Me and Mr. Jones

I'm very impressed with Ms Winehouse's ability to blend the sounds of a classic Jazz styling with a unique North London idiom. 'Fuckery' is an exqusite word; we may never see her like again.

Amy Winehouse

Sunday, around  midnight, found me in the departures lounge of Larnaca Airport. Over a sunburnt shoulder I read the headlines that Amy Winehouse had died and it left me feeling rather moved. This feeling surprised me, I'm not her biggest fan by any stretch, but I can see there was something rather unique in her contralto voice and her style. I have fuzzy memories of being given my epidural to the sounds of 'Valerie' which just happened to be on the radio in the operating theatre; a much better choice than all that whale song nonsense. It's one of those deaths in rock which is sad but not exactly unexpected. Rewind to spring '94 when as a teenager I saw a picture of Richey Edwards from the Manic Street Preachers posed in front of a pile of bones in the Parisian catacombs. A year later he was missing, presumed dead. It seems fairly obvious in hindsight, but how easy is that to say. And then of course are all the well-known members of the 27 club, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain amongst others. Now it seems that Amy will be on that rather tackily named list.