One of Amy Winehouse’s final collaborators was Tony Bennett, who, unbeknownst to her, had his own stories to tell about struggling with addiction and fear. But no one, not even Tony Bennett, could help Amy Winehouse. A concert in Serbia became a new low point. Hallucinations and paranoia turned reality into a nightmare. And there wasn’t one tabloid, blog, or social media platform that wasn’t there to capture it all – every last slip-up and wrong turn.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hey, what's up, everybody. Jake Brennan here. I hope you've
been enjoying these stories about Amy Winehouse in season four
of Seven Club. While you're digging into the downfall of
one of the greatest modern divas, I wanted to share
a story about another queen of the pop realm, Taylor Swift.
You can hear all about Taylor's disgraceful fans and Interstate
stockers in the season nine premiere of disgrace Land, my
(00:22):
other music and true crime podcast. You can hear that
episode on January eighth, wherever you listen to podcasts, or
you can hear it along with every single other disgrace
Land episode right now exclusively at Amazon dot Com. Slash
disgrace Land. The Seven Club is a production of I
(00:42):
Heart Radio and Double Elvis. Amy Winehouse died at the
age of and she lived a life that was as
tender as it was tortured. I can give you twenty
seven reasons why that statement is true. Nine would be
a cloud she was on when she finally got the
opportunity to record a duet with her idol Tony Bennett.
(01:05):
Another eleven would be the number of tour dates she
would cancel after a disastrous gig in Belgrade went viral online.
Four more would be the hour in the morning give
her take when kicking alcohol cold turkey led to insomnia
and terrifying hallucinations. In three will be the number of
weeks she had left to live when she began to
(01:27):
wonder if the press was doing more than simply invading
her privacy. She suspected that they were invading her phone
all totally. On this our eighth episode of season four,
Dark Histories of Addiction, Hallucinations, Invasions of Privacy in Amy
Winehouse Um Jake Brennan in This Is the Seven Corps
(02:25):
Ye Tony Bennett could still feel his heart pounding through
his chest as he hung up the telephone. This was madness,
absolute madness. It was the end of the line, just
(02:48):
had to be. They were coming for him, they really were.
They leave him with nothing. After all, he had done,
the heights of fame, he'd been able to reach in
this is where it would all come crashing down. That
was obvious. The point was they were just going to
leave him there at the bottom to rot like yesterday's papers,
lonely at the top. Bullshit. Whoever said that only said
(03:10):
that because they've never experienced a pit of despair like
this in their life. Tony Bennett was tired of despair.
He needed to relax, but that was impossible. Just kept
thinking about the ship show that had been in the
nineteen seventies. He thought about his record contract with Columbia,
(03:31):
this former record contract. It dropped him like a hot
potato in the middle of a decade. So he went
the small business route, started his own label, Improv Records,
but no major label wanted to distribute it. So the
records kept on not selling, and by nine he hadn't
just left his heart in San Francisco, he left his
(03:52):
money there too. More accurately, his money was actually nowhere.
All he had was at one point to million dollar debt,
half of it owed to whoever came knocking on his
door looking to collect, and the other half owed to
the fetes. The I R s had become fed up
waiting for Tony to pay up, so they rang his
(04:12):
telephone that day to inform him that they were starting
the process to repossess his house. Added to a list
of things that were gone his money. His fame is
Cashe as one of the country's pre eminent jazz singers,
second to the chairman, of course, fucking everyone was. And
his mother was gone too, dead two years now. Back
in seven, on Thanksgiving of all days, Jesus though, Tony
(04:38):
Bennett needed to relax, and not through the assistance of
just pills, not just the uppies. The down He's the sleep,
he says, he called him. He needed something stronger, something
to make all the pain and all the frustration go away,
even if it was only for an afternoon. So he
reached for Tony's little helper, his to stuff for when
(05:01):
the going got real rough. Cocaine. He arranged it on
the coffee table and a big white line. One snort
and he forgot about the phone call from the I
R S. Another snort and he no longer worried about
the millions and crushing debt. One last snort, and everything
else on his mind just floated away. But his fifty
(05:23):
three year old heart was pounding even more now, so
fast and so hard. Maybe he'd indulged a little too much,
So he drew himself a hot bath and that would
bounce things out. The roller coaster rush of the coke
with the warm embrace of hot water. When the tub
was filled. Tony got undressed and stepped in. He submerged
(05:45):
his body into the water, reclined his head against the
lip at the back of the tub, and he watched
the steam rise from the top of the water. It
rose in the air and disappeared. It was hypnotic. He
closed his eyes and there was complete eat stillness, quiet,
And then he saw a clear yellow glow. It was
(06:06):
practically gold colored. He saw it with his eyes closed.
The glow was behind his eyes. It enveloped his head
and his brain, just like the water in the bathtub
was surrounding his body. Soon there was nothing but this warm,
glowing feeling deep down in Tony's body, and so he
(06:27):
was relaxed. The fist came down hard. They sunk into
his chest. The first blow made the golden yellow glow disappear.
The second blow brought the bathroom back to dull life.
The faucet at the tile, the water gone tepid. His
ribs ached where the fists were hitting him repeatedly, over
(06:50):
and over. Bathwater splashed on the walls and got all
over the floor, and Tony Bennett gasped like he hadn't
taken a breath in an eternity. His open mouth caught
some bath on her, and he started to choke. He
spat the water back up as the fist came down
on him again. It's so hard that he thought the
fists were going to burst through his chest cavity. His
body scissored, and he shot up to a seated position.
(07:11):
He half expected to see one of the people he
owed money standing over him, but instead he saw his wife, Sandy.
She was soaking, wet, crying, breathing fast, like she just
for run a half marathon. Tony had never seen her
look or sound like that in his life, but everything
about it told him that she had just saved his life.
(07:36):
It had been a while since Tony Bennett had thought
about his cocaine overdose in the bathtub back in nineteen
seventy nine. It was now two thousand eleven, and a
lot had happened in the decades since, most of it good.
He'd kicked pills and coke, got clean, and resigned to
Columbia Records in the mid eighties. His new records weren't
just selling, they were winning Grammys, and by the nineteen nineties,
(07:59):
he'd been unexpected be adopted by the MTV generation as
the definition of hip. To quote the New York Times,
Tony Bennett didn't just bridge the generation gap, he demolished it.
And now singers from younger generations wanted to sing with him.
It had become a rite of passage. You weren't considered
a legit performer until you performed a duet alongside the
(08:20):
man himself, Tony Bennett, and they all lined up to
sing with Tony on his new record, Duets Too. The
previous album featured superheroes of soft rock radio James Taylor, Elton,
John Barbara Streisan, John Legend, and fifteen other marquis names,
But for the sequel, they reached out to the younger generation.
(08:41):
Lady Gaga for the Lady as a Tramp, John Mayor
for One for My Baby and One More for the Road,
and Norah Jones for Speak Low, Josh Groban for this
is all I Ask? And Amy Winehouse for body and Soul.
Tony looked over at Amy as she sang her lines
into her own micro phone at Abbey Road Studios in London,
(09:02):
and they were so close that they could touch. Tony
didn't disturb her. He let her do her thing. What
a voice, he thought, so unique. One ft in the
past and the other foot well somewhere, I tell you
didn't know where. He just knew. He liked where the
voice took him. He could see she was nervous. Amy
(09:23):
kept blowing the take, not because she couldn't sing it,
and not because she was strung out, but because she
was nervous. This was Tony Bennett, the Tony Bennett. Sure,
sixteen other singers were on this record, but Amy Winehouse
was Tony Bennett's biggest fan. If Gaga wanted to call
bullshit on that, they take it outside. Tony reassured Amy
(09:45):
each time she got too nervous and flooded the line
or a phrase, it was all right. There was no rush.
It's just the two of them. He told her to
call him tone. He guided her through the session because
it wasn't just an opportunity for Amy wine to duet
with Tony Bennett, who was an opportunity for Amy Winehouse
to prove herself as the legit, serious jazz vocalist she
(10:08):
had always seen herself as, from way back when she
was a teenager. Before Nick Shamanski ever grew the balls
to cold call her on the phone and asked to
be her manager, and then they got through the end
of the take with Tony's fatherly support. There are two voices,
no longer trading lines, but now caught up in an
effervescent swirl of sound, the old and the new together
(10:32):
as one. Amy would be gone before the Duets two
album was released, even before the recording with all of
his collaborators had wrapped. However, Tony Bennett thought a lot
about his session with Amy Winehouse, about the support and
advice he had given her, that it allowed her to
overcome her fears and anxiety and deliver an epic take.
(10:53):
But mostly he thought about the things he hadn't said.
He knew that she, like everyone else, had her own
personal demons, that she struggled just like he had struggled once,
but he didn't bring it up. I didn't talk about it.
And maybe he should have a little friendly advice from
a friend who had been there, a friend who navigated
(11:14):
the peaks and valleys and the absolute bottom barrels of fame.
And he wondered if Amy Wineo has had anyone who
could be there at the ready, at the side of
the proverbial bathtub in her most desperate time of need.
(11:55):
They said it was the worst show ever, not just
in Belgrade, but in the whole damn country. Ever, they
had the video to prove it, and thanks to YouTube,
the entire world could bear witness. Here's a clip of
Amy Winehouse greeting the Serbian crowd with Hello, Assen's and
another clip of Amy Winehouse taking off her shoe for
(12:17):
some fucking reason and nearly falling over. Here's a clip
of Amy Winehouse leaving the stage for ten whole minutes,
ten minutes and leaving the audience to speculate just what
it was that she was doing backstage. Did you see
that clip of Amy wine I was stumbling around the
stage and a drunken fog while her band smiles and
keeps playing. And what about that one of Amy Winehouse
(12:37):
sitting down on the monitor in front of the stage
back to the audience, before standing up again in front
of the mic and searching in vain for the words
to the song. Here's footage, in there's footage, and here's
some more footage, all different angles of the same pitiful scene,
the crowd booing Amy Winehouse off the stage. J two eleven.
(13:00):
It was supposed to be the kickoff to a twelve
day European tour. Instead, it was the first and last
date on a tour that never happened. Serbia's Defense minister
even weighed in on the whole affair. In the eyes
of the Republic, Amy Winehouse was declared a quote huge
shame and disappointment. Twitter blew up. Rapper Caswell tweeted Amy
(13:22):
Winehouse is like my cool cousin that I used to
look up to, but now gets way too funked up
at family functions and embarrasses me. Australian Idol star m
Russiano tweeted, this is just awful, a big awful train wreck.
Fans were even less forgiving. I got robbed at a
concert by a crackhead desperate defeat her habit tweeted. One
(13:43):
such eye witness, Amy Winehouse, you only thirty pounds. One
image shared over and over again from the Belgrade show
has Amy wrapping her arms around herself in a desperate hug,
her hair half died blonde and half died black, dangling
in an unkempt mess in front of her crying face.
The photo, as they say, was worth a thousand words,
(14:05):
and the BBC reported that Amy had been on its
strict orders not to consume any alcohol following her latest
stint in rehab facility. The hotel she was staying at
had he even been instructed to remove all alcohol from
her rooms, But still Pumpens on social media as well
as the actual media couldn't help but speculate that she'd
once again been indulging in booze or worse, and furthermore,
(14:30):
that the inevitable was playing out right in front of them.
The UK tabloid The Mirror described amy stage presence as
having quote all the elegance of a rhino on ice.
The Daily Mail wondered about her quote moral responsibility to
the young girls who admire her want to copy her.
They dubbed her the toxic role model to end them all.
(14:51):
Alex Needham and The Guardian, however, had a different point
of view. In his eyes, the very things that made
Amy's gig insufferable to many were the same things that
other male artists were celebrated for. The boys were held
to a different standard. Bob Dylan had just performed a
show in London around the same time as Amy's Belgrade concert.
(15:12):
Arguably he fucked up just as many lines as Amy
had but that was just Bob being Bob. They all said,
no cause for concern. And what about Liam and Noel Gallagher?
Like Amy, they're drunken Shenanigans weren't limited to the stage,
but unlike Amy, it was accepted as part of their
rock and roll star narrative. Why then, was a drunken
(15:33):
Amy Winehouse a red flag for impending doom? Why couldn't
Amy live forever? Just like those hooligans from Manchester? And
then there was Robbie Williams, former Take That teenage heart
throb and current UK pop phenome, who, just days before
Amy Serbians Not Fou had split his trousers on stage
in Dublin and given thousands in the crowd a clear
(15:56):
look at little Robbie. The audience and the media left
it off. They laughed at all off when it was
the boys was the entertainment, but not with Amy. She
was no longer the entertainment. She wasn't entertaining anyone with
what she was doing on stage. It seemed, in fact,
it seemed that more and more the allure of following
(16:16):
the saga of Amy Winehouse was about everything but the music.
The public was watching a free fall into oblivion, and
that became its own kind of twisted entertainment. It was
a sick brand of entertainment, voyeuristic. When the papers reported
that Amy had canceled the rest of the tour, readers
ate it up. When the papers spread the rumors, whether
(16:37):
or not they were actually true that Amy had blacked
out three times in one week due to her unchecked
vodka consumption, they ate it up. No one talked about
her upcoming third album anymore, not even Amy. She was
no longer that person. She caught a glimpse of that
person back at Abbey Roads Studios with Tony Bennett. Tone
coaxed the person out of the shadows and into the light,
(17:00):
so that recording session was only a few months in
the rear view. Tonight, that girl was long gone. She
walked down the dark ends of the streets of Camden
Town as a grotesque version of herself, almost a caricature,
her beehive hair to askew, her balance always off, her
vocal phrasing lacking the control once had. Then the pubs
(17:22):
were all closed. It didn't matter. She wasn't a fixture
there anymore. That was the older. Plus she didn't do
much drinking in front of large crowds. These days, she
saved the real benders for when she was alone. Sometimes
she'd hold up in her place for days on end.
Her hands would shake, and so she'd pour a drink,
(17:42):
and they'd shake some more, so she'd drink some more,
always chasing the problem with the other problem. It's wrong
that that was the tabloids and the angry crows that
was there talking. She didn't have a problem. She was
justified everyone else caswell, and where she all they had
the problem. They made her. She had been loved by them,
(18:04):
followed by them, hounded by them every minute of her life,
lived for other people who were on her side until
they weren't, and then on no one stood up for
someone who was falling down. Amy took another sort of vodka.
It was flavorless, but it burned. At this point, drinking
was just mechanics. It was like she was doing it
because she thought everyone expected her to do it, to
(18:26):
self destruct at so that people would read the papers
the next day while nodding their heads knowingly and using
their short life as some kind of holier than now
cosmic lesson enough, if no one else was going to
stand up for her, then she would the tabloids, the
armchair quarterbacks on Twitter, the people booing in the crowd
(18:46):
at Belgrade. They all thought they knew how this plot
was going to play out, but they didn't know Ship
and what happened next. They never see it coming. We'll
be right back after this word we were. Something darted
(19:08):
out from the shadows. It's scurried by quickly, right there
in front of her feet. She jumped. She couldn't quite
make out what it was. It looked small, move fast.
She didn't own a dog, no cats, nothing living, so
the funk was running through her house. She turned in
the living room light and scanned the floor. A soft
scratching sound came from the other side of the couch.
(19:31):
She took a step and the scratching stopped. Nothing, just silence.
Another step to approach the edge of the couch, and
the mouse jumped out from behind the couch's corner and
ran straight across her feet. She screamed. A tiny little thing,
white fur, pink guys whipped for a tail. She heard
the scratching again as she rounded the corner of the couch.
(19:52):
They all scattered into the light. White mice. There must
have been fifteen, maybe twenty of them, their miniature bodies
running this way and that towards the kitchen, into the bathroom,
between the tiny crack and the trim of the walls,
their tiny little nails clickitty clacking on the floors. There
was no rhyme or reason to it. They were everywhere,
and then just as quickly they were nowhere, gone to
(20:14):
their next hiding place. Mice here thirty Camden Square, Amy
Wine I was lived in one of the most exclusive
areas in all of London. Just look at her neighbors, surgeons, lawyers,
hedge funders, and Amy was no slouch either. She was
the only one in the neighborhood who had made it
onto the exclusive Britain's Rich List. After all, you would
(20:38):
think that one of the unspoken perks of living at
an address like thirty Candom Square would be that you
wouldn't have to worry about one mouse, let alone twenty
of them. Unbelievable. Amy wondered who she had a call
to deal with the problem. An exterminator. Most likely, she
knew a lot of people, but an exterminator wasn't one
of them. The joys of home ownership, she had to
(20:59):
find some one, and then she'd have to call not
right now. It was the middle of the night. Once again,
Amy Winehouse was having trouble sleeping. She was trying to
quit booze again straight cold turkey. He said it would
make her feel better, that everything would get better, and
maybe she'd even be able to focus on making music again,
(21:20):
rolling up to the studio and laying down tracks at
long last for LP number three. Her family and the
doctors told her, and they're ever so helpful way, that
due to the quantity of alcohol she was consuming on
a daily basis, it would be best for her to
slowly wean herself from drink every day, stepped down to
one less glass, and then one less and so on
(21:42):
until there were no more glasses. That was great in theory,
but in practice, fuck that. The math did not neither
to the psychology. One drink didn't eat less drinks. One
drink led to another. It was all or nothing for
Amy Winehouse to drink or not to drink, So she
gave the ladder ago not to drink. Insomnia wasn't the
(22:06):
worst of it. Not being able to sleep while jones
being hard for a drink, Now that was pretty bad.
The seizures, though they were even worse, and they came
out of nowhere. They rattled her bones and shook her
brain and took every last ounce of her dignity. On
the outside, though it just looked like she had passed
out like that. A snap of the finger and she
(22:28):
dropped like a stone. Freaked her friends the funk out,
and understandably so, she told them not to worry about it.
But between herself and the wall, she was extremely worried.
At least tonight, it was just not sleeping she had
to worry about. Well, that and the things she saw.
The white mice that appeared out of nowhere, ran wildly
(22:50):
throughout the house and then disappeared. Each time it happened,
she panicked. She was reminded that she had to call
an exterminator first thing in the morning, had to deal
with an issue immediately so that it didn't get worse.
But then, once the mice had miraculously disappeared in the
scuffling and scratching gave way to a black hole of silence,
she remembered they were all in her head. She turned
(23:12):
off the living room light and made her way into
the bedroom. She stood in front of a full length
mirror and examined her reflection. She angled her body to
the left and the right and wondered what her next
tattoo should be. She already had so many pin up girls,
Betty boot, a horseshoe, a Canarian anchor, Daddy's girl, a
(23:32):
lightning bowl in there right above her heart. Blake feeled
her sibyl's name in a pocket. Even though they were
technically over, Amy felt a primal desire to be close
to Blake. It was both irrational and untenable. She knew
it was fucking insane. She just couldn't help it, and
(23:53):
no one could help her. Every time she looked in
a mirror and saw the tattoo above her heart, she
was reminded again and the good times and the bad,
what was and what could never be, and that ultimately
she was back here once again, just like the song
had said, back to black life, imitating art or some
(24:14):
such ship. The mirror in her bedroom began to vibrate,
and she wondered for a moment if it was actually
herself that was vibrating, That maybe one of her seizures
was about to hit and make the whole room feel
like the earth was moving. Under her feet. She looked
at her hands, and they were still. The mirror was
vibrating even faster, now so fast that it no longer
(24:35):
looked like it was made of glass, more like glass
that was rapidly melting, was liquid. It moved like a
vertical ocean. Something began to protrude from the glass. Amy
couldn't quite believe what was happening. What it was happening,
The shape of a hand, and then of another, the
shape of a head above them, No features, just the
(24:57):
shimmer of liquid glass. She stumb were backwards. Jesus fun.
She would take a hundred white mice right now over
the ship. She tried to make the indistinct figure into
something she knew, something that made her feel safe. She
tried to make it blak. Tried to imagine one of
his black tank tops on its torso, a trolly had
on top a mouth of leaning domino teeth. But she couldn't.
(25:20):
The thing was faceless, nameless, a glossy blob that walked
straight at her. She jumped into bed, pulled the covers
up over her head, squeezed her eyes shot. Fuck. She
wanted to drink more than anything. She hated to admit it,
but there it was, and the room was silent now.
(25:40):
She slowly opened her eyes and all she could see
was the darkness under the covers. She buried her nose
into her pillow. She needed to do laundry, that was
for sure. She felt something tap on her shoulder, a
hand from out of the mirror, out of the darkness,
out of the past. She screamed and threw off the covers,
sprung from the bed. Her eyes were open wide, but
(26:02):
there was nothing there. No mirror, person, no mice, just
a regular mirror reflecting back the person that stood there
with a look of hysterical fear in her eyes, a
look that said, how long can this go on? On
(26:37):
the last day of June two, Amy Winehouse's official website
was hacked. Visitors to Amy winehouse dot com we're graded
with a flashing screen in large text with a profanity
laden manifesto. The named quote to take back the Internet
from the White Devil unquote. The screed called out Amy
by name, or rather Amy Crackhead of a wine House,
(27:00):
as she was referred to in the all caps text.
A group of hackers called Swagger Security a k a.
Swag Sex soon copped to the takeover. They shouted to
the virtual rooftops on Twitter, distanced themselves from hackers to anonymous,
and in a non sequitur PostScript, extolled the virtues of
(27:20):
rapper Little b whose new album just so happened to
have dropped the day before. Swagsak claimed other singers would
be targeted next, and they were justin. Bieber and Lady
Gaga both weathered similar attacks to their sites that summer.
The wine House camp was quick to take action. They
redirected the website's homepage to Amy's Facebook page as a
(27:42):
stop gap measure, but there was little reassurance from anyone
inside or outside Team wine House that this sort of
thing wouldn't happen again. In fact, it was only a
matter of time. The year two thousand eleven was a
boon for so called activists to invade the world's privacy.
PlayStation was hacked and millions of gamers found their credit
(28:04):
information compromised. Customers shopping at the craft store chain Michaels
had their credit card information stolen from registered pin pads.
Even defense contractor Lockheed Martin wasn't safe. Amy Winehouse hadn't
felt safe in a long time. Privacy. What was privacy?
She abandoned any and all privacy years ago, but her safety.
(28:26):
She still clung to the memory of that and hopes
that it would someday return. But how could it when
it seemed that every little thing, even the most closely
held secrets, were exposed by tabloids every day. It didn't
just blow up her privacy, it compromised her safety. How
did the papers know what they knew? How do they
(28:47):
know where she was going to be on any giving
day and when? How do they know the details of
every one of her stays and rehab her medical information?
She knew why it was so obvious. Look at what
was happening on every level of the mine world, from
craft store retailers to fucking missile manufacturers, and they were
inside her phone. They were journalists, bullshit journalists talked to people,
(29:10):
wrote down what they said, and then turned that into
a story. These people weren't journalists any longer. Fucking hackers,
that's what they were. Hackers by a different name, twenty
one century pirates, bullies. She didn't know how they actually
got inside her phone. She was a singer, not a nerd,
but she knew it was true and she didn't have
to wait long for her suspicions to be validated. Just
(29:32):
a week after Amy Winehouse's website was hacked by swag Sack,
on July seven, two thousand eleven, the News of the
World announced that it was printing its final edition and
shutting down. The UK paper had been in print for
a hundred and sixty eight years, twenty seven of them
as a scandal touting tabloid under the ownership of conservative
media magnate Rupert Murdoch, and its sudden need to close
(29:56):
was rife with scandal. The News of the World was
closing a me deeply because its biggest advertisers who were
pulling their campaigns left and right, and while we're advertisers
abandoning one of the biggest muckrakers in the UK, all
because of the revelation that reporters for News of the
World having tely engaged in hacking phones in order to
(30:17):
get a scoop. The alleged victims of phone hackings included
families of murder victims and families of armed forces members
killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. This news came as no
shock to Amy Winehouse, no ship Sherlock the news was
in the hacking business news of the world. Journalists didn't
(30:39):
care what stood between them and a good story. Hell,
that didn't matter for nearly any journalists, still doesn't. It's
the two thousand twenties now, and it was the two
thousand tents then, and the stakes for a better story,
a juicier story, were in our higher than ever. Amy
Winehouse wouldn't get the self satisfaction of learning the actual
details about how and when are phone was hacked by journalists,
(31:01):
but it was, and the rest of the world would
find out just days after the rest of the world
was shocked by another piece of news that Amy Winehouse
was dead at the age of um Jake Brennan and
This is the Seven Club. The Club is hosted and
(31:34):
produced by me Jake Brennan for Double Elvis in partnership
with I Heart Radio. Zeth Lundie is the lead writer
and co producer. Story and copy ending by pata Heey.
This episode was mixed by Matt Bowden. Additional music and
score elements by Ryan Spraker and Henry Lunena. Sources for
this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com on
(31:56):
the Seven Club series page. Talk to Me on social act,
disc Arace Slam Pod, and hang out with me live
on my Twitch channel Disgrace Slam Talks. For more news
on your favorite podcast, follow at double Elvis on Instagram.
Rock Corolla, what's up for your ears,
Hey, what's up, everybody. Jake Brennan here. I hope you've
been enjoying these stories about Amy Winehouse in season four
of Seven Club. While you're digging into the downfall of
one of the greatest modern divas, I wanted to share
a story about another queen of the pop realm, Taylor Swift.
You can hear all about Taylor's disgraceful fans and Interstate
stockers in the season nine premiere of disgrace Land, my
(00:22):
other music and true crime podcast. You can hear that
episode on January eighth, wherever you listen to podcasts, or
you can hear it along with every single other disgrace
Land episode right now exclusively at Amazon dot Com. Slash
disgrace Land. The Seven Club is a production of I
(00:42):
Heart Radio and Double Elvis. Amy Winehouse died at the
age of and she lived a life that was as
tender as it was tortured. I can give you twenty
seven reasons why that statement is true. Nine would be
a cloud she was on when she finally got the
opportunity to record a duet with her idol Tony Bennett.
(01:05):
Another eleven would be the number of tour dates she
would cancel after a disastrous gig in Belgrade went viral online.
Four more would be the hour in the morning give
her take when kicking alcohol cold turkey led to insomnia
and terrifying hallucinations. In three will be the number of
weeks she had left to live when she began to
(01:27):
wonder if the press was doing more than simply invading
her privacy. She suspected that they were invading her phone
all totally. On this our eighth episode of season four,
Dark Histories of Addiction, Hallucinations, Invasions of Privacy in Amy
Winehouse Um Jake Brennan in This Is the Seven Corps
(02:25):
Ye Tony Bennett could still feel his heart pounding through
his chest as he hung up the telephone. This was madness,
absolute madness. It was the end of the line, just
(02:48):
had to be. They were coming for him, they really were.
They leave him with nothing. After all, he had done,
the heights of fame, he'd been able to reach in
this is where it would all come crashing down. That
was obvious. The point was they were just going to
leave him there at the bottom to rot like yesterday's papers,
lonely at the top. Bullshit. Whoever said that only said
(03:10):
that because they've never experienced a pit of despair like
this in their life. Tony Bennett was tired of despair.
He needed to relax, but that was impossible. Just kept
thinking about the ship show that had been in the
nineteen seventies. He thought about his record contract with Columbia,
(03:31):
this former record contract. It dropped him like a hot
potato in the middle of a decade. So he went
the small business route, started his own label, Improv Records,
but no major label wanted to distribute it. So the
records kept on not selling, and by nine he hadn't
just left his heart in San Francisco, he left his
(03:52):
money there too. More accurately, his money was actually nowhere.
All he had was at one point to million dollar debt,
half of it owed to whoever came knocking on his
door looking to collect, and the other half owed to
the fetes. The I R s had become fed up
waiting for Tony to pay up, so they rang his
(04:12):
telephone that day to inform him that they were starting
the process to repossess his house. Added to a list
of things that were gone his money. His fame is
Cashe as one of the country's pre eminent jazz singers,
second to the chairman, of course, fucking everyone was. And
his mother was gone too, dead two years now. Back
in seven, on Thanksgiving of all days, Jesus though, Tony
(04:38):
Bennett needed to relax, and not through the assistance of
just pills, not just the uppies. The down He's the sleep,
he says, he called him. He needed something stronger, something
to make all the pain and all the frustration go away,
even if it was only for an afternoon. So he
reached for Tony's little helper, his to stuff for when
(05:01):
the going got real rough. Cocaine. He arranged it on
the coffee table and a big white line. One snort
and he forgot about the phone call from the I
R S. Another snort and he no longer worried about
the millions and crushing debt. One last snort, and everything
else on his mind just floated away. But his fifty
(05:23):
three year old heart was pounding even more now, so
fast and so hard. Maybe he'd indulged a little too much,
So he drew himself a hot bath and that would
bounce things out. The roller coaster rush of the coke
with the warm embrace of hot water. When the tub
was filled. Tony got undressed and stepped in. He submerged
(05:45):
his body into the water, reclined his head against the
lip at the back of the tub, and he watched
the steam rise from the top of the water. It
rose in the air and disappeared. It was hypnotic. He
closed his eyes and there was complete eat stillness, quiet,
And then he saw a clear yellow glow. It was
(06:06):
practically gold colored. He saw it with his eyes closed.
The glow was behind his eyes. It enveloped his head
and his brain, just like the water in the bathtub
was surrounding his body. Soon there was nothing but this warm,
glowing feeling deep down in Tony's body, and so he
(06:27):
was relaxed. The fist came down hard. They sunk into
his chest. The first blow made the golden yellow glow disappear.
The second blow brought the bathroom back to dull life.
The faucet at the tile, the water gone tepid. His
ribs ached where the fists were hitting him repeatedly, over
(06:50):
and over. Bathwater splashed on the walls and got all
over the floor, and Tony Bennett gasped like he hadn't
taken a breath in an eternity. His open mouth caught
some bath on her, and he started to choke. He
spat the water back up as the fist came down
on him again. It's so hard that he thought the
fists were going to burst through his chest cavity. His
body scissored, and he shot up to a seated position.
(07:11):
He half expected to see one of the people he
owed money standing over him, but instead he saw his wife, Sandy.
She was soaking, wet, crying, breathing fast, like she just
for run a half marathon. Tony had never seen her
look or sound like that in his life, but everything
about it told him that she had just saved his life.
(07:36):
It had been a while since Tony Bennett had thought
about his cocaine overdose in the bathtub back in nineteen
seventy nine. It was now two thousand eleven, and a
lot had happened in the decades since, most of it good.
He'd kicked pills and coke, got clean, and resigned to
Columbia Records in the mid eighties. His new records weren't
just selling, they were winning Grammys, and by the nineteen nineties,
(07:59):
he'd been unexpected be adopted by the MTV generation as
the definition of hip. To quote the New York Times,
Tony Bennett didn't just bridge the generation gap, he demolished it.
And now singers from younger generations wanted to sing with him.
It had become a rite of passage. You weren't considered
a legit performer until you performed a duet alongside the
(08:20):
man himself, Tony Bennett, and they all lined up to
sing with Tony on his new record, Duets Too. The
previous album featured superheroes of soft rock radio James Taylor, Elton,
John Barbara Streisan, John Legend, and fifteen other marquis names,
But for the sequel, they reached out to the younger generation.
(08:41):
Lady Gaga for the Lady as a Tramp, John Mayor
for One for My Baby and One More for the Road,
and Norah Jones for Speak Low, Josh Groban for this
is all I Ask? And Amy Winehouse for body and Soul.
Tony looked over at Amy as she sang her lines
into her own micro phone at Abbey Road Studios in London,
(09:02):
and they were so close that they could touch. Tony
didn't disturb her. He let her do her thing. What
a voice, he thought, so unique. One ft in the
past and the other foot well somewhere, I tell you
didn't know where. He just knew. He liked where the
voice took him. He could see she was nervous. Amy
(09:23):
kept blowing the take, not because she couldn't sing it,
and not because she was strung out, but because she
was nervous. This was Tony Bennett, the Tony Bennett. Sure,
sixteen other singers were on this record, but Amy Winehouse
was Tony Bennett's biggest fan. If Gaga wanted to call
bullshit on that, they take it outside. Tony reassured Amy
(09:45):
each time she got too nervous and flooded the line
or a phrase, it was all right. There was no rush.
It's just the two of them. He told her to
call him tone. He guided her through the session because
it wasn't just an opportunity for Amy wine to duet
with Tony Bennett, who was an opportunity for Amy Winehouse
to prove herself as the legit, serious jazz vocalist she
(10:08):
had always seen herself as, from way back when she
was a teenager. Before Nick Shamanski ever grew the balls
to cold call her on the phone and asked to
be her manager, and then they got through the end
of the take with Tony's fatherly support. There are two voices,
no longer trading lines, but now caught up in an
effervescent swirl of sound, the old and the new together
(10:32):
as one. Amy would be gone before the Duets two
album was released, even before the recording with all of
his collaborators had wrapped. However, Tony Bennett thought a lot
about his session with Amy Winehouse, about the support and
advice he had given her, that it allowed her to
overcome her fears and anxiety and deliver an epic take.
(10:53):
But mostly he thought about the things he hadn't said.
He knew that she, like everyone else, had her own
personal demons, that she struggled just like he had struggled once,
but he didn't bring it up. I didn't talk about it.
And maybe he should have a little friendly advice from
a friend who had been there, a friend who navigated
(11:14):
the peaks and valleys and the absolute bottom barrels of fame.
And he wondered if Amy Wineo has had anyone who
could be there at the ready, at the side of
the proverbial bathtub in her most desperate time of need.
(11:55):
They said it was the worst show ever, not just
in Belgrade, but in the whole damn country. Ever, they
had the video to prove it, and thanks to YouTube,
the entire world could bear witness. Here's a clip of
Amy Winehouse greeting the Serbian crowd with Hello, Assen's and
another clip of Amy Winehouse taking off her shoe for
(12:17):
some fucking reason and nearly falling over. Here's a clip
of Amy Winehouse leaving the stage for ten whole minutes,
ten minutes and leaving the audience to speculate just what
it was that she was doing backstage. Did you see
that clip of Amy wine I was stumbling around the
stage and a drunken fog while her band smiles and
keeps playing. And what about that one of Amy Winehouse
(12:37):
sitting down on the monitor in front of the stage
back to the audience, before standing up again in front
of the mic and searching in vain for the words
to the song. Here's footage, in there's footage, and here's
some more footage, all different angles of the same pitiful scene,
the crowd booing Amy Winehouse off the stage. J two eleven.
(13:00):
It was supposed to be the kickoff to a twelve
day European tour. Instead, it was the first and last
date on a tour that never happened. Serbia's Defense minister
even weighed in on the whole affair. In the eyes
of the Republic, Amy Winehouse was declared a quote huge
shame and disappointment. Twitter blew up. Rapper Caswell tweeted Amy
(13:22):
Winehouse is like my cool cousin that I used to
look up to, but now gets way too funked up
at family functions and embarrasses me. Australian Idol star m
Russiano tweeted, this is just awful, a big awful train wreck.
Fans were even less forgiving. I got robbed at a
concert by a crackhead desperate defeat her habit tweeted. One
(13:43):
such eye witness, Amy Winehouse, you only thirty pounds. One
image shared over and over again from the Belgrade show
has Amy wrapping her arms around herself in a desperate hug,
her hair half died blonde and half died black, dangling
in an unkempt mess in front of her crying face.
The photo, as they say, was worth a thousand words,
(14:05):
and the BBC reported that Amy had been on its
strict orders not to consume any alcohol following her latest
stint in rehab facility. The hotel she was staying at
had he even been instructed to remove all alcohol from
her rooms, But still Pumpens on social media as well
as the actual media couldn't help but speculate that she'd
once again been indulging in booze or worse, and furthermore,
(14:30):
that the inevitable was playing out right in front of them.
The UK tabloid The Mirror described amy stage presence as
having quote all the elegance of a rhino on ice.
The Daily Mail wondered about her quote moral responsibility to
the young girls who admire her want to copy her.
They dubbed her the toxic role model to end them all.
(14:51):
Alex Needham and The Guardian, however, had a different point
of view. In his eyes, the very things that made
Amy's gig insufferable to many were the same things that
other male artists were celebrated for. The boys were held
to a different standard. Bob Dylan had just performed a
show in London around the same time as Amy's Belgrade concert.
(15:12):
Arguably he fucked up just as many lines as Amy
had but that was just Bob being Bob. They all said,
no cause for concern. And what about Liam and Noel Gallagher?
Like Amy, they're drunken Shenanigans weren't limited to the stage,
but unlike Amy, it was accepted as part of their
rock and roll star narrative. Why then, was a drunken
(15:33):
Amy Winehouse a red flag for impending doom? Why couldn't
Amy live forever? Just like those hooligans from Manchester? And
then there was Robbie Williams, former Take That teenage heart
throb and current UK pop phenome, who, just days before
Amy Serbians Not Fou had split his trousers on stage
in Dublin and given thousands in the crowd a clear
(15:56):
look at little Robbie. The audience and the media left
it off. They laughed at all off when it was
the boys was the entertainment, but not with Amy. She
was no longer the entertainment. She wasn't entertaining anyone with
what she was doing on stage. It seemed, in fact,
it seemed that more and more the allure of following
(16:16):
the saga of Amy Winehouse was about everything but the music.
The public was watching a free fall into oblivion, and
that became its own kind of twisted entertainment. It was
a sick brand of entertainment, voyeuristic. When the papers reported
that Amy had canceled the rest of the tour, readers
ate it up. When the papers spread the rumors, whether
(16:37):
or not they were actually true that Amy had blacked
out three times in one week due to her unchecked
vodka consumption, they ate it up. No one talked about
her upcoming third album anymore, not even Amy. She was
no longer that person. She caught a glimpse of that
person back at Abbey Roads Studios with Tony Bennett. Tone
coaxed the person out of the shadows and into the light,
(17:00):
so that recording session was only a few months in
the rear view. Tonight, that girl was long gone. She
walked down the dark ends of the streets of Camden
Town as a grotesque version of herself, almost a caricature,
her beehive hair to askew, her balance always off, her
vocal phrasing lacking the control once had. Then the pubs
(17:22):
were all closed. It didn't matter. She wasn't a fixture
there anymore. That was the older. Plus she didn't do
much drinking in front of large crowds. These days, she
saved the real benders for when she was alone. Sometimes
she'd hold up in her place for days on end.
Her hands would shake, and so she'd pour a drink,
(17:42):
and they'd shake some more, so she'd drink some more,
always chasing the problem with the other problem. It's wrong
that that was the tabloids and the angry crows that
was there talking. She didn't have a problem. She was
justified everyone else caswell, and where she all they had
the problem. They made her. She had been loved by them,
(18:04):
followed by them, hounded by them every minute of her life,
lived for other people who were on her side until
they weren't, and then on no one stood up for
someone who was falling down. Amy took another sort of vodka.
It was flavorless, but it burned. At this point, drinking
was just mechanics. It was like she was doing it
because she thought everyone expected her to do it, to
(18:26):
self destruct at so that people would read the papers
the next day while nodding their heads knowingly and using
their short life as some kind of holier than now
cosmic lesson enough, if no one else was going to
stand up for her, then she would the tabloids, the
armchair quarterbacks on Twitter, the people booing in the crowd
(18:46):
at Belgrade. They all thought they knew how this plot
was going to play out, but they didn't know Ship
and what happened next. They never see it coming. We'll
be right back after this word we were. Something darted
(19:08):
out from the shadows. It's scurried by quickly, right there
in front of her feet. She jumped. She couldn't quite
make out what it was. It looked small, move fast.
She didn't own a dog, no cats, nothing living, so
the funk was running through her house. She turned in
the living room light and scanned the floor. A soft
scratching sound came from the other side of the couch.
(19:31):
She took a step and the scratching stopped. Nothing, just silence.
Another step to approach the edge of the couch, and
the mouse jumped out from behind the couch's corner and
ran straight across her feet. She screamed. A tiny little thing,
white fur, pink guys whipped for a tail. She heard
the scratching again as she rounded the corner of the couch.
(19:52):
They all scattered into the light. White mice. There must
have been fifteen, maybe twenty of them, their miniature bodies
running this way and that towards the kitchen, into the bathroom,
between the tiny crack and the trim of the walls,
their tiny little nails clickitty clacking on the floors. There
was no rhyme or reason to it. They were everywhere,
and then just as quickly they were nowhere, gone to
(20:14):
their next hiding place. Mice here thirty Camden Square, Amy
Wine I was lived in one of the most exclusive
areas in all of London. Just look at her neighbors, surgeons, lawyers,
hedge funders, and Amy was no slouch either. She was
the only one in the neighborhood who had made it
onto the exclusive Britain's Rich List. After all, you would
(20:38):
think that one of the unspoken perks of living at
an address like thirty Candom Square would be that you
wouldn't have to worry about one mouse, let alone twenty
of them. Unbelievable. Amy wondered who she had a call
to deal with the problem. An exterminator. Most likely, she
knew a lot of people, but an exterminator wasn't one
of them. The joys of home ownership, she had to
(20:59):
find some one, and then she'd have to call not
right now. It was the middle of the night. Once again,
Amy Winehouse was having trouble sleeping. She was trying to
quit booze again straight cold turkey. He said it would
make her feel better, that everything would get better, and
maybe she'd even be able to focus on making music again,
(21:20):
rolling up to the studio and laying down tracks at
long last for LP number three. Her family and the
doctors told her, and they're ever so helpful way, that
due to the quantity of alcohol she was consuming on
a daily basis, it would be best for her to
slowly wean herself from drink every day, stepped down to
one less glass, and then one less and so on
(21:42):
until there were no more glasses. That was great in theory,
but in practice, fuck that. The math did not neither
to the psychology. One drink didn't eat less drinks. One
drink led to another. It was all or nothing for
Amy Winehouse to drink or not to drink, So she
gave the ladder ago not to drink. Insomnia wasn't the
(22:06):
worst of it. Not being able to sleep while jones
being hard for a drink, Now that was pretty bad.
The seizures, though they were even worse, and they came
out of nowhere. They rattled her bones and shook her
brain and took every last ounce of her dignity. On
the outside, though it just looked like she had passed
out like that. A snap of the finger and she
(22:28):
dropped like a stone. Freaked her friends the funk out,
and understandably so, she told them not to worry about it.
But between herself and the wall, she was extremely worried.
At least tonight, it was just not sleeping she had
to worry about. Well, that and the things she saw.
The white mice that appeared out of nowhere, ran wildly
(22:50):
throughout the house and then disappeared. Each time it happened,
she panicked. She was reminded that she had to call
an exterminator first thing in the morning, had to deal
with an issue immediately so that it didn't get worse.
But then, once the mice had miraculously disappeared in the
scuffling and scratching gave way to a black hole of silence,
she remembered they were all in her head. She turned
(23:12):
off the living room light and made her way into
the bedroom. She stood in front of a full length
mirror and examined her reflection. She angled her body to
the left and the right and wondered what her next
tattoo should be. She already had so many pin up girls,
Betty boot, a horseshoe, a Canarian anchor, Daddy's girl, a
(23:32):
lightning bowl in there right above her heart. Blake feeled
her sibyl's name in a pocket. Even though they were
technically over, Amy felt a primal desire to be close
to Blake. It was both irrational and untenable. She knew
it was fucking insane. She just couldn't help it, and
(23:53):
no one could help her. Every time she looked in
a mirror and saw the tattoo above her heart, she
was reminded again and the good times and the bad,
what was and what could never be, and that ultimately
she was back here once again, just like the song
had said, back to black life, imitating art or some
(24:14):
such ship. The mirror in her bedroom began to vibrate,
and she wondered for a moment if it was actually
herself that was vibrating, That maybe one of her seizures
was about to hit and make the whole room feel
like the earth was moving. Under her feet. She looked
at her hands, and they were still. The mirror was
vibrating even faster, now so fast that it no longer
(24:35):
looked like it was made of glass, more like glass
that was rapidly melting, was liquid. It moved like a
vertical ocean. Something began to protrude from the glass. Amy
couldn't quite believe what was happening. What it was happening,
The shape of a hand, and then of another, the
shape of a head above them, No features, just the
(24:57):
shimmer of liquid glass. She stumb were backwards. Jesus fun.
She would take a hundred white mice right now over
the ship. She tried to make the indistinct figure into
something she knew, something that made her feel safe. She
tried to make it blak. Tried to imagine one of
his black tank tops on its torso, a trolly had
on top a mouth of leaning domino teeth. But she couldn't.
(25:20):
The thing was faceless, nameless, a glossy blob that walked
straight at her. She jumped into bed, pulled the covers
up over her head, squeezed her eyes shot. Fuck. She
wanted to drink more than anything. She hated to admit it,
but there it was, and the room was silent now.
(25:40):
She slowly opened her eyes and all she could see
was the darkness under the covers. She buried her nose
into her pillow. She needed to do laundry, that was
for sure. She felt something tap on her shoulder, a
hand from out of the mirror, out of the darkness,
out of the past. She screamed and threw off the covers,
sprung from the bed. Her eyes were open wide, but
(26:02):
there was nothing there. No mirror, person, no mice, just
a regular mirror reflecting back the person that stood there
with a look of hysterical fear in her eyes, a
look that said, how long can this go on? On
(26:37):
the last day of June two, Amy Winehouse's official website
was hacked. Visitors to Amy winehouse dot com we're graded
with a flashing screen in large text with a profanity
laden manifesto. The named quote to take back the Internet
from the White Devil unquote. The screed called out Amy
by name, or rather Amy Crackhead of a wine House,
(27:00):
as she was referred to in the all caps text.
A group of hackers called Swagger Security a k a.
Swag Sex soon copped to the takeover. They shouted to
the virtual rooftops on Twitter, distanced themselves from hackers to anonymous,
and in a non sequitur PostScript, extolled the virtues of
(27:20):
rapper Little b whose new album just so happened to
have dropped the day before. Swagsak claimed other singers would
be targeted next, and they were justin. Bieber and Lady
Gaga both weathered similar attacks to their sites that summer.
The wine House camp was quick to take action. They
redirected the website's homepage to Amy's Facebook page as a
(27:42):
stop gap measure, but there was little reassurance from anyone
inside or outside Team wine House that this sort of
thing wouldn't happen again. In fact, it was only a
matter of time. The year two thousand eleven was a
boon for so called activists to invade the world's privacy.
PlayStation was hacked and millions of gamers found their credit
(28:04):
information compromised. Customers shopping at the craft store chain Michaels
had their credit card information stolen from registered pin pads.
Even defense contractor Lockheed Martin wasn't safe. Amy Winehouse hadn't
felt safe in a long time. Privacy. What was privacy?
She abandoned any and all privacy years ago, but her safety.
(28:26):
She still clung to the memory of that and hopes
that it would someday return. But how could it when
it seemed that every little thing, even the most closely
held secrets, were exposed by tabloids every day. It didn't
just blow up her privacy, it compromised her safety. How
did the papers know what they knew? How do they
(28:47):
know where she was going to be on any giving
day and when? How do they know the details of
every one of her stays and rehab her medical information?
She knew why it was so obvious. Look at what
was happening on every level of the mine world, from
craft store retailers to fucking missile manufacturers, and they were
inside her phone. They were journalists, bullshit journalists talked to people,
(29:10):
wrote down what they said, and then turned that into
a story. These people weren't journalists any longer. Fucking hackers,
that's what they were. Hackers by a different name, twenty
one century pirates, bullies. She didn't know how they actually
got inside her phone. She was a singer, not a nerd,
but she knew it was true and she didn't have
to wait long for her suspicions to be validated. Just
(29:32):
a week after Amy Winehouse's website was hacked by swag Sack,
on July seven, two thousand eleven, the News of the
World announced that it was printing its final edition and
shutting down. The UK paper had been in print for
a hundred and sixty eight years, twenty seven of them
as a scandal touting tabloid under the ownership of conservative
media magnate Rupert Murdoch, and its sudden need to close
(29:56):
was rife with scandal. The News of the World was
closing a me deeply because its biggest advertisers who were
pulling their campaigns left and right, and while we're advertisers
abandoning one of the biggest muckrakers in the UK, all
because of the revelation that reporters for News of the
World having tely engaged in hacking phones in order to
(30:17):
get a scoop. The alleged victims of phone hackings included
families of murder victims and families of armed forces members
killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. This news came as no
shock to Amy Winehouse, no ship Sherlock the news was
in the hacking business news of the world. Journalists didn't
(30:39):
care what stood between them and a good story. Hell,
that didn't matter for nearly any journalists, still doesn't. It's
the two thousand twenties now, and it was the two
thousand tents then, and the stakes for a better story,
a juicier story, were in our higher than ever. Amy
Winehouse wouldn't get the self satisfaction of learning the actual
details about how and when are phone was hacked by journalists,
(31:01):
but it was, and the rest of the world would
find out just days after the rest of the world
was shocked by another piece of news that Amy Winehouse
was dead at the age of um Jake Brennan and
This is the Seven Club. The Club is hosted and
(31:34):
produced by me Jake Brennan for Double Elvis in partnership
with I Heart Radio. Zeth Lundie is the lead writer
and co producer. Story and copy ending by pata Heey.
This episode was mixed by Matt Bowden. Additional music and
score elements by Ryan Spraker and Henry Lunena. Sources for
this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com on
(31:56):
the Seven Club series page. Talk to Me on social act,
disc Arace Slam Pod, and hang out with me live
on my Twitch channel Disgrace Slam Talks. For more news
on your favorite podcast, follow at double Elvis on Instagram.
Rock Corolla, what's up for your ears,
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