Amy Winehouse

Poor, sad Amy Winehouse. Amazingly talented, gone too soon. And as tempting as it is to chalk up her death as another victim of the 27 Club – artists who burnt out rather than fading away – the truth is much less romantic.

Yes, there is an appalling list of performers who died young while battling their demons. But for every Lenny Bruce there is a George Burns. For every Heath Ledger there is a Tom Hanks. For every Toulouse Lautrec there is a Henri Matisse. For every Amy Winehouse there is a Dolly Parton. For that matter, for every Amy Winehouse there is a Jerry Garcia. Let’s face it, Jerry could probably have rolled up Amy and smoked her with an LSD chaser. And he lived to a semi-ripe old age. Johnny Cash fought years of addiction and lived to have a brilliantly productive end to his career. And for every Amy Winehouse there is an Adele. Who mines pain from her life and sings with aching soul. And yet appears to be, if not always happy, then at least healthy, and hopefully will be producing great music for many years to come.

So, please, can we see this death without the romantic haze of the tortured artist? The muse does not kill. Drug addiction does. You can have one without the other. And to survive both, you have to be very, very lucky. Poor Amy was not a lucky girl. Because of the undeniable power of her voice, we knew who she was. It is a measure of the strength of the monster she fought that even that voice could not save her.