Personal Thoughts About A Girl Named Amy

There are things that I, honestly, can’t avoid.

It’s obvious that no one needed me to come here and read an entire post just to grasp something that’s being broadcast, all over the world, about another girl named Amy [and I’m saying another, since I’m not talking about myself]

I absolutely won’t try to build a replica of an episode of biography channel, since I don’t even know much about her story.

All I know – and it is not much – I’ve learnt from her songs and, I must confess, I’m only familiar with a few.

She was the kind of person that actually felt what she sang, and anyone with just a bit of sensibility would understand it. Amy, I think, didn’t write just to make money, but because she needed to write. And she had the sort of song that everyone sings along, even with the radio.

It takes a lot of courage to tell the world what she said on Rehab. Honestly, I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be brave enough, if I was in her place. In the end, she put the entire world singing Rehab, which was, clearly, her story.

I must confess that I enjoyed her songs, and loved the “happy” ones, like Valerie. There was this almost childish smile that caught everyone that heard or sang Valerie, and I got that smile over and over again.

Yet, something really, really different came to me when I heard Back To Black. Not the first time I heard it – since, then, I didn’t get half of her words – but after reading the lyrics. The moment I heard that song knowing exactly what she was saying, I felt a different, particular emotion.

I truly knew what she sang and, again, I must confess that Back To Black was my song, the one that could have been, easily, written by me. Not because I liked it, but because I knew exactly what those words meant – I had been there. She sang my life too, in that song.

And that feeling made me say what I’ve already said: that she needed to write, just the way that every writer needs. We live for writing, we only live with writing, we can’t even think properly without writing [because, without knowing exactly how, this huge lump installs itself in the throat, in the heart, in each and every single part of our being, until we write]

When a person truly feels something, and writes about it, the reader gets the whole thing, the whole feeling. And that happened to me with Back To Black. It only takes a few words, a few notes to give me goose bumps and, quite often, to lead me to tears.

A song! it’s only a song!, would those blessed [or not] insensitive creatures say. Yet, for me, it’s not a song. It’s a story, a statement, just like every other thing that wasn’t written with hands and/or brain, but which every letter that was given to the world came from the heart.

And yes, it was simply a personal review that a supposed Amy made about another Amy. Blame me for not researching at wikipedia, and not googling a single thing I wrote.