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Amy Winehouse, like Janis Joplin or Ella Fitzgerald, is compelling and unforgettable. Forget The X Factor and all the plastic princesses we are offered; this dangerously laced vulnerability is rare and precious.
I first saw Amy Winehouse at the Isle of Wight festival in June; watching her arrive on stage in front of 60,000 people was like seeing Bambi bounce into a clearing to find himself faced with a firing squad. Terrified, she fidgeted and scampered on the spot, calming down only when she sang, and it looked as if it took every ounce of muscle and morphine she could muster not to run for the hills. Instead she stayed, belted out her songs with her peculiar blend of awkward physicality and utterly sensuous soul, and came back for more, leaning on Mick Jagger’s shoulder to sing with him the Motown classic ‘Ain’t too Proud to Beg’.
Here at Brixton, supported by her excellent band including the most fantastic jazz drummer, she delivers her songs with increasing verve as the evening progresses and the big drinks keep coming. The warmth and depth of her voice pours over and into every word and note so the raw space of the Brixton Academy becomes as intimate as a backroom bar in New Orleans, a spirit conveyed by the tasselled lamps and soft lighting of the jazz club set. Her cover of Sam Cook’s ‘Cupid, draw back your bow’ is bittersweet heaven, the first of several songs she dedicates to her husband Blake, clearly much on her mind as earlier in the day he was remanded in custody until January.
Given these trying circumstances, Amy’s aura of bewilderment is understandable, and the mood of the very mixed crowd is supportive. An early and abrupt exit from the stage after only four tracks meets with no howls of derision; the audience is biddable, and the band holds us until she returns, now winched into Betty Boop polka dots and involved in a busy relationship with her hair grips which continues through the set. Amy’s tiny stature under the hair and striking make-up is childlike, as is her between-song behaviour: she jitters and totters in tiny rushes, marching up to whisper something to a musician, appearing to flounce when he says no, but returning to the mike, calming and seeming to gain strength as she sings.
And, boy, are the songs good. Back to Black is the bestselling album of the year, and the collective pleasure as Amy picks up her guitar and fingers an introduction to ‘Love is a Losing Game’ can be cut with a knife. And the notorious battle song ‘Rehab’ is greeted with cheers and delivered with a sassy marching beat reminiscent of a jolly Fifties number. Light and ironic is just the right touch here. No matter how many times she has to sit down between numbers, no matter how many pints of rocket fuel she imbibes, no matter how she stumbles, mumbles and drops her mike, she remains a drop-dead gorgeous singer.
Her set is a well-put-together hour, and it is generally best that she keeps singing: there is an anxious moment when she starts mumbling into a bunch of flowers, but she pulls herself together, throws one to the audience and sends love to her Dad in the crowd. What with the tattoos on her arm, there is a painful sense of her wearing her heart on her sleeve. ‘Me and Mr Jones’ in the encore set is dedicated to Blake and she is patently missing her husband badly. The gig tails off with ‘Valerie’, and Amy scampers off the stage. It doesn’t matter that her exit is rushed, it doesn’t matter that she was sometimes a little confused; the show was the better for the rough edges and her voice gleams through, enduring and forever like a diamond. Let her shine.
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