‘What kind of fuckery is this? You made me miss the Slick Rick gig, you thought I didn’t love you when I did, can’t believe you played me out like that’
When I hear Amy Winehouse’s music, it reminds me of my Mum’s old Fiat Punto (glamorous). I used to sit in the front seat, my sisters would be in the back, and we’d all listen to Back to Black (2006) on the morning drive to dreary old sixth form.
I thought Winehouse was a brave old soul and I adored her use of abrupt expletives, and references to chips and beer. At the tender age of 16, I was yet to discover what it truly felt like to have my heart spat on by undeserving lovers. Now, on the eve of my 25th birthday, I appreciate Amy’s words more than ever.
I watched the trailer for Asif Kapadia’s new documentary Amy earlier in the week, and decided to put Back to Black in the record player. Consequently, I’ve been sauntering around my bedroom, wearing lots of eyeliner, and miming ‘what kind of fuckery is this?’ at my half-written assignment (no change there then).
I’m sure the documentary will bust my tear ducts wide open, but I’ll watch it regardless, because that formidable voice still deserves the attention of everyone’s ears, 4 years after her untimely death.