Amy Winehouse got wasted during a photo shoot and subsequent interview for Bazaar. Surprisingly, the photo shoot went great and the interview turned out fantastic. I would expect nothing less.
Sober Amy: They are partway through the shoot when I arrive; Adams has taken a break to eat some food. He’s trying to convince Winehouse to eat too by offering her vegan rice balls. “No, Bryan!” she says grandly. She is very loud and very theatrical. “I need protein, Bryan!” She dispatches a member of her not-inconsiderable entourage to track down a Pret A Manger crayfish salad. Also: “A cucumber, so I can hit Bryan with it.”
Drinking Amy: Just before Winehouse goes to change for the next shot, I see her gulping down a big glass of wine. “Not,” she says aloud, “that I’m a rock-star alkie.”
Drunk Amy: I have no idea what prompted this, but I can say that 45 minutes later, she is changed. She is physically unstable, wobbly in high block heels. Soon, she begins a chorus-girl routine for the camera—complete with cha-chas and pirouettes. “Hurry up, Bryan!” she shouts. “This is like a three-hour-long blood extraction!” She hikes her black-and-white-checked miniskirt up and shakes her hips. The shoot wraps, and Winehouse walks unsteadily from the set. I find her sitting on the edge of a white-quilted bed in her dressing room, slurping noisily from a pot of soup. One of her representatives tells me that she will sit in on our interview.
Drunk Amy messes up interview: I want to ask Winehouse many things. Is she happy? Healthy? Working on new material? In love? How is her relationship with her father, the outspoken London taxicab driver, Mitch? Does she miss Blake? Does she want marriage? Children? But, I quickly realize, I am unlikely to get any answers. She is just not … present. She is distracted and vague. My most straightforward questions confuse her.
Might as well talk to drunk Amy anyway: How are you? I ask. She slurps more soup. “I’m all right. How are you?” Her voice is breathier, girlier now; her syntax is childish. She either pronounces words with great care or slurs them into one barely intelligible syllable. I’m fine, I say. Were you getting tired of shooting? “I’m not very good at it.” Why not? “‘Cause I’m a musician, I’m not really good at posing and being a model, like, modeling.”
No one understands drunk Amy: “Ve’y much so. Ve’y much so. And that’s been the whole thing. We’ve pretty much done like up to autumn/winter 2012, and I’m like, ‘Have we?’ Yeah!” It was easy? “Mmm-hmmm. Yeah, yeah, it was not hard at all, not hard at all, because, like …” Someone hands her a crayfish salad and removes the empty soup pot from her hands. “Thank you, baby!” she says to the provider of the salad. She turns back to me. “I knew exactly what I wanted. And I love Fred Perry so much. I was honored that they would even, like, ‘Do you want to come and do a line?’ Me? Like, me?” She stabs a finger into her chest. “Yeah!” she adds.
Drunk Amy says she dresses like an old Jewish black man: And then: “I’m aware I’m being recorded,” Winehouse says. “Just so you know. I am aware of that.” Okay. Do you consider yourself a style icon? “A style, like, what?” A style icon, I repeat. “Style, like … ?” Icon! “No, of course not!” But you are! People have altered the way they look as a consequence of your look. Tattoos have gained new currency; heavy eyeliner is widely imitated. “Uh-huh. I don’t think that’s true. I just dress like … I’m an old black man. Sorry!” she says. “Like I’m an old Jewish black man. I just dress like it’s still the ’50s.”
Amy Winehouse must have chained up her liver or something because I swear I read that it packed a suitcase, put on its hat and left her body for good.
Is she gonna record a new album or just spend all her life drinking? I guess the royalties keep coming, so why stop.
she kind of stopped eventually.