They're tryin' to make me go to rehab.
I said,' No, no, no.'
Yes I been black, but when I come back,
You won't know, know, know.
Those words won Amy Winehouse the most prestigious award America offers musicians, the Grammy. Five of them actually.
As most readers probably know, Britain's version of Britney Spears had to perform at the ceremony via satellite - she was stuck in London, in rehab.
According to The New York Times, Winehouse looked "stunned and strangely sad as she learned she had won for record of the year."
Strangely sad? As inscrutable as human emotions may be, allow me to offer some speculation on Amy's dissonance, and more importantly, the significance of our fascination with her.
Not to go out on a limb, but I think recognition for being the best would be slightly frustrated by the accompanying recognition that you are addicted to drugs and alcohol. Also, your husband is in jail. Now that's when it gets embarrassing.
But there I go again, applying my provincial, downright Puritan conceptions of human dignity to a person an ocean away. Forgive me, could someone explain to me one more time the British or celebrity context that makes drug addiction and domestic problems ultimately good for a person?
As I transition to what Winehouse's popularity with Americans means about us, I have to admit that I enjoyed "Rehab" the first time I listened to it. Actually, I still enjoy it somewhat. However, the day after Halloween each year my stomach would teach and reteach me the lesson that just because I enjoy something doesn't mean it's good for me.
What makes Winehouse so appealing is that she doesn't just treat the tragic with her music. She is tragic.
And the kicker is she is glib about it. When accepting her award, she thanked her husband, "my Blake, my Blake incarcerated." In a word, she's sensational.
I hope you feel at least a little heartache there analogous to my candy-induced stomachache. The truth is that the more popular Winehouse is because of her tragic life, the more encouraged she is to stay tragic. It's almost certain that if she ever does fully rehabilitate, it will be followed by her rapid descent into obscurity.
I'm no psychologist. I claim no special insight into human nature other than being human and my interaction with the species. That being the case, I don't know why when I check the news for significant events - election coverage or an update on the crisis in Kenya - I often gravitate to some celebrity interview. But, I have become convinced that another elementary school lesson applies here: when I reward a person's self-destructive behavior-"acting out" as my teachers used to say - I am partially responsible for him or her continuing in it.
Seriously, there are plenty of great albums out there you can buy that don't fund the purchase of drugs.
So what I'm calling for is some sacrifice, in this case sacrifice of music that makes light of its writer's ruin. I'm also asking for some self-control. Neither are distinctive American virtues.
If you've been rolling your eyes throughout this column, thinking, "Lighten up, she's just fun to listen to," I beg you to discuss with your friends what transforms the subject of addiction into something fun. The only thing that separates Amy Winehouse from Heath Ledger is time and chance. And, of course, rehab.
Gerald Liles is a history and religion senior. His column appears on Tuesdays.
