Hot off the presses, "Up All Night With Amy Winehouse" in which Rolling Stone scribe Claire Hoffman wanders, unannounced, into Amy Winehouse's crack den in Camden and experiences the singer in her natural tin-foil, beer can, and lingerie box scattered environment. The details, while sordid, are not at all shocking for anyone who has been following Winehouse's various trials and travails: she stays up all night, entertaining a variety of paparazzi and hangers on; her body is covered in sores as a result of her drug use; she's charming, yet can't stop talking about how miserable she is because her beloved partner-in-crack, husband Blake Fielder-Civil, is incarcerated (though she all but admits to affairs with her manager's assistant Alex Haines and Towers of London bassist Kristian Marr). Though Hoffman's story had no new revelations, the narrative convinces me of one thing: Amy Winehouse is not long for this world.
It's not just because she has emphysema, though that obviously doesn't help. It's because she sees nothing wrong with her behavior, and is so far from admitting to any addiction that attempts to help her would be futile. Not that anyone is actually trying to help her, mind you. Hoffman writes, "at Winehouse's place, there's no publicist or manager to be seen, no crisis-management squad deployed to save one of the decade's most successful female vocalists from public shame. That's not Winehouse's style - it's just her and a girlfriend. British singer Remi Nicole pores over the paper, annoyed, telling her friend that all this scandal has to stop."