Last weekend, 76 people were murdered in Norway and one of Britain’s best-known singers died in her flat.
And so we were torn. Our sympathies were instinctively drawn to the horrendous Norwegian events, but our fascination to Camden Town. Before long, people were deciding on the helping of compassion the victims in each story deserved, like portions of grief porridge. An undertaking as unnecessary as it was in dreadful taste, but one seized upon with undue relish by swathes of the blogosphere, Twiteratti and professional media.
The predictably glib argument went like this: the poor souls who lost their lives in or near Oslo were blameless. Whereas Amy Winehouse invited her death through heavy drug and alcohol use. Poor, poor Norwegians. Silly, silly Amy.
No industry will ever be more closely allied with mood-altering substances than popular music. The romantic explanation suggests the psychonauts of rock and roll use drugs and booze to push at the boundaries of reality and perception and achieve creative profundity. You know the deal, the road of excess leads to the temple of wisdom, and all that. The fact is, the life of a professional recording artist can be hellishly boring. Studio sessions drag on, photo sessions more so.
Then there’s the touring. Charlie Watts once said being on the road with the Rolling Stones was five years performing and 25 years hanging around. Mix that tedium with almost unlimited funds and a plentiful supply of gear and excess is pretty much inevitable; more for something to do than any serious attempt to rise to a higher state of consciousness.
Long before the Beatles dropped acid, they dropped speed to propel them through six live sets a night in the Hamburg clubs. After the gig beers took the edge off the amphetamine.
Billie Holiday found grass and heroin soothed her crippling nerves before taking the stage. Benzedrine kept her going for the after show booze-ups.
These temptations (or even necessities) don’t present themselves quite so readily in the career of a family solicitor or chartered surveyor. But they slide all too easily into the toolkit of the professional musician.
It would be foolish to suggest musical entertainers have no choice in such matters. They are as able to decline offers of powders, herbs and shots as any one of us. It’s just that their work makes ingestion initially desirable, even useful, rather than risky and problematic.
As their audience we, mostly unintentionally, encourage these habits. We love to see stars walking a path fringed with danger, paved with decadence and marked with incident. Because, fame is an exotic concept, we want the famous to lead exotic lives. There is little point in stars resembling and behaving like our neighbours, because we already have neighbours. So, we demand they inhabit a wondrous, alien land, where unimaginable highs are matched only by outrageous flirtation with an unhappy end. It’s exciting, intriguing, thrilling and just a little scary. We urge these people to ride the rollercoaster, because watching them soar and scream is so compelling.
When they don’t, they are nothing more than Justin Beiber.
In life, Amy Winehouse was one of the most documented performers of her generation. When she was written about, her intoxication was never ignored, but nor was it particularly condemned. Journalists of every hue often seemed rather impressed by the anarchy and broken bottles she left in her wake. It convinced them of her authenticity and rebel spirit. Understandably, none of us wanted her to lose those qualities – and yet we were all aware how costly her indulgences and addictions could be. Nobody wanted Amy dead, but very few people wanted her completely sober either.
Never traditionally beautiful, it was Amy Winehouse’s sheer precocious talent that initially thrust her front and centre. Smokey jazz, soul and blues pulsed behind her tales of abandonment, heartache and tears to pull us, irresistibly, to her work. Then, charisma, unmistakable hair and erratic personal affairs kept us riveted. She always looked wild and hazardous and she was. We’d never bring her home to meet the folks, but we’d always climb out of our bedrooms to hang out with her.
Amy may have been as reckless as she was troubled but she had allure, temptation, abandonment, defiance and passion - in spades. And however hard we wish these qualities never had tragic consequences, they often do.
And so we were torn. Our sympathies were instinctively drawn to the horrendous Norwegian events, but our fascination to Camden Town. Before long, people were deciding on the helping of compassion the victims in each story deserved, like portions of grief porridge. An undertaking as unnecessary as it was in dreadful taste, but one seized upon with undue relish by swathes of the blogosphere, Twiteratti and professional media.
The predictably glib argument went like this: the poor souls who lost their lives in or near Oslo were blameless. Whereas Amy Winehouse invited her death through heavy drug and alcohol use. Poor, poor Norwegians. Silly, silly Amy.
No industry will ever be more closely allied with mood-altering substances than popular music. The romantic explanation suggests the psychonauts of rock and roll use drugs and booze to push at the boundaries of reality and perception and achieve creative profundity. You know the deal, the road of excess leads to the temple of wisdom, and all that. The fact is, the life of a professional recording artist can be hellishly boring. Studio sessions drag on, photo sessions more so.
Then there’s the touring. Charlie Watts once said being on the road with the Rolling Stones was five years performing and 25 years hanging around. Mix that tedium with almost unlimited funds and a plentiful supply of gear and excess is pretty much inevitable; more for something to do than any serious attempt to rise to a higher state of consciousness.
Long before the Beatles dropped acid, they dropped speed to propel them through six live sets a night in the Hamburg clubs. After the gig beers took the edge off the amphetamine.
Billie Holiday found grass and heroin soothed her crippling nerves before taking the stage. Benzedrine kept her going for the after show booze-ups.
These temptations (or even necessities) don’t present themselves quite so readily in the career of a family solicitor or chartered surveyor. But they slide all too easily into the toolkit of the professional musician.
It would be foolish to suggest musical entertainers have no choice in such matters. They are as able to decline offers of powders, herbs and shots as any one of us. It’s just that their work makes ingestion initially desirable, even useful, rather than risky and problematic.
As their audience we, mostly unintentionally, encourage these habits. We love to see stars walking a path fringed with danger, paved with decadence and marked with incident. Because, fame is an exotic concept, we want the famous to lead exotic lives. There is little point in stars resembling and behaving like our neighbours, because we already have neighbours. So, we demand they inhabit a wondrous, alien land, where unimaginable highs are matched only by outrageous flirtation with an unhappy end. It’s exciting, intriguing, thrilling and just a little scary. We urge these people to ride the rollercoaster, because watching them soar and scream is so compelling.
When they don’t, they are nothing more than Justin Beiber.
In life, Amy Winehouse was one of the most documented performers of her generation. When she was written about, her intoxication was never ignored, but nor was it particularly condemned. Journalists of every hue often seemed rather impressed by the anarchy and broken bottles she left in her wake. It convinced them of her authenticity and rebel spirit. Understandably, none of us wanted her to lose those qualities – and yet we were all aware how costly her indulgences and addictions could be. Nobody wanted Amy dead, but very few people wanted her completely sober either.
Never traditionally beautiful, it was Amy Winehouse’s sheer precocious talent that initially thrust her front and centre. Smokey jazz, soul and blues pulsed behind her tales of abandonment, heartache and tears to pull us, irresistibly, to her work. Then, charisma, unmistakable hair and erratic personal affairs kept us riveted. She always looked wild and hazardous and she was. We’d never bring her home to meet the folks, but we’d always climb out of our bedrooms to hang out with her.
Amy may have been as reckless as she was troubled but she had allure, temptation, abandonment, defiance and passion - in spades. And however hard we wish these qualities never had tragic consequences, they often do.
