Last month, Miley Cyrus took to the stage at England's Glastonbury Festival and belted out a cover of Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black." It felt appropriate given that Cyrus was sharing the stage that day with Mark Ronson—the man who produced the original track for Winehouse, as well as the album that spawned it. Miley's rendition was a fist-in-the-air take on what the BBC recently referred to as "the millennial 'I Will Survive'."
It was impossible not to notice how far removed this version was from the original. In Amy's hands, "Back To Black" was agonizing to the point of being an audible ache. In Miley's, it was merely a defiant singalong. It was a sad reminder that, though she only died eight years ago, the gulf created by Amy Winehouse's absence is still so enormous, it actually feels like she's been gone for much longer.
Part of the reason for that is just how impossible it is to keep Amy's spirit alive. All of the things that made her such a compelling performer and human were perfectly intangible, and simply cannot be replicated. Still people can't stop trying. Since she died, there have been endless murals, biographies, tribute acts, merch items and covers competitions. None of which have come even vaguely close to capturing the detonative clash of raw sensitivity and streetsmart wise-assery that Amy barreled through life with. Eulogies have a tendency to gloss over people's sharpest, most uncomfortable edges, and pop culture loves to paint stars who died young in only the most tragic of lights. Amy Winehouse is dealing with both in equal measure.
She is not the first legend this has happened to. Eventually, all musicians who die too soon fall prey to the public's desire to mythologize them, but the process reduces them to their most memorable selves; shells devoid of the complexities that made them great in the first place. What we're left with is Jimi Hendrix kneeling before a flaming guitar; Kurt Cobain in blue flannel, crying at the side of the stage; John Lennon, naked and fetal, clinging to Yoko.
