Amy, Amy, Amy… I know I’ve been here before… Amy, Amy, Amy… she’s just too hard to ignore… Rhythmically she spins a spell – I know she’d wear me well… Amy, Amy, Amy… where’s her moral parallel?
Amy Jade Winehouse was our holiday. She was our release, our renaissance, our rehabilitation, and our rhythmic residency. She was her own body of work; she lived in the music, and through that magnificent manifestation she created a parallel world within and apart from the everyday mainstream anything.
In the midst of Neo-Prohibition Era America where false was ideal, imperial nudity was lauded, and deuces wild were on deck, Winehouse was our haven beneath said house of cards. Amy was a release. She was our speakeasy, her voice resonated with us as the hidden-in-plain-view perfection of human imperfection. She birthed a culture through her tales of love lost, found, and for which her heart would forever fiend. Her music brought us from the throws of auto-tune, from the perils of saccharine-infused ringtone jingles, high and away from the collective race to the bottom that was 2007.
She was our vantage into the vintage; our very own halfway point between Scott Joplin’s Post-Victorian Era Ragtime revolution, injecting the joie de vivre back into the mainstream, and Janis Joplin’s Post-Pleasantville Americana Blue-Eyed Psychedelic Soul. Amy was the embodiment of the Neo-Prohibition Jazz Era of modern music. She was the cause and the cure for our every cultural ailment. She was the radiant child, wise beyond her years – the rebellious child – but from the mouth of the basement baroness babe spoke truth. She provided a place for us to turn when the clock struck five, following our every dogged day, mourning every minute after the ninth lie. She was our happy hour. She was our winehouse – our own special place where humanity was okay, where everyone was in the dark together, where the soul and the sin were the norm. Beneath the blinding light, neither she nor we knew better than what we had – and after nearly a decade of lost everything, all we had was our lone selves.
Punch-drunk love hangover courtesy of the most rosy-cheeked forever-juvenile heartthrob this side of Justin Bieber got your Tuesday on pause? Well, that’s what the Valentines’s Daylist vault is for – the cause and cure… sit back, bask in the afterglow of el dia de los enamorados… A quick and dirty list lingering on the fringe of lunacy and true love – enjoi…
Oh love. Timelining through Cupid, St. Valentine, Aphrodite — her son Hermaphrodite — Cyrano de Bergerac, van Gogh, John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Ike and Tina, the list. goes. on. For love to be so romanticized, it is quite a trying ordeal. On this most noted of all days dedicated to love, I’ve decided to venture down the road far less desired, but far more traveled. This path of great resistance may be long and arduous, but it makes for quite the soundtrack. It’s baneful. It’s adulterous at times. It’s abasing. It’s abstract and all-consuming. It’s fleeting. But, inevitably, it’s love. So for what it’s worth: enjoi.
President Obama is on the road promoting the historic health care legislation he signed into effect earlier this week. So I’ve decided to compile a quick primer playlist to accompany his journey and ours to and through this momentous bill, to cut through the jargon, and to break down the “can dos if you choose” of health care reform.
Bad Romance: because now you can get your lover’s ugly and disease without worrying about high premiums
Just a Girl: because it is no longer a pre-existing condition
Round 3 of “A Dime, A Dozen” brings us to the tatted – but oh so talented – tandem that is Amy Winehouse and Lil’ Wayne: The Inkwell.
Seemingly limitless, infinite, amounts of ungodly God-given talent flow through the veins of these two. Amy and Wayne are those kids in the corner who your parents warned you about – but didn’t need to because they were out of your league anyway, in their own special way.
It being the last month of the decade everyone’s dropping their recaps of the 2000s thus far – Y2K bug, artists of the decade, monumental moments, etc. – but when I think of the decade in Pop I think back to the subtle moments – easily missed – that set the tone for everything that followed.
In case you missed it: Aaliyah’s “Try Again” was the decade’s first Female Video of the Year – a most apropos harbinger to the next 10 years of female pop and, oddly enough, politics as well.
“If at first you don’t succeed…”
“If you’re lookin’ for trouble, you came to the right place,” trouble: check; YouTube resolution as blurry as Brit’s that night: check.
Graduation is that “October Song” masterpiece: a piece of art that needs no external interpretation because it is complete in and of itself. At the most superficial and benign level, Kanye is Alec Trebeck and Graduation is “Jeopardy:” a series of answers engaging you to question.
It is a fact that when immersed in the surreal, people’s ability to make sense of the world around them is increased. The fragmented fantastical enhances our ability to connect themes and build structure – when given fantasy we are best equipped to perceive reality.
Thus is Kanye’s Graduation. An artist of West’s caliber is beyond “this world;” his ability to connect words, ideas, art forms, the abstract and concrete, is unreal. Nowhere is this more present than in his masterful encapsulation of modern life – above and below: Graduation.
Amy, Amy, Amy… born to blossom, bloom to perish, sleep to wake again. Drake says you can’t bring the future back, but when Winehouse asks of herself in 2003’s Frank “Where’s my moral parallel?” she defied that theory. Back to Black was the fateful answer –– the artistic masterpiece, and beautiful disaster –– but as it preceded the U.S. release of Winehouse’s true debut, pre-“Rehab“ Frank became the answer to its own question.
As the old saying goes, “the sun never sets on England;” so the new saying seems to be, “the talent never fades in Britain,” and in both cases it is in the darkest moments where light burns brightest. Enter Amy Winehouse. Before Hov’s heavily-mediated man-on-a-mission 2009 Auto-Tune massacre, Amy killed it softly; before Roc Nation rocked “all black everything,” Amy Winehouse took it Back to Black. Let’s revisit the death and renaissance of rehab.
When I grow up I want to be famous, I want to be a star, I want to be in shoe-vies
Nicole knows that just because California is broke, her ankles don’t have to be. Hopefully more stars on and off the court will take heed
Broke ankles are the leading cause of being broke for young stars. Dancers are equally prone to broke ankles as ballers — just ask MC Hammer, who wasn’t aware of the ankle insurance package when he shuffled his parachute pants into bankruptcy. You don’t even have to be “on your feet” to be afflicted though, ask Lindsay Lohan. Her Ferragamos just weren’t enough support on that fateful Summer’s eve of evasive driving; broke ankles, broke people.
Still not convinced? Fair enough. One final note though: broke ankles break people, and they break their dreams — anywhere, any time. Even aimless wanderers are susceptible: en route from one bar to the next pub, or public phone — I don’t judge — and bam! Snap, crackle, pop goes the ankles. What starts as a simple lack of proper shoe support and stability
was it Fielder-Civil; or was it the shoes?
Broke ankles. Broke people.
But it doesn’t have to end it tragedy, just look at Mr. West. With ankle insurance like his, no wonder they call him Mr. By-his-self-he-so-impressed — him and these fine fellows
And ladies, don’t let dresses get in the way of security. What is the only thing these three had missing when they got out of the car (other than their knickers):
ankle insurance. Heels + dress + car insures nothing — except a tabloid scandal. Luckily, dresses are covered in the insurance plan.
Watch this space: From style to safety — whether showstoppin’ or ankle poppin’ — look no further than your feet, because it always comes down to the shoes — literally.