This was 2011, end of
July. Sweltering night in Paris. In a hotel room in the dimmest suburbs of
Goussonville, on TV you watch because you’re exhausted after a very long day,
they kept showing Amy Winehouse footage. Every second channel was at it: live shows,
videos, interviews, iconic Grammy performance. Frankly, it didn’t make any
sense.
But even that is not
the point. The point is that I just found it so electrifying I couldn’t switch
it off and go to bed (must have been an early morning). After years of not
giving a damn – I found it hard to look away. And then we decided to turn the
Wi-Fi on and saw the news and… Ah fuck it.
Just now, as I was booking
my tickets to see Amy in exactly one
week, I was again reminded of that hot night in Paris and how it suddenly
clicked with me. Maybe too late, maybe not. What I know for sure is that it’s
2015, almost four years have passed, and I can’t possibly do better than I did
four years ago: On Amy Winehouse’s death.
