueler word. Yet I remember her death, too, watching parasitic journalists feast on a corpse that they helped to kill. Amidst that brutality, her songs took on a different, almost prophetic quality. Whilst Britain tried to find her suicide note within her lyrics, Amy became a sage of sorts to the public. Though her influence has now waned, I remember that summer, and I have not forgotten how she was treated. I remember her and I remember her music.

In Rehab, I have found a sort of spiritual home. Amy rails against going back to rehab in a way that finally — truly — resonates with me in a way it couldn’t before. I really, desperately do not want to go back to rehab — for me, the psychiatric hospital — and Amy’s resistance is inspiring. Amy’s stated defiance even when encouraged to receive higher levels of treatment is captivating. I envy her resistance even…