Amy Winehouse

The death of Amy Winehouse is tragic, as is the death of any 27-year-old*. But the disingenuous clamour to say something profound has lead to a lot of nonsense being spoken. On the news yesterday they were talking of a girl ‘petrified by her own talent’ and ‘haunted by her voice’, as though she had a divine gift that became a burden too heavy to bare. The truth is more tragic: her death was not inevitable or pre-ordained. Her self-destructive behaviour was well-documented by the tabloids that now head the mourning procession. In the aftermath of a death, it is easier to talk of a ‘tortured genius’ than of a drug addict, which seems to apportion blame. Perversely, the mourners are leaving bottles of alcohol outside her flat. A tribute The Times calls ‘ill-judged’. I would go further, and suggest it’s worrying that her young fans, in attempting to celebrate her life, are vaunting the very things that contributed to her downfall. It was her talent that mattered, and still does.

*Am I alone in finding the near-reverential tones in which ‘club 27’ is spoken of grotesque?