"I TOLD YOU I WAS TROUBLE{D}"

PHOTO: LUCY TENENBAUM

It's so haunting when the news of a death does not surprise. In many ways it is this realisation that something so beyond us can be so concrete and certain, but then I suppose the individual has always got some element of control.

Amy Winehouse was a modern day icon. There's no point in trying to beat around the bush, claim that this status grew from her talent alone; it was her tormented, vulnerable persona that really cinched the deal.

The first time I came across her was when she appeared as a guest on Never Mind the Buzzcocks. It must have been 2003, around the time her debut album, Frank, was released. I was charmed. I was about 13. She was so cool.

Cool is a funny one, 'cause the fact of the matter remains that, yes, she really was actually very cool. Even by the end. It wasn't her penchant for all things detrimental, but rather her attitude toward the media, her wit and intelligence, and, of course, her undeniable ability to write some of the most honest and gut wrenching love songs of the 21st century. With Frank she displayed the empowered woman, she belted out "woteva"; belted it with smokey class and a double on the rocks. But then it was Back To Black.

Only her second album, and already she had succeeded in making one of the indisputable bests of the decade. No more shrugging it off, this time the pain was everything - the whole record was created out of it, built on a foundation of agony, both physical and emotional. You heard the bruising, the tears and the blackouts. While Frank rose a glass to the slamming door, Back To Black threw the glass to the floor and broke the fingers in the door.

There aren't many modern day sirens; we can't boast a sea of them, but we sure as hell can look to one. The one sprawled on the rock, slipping ever so slightly, half her face grazed and bloody, seaweed caught in her 'pit. She is grotesque and beautiful all at once, and you just can't look away: a perfect mess. But when you eventually do, it is the perfection that persists, for you need not see to love a voice.