Red Eyed Soul

I don't know how I am suppose to feel about Amy Winehouse. I must say that I love her work, and as I am completely bogged down with work on this Sunday morning, it is a welcomed distraction. I think it is the wanting of love, the wanting of heartache, the feeling of moving on, and the scratchy early 1960's St. Tropez jazz throw back caught in her throat.

It is odd. Many in the press say she is drugged out, in fact she looks strangely like those homeless kids that used to sit in the middle of the East Village twelve or thirteen years ago. They would just sit on the pavement, dirty as a Dickens character and punked out like a freshly cornholed Jack Kerouac anti-hero. You know, the middle class white children that turned into street urchins because of a fight they had with their third step-father in seven years (I shouldn't assume, cause I did work with the homeless years ago and there is nothing cynical or funny about that reality), blah, blah, blah . . . but Amy Winehouse, please blow, blow, blow.

I will have to look into Amy Winehouse and the "make-up" of her (Rolling Stone, The Village Voice, New York Magazine, etc . . .) as the press declares her the new queen of soul . . . I think she is soulful, but I am not convinced that what she is doing is soul.