I was really looking forward to a comeback because I loved Amy Winehouse. She was the only “blue-eyed soul” singer whose music I not only listened to, but respected… and that’s probably because she was a druggie and fucked up so many live performances; she was such a badass. And I wanted a comeback so bad so to prove that despite all of the emotional baggage she was so obviously and unsuccessfully coping with, she could still win that battle. i was convinced she had it in her because her music was so dope.
I read what all the other journalists of reputable magazines and newspapers wrote of her life and death, and I get upset. I get upset because there is definitely an undertone that condemns her personal lifestyle, the choice she made, which somehow invalidates her talent and her inevitable success… like she drank and smoked because she didn’t care about her music or her fans… like she didn’t want to do well. In reality, those pretentious fucking pricks don’t know why she chose to live how she did… they don’t know why, you don’t know why, I don’t know why; and to be so assuming shows an obvious disrespect for the dead.
I realize that I was headed in the same direction when I started writing this post. I was, and still am, a little upset that she’s dead because I am a selfish and inconsiderate person. I was going to criticize her fashion debut with Fred Perry [http://www.fredperry.com/women/amy-winehouse-landing/]as an imminent foreshadow for what was to come. I expected so much from Ms. Winehouse and that was unfair. So, I blame myself for what happened and can do nothing more than celebrate her life and her music. She was such a beautiful person and will forever be a music icon. Besides, she’s so much more real than say a Duffy or Joss Stone… and the only reason anyone likes Adele is because she’s fat… think about it.
When talking about music, we tend to put things into neat little categories called “genres.” And every so often a really exceptional artist comes around who doesn’t fit in the box we’ve prepared for him or her. But this isn’t the case with this month’s music group: The Doors. They define a very specific type of rock star with a very specific sound during a very specific time period. And that’s great and all, but who’s to say I can’t listen to and like their music? I’m not a suburban white male coming of age during the late 60s. I don’t get shitfaced at tailgating parties. I don’t drive a Ford F-150 pickup. I’ve never tried LSD, amphetamines, cocaine, shrooms, peyote…
And who’s to say Kanye West won’t sample one of the greatest rock songs ever made (Five To One) to create one of the greatest diss records ever made (Take Over)? Exactly… no one. I think we all get the point: nothing is safe from Mr. West… Nothing.
Now, as a member of the African-American community, it’s technically wrong for me to like a group such as The Doors… it’s like I’m a walking oxymoron… like how, according to physics, bumble bees aren’t supposed to fly with such tiny little wings and robust bodies; it just doesn’t make sense. Well… I practically failed all of my Physics classes in High School, so I really don’t care about the limitations of science in general… but that’s another story for another blog. Anyway, back to my black angst… groups like The Doors have taken from my people; they stole our sound and turned it into off-beat pop music… in some cases… in most cases actually. The Blues’ influence is very clear in songs such as Roadhouse Blues. This isn’t my fave song by The Doors, but hey, good music is good music no matter where the influence stems. As always, this type of thinking somehow makes me a credit to my race, which is not necessarily a bad thing.
I’ll admit, other than that weird Oliver Stone movie starring Val Kilmer and Meg Ryan (what?!!), I had no idea who The Doors were. (Sidenote: Meg Ryan does as good a job as a rock star groupie as Jennifer Aniston did in Rock Star with Mark Wahlberg… I’m not a fan.) Among rummaging through my mother’s old CD’s, I found The Best of The Doors album. [This method of searching through my mother’s accumulated crap is how I discovered a lot of great artists that I now obsess over: Nina Simone, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, and Barrington Levy among many others. I mean, I knew who these people were and why they were generally important… but you don’t know an artist until you know their music.] And I didn’t like The Doors the first time I listened to both of the CD’s on that album… but then I heard Five to One, and… I… flipped… the… fuck… out… seriously; because you know I know every word of Jay-Z’s Take Over. I must’ve played that song alone for two days straight, and then I listened to the entire album for over two months straight. I… was… obsessed. I still am.
So, hear me out; sometimes it takes one song to really hit the spot and open up your Jim Morrison chakra. This story is basically just an aphorism for why you will grow to love my blog if you don’t love it already. I obsess about everything I love in music, fashion, and movies. I’m a freak like that. And I don’t care what’s going on in the “real” world; what you watch on MTV o BET or even what you listen to on your favorite radio station. I listen to everything. Although, most Country Music gives me a headache, which has been the case since I was very young, but if you give me a Country Music CD and say, “You know, this is something you need to listen to… this shit right here… this shit right here… this shit right here…” I’d give it a chance, so give me a chance. You may find that one song that really, really, like really gets into your skin and lo and behold, you’ve found your new favorite musician, or fashion designer, or movie director.