Amy Winehouse made music that sounded like alchemy, thanks in large part to collaborators like producer Salaam Remi. Alchemy was something that became increasingly absent from Amy’s time outside the studio; in its place were lurking paparazzi, incessant boos, cases of Jack Daniels, and a life-sized gallery sculpture that predicted the worst.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
The seven Club is the production of I Heart Radio
and Double Elvis. Amy Winehouse died at the age of
and she lived the life that played out more like
a reality show than reality. I can give you twenty
seven reasons why that statement is true. Seven would be
the number of days each week the paparazzi would lurk
(00:22):
outside her door waiting for her to emerge. Eight more
would be the number of months she would refuse to
perform live after getting booed off stage at a concert
in late two eight. Another two would be the number
of cases of Jack Daniels she had ordered specifically for
that ill fated concert. One more would be the number
(00:42):
of life sized art gallery sculptures that predicted her early demise.
Another seven would be how much in hundreds of pounds
it would cost to attend to benefit show hosted by
UK Royalty where her god daughter would make her professional
singing debut. And two will be the number of years
she had left to live after she stood trial for
(01:05):
assaulting a burlesque dancer. All totally on this our fourth
episode of season four, booed off stage life size sculptures
burlesque dancers in Amy Winehouse, I'm Jake Brennan and this
is the seven o'clock. Ye, the man could have been
(02:04):
a sorcerer. He was just missing the customary cloak and
point he hat, But he didn't traffic and sorcery. He
was real, as real as the chair he sat in,
and as real as the knobs on the console that
stood before. Still, he could have been a sorcerer all
because of the song. The song felt like magic. It
(02:28):
took something old, which itself was already recreated out of
something even older, and made it new again. It was
like listening to the past and listening to the future
all at once. But the song could be rationally explained,
explained as in broken Down, taken apart, dissected the layers
(02:49):
of years and then decades, the auditory dust of history.
First there was a Hatchet sixty instrumental by the Shadows,
which it's sell was a cover of a song taught
to them by their tour made the English guitarist Bert Wheaton.
Then came the incredible Bongo Bands seventy three version of
(03:10):
Apache with a monster drum break played by Jim Gordon,
which was released on the Bongo Rock Album to little fanfare,
so little, in fact that The album was out of
print for years and heavily bootlegged, but it was quickly
adopted by underground DJs in New York City, most notably
by Cool Hirk, who described himself not as a DJ,
(03:33):
but as a disc jockey because the discs he spawned
made people jockey. As Kirk found out in the now
legendary DJ sets at the dawn of hip hop, the
people jockeyed hard to Apache, and how could they not?
The song was explosive, life affirming rhythm monster Apache became
(03:54):
breakbeat gold for hip hop in the eighties, first with
The Sugar Hill Gang and later with l O Cool J,
Boogie Down Productions, Young MC. The list goes on and on.
You knew it when you heard it, like a familiar
phrase in a new context. And then, nearly thirty years
after the Incredible Bongo Band released their version of Apache,
(04:14):
the same version that became a breakbeat staple, the would
be Sorcerer got his hands on it. He took the
song out of time in more ways than one. He
slowed it down and stretched it out the isolated instruments,
a guitarist echo spawn like it was circling a dream,
and suddenly the song wasn't just exuberant, it was looming,
(04:38):
and it was just the thing that rapper Nas wanted
for Make You Look, the leadoff single from his two
thousand two albums God's Son. But of course Salon remy
and knew that. He knew we could turn the early
seventies sunny day Cheese into a conduit for Naz's raw
and honest storytelling, a story that depicted the other side
of New York City, far from the glittering buildings of
(05:01):
Manhattan and back to its roots in the Bronx. Nas
himself said that wrapting it a smack in the face,
and salam Remi helped with the wind up. He wasn't
some business mogul who manufactured pop divas with prepackaged names
like sporty, scary, imposh. He was real, always had been
(05:24):
still is. As a record producer, he asked his clients
what moved them. He got inside their heads to hear
the music they heard. His encyclopedic knowledge of jazz and
R and B allowed him to pull samples from the
last half century of recorded music and blend those sounds
of the past with sounds of the present to create
(05:44):
something new. Salam hailed from Queens, New Yorkies vintage. His
father was a studio musician, which meant that Salam spent
his childhood main mining the incredibly diverse music coming out
of that global melting pot. He saw everything, he heard everything,
he played everything, and god damn it, he was good, good,
(06:08):
and real. This guy got it and people could see
it from a mile away from the very beginning. He
earned his first credit on Curtis Blow's Kingdom Blow record
at age fourteen. At two, he produced here Comes the
Hot Stepper, a number one hit for any Commozi. He
worked with heavyweights like The Fuji's Biz, Marquis, Ziggy Marley,
(06:29):
Tony Braxton, and Black Sheet, all by the age of nine.
When NAS's album God's Son hit the streets in two
thousand two, Amy Winehouse recognized its realness right away. She
would regularly listen to the record while recording her own music.
She felt more tuned in with what she heard on
Naz's album than anything Simon Fuller in nineteen management had
(06:52):
ever told her now as Nas would say, let's get
it all in perspective. Around that same time, Amy also
heard Lisa left Lopez a single the block party, and
that ship went so hard. No one was making records
like that in the early two thousand's. It was straight
up alchemy. She was convinced whoever produced it would know
(07:15):
what to do with her, and it just so happened
to be the same guy who produced Nazis album Salam Remy.
But in two thousand two, Salam Remy was done well
kind of. Salam had split the concrete jungle of New
York City for the warm beaches of Miami. He'd spent
fifteen years as a professional in the recording industry. By
(07:37):
the time he was thirty, his mother had passed, his
hometown was attacked by terrorists. He needed space and time
to mourn, to reflect a chill, and that's when he
met Amy Winehouse. And he didn't just chill with Amy Winehouse.
Amy spent weeks trying to get a meeting with Salam.
She had to work with him, not Simon Fuller, not
(08:00):
nineteen management. They didn't get it, didn't get her Salam
would she knew it, Salam knew good music, real music.
Salam relented and took the meeting. Amy arrived at Creative
Space Salam's downtown Miami recording studio with nothing but a
backpack and a guitar case. Salam had one question before
(08:20):
they got started, what moves you? Amy dumped the compact
discs from her backpack onto the floor. Sara Van from
the forties, the Beastie Boys from the nineties, Thelonious Monk TLC,
even God's son Amage paid to Salam himself. Salam was
cautiously optimistic. This girl was either authentic as Foker posing
(08:42):
beyond belief. Amy pulled her guitar out of its case
and she quickly tuned it. She plucked a few notes,
and then she sang the Girl from Ipanema. Amy's voice
glided effortlessly over the Brazilian bossa nova rhythms. Salam was transported.
The vo voice was straight out of a nineteen fifties nightclub,
(09:03):
and it was powerful. There was no posturing. This was authentic,
This was real, This was Amy. Salam picked up pretty
quickly that Amy's talent had been mishandled and not properly nurtured.
She needed someone who understood music the way she did.
She needed him. His goal was to inspire Amy to
(09:26):
lean into her influences. She played him some of the
things she liked. He played her old records, introducing her
to everything he knew about hip hop and jazz. Salam's
goal was to transport the listener not to the past,
but to a whole different time altogether, outside of any category,
outside of this world, out of time altogether. And Amy
(09:47):
was all in. She was focused, She wanted to go
to that place with him, and they wrote songs together
Stronger than Me, Fuck Me Pups, and in My Bed,
which is where Salom brought the magic full circle. Alam
Remy took the instrumental track from Naz has Made You Look,
the one he built from the incredible Bombo Band's Apache,
the song that d J Coolherk once spun at the
(10:09):
party where hip hop was arguably born, the same song
it was a cover of an instrumental single from Salam.
Remy took that track and had Amy sing her evocative,
winding melody on top. Salam wasn't just cutting corners. He
wasn't reacting something he'd already done. He was reinventing his
(10:29):
own invention, reimagining, recasting the spell back out into the world,
out of the past, and into a place where time
wasn't so easily defined. Some called it sorcery, salam and Amy.
He just called it real. Deja vu was in the air,
(11:13):
an empty stage, a lonely microphone for those who have
been at the Birmingham show back in November or any
of the other Shotty shows, since it felt like history
repeating itself. It was just after ten pm August, in
the final day of the two eight Rock on Sin
(11:33):
in Paris, and Amy Winehouse was nowhere in sight. Where
the fuck was she? Yeah, there were other cool bands
at the Rock on Sin, but they came to see her,
the one The press was always talking about. The beautiful disaster,
the broken heart, marinating and whiskey and cigarettes, smoke, the
ship going down in flames. Right there in the public eye.
(11:58):
The audience knew it was a little fucked up that
their desire to see Amy Winehouse live on stage had
as much to do with the car crash of it
all as it did with the songs she was singing.
But those in the crowd weren't the only ones thinking
those thoughts that night. During their set earlier in the night,
the Rack On Tours told the audience this is for
(12:19):
Amy Winehouse, who won't be here tonight. Hold up, where
did Jack White get his intel from Amy was gonna
stumble out late again? Right? She wasn't not going to
show up, And that couldn't be true. Why not? Because
she pulled out of the very same festival the year before.
She wouldn't do that again. She was probably hung up
(12:39):
somewhere between London and Paris. Correct. Plus, the audience deserved
to see her. They deserved to not be let down.
They paid for their tickets. The stage grew more crowded,
with texts and Rhodies, tuning guitars and checking microphone levels,
but really just staving off the inevitable. Amy Winehouse had
left the building, The Sun, the Metro, the Daily Mail.
(13:02):
They all knew why. Hell everyone knew why. The medical
doctor had penned an entire bloated open letter to Amy
and The Sun, urging her to clean up before she
joined the ranks of stars who imploded before their time
in the eyes of doctor Miriam Stoppard. Rent was going
to come do at some point, and it had come
a lot faster if Amy didn't put down the pipe
(13:23):
in the bottle right away. Oh now the Sun cared,
Is that right? The same publication that made public a
video of Amy allegedly smoking crack eight months earlier. Anything
to get eyes and sell advertising. Amy knew what was
expected of her, even though she never wanted it in
the first place. It wasn't a say not anymore. All
(13:44):
the audience that Rock on Sand wanted, all anyone wanted
anymore was a train wreck. When UK rap group The
Streets finally took the stage to fill Amy's empty slot,
lead singer Mike Skinner leaned into the mic and made
a half passed attempt at diffuse us the anger. As
you can see, I am not Amy Winehouse, he said,
and then added, sorry, she's in London doing crack. Mr
(14:08):
Dry your eyes made made the comment with his tongue
planted firmly in cheap But hell if it didn't seem
like it came from a direct source. Amy's camp wouldn't
talk to the press, and they didn't need another million
questions on their hands, so they issued an official statement
she was home and had quote unquote taken hell. To
the concert organizers, that was a crock of ship. They
(14:31):
batted around the idea of pressing charges, canceling an appearance
two hours before a show, canceling a performance at the
same festival two years in a row. Could you get
any more unprofessional? Amy couldn't give a funk about being professional.
She was reaching her breaking point. The past five months
had been a whirlwind. She had been rushed to the
hospital twice for undisclosed reasons, arrested twice for very publicly
(14:55):
disclosed reasons, developed what her father told the press was emphysema,
lost her husband, Blake, to a jail sentence. It was
just rushed to the hospital again for an adverse reaction
to medication. The year before, she had canceled a large
portion of her tour because Blake couldn't accompany her. Something
was wrong, and it wasn't just the booze. Amy was hurt,
(15:17):
co dependent on Blake, dependent on a host of substances,
and exhausted from the constant paparazzi. She needed to get away,
She needed a break. Her father, Mitch Winehouse, made it
official she would appear at Best of All on the
Isle of Wight the following week, and then she'd finally
take so much needed time off. The tabloids had killed
(15:41):
Amy for pulling out a rock on sense, so when
she showed up forty minutes late to her Best of
all set on the rain soak dial of White. She
was well piste and in more ways than one. She
didn't rush to the stage to make up for lost
time or to play cat fans who had been standing
in the rain for nearly an hour awaiting her arrival,
(16:02):
they probably already made up their minds about why she
was late. Anyways, she took her time backstage. She hadn't
ordered two cases of Jack Daniels for nothing, and by
the time she wobbled onto the main stage with her
band dressed as sailors and took her place behind a
large wooden ship's wheel bearing the name H. M. S. Winehouse,
(16:23):
the fans wondered which way she would steer the ship.
They made up their minds with one look at what
stood before them. Amy was a mess, gossamer, thin, disheveled,
her clothes hanging off of her. There wasn't enough makeup
in the world to cover her blotching, rashed skin, ravaged
by toxins from well, you know, everyone knew. They booed her.
(16:44):
Amy recoiled, she drank some more, and for the first
couple of songs she only sang a fraction of her lyrics.
She was busy thinking about that wooden ship. The show
was the end of the line. She drive that ship
right out of the public eye when it was all
said and done. Takes some time away from these animals,
these animals praying on her at every turn. She get
(17:05):
back to being a human being, get out from under
their six a distict microscope. She was already on an
island somewhere far away, sand between her toes, no camera's,
no tabloids, no pressure to be something she wasn't. Calm
peace for once, she could taste the salty air from
the freedom, and then the rabbit booze from the crowd
(17:26):
snapped her right back to reality. Couldn't they see how
hurt she was? All her dirty laundry was aired out
for the world to see. There's not one person here
willing to sympathize. The booing became incessant. Amy's frustration grew,
and they would never understand. She wasn't going out with
a whimper either. They wanted to be hive Lion, This
with a substance issue. She'd give them the bee hive Lion,
(17:49):
This with a substance issue. Each new song in the
set grew with intensity. Amy's energy was soaked in Jack
Daniels in rage. She grew more cross with each boo,
each unapproving look. Who the funk were they to judge her?
She was steering this boat right into a fucking iceberg,
and she was taking them with her. That last song
(18:09):
of the night kicked off, a fast, almost punk rock
version of Rehab, Primal raw angry, sipping her jack and
coke between lines of lyrics, guzzling the whiskey down, hoping
it would dull the sharp pain that had been building
for weeks, months, years, helping her just push through this
last bit of hell to playcate them. It didn't. She
(18:31):
tossed her drink into the crowd at the end of
the song, took one last look at the audience and
got the funk out and that what they had expected,
what they wanted. Amy fell into a car somewhere behind
the stage. She was motored away. It was over for now.
England was over for now, and the tours, the spotlight,
(18:53):
the constant paparazzi, the drugs over over, over and over,
she thought, because this ship was never over. And before
she was able to get the hell out of Dodge,
she found herself in legal hot water, not an audience
that had been made to wait, not a performance that
went off the rails, something else entirely. It was just
(19:16):
the sort of thing that everyone watching had been waiting for.
We'll be right back after this, word word word, the
sun rose on another sleepless night in North London. She
stood at the window and pulled back the curtain, just
(19:36):
to touch there they were, of course, for how long,
she didn't know. Didn't they have anything better to do?
First thing in the morning. I looked back to the
mirror to apply the Cleopatra eyeliner, lipstick and the cover
up for the acne primped the bee hive good enough.
She assisted through the trash, clothes and beer bottles that
(19:57):
were all strewn on the floor, and there it was
the perfect scarf to tie around her hair and complete
the look. The look, in other words, what they all
came to see. She moved slowly to the door, and
she knew what was on the other side. News of
the world that ancient sensational rag had just released a
(20:18):
new video online. Amy knew what she was doing in
the footage, sitting inside what the paper deemed cracked in
singing to Blake. She cracked the door open, they screamed
for Amy, Amy, Amy, what are your comments on the
video that was released? You smoking? Crack? You? What were
you singing? What will you call your next album? Your
fans love you, Amy? They loved her. Sure. Whatever Amy thought,
(20:45):
she also thought back to just a few short years before,
back to the beginning, back to a time when she
didn't have to constantly deal with the cameras, Back before
dozens of paparazzi hung around outside her flat whenever she
was home or not. Back before, back to black at
her global icon. When the paparazzi started following Amy around,
it felt all innocent and they were just people trying
(21:08):
to do their job, trying to make a buck. Amy
got it. It was the same thing she was trying
to do. This is all part of being a musician
in the public eye. She got paid for doing what
she loved, and in the twenty one century, this kind
of attention just came along with it. It was almost
fun at first. Amy would bring the paparazzi coffee, feed them,
engage them in conversation. They were just people, just like
(21:31):
she was. She could see that she was too real,
not too but they were everywhere They caught her going
in and out of her apartment, in her car, restaurants, bars,
on the way to the studio with Blake, without Blake,
with her friends. Some days it all felt like there
was literally nowhere to hide, and she continued to kill
them with kindness, even on days when she wasn't in
(21:51):
the mood. Fucking small price to pay. She remained friendly,
and they remained friendly to until they didn't first or
star Rose, and then the paparazzi multiplied and they were everywhere,
and they were constant. Amy was seven News Christ. She
couldn't even leave her home now four years later, in
(22:12):
two thousand and eight, It didn't matter what she did,
or how nice she was, or whether she acknowledged them
or not. They wanted to capture the downfall in a
camera's flash, and they wanted her acting on ruly, looking
on ruli, slipping up and falling down. And they called
her the pied Piper of Camden because she was seldom
seen without a dozen photographers hanging off her back, parading
(22:32):
to the streets like a procession of parasites plotting after her.
It was like some sort of sick, twisted fairy tale.
This was her life though, and she wasn't gonna put
on airs for anyone, especially not some desperate people with
cameras looking to snag a headline in a couple of bucks.
Amy thought about her upcoming trip to St. Lucia, away
from it all two months, and that was it. She
(22:54):
wouldn't have to deal with this anymore. She'd be on
a beach far away, and until then she'd how to
live as normal life she could. First up thou she
had a ball to attend. September two thousand eight, London.
The charity Ball for the Prince's Trust was supposed to
be a happy occasion. Founded by the Prince of Wales
(23:16):
in n seventy six, the charity had been helping eleven
to thirty year olds facing homelessness, mental health issues or
problems with the law to get their lives back on track.
Who's who of celebrity and royalty made their way into
the Berkeley Square Ball. Prince William, the Duchess of Cornwall,
Robin Williams, John Clice, Eric Idol for Amy. The happiness
(23:38):
of the occasion wasn't the famous faces or the money
raised for the charity by the seven hundred pound ticket seats.
Those came second. She was there to celebrate her thirteen
year old god daughter, who was celebrating the release of
her debut album with a performance. Amy stood backstage among friends,
not being bothered, living a normal human existence for once,
(23:59):
it felt it anyway, She had a few drinks. A
taller woman approached her, said she was a fan and
asked for an autograph. It was all good, no big deal,
no pressure. Amy would sign her autograph and send the
fan on her way. The woman got closer and Amy
could smell the booze on her breath. Amy felt the
wall behind her as the woman's eyes went wild. She
(24:20):
was cornered, trapped like an animal in the zoo. The
fan towered over Amy, take a picture with me. Amy
tried to get back to the conversation she was having
with a friend, and the woman didn't move. She doubled down.
She asked again. Amy felt like the woman had doubled
in hight. Her shadow loomed large. Amy tried to pull away.
She had been pleasant. Couldn't the woman take a hint.
(24:42):
The woman called one of her friends over to take
a photo, and she kept asking for it and asking
for it, and Amy felt the frustration bubble up over
her once again, just like she had on stage at
best of all, in the Isle of Wight. She wasn't
mickey fucking well. She was a person, and she had
been more than polite. And Amy tried to push the
fan away. Fan didn't budge. Amy felt the wall against
(25:02):
her back and the woman's boozy breath against her face
with every syllable. She didn't know what the fan was
capable of, what any of them were capable of, And
the woman put her arm around Amy cozy's right up.
Maybe because the woman had had a few too many.
The arm came in fast, more of a lunge than
a friendly drape. Amy panicked. She pushed the woman away
a second time. She had to get out of there,
(25:23):
and the woman stumbled backwards, clutching her face. My eye,
she screamed, she punched me in the eye. The woman
who had asked her for the autograph she was a
burlesque dancer, and Amy thought that her claimed that she
had forcibly punched her in the right eye was bullshit,
But the lawsuit wasn't bullshit. Ten months later, it forced
Amy to stand in court, but when the judge asked
(25:45):
for her testimony, Amy spoke honestly about that evening. I
wanted her away from me, she told the judge. I
was scared. I thought people are mad these days, mad. Indeed,
the whole world had gone crazy. And further eye witnesses
and a medical exam of the so called victim corroborated
the story, and Amy was acquitted. But she remained rattled.
(26:09):
Was this what she'd have to deal with over the
smallest incidents of her every single eager fan? Is this
what it meant to be famous in two thousand and eight?
She hadn't done anything wrong. If she had to drag
herself to court to do what to tell the truth?
She began to realize what it might always be like,
that this might be it for her forever. Fame is
(26:30):
like a terminal cancer. She once said, I wouldn't wish
it on anybody. Fame was incurable, and the trappings of
fame would never go away. Amy Winehouse laid on the
(27:03):
floor in a pool of blood. An apple lay next
to her. She was dead, gunshot wound straight through her head,
and the murder was an accident, an act of hubrists.
Amy was gone, along with her twisted, broken, blue soaked heart.
The man sitting nearby with a smoking shotgun on his
knee knew a thing or two about twisted broken love.
(27:27):
He was, after all, famed beat poet william S. Burrows.
He wanted to shoot an apple off Amy's head allow
William Tell supposed to be a joke he missed. In
January two thousand nine, artist Marco Perego unveiled this scene
as a life size sculpture at New York's tiny artistic space,
(27:50):
the Half Gallery. The title of the piece was the
only good rock star is a Dead rock Star. The
work depicted Burrows taking Amy winehouse is life, the same
way he took the life of his own wife in
nine when he tried to shoot a glass off her
head one drunken night. He had a clear target, but
his finger slipped. And when you're playing games with a
(28:12):
live bullet, one accident is all it takes. His wife
died hours later as a direct result of the mix
of drugs and booze flowing through his system. He had
killed her by accident. Marco Perego sculpture begged the question,
was the public the media killing Amy by accident? Were
they the ones responsible for pushing her to the edge,
(28:35):
forcing her to balance the pressure of fame on her
head while their hand grazed the trigger. Or maybe it
was Amy's fault. She was, after all, the one who
was playing the never ending game of fame, and to
this point was losing in tremendous fashion. She could have
controlled herself more right, not falling in love with the
wrong people, and there were no clear answers. If love
(28:57):
really was a losing game, then fame was absolutely fucking
routely losing game. She never wanted to be famous anyways.
The artist Marco Perego would explain that the piece represented
the way rock stars were treated in modern culture, describing
them as human sacrifice of society. It was chilling, especially
(29:18):
given what Amy had gone through the past handful of years.
The paparazzi tracked her as if they were big game
hunters looking to bag the most valuable animal in the jungle,
prowling around every corner with their blinding flashes and incessant clicks,
and the media took those photos and created her narrative
for her through their bullshit headlines. She should have died
(29:41):
so many times before, if she believed anything The Sun
or the Guardian printage But in January two thousand nine,
Amy Winehouse wasn't dead, thank you very much, and she
was no longer on her way to being dead. In fact,
she was doing the opposite. She was getting her ship together.
Her Blake was gone. He'd abandoned her out of love,
(30:05):
or so she told the news of the world. He
made a public that he had been the one who
got her hooked on crack and heroin, that he had
been the driving force in her downward spiral. He was
out of jail and checked into rehab. Amy didn't mind.
She was in St. Lucia, soaking up the sun and
swimming in crystal clear water. She met her new boyfriend,
(30:26):
Josh Bowman there, a man, she said, who couldn't be
more different from her husband. Amy was the happiest she'd
ever been, she said to herself. She was getting sober,
she was riding horses once again, riding and recording music
with Salon Remy, and she was certainly moving on from Blake. Hell.
He was even nice enough to start the divorce proceedings.
(30:48):
So what, as the settlement said, she had to pay
two hundred and fifty pounds to remove him from her life.
It was worth it. She didn't have time for him.
She was too busy finding the real Amy again. She
was poised for a comeback. Her new album would be
focused and pointed, no more slacking off. It was time
to get back to what mattered, the music. She would
(31:09):
return reborn. It was all smooth sailing from here on
out for the h MS Winehouse. She'd spend the better
part of eight months on the island, and when she
returned back to England for good, her eyes were clear
and she was, for the first time in a long
time healthy. But mixing the required rituals of fame with
an addictive personality can be lethal. Balancing a top Amy's
(31:33):
head wasn't her career, it was her sanity. And even
if it's steadied for a moment, the finger on the
trigger of the loaded gun aimed directly at her would
start to once again slip. She'd need to beat the
fatal shot before it was fired, get out of the
line of sight. And she had an idea to a
good one that would get the photographers and the tabloids
(31:54):
off her back for good. She hoped it would work.
It had to. Her entire life was at stake. I'm
Jake Brennan and this This is the seven Off seven
(32:20):
Club is hosted and produced by Me Jake Brennan for
Double Elvis in partnership with I Heart Radio. Zeth Lundie
is the lead writer and co producer. This episode was
mixed by Matt Bowden. Additional music and score elements by
Ryan Spraaker and Henry Luneta. This episode was written by
ted Oma, story and copy ending by Pat Healy. Sources
(32:42):
for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com
on the twenty seven Club series page, Talk to me
on social at disgrace lad pod, and hang out with
me live on my Twitch channel Disgrace lad Talks. For
more news on your favorite podcast, follow at Double Elvis
on Instagram. Rock rolla, What's up for your ears
The seven Club is the production of I Heart Radio
and Double Elvis. Amy Winehouse died at the age of
and she lived the life that played out more like
a reality show than reality. I can give you twenty
seven reasons why that statement is true. Seven would be
the number of days each week the paparazzi would lurk
(00:22):
outside her door waiting for her to emerge. Eight more
would be the number of months she would refuse to
perform live after getting booed off stage at a concert
in late two eight. Another two would be the number
of cases of Jack Daniels she had ordered specifically for
that ill fated concert. One more would be the number
(00:42):
of life sized art gallery sculptures that predicted her early demise.
Another seven would be how much in hundreds of pounds
it would cost to attend to benefit show hosted by
UK Royalty where her god daughter would make her professional
singing debut. And two will be the number of years
she had left to live after she stood trial for
(01:05):
assaulting a burlesque dancer. All totally on this our fourth
episode of season four, booed off stage life size sculptures
burlesque dancers in Amy Winehouse, I'm Jake Brennan and this
is the seven o'clock. Ye, the man could have been
(02:04):
a sorcerer. He was just missing the customary cloak and
point he hat, But he didn't traffic and sorcery. He
was real, as real as the chair he sat in,
and as real as the knobs on the console that
stood before. Still, he could have been a sorcerer all
because of the song. The song felt like magic. It
(02:28):
took something old, which itself was already recreated out of
something even older, and made it new again. It was
like listening to the past and listening to the future
all at once. But the song could be rationally explained,
explained as in broken Down, taken apart, dissected the layers
(02:49):
of years and then decades, the auditory dust of history.
First there was a Hatchet sixty instrumental by the Shadows,
which it's sell was a cover of a song taught
to them by their tour made the English guitarist Bert Wheaton.
Then came the incredible Bongo Bands seventy three version of
(03:10):
Apache with a monster drum break played by Jim Gordon,
which was released on the Bongo Rock Album to little fanfare,
so little, in fact that The album was out of
print for years and heavily bootlegged, but it was quickly
adopted by underground DJs in New York City, most notably
by Cool Hirk, who described himself not as a DJ,
(03:33):
but as a disc jockey because the discs he spawned
made people jockey. As Kirk found out in the now
legendary DJ sets at the dawn of hip hop, the
people jockeyed hard to Apache, and how could they not?
The song was explosive, life affirming rhythm monster Apache became
(03:54):
breakbeat gold for hip hop in the eighties, first with
The Sugar Hill Gang and later with l O Cool J,
Boogie Down Productions, Young MC. The list goes on and on.
You knew it when you heard it, like a familiar
phrase in a new context. And then, nearly thirty years
after the Incredible Bongo Band released their version of Apache,
(04:14):
the same version that became a breakbeat staple, the would
be Sorcerer got his hands on it. He took the
song out of time in more ways than one. He
slowed it down and stretched it out the isolated instruments,
a guitarist echo spawn like it was circling a dream,
and suddenly the song wasn't just exuberant, it was looming,
(04:38):
and it was just the thing that rapper Nas wanted
for Make You Look, the leadoff single from his two
thousand two albums God's Son. But of course Salon remy
and knew that. He knew we could turn the early
seventies sunny day Cheese into a conduit for Naz's raw
and honest storytelling, a story that depicted the other side
of New York City, far from the glittering buildings of
(05:01):
Manhattan and back to its roots in the Bronx. Nas
himself said that wrapting it a smack in the face,
and salam Remi helped with the wind up. He wasn't
some business mogul who manufactured pop divas with prepackaged names
like sporty, scary, imposh. He was real, always had been
(05:24):
still is. As a record producer, he asked his clients
what moved them. He got inside their heads to hear
the music they heard. His encyclopedic knowledge of jazz and
R and B allowed him to pull samples from the
last half century of recorded music and blend those sounds
of the past with sounds of the present to create
(05:44):
something new. Salam hailed from Queens, New Yorkies vintage. His
father was a studio musician, which meant that Salam spent
his childhood main mining the incredibly diverse music coming out
of that global melting pot. He saw everything, he heard everything,
he played everything, and god damn it, he was good, good,
(06:08):
and real. This guy got it and people could see
it from a mile away from the very beginning. He
earned his first credit on Curtis Blow's Kingdom Blow record
at age fourteen. At two, he produced here Comes the
Hot Stepper, a number one hit for any Commozi. He
worked with heavyweights like The Fuji's Biz, Marquis, Ziggy Marley,
(06:29):
Tony Braxton, and Black Sheet, all by the age of nine.
When NAS's album God's Son hit the streets in two
thousand two, Amy Winehouse recognized its realness right away. She
would regularly listen to the record while recording her own music.
She felt more tuned in with what she heard on
Naz's album than anything Simon Fuller in nineteen management had
(06:52):
ever told her now as Nas would say, let's get
it all in perspective. Around that same time, Amy also
heard Lisa left Lopez a single the block party, and
that ship went so hard. No one was making records
like that in the early two thousand's. It was straight
up alchemy. She was convinced whoever produced it would know
(07:15):
what to do with her, and it just so happened
to be the same guy who produced Nazis album Salam Remy.
But in two thousand two, Salam Remy was done well
kind of. Salam had split the concrete jungle of New
York City for the warm beaches of Miami. He'd spent
fifteen years as a professional in the recording industry. By
(07:37):
the time he was thirty, his mother had passed, his
hometown was attacked by terrorists. He needed space and time
to mourn, to reflect a chill, and that's when he
met Amy Winehouse. And he didn't just chill with Amy Winehouse.
Amy spent weeks trying to get a meeting with Salam.
She had to work with him, not Simon Fuller, not
(08:00):
nineteen management. They didn't get it, didn't get her Salam
would she knew it, Salam knew good music, real music.
Salam relented and took the meeting. Amy arrived at Creative
Space Salam's downtown Miami recording studio with nothing but a
backpack and a guitar case. Salam had one question before
(08:20):
they got started, what moves you? Amy dumped the compact
discs from her backpack onto the floor. Sara Van from
the forties, the Beastie Boys from the nineties, Thelonious Monk TLC,
even God's son Amage paid to Salam himself. Salam was
cautiously optimistic. This girl was either authentic as Foker posing
(08:42):
beyond belief. Amy pulled her guitar out of its case
and she quickly tuned it. She plucked a few notes,
and then she sang the Girl from Ipanema. Amy's voice
glided effortlessly over the Brazilian bossa nova rhythms. Salam was transported.
The vo voice was straight out of a nineteen fifties nightclub,
(09:03):
and it was powerful. There was no posturing. This was authentic,
This was real, This was Amy. Salam picked up pretty
quickly that Amy's talent had been mishandled and not properly nurtured.
She needed someone who understood music the way she did.
She needed him. His goal was to inspire Amy to
(09:26):
lean into her influences. She played him some of the
things she liked. He played her old records, introducing her
to everything he knew about hip hop and jazz. Salam's
goal was to transport the listener not to the past,
but to a whole different time altogether, outside of any category,
outside of this world, out of time altogether. And Amy
(09:47):
was all in. She was focused, She wanted to go
to that place with him, and they wrote songs together
Stronger than Me, Fuck Me Pups, and in My Bed,
which is where Salom brought the magic full circle. Alam
Remy took the instrumental track from Naz has Made You Look,
the one he built from the incredible Bombo Band's Apache,
the song that d J Coolherk once spun at the
(10:09):
party where hip hop was arguably born, the same song
it was a cover of an instrumental single from Salam.
Remy took that track and had Amy sing her evocative,
winding melody on top. Salam wasn't just cutting corners. He
wasn't reacting something he'd already done. He was reinventing his
(10:29):
own invention, reimagining, recasting the spell back out into the world,
out of the past, and into a place where time
wasn't so easily defined. Some called it sorcery, salam and Amy.
He just called it real. Deja vu was in the air,
(11:13):
an empty stage, a lonely microphone for those who have
been at the Birmingham show back in November or any
of the other Shotty shows, since it felt like history
repeating itself. It was just after ten pm August, in
the final day of the two eight Rock on Sin
(11:33):
in Paris, and Amy Winehouse was nowhere in sight. Where
the fuck was she? Yeah, there were other cool bands
at the Rock on Sin, but they came to see her,
the one The press was always talking about. The beautiful disaster,
the broken heart, marinating and whiskey and cigarettes, smoke, the
ship going down in flames. Right there in the public eye.
(11:58):
The audience knew it was a little fucked up that
their desire to see Amy Winehouse live on stage had
as much to do with the car crash of it
all as it did with the songs she was singing.
But those in the crowd weren't the only ones thinking
those thoughts that night. During their set earlier in the night,
the Rack On Tours told the audience this is for
(12:19):
Amy Winehouse, who won't be here tonight. Hold up, where
did Jack White get his intel from Amy was gonna
stumble out late again? Right? She wasn't not going to
show up, And that couldn't be true. Why not? Because
she pulled out of the very same festival the year before.
She wouldn't do that again. She was probably hung up
(12:39):
somewhere between London and Paris. Correct. Plus, the audience deserved
to see her. They deserved to not be let down.
They paid for their tickets. The stage grew more crowded,
with texts and Rhodies, tuning guitars and checking microphone levels,
but really just staving off the inevitable. Amy Winehouse had
left the building, The Sun, the Metro, the Daily Mail.
(13:02):
They all knew why. Hell everyone knew why. The medical
doctor had penned an entire bloated open letter to Amy
and The Sun, urging her to clean up before she
joined the ranks of stars who imploded before their time
in the eyes of doctor Miriam Stoppard. Rent was going
to come do at some point, and it had come
a lot faster if Amy didn't put down the pipe
(13:23):
in the bottle right away. Oh now the Sun cared,
Is that right? The same publication that made public a
video of Amy allegedly smoking crack eight months earlier. Anything
to get eyes and sell advertising. Amy knew what was
expected of her, even though she never wanted it in
the first place. It wasn't a say not anymore. All
(13:44):
the audience that Rock on Sand wanted, all anyone wanted
anymore was a train wreck. When UK rap group The
Streets finally took the stage to fill Amy's empty slot,
lead singer Mike Skinner leaned into the mic and made
a half passed attempt at diffuse us the anger. As
you can see, I am not Amy Winehouse, he said,
and then added, sorry, she's in London doing crack. Mr
(14:08):
Dry your eyes made made the comment with his tongue
planted firmly in cheap But hell if it didn't seem
like it came from a direct source. Amy's camp wouldn't
talk to the press, and they didn't need another million
questions on their hands, so they issued an official statement
she was home and had quote unquote taken hell. To
the concert organizers, that was a crock of ship. They
(14:31):
batted around the idea of pressing charges, canceling an appearance
two hours before a show, canceling a performance at the
same festival two years in a row. Could you get
any more unprofessional? Amy couldn't give a funk about being professional.
She was reaching her breaking point. The past five months
had been a whirlwind. She had been rushed to the
hospital twice for undisclosed reasons, arrested twice for very publicly
(14:55):
disclosed reasons, developed what her father told the press was emphysema,
lost her husband, Blake, to a jail sentence. It was
just rushed to the hospital again for an adverse reaction
to medication. The year before, she had canceled a large
portion of her tour because Blake couldn't accompany her. Something
was wrong, and it wasn't just the booze. Amy was hurt,
(15:17):
co dependent on Blake, dependent on a host of substances,
and exhausted from the constant paparazzi. She needed to get away,
She needed a break. Her father, Mitch Winehouse, made it
official she would appear at Best of All on the
Isle of Wight the following week, and then she'd finally
take so much needed time off. The tabloids had killed
(15:41):
Amy for pulling out a rock on sense, so when
she showed up forty minutes late to her Best of
all set on the rain soak dial of White. She
was well piste and in more ways than one. She
didn't rush to the stage to make up for lost
time or to play cat fans who had been standing
in the rain for nearly an hour awaiting her arrival,
(16:02):
they probably already made up their minds about why she
was late. Anyways, she took her time backstage. She hadn't
ordered two cases of Jack Daniels for nothing, and by
the time she wobbled onto the main stage with her
band dressed as sailors and took her place behind a
large wooden ship's wheel bearing the name H. M. S. Winehouse,
(16:23):
the fans wondered which way she would steer the ship.
They made up their minds with one look at what
stood before them. Amy was a mess, gossamer, thin, disheveled,
her clothes hanging off of her. There wasn't enough makeup
in the world to cover her blotching, rashed skin, ravaged
by toxins from well, you know, everyone knew. They booed her.
(16:44):
Amy recoiled, she drank some more, and for the first
couple of songs she only sang a fraction of her lyrics.
She was busy thinking about that wooden ship. The show
was the end of the line. She drive that ship
right out of the public eye when it was all
said and done. Takes some time away from these animals,
these animals praying on her at every turn. She get
(17:05):
back to being a human being, get out from under
their six a distict microscope. She was already on an
island somewhere far away, sand between her toes, no camera's,
no tabloids, no pressure to be something she wasn't. Calm
peace for once, she could taste the salty air from
the freedom, and then the rabbit booze from the crowd
(17:26):
snapped her right back to reality. Couldn't they see how
hurt she was? All her dirty laundry was aired out
for the world to see. There's not one person here
willing to sympathize. The booing became incessant. Amy's frustration grew,
and they would never understand. She wasn't going out with
a whimper either. They wanted to be hive Lion, This
with a substance issue. She'd give them the bee hive Lion,
(17:49):
This with a substance issue. Each new song in the
set grew with intensity. Amy's energy was soaked in Jack
Daniels in rage. She grew more cross with each boo,
each unapproving look. Who the funk were they to judge her?
She was steering this boat right into a fucking iceberg,
and she was taking them with her. That last song
(18:09):
of the night kicked off, a fast, almost punk rock
version of Rehab, Primal raw angry, sipping her jack and
coke between lines of lyrics, guzzling the whiskey down, hoping
it would dull the sharp pain that had been building
for weeks, months, years, helping her just push through this
last bit of hell to playcate them. It didn't. She
(18:31):
tossed her drink into the crowd at the end of
the song, took one last look at the audience and
got the funk out and that what they had expected,
what they wanted. Amy fell into a car somewhere behind
the stage. She was motored away. It was over for now.
England was over for now, and the tours, the spotlight,
(18:53):
the constant paparazzi, the drugs over over, over and over,
she thought, because this ship was never over. And before
she was able to get the hell out of Dodge,
she found herself in legal hot water, not an audience
that had been made to wait, not a performance that
went off the rails, something else entirely. It was just
(19:16):
the sort of thing that everyone watching had been waiting for.
We'll be right back after this, word word word, the
sun rose on another sleepless night in North London. She
stood at the window and pulled back the curtain, just
(19:36):
to touch there they were, of course, for how long,
she didn't know. Didn't they have anything better to do?
First thing in the morning. I looked back to the
mirror to apply the Cleopatra eyeliner, lipstick and the cover
up for the acne primped the bee hive good enough.
She assisted through the trash, clothes and beer bottles that
(19:57):
were all strewn on the floor, and there it was
the perfect scarf to tie around her hair and complete
the look. The look, in other words, what they all
came to see. She moved slowly to the door, and
she knew what was on the other side. News of
the world that ancient sensational rag had just released a
(20:18):
new video online. Amy knew what she was doing in
the footage, sitting inside what the paper deemed cracked in
singing to Blake. She cracked the door open, they screamed
for Amy, Amy, Amy, what are your comments on the
video that was released? You smoking? Crack? You? What were
you singing? What will you call your next album? Your
fans love you, Amy? They loved her. Sure. Whatever Amy thought,
(20:45):
she also thought back to just a few short years before,
back to the beginning, back to a time when she
didn't have to constantly deal with the cameras, Back before
dozens of paparazzi hung around outside her flat whenever she
was home or not. Back before, back to black at
her global icon. When the paparazzi started following Amy around,
it felt all innocent and they were just people trying
(21:08):
to do their job, trying to make a buck. Amy
got it. It was the same thing she was trying
to do. This is all part of being a musician
in the public eye. She got paid for doing what
she loved, and in the twenty one century, this kind
of attention just came along with it. It was almost
fun at first. Amy would bring the paparazzi coffee, feed them,
engage them in conversation. They were just people, just like
(21:31):
she was. She could see that she was too real,
not too but they were everywhere They caught her going
in and out of her apartment, in her car, restaurants, bars,
on the way to the studio with Blake, without Blake,
with her friends. Some days it all felt like there
was literally nowhere to hide, and she continued to kill
them with kindness, even on days when she wasn't in
(21:51):
the mood. Fucking small price to pay. She remained friendly,
and they remained friendly to until they didn't first or
star Rose, and then the paparazzi multiplied and they were everywhere,
and they were constant. Amy was seven News Christ. She
couldn't even leave her home now four years later, in
(22:12):
two thousand and eight, It didn't matter what she did,
or how nice she was, or whether she acknowledged them
or not. They wanted to capture the downfall in a
camera's flash, and they wanted her acting on ruly, looking
on ruli, slipping up and falling down. And they called
her the pied Piper of Camden because she was seldom
seen without a dozen photographers hanging off her back, parading
(22:32):
to the streets like a procession of parasites plotting after her.
It was like some sort of sick, twisted fairy tale.
This was her life though, and she wasn't gonna put
on airs for anyone, especially not some desperate people with
cameras looking to snag a headline in a couple of bucks.
Amy thought about her upcoming trip to St. Lucia, away
from it all two months, and that was it. She
(22:54):
wouldn't have to deal with this anymore. She'd be on
a beach far away, and until then she'd how to
live as normal life she could. First up thou she
had a ball to attend. September two thousand eight, London.
The charity Ball for the Prince's Trust was supposed to
be a happy occasion. Founded by the Prince of Wales
(23:16):
in n seventy six, the charity had been helping eleven
to thirty year olds facing homelessness, mental health issues or
problems with the law to get their lives back on track.
Who's who of celebrity and royalty made their way into
the Berkeley Square Ball. Prince William, the Duchess of Cornwall,
Robin Williams, John Clice, Eric Idol for Amy. The happiness
(23:38):
of the occasion wasn't the famous faces or the money
raised for the charity by the seven hundred pound ticket seats.
Those came second. She was there to celebrate her thirteen
year old god daughter, who was celebrating the release of
her debut album with a performance. Amy stood backstage among friends,
not being bothered, living a normal human existence for once,
(23:59):
it felt it anyway, She had a few drinks. A
taller woman approached her, said she was a fan and
asked for an autograph. It was all good, no big deal,
no pressure. Amy would sign her autograph and send the
fan on her way. The woman got closer and Amy
could smell the booze on her breath. Amy felt the
wall behind her as the woman's eyes went wild. She
(24:20):
was cornered, trapped like an animal in the zoo. The
fan towered over Amy, take a picture with me. Amy
tried to get back to the conversation she was having
with a friend, and the woman didn't move. She doubled down.
She asked again. Amy felt like the woman had doubled
in hight. Her shadow loomed large. Amy tried to pull away.
She had been pleasant. Couldn't the woman take a hint.
(24:42):
The woman called one of her friends over to take
a photo, and she kept asking for it and asking
for it, and Amy felt the frustration bubble up over
her once again, just like she had on stage at
best of all, in the Isle of Wight. She wasn't
mickey fucking well. She was a person, and she had
been more than polite. And Amy tried to push the
fan away. Fan didn't budge. Amy felt the wall against
(25:02):
her back and the woman's boozy breath against her face
with every syllable. She didn't know what the fan was
capable of, what any of them were capable of, And
the woman put her arm around Amy cozy's right up.
Maybe because the woman had had a few too many.
The arm came in fast, more of a lunge than
a friendly drape. Amy panicked. She pushed the woman away
a second time. She had to get out of there,
(25:23):
and the woman stumbled backwards, clutching her face. My eye,
she screamed, she punched me in the eye. The woman
who had asked her for the autograph she was a
burlesque dancer, and Amy thought that her claimed that she
had forcibly punched her in the right eye was bullshit,
But the lawsuit wasn't bullshit. Ten months later, it forced
Amy to stand in court, but when the judge asked
(25:45):
for her testimony, Amy spoke honestly about that evening. I
wanted her away from me, she told the judge. I
was scared. I thought people are mad these days, mad. Indeed,
the whole world had gone crazy. And further eye witnesses
and a medical exam of the so called victim corroborated
the story, and Amy was acquitted. But she remained rattled.
(26:09):
Was this what she'd have to deal with over the
smallest incidents of her every single eager fan? Is this
what it meant to be famous in two thousand and eight?
She hadn't done anything wrong. If she had to drag
herself to court to do what to tell the truth?
She began to realize what it might always be like,
that this might be it for her forever. Fame is
(26:30):
like a terminal cancer. She once said, I wouldn't wish
it on anybody. Fame was incurable, and the trappings of
fame would never go away. Amy Winehouse laid on the
(27:03):
floor in a pool of blood. An apple lay next
to her. She was dead, gunshot wound straight through her head,
and the murder was an accident, an act of hubrists.
Amy was gone, along with her twisted, broken, blue soaked heart.
The man sitting nearby with a smoking shotgun on his
knee knew a thing or two about twisted broken love.
(27:27):
He was, after all, famed beat poet william S. Burrows.
He wanted to shoot an apple off Amy's head allow
William Tell supposed to be a joke he missed. In
January two thousand nine, artist Marco Perego unveiled this scene
as a life size sculpture at New York's tiny artistic space,
(27:50):
the Half Gallery. The title of the piece was the
only good rock star is a Dead rock Star. The
work depicted Burrows taking Amy winehouse is life, the same
way he took the life of his own wife in
nine when he tried to shoot a glass off her
head one drunken night. He had a clear target, but
his finger slipped. And when you're playing games with a
(28:12):
live bullet, one accident is all it takes. His wife
died hours later as a direct result of the mix
of drugs and booze flowing through his system. He had
killed her by accident. Marco Perego sculpture begged the question,
was the public the media killing Amy by accident? Were
they the ones responsible for pushing her to the edge,
(28:35):
forcing her to balance the pressure of fame on her
head while their hand grazed the trigger. Or maybe it
was Amy's fault. She was, after all, the one who
was playing the never ending game of fame, and to
this point was losing in tremendous fashion. She could have
controlled herself more right, not falling in love with the
wrong people, and there were no clear answers. If love
(28:57):
really was a losing game, then fame was absolutely fucking
routely losing game. She never wanted to be famous anyways.
The artist Marco Perego would explain that the piece represented
the way rock stars were treated in modern culture, describing
them as human sacrifice of society. It was chilling, especially
(29:18):
given what Amy had gone through the past handful of years.
The paparazzi tracked her as if they were big game
hunters looking to bag the most valuable animal in the jungle,
prowling around every corner with their blinding flashes and incessant clicks,
and the media took those photos and created her narrative
for her through their bullshit headlines. She should have died
(29:41):
so many times before, if she believed anything The Sun
or the Guardian printage But in January two thousand nine,
Amy Winehouse wasn't dead, thank you very much, and she
was no longer on her way to being dead. In fact,
she was doing the opposite. She was getting her ship together.
Her Blake was gone. He'd abandoned her out of love,
(30:05):
or so she told the news of the world. He
made a public that he had been the one who
got her hooked on crack and heroin, that he had
been the driving force in her downward spiral. He was
out of jail and checked into rehab. Amy didn't mind.
She was in St. Lucia, soaking up the sun and
swimming in crystal clear water. She met her new boyfriend,
(30:26):
Josh Bowman there, a man, she said, who couldn't be
more different from her husband. Amy was the happiest she'd
ever been, she said to herself. She was getting sober,
she was riding horses once again, riding and recording music
with Salon Remy, and she was certainly moving on from Blake. Hell.
He was even nice enough to start the divorce proceedings.
(30:48):
So what, as the settlement said, she had to pay
two hundred and fifty pounds to remove him from her life.
It was worth it. She didn't have time for him.
She was too busy finding the real Amy again. She
was poised for a comeback. Her new album would be
focused and pointed, no more slacking off. It was time
to get back to what mattered, the music. She would
(31:09):
return reborn. It was all smooth sailing from here on
out for the h MS Winehouse. She'd spend the better
part of eight months on the island, and when she
returned back to England for good, her eyes were clear
and she was, for the first time in a long
time healthy. But mixing the required rituals of fame with
an addictive personality can be lethal. Balancing a top Amy's
(31:33):
head wasn't her career, it was her sanity. And even
if it's steadied for a moment, the finger on the
trigger of the loaded gun aimed directly at her would
start to once again slip. She'd need to beat the
fatal shot before it was fired, get out of the
line of sight. And she had an idea to a
good one that would get the photographers and the tabloids
(31:54):
off her back for good. She hoped it would work.
It had to. Her entire life was at stake. I'm
Jake Brennan and this This is the seven Off seven
(32:20):
Club is hosted and produced by Me Jake Brennan for
Double Elvis in partnership with I Heart Radio. Zeth Lundie
is the lead writer and co producer. This episode was
mixed by Matt Bowden. Additional music and score elements by
Ryan Spraaker and Henry Luneta. This episode was written by
ted Oma, story and copy ending by Pat Healy. Sources
(32:42):
for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com
on the twenty seven Club series page, Talk to me
on social at disgrace lad pod, and hang out with
me live on my Twitch channel Disgrace lad Talks. For
more news on your favorite podcast, follow at Double Elvis
on Instagram. Rock rolla, What's up for your ears
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