In these days of bad-girl, bubble-gum pop stars, I once assumed that Amy Winehouse was just another one.  I had seen news clips of the British musician on television, tattooed and stumbling drunk, and wondered how she, like so many others today, had gotten famous.

Then my wife played an Amy Winehouse song in the car one day, and I instantly knew why.  Amy Winehouse was magnificently talented.  But more than that, she was a genuine original in a world full of fakes.

Based on Winehouse’s appearance, I would have expected her to be an angry rocker.  She was anything but.  Her lyrics were honest and heartfelt; her sound was part American soul, part jazz, part hip-hop and part 1950’s crooner. Put together, it was 100% her own.  Others are now trying to emulate it. 

Everyone knew Winehouse was an addict.  Except Winehouse.  How terribly sad. Amy Winehouse, dead at 27.