The Trouble with Amy

Photo Copyright: AmyWinehouse.Com

I remember, vividly, first seeing Amy Winehouse circa 2003; she was appearing on a particularly staid, wooden weekend Irish chat-show.  The stark juxtaposition between Amy's radiating, beyond-her-years talent and those drab TV surroundings was comedic - and I found myself sitting back and wondering what I'd just seen.  There was a sass, an assured composure to her - but not in a brash or lippy way.  And a definite sense that she had an otherworldly talent which harked back to her many influences -  from Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughan to Frank Sinatra and the Shangri-Las.  


This was the start of a fond fascination with Amy and her music for me, and I'm guessing, many others.  


"Frank" provided an adept, acerbic-witted and musically-informed insight to Amy's talent, but "Back to Black" really was her epic moment.  It was, and is, an illuminating rumination on love, loss, hurt and turmoil to a wonderfully arranged musical backdrop.  Though Amy almost definitely polarised opinion, she also spanned generations in her following - "Back to Black" provided a soundtrack to heartbreak, discovery, redemption... filling floors and becoming a staple of Karaoke machines in the process.

Having tried, unsuccessfully, to catch one of her elusive concerts over the years, I maintained a level of intrigue, intertwined with a level of terror, in Amy Winehouse. This woman - two years younger than me - had appeared to enter a zone of deconstruction from which few ever return.  The songs weren't important any more - the ceaseless coverage in trashy magazines and red-tops took precedence - and Amy became a media rag-doll, tossed about on headlines of drug-abuse, blood-stained ballet pumps and shambolic concerts.

This time last year, I woke from a post-wedding recovery nap to hear Reuters reports of Amy's death.  It may sound naive, but I couldn't believe it - however unsurpising it was. Though her seemingly chaotic private life had eclipsed her enormous talent, I somehow felt [or at least, hoped] she would battle on and reconnect with her musicality.  Reading the recent Q Magazine article, it seemed Amy's "before her time" resonance was reflected in many ways.  The world became a threatening place for her, and she sought refuge in things and places which didn't nurture her, but instead drove her into self-loathing and darkness.  I cannot put into words just how tragic it is; that she died in a haze of alcoholic poisoning when, as all reportage has inferred, her life appeared to be turning a corner, for the better.

There is then, immense poignancy to a statement [roughly paraphrased] from an interview with Amy following "Frank"'s release - when answering a question related to what she wanted to achieve with her music career, she spoke of her frustration at the thought that she might die, and leave no musical legacy.  To not have touched anyone with her music.  I've often wondered if Amy had a sixth-sense, that she knew, somehow that she would burn bright, but burn fast? Whether she could tell that her music would leave an indelible imprint on many, but in the process - she would deconstruct.

The only certainty is the reality - we'll never know.

We'll never know what might have been if Amy could have hung on a bit longer; if she'd reignited that genius writing talent, and that sultry, magnificent vocal range, so reminiscent of the blues and jazz singers she loved. The aforementioned Q article talked, very aptly, of Amy's ability to inhabit a song... and there's no clearer an example of this than her duet with Paul Weller for "Don't Go To Strangers".

A year has passed, and still, I find myself listening to her songs, cognisant of a sense that she isn't gone at all. I can't explain it.  Perhaps it's the fact that Amy decided, without realising, there was one thing she couldn't do, and some things she didn't know how not to.  One thing's for sure, there are many of us touched by her musical legacy... and we always will be.

"I tread a troubled track/my odds are stacked/I'll go back to black"
Back to Black, 2006

Westport's "Classtonbury" Returns for Year Two...

Photo Copyright: Westport Festival of Music and Performing Arts

If this was a tweet, it would read something like this "I'm-ever-so-'appy! Classtonbury is back for yr two".  Well done, Westport Festival of Music and Performing Arts, you played a blinder.  

Obviously, I wasn't the happiest woman in Ireland more recently, having experienced the Phoenix Park in all its glory.  However, as I mentioned, I had been somewhat spoiled.  The Westport Festival of Music and Performing Arts, or Classtonbury as I have chosen to rename it, is a joy to behold.  Situated on the wondrous grounds of Westport House, the festival really is a classy gig... not simply because, unlike many other festivals, it has tailored its style to a less "let's pack the place out" business stance, but also its offering, which is less of a festival, and more of an experience.  One which attracts folk spanning at least three generations, all seeking the same thing - music - but not at any cost.

Y'see, music festivals are an experience: one to be enjoyed, not tolerated or suffered.  On the basis of that statement, I may be accused of being a "young fogie" and maybe I am, but why would you selectively subject yourself to torturous, disorganised, cramped madness when you could enjoy food, beer [or wine] and an array of wonderful artists in harmonious circumstances?

Indeed.  What about the delightful Irish weather conditions, I hear you ask? Well, you can't legislate for them, but you can almost certainly provide an atmosphere which allows people to enjoy music despite the weather.  I'll never forget the "stair-rod"-like rain which fell during the Waterboys set...  at a certain point, I had to concede defeat, and retreat.  However, there was a vehemency in my need to soldier on for Ray Davies.  And I did.  

I wasn't concerned that it'd take about five hours [yes, I'm exaggerating] to get back to the stage, or make my way to a decent standpoint... I could ramble over, and without having to ram my way through, get a good spot just far enough up to feel like I could see something of the man himself.  And not on a screen two hundred feet away.

I'm in business, and I know well that scalability is mandatory for sustainability and growth... but equally, being "niche" and catering for specific audiences is key.  There may be selfish reasons underpinning this next statement, however, I am resolute in my belief that this festival will grow and develop its following on the basis of maintaining what made it so damn special the first time around.  And that is the classy, boutique, warm, and downright welcoming vibe that enveloped people wandering through the gates of the great house just a few weeks ago.

So, please, Classtonbury, don't lose what made you so special in year one! Oh... and I can't wait to see who'll be making an appearance in the line-up for 2013.

Martha: A Pretty Spectacular Piaf Concert... Sans Fusils, Ni Souliers, A Paris

Copyright: Martha Wainwright

I'm certainly not a Piaf afficionado... but this is a pretty remarkable concert to catch a glimpse of.  Stumbling across the film a few weeks back, I was completely consumed by the atmosphere apparent in this extraordinarily brave, tangibly warm and tactile experience of Edith Piaf's musical history.

Martha Wainwright is demonstrably elegant in her rendition of Piaf's songs, and though there is a slight sense of nervousness at the enormity of the task at hand  - her delicate and intelligent carriage of these extraordinary songs, amidst the guttural rumble of the music, is indisputable.

Wainwright captures in a well-managed, but careful manner, the qualities of the songs - their implied thematic emblems, sadness and equally, occasional joyfulness. A good reference to this - the stomping, reverential "Non, La Vie, N'est Pas Triste", alongside the beatific, melodic "Marie Troitroir" and "C'est a Hambourg".

It's also quite wonderful for music nerds to behold Garth Hudson of the Band making an appearance,  for "Hudsonia", as well as Martha's mother, the late Kate McGarrigle [a voice I grew up with thanks to my Mum's love of the McGarrigle sisters] providing support vocally and musically.


"Sans Fusils, Ni Souliers, A Paris" is something you should get lost in - because you can.  Amidst rolling piano, smokey vocals, string section and gutter-y guitar, there is a wonderful gift to immerse yourself in. Enjoy.

A Trip Down Memory Lane... Through Rose-Tinted Glasses

Image Copyright: Graham Gilmore Photography 

Trudging through the sludge and muck at the Phoenix Park last Thursday evening, I did wonder what I was doing more than once... however that may have resulted from the uninformed trek to the point of entry to the Stone Roses concert as opposed to the slippery conditions onsite.  Us reconstituted country-folk often neglect to recall that “walking distance” doesn’t connote a five-minute saunter.  However, the anticipation mounting in my gut drove me onwards, and, ignoring sore feet, thirst and general malaise, I trundled on. 

A palpable sense of excitement was evident in most folk wandering through the vast space of the Phoenix Park and as many will have observed – a chemically induced walking-somnolence was equally evident in others.  In any event, either physical condition served only to indicate the veritable serendipity of seeing this band, back together again. 

The Stone Roses represent many things to many people; the fact that the audience at this concert appeared to span three decades of birth illustrates this clearly.  For most, it’s point-in-time; youth, love, adulthood, growth.  I must confess to being at the younger-end of the scale of the Roses fandom, however, no less committed than those ten years or so my senior.

The opening lines of “I Wanna Be Adored” sent juddering, shuddering tremors through the crowd amidst the raucous shouts, hyperactivity and thundering bass.  They’d landed.  Though I can’t claim the moment I heard “it first” or being cool enough [or old enough] to have loved them when the pre-eminent album arrived, I felt the transcendent, illuminating and warm sensation “The Stone Roses” engenders in me every time I listen to it. 

Powering through a set which included a comprehensive selection-box of their back catalogue, there was almost certainly something for everyone.  For this particular fan, there were few tracks unwelcome on the set-list, though I’m sure newcomers to the band would’ve found the latter half more recognisable.  Fair criticism can be expected in respect of Ian Brown’s vocal prowess, which at times, was wavering – however as a collective, there was significant weight and skill in the musical architecture of each song. 

Depending on one’s predilection, album-wise, “Love Spreads”, “Ten Storey Love Song”, “Made of Stone”, “She Bangs the Drums” or “Waterfall” may have held a special groove in your heart.  The reality for anyone close to this band’s work is that it’s quite difficult to be drawn on the tracks we don’t love.  For every song that might not have been just as good or had a real resonance like another – there is something a little special, if sometimes not fully-formed, about every single one.

Undoubtedly the timbre changed when “Fools Gold” kicked into gear, the opening riff electrifying even the most subdued concert-goers, culminating in the ultimate embodiment of nostalgia... some pretty questionable dancing. 

A slightly anarchic reference to the incumbent monarch lead into the final three tracks of the set, concluding with “I Am the Resurrection”, a rousing send-off for the 45,000 faithful, baying for more.

As the title suggests, these insights are coloured by deep affection and respect for the band and its music – however they’re not completely blinkered.  For me, the biggest disappointment was the venue and its facilities, which detracted hugely from the momentous atmosphere surrounding the concert.   Swarms of people thronged the inadequate drinks and toilet facilities [while, unsurprisingly, there were few waiting for food] – an average wait of thirty-five minutes to get your mitts on a pint of beer was most frustrating.  One of my fellow-travellers made their way [thank you Caroline] through several snake-like queues and managed to gain access to the bar, however the arduous requisitioning of said refreshments was a major nuisance. 

Obviously, concerts of such magnitude are likely to generate muck and general madness, however informed and wise management of provisions could have short-circuited hassle and discomfort.  Having recently attended the Westport Music Festival, I had definitely been somewhat spoiled by the careful coordination and management of crowd, facilities and refreshments.  One could argue that a smaller crowd [circa 10,000] and being in its first year may account for this, however it seems to me that clearer thought and comprehension was involved – something which didn’t appear to exist on Thursday night.

A promise of “Like Fu Manchu, we will return” received gleeful roars from the audience, however only time will tell if they actually do.   As a lucky peep who once shared a beer with two of the Roses [and received much-deserved chastisement for same], and despite very-much hoping there will be a return visit, I don’t think a Second Coming at the Phoenix Park would be of interest.  Any chance of an Olympia residency, guys?