Inner memories mar my mind...

http://www.vh1.com/vspot/player.jhtml?name=music&id=1556642&purl=/artists/az/winehouse_amy/artist.jhtml&launchedFrom=/artists/az/winehouse_amy/artist.jhtmlSo

I've been waiting patiently for the Live MTV/vh1 Amy Winehouse performance since I saw photos from the performance a few weeks ago on mtv.com. Today, they finally put the actual videos online. 4 songs: "You Know I'm No Good," "Rehab," "Back to Black," and "Love is a Losing Game." Her only accompaniment is an acoustic guitar.

The result: chill-inducing, gut-wrenching soul. Amy's been getting a lotta press lately. Usually when such a thing happens, you reach a point where you're just like "Enough already. She's good, but she's not that good." But the thing with Amy is, she really is that good. And not just in a musical sense, but in an artistic sense.

Believe the hype. All of it. Watching this performance made me love her and pity her simultaneously. Just listening to it put Koiner "in the land of the lost," but it was watching it that really twists ur guts and chills u to the core. She sounded like something between a cello and a trumpet, the strength, the delicacy, the beauty. But watching her, you knew that these weren't just songs. It wasn't a singalong. She was revealing herself to us, and it seemed as if she wasn't sure that we had earned such a privilege. She sat on her barstool as though she were naked and forced to be there. Watching it made me feel like I was, in some way, violating her. She never smiled, not even a grin to accent some of the witty lines that make her album so enjoyable. Her eyes stayed down, she never looked into the camera. At times, it seemed as though she weren't even there mentally. It seemed as though she was looking back into her past, sadly reminiscing of the heartache that produced an album so drenched in lonely torment.

I think much of this had to do with her simple accompaniment. There is an added level of comfort and security when you share the stage with a band and backup singers. (Indeed, it allows many of our less talented stars to camoflauge their lack of talent as well.) It can also infuse a performer with confidence. However, with minimal accoutrement, the covers are pulled back. Someone could be a very emotive singer in a choir, but suddenly become a shy mouse as a soloist. The crab no longer has his shell or his claw, it's pure meat. (I'm a cancer; i had to get that in.) And what I saw today in Amy, was that behind the wit and deprecating humor was pure sorrow. A sorrow like fire, refining her to the point of producing a true masterpiece in Back to Black, but also destroying her, consuming her like her well-publicized bouts with alcoholism and depression. Watching her sing "I just need a friend," during her performance of "Rehab," you're left thinking that it wasn't meant tongue-in-cheek. She really needs a friend. Her disillusionment at that point is almost tearfully palpable. You see--no, you feel--why and how a shot glass became a dependable anchor to a person plagued by dissapointment.

*Cue Ms. Angelou*

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Call Me... marred by memories of the "Littlest Things"