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.