eBook
Related collections and offers
Overview
Amy's mother, Janis, knew her in a way that no one else did. In this warm, poignant, and at times heartbreaking memoir, she tells the full story of the daughter she loved so much. As the world watched the rise of a superstar, then the free fall of an addict to her tragic death, Janis simply saw her Amy: the daughter she’d given birth to, the girl she’d raised and stood by despite her unruly behavior, the girl whose body she was forced to identify two days after her death—and the girl she's grieved for every day since.
Arguably the most gifted artist of her generation, Amy Winehouse died tragically young, aged just twenty-seven. With a worldwide fan base and millions of record sales to her name, she should have had the world at her feet. Yet in the years prior to her death, she battled with addiction and was frequently the subject of lurid tabloid headlines.
Including rare photographs and extracts from Amy's childhood journals, Loving Amy offers a new and intimate perspective on the life and untimely death of a musical icon.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466890688 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 01/12/2016 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 9 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Loving Amy
A Mother's Story
By Janis Winehouse
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2014 Janis WinehouseAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9068-8
CHAPTER 1
Hurricane Amy
Now that I look back I should have realized life with Amy was going to be anything but plain-sailing. I was twenty-seven when I gave birth to her at Chase Farm Hospital, near Enfield, north London, on 14 September 1983, and from the very start she did things her way. I'd been admitted briefly the day before with contractions, but they turned out to be a false alarm and I was sent home. Late the following afternoon, Amy decided she was ready for the world and, for the second time in two days, her father Mitchell did the fifteen-minute drive to the maternity ward. At 10.25 p.m. Amy made her debut, but by then she was already four days late.
I don't remember much about those hazy few hours but I do remember holding Amy in my arms, looking down at her face and thinking, 'I've had the same baby twice!' My son Alex had been born almost four years earlier and, at birth, the pair bore an uncanny resemblance to each other – soft brown hair and almond-shaped eyes, and both of them the most beautiful babies I'd ever seen. I know every mother says that, but Alex and Amy were really cute.
With my second baby, I'd taken pregnancy a bit more in my stride and shed all the anxiety of being a first-time mum. I remember the apprehension when Alex cried or the split second of panic when he made a new sound I didn't yet understand. I'd live on adrenalin, ever alert but bone-tired. I felt calmer and more confident with Amy and I was blessed that the pregnancy had happened effortlessly for me. Aside from the odd bout of morning sickness, I can honestly say that those nine months were unremarkable – just a warm feeling of excitement bubbling away that I was expecting again – although with a three-year-old running around there wasn't too much time to think.
Before I had children I'd never seen myself as the maternal type. I'd been a bit of a free spirit as a teenager and I'd always wondered how I'd manage with a little person to look after. In those days there was a certain amount of pressure to settle down and have a family. All of my friends were doing so. Mitchell and I were both from Jewish families: it was the unwritten rule that if you got married, you'd give your parents a grandson or granddaughter. I didn't see myself fitting neatly into that traditional role, but the experience of having children did change me profoundly, as only bringing a new life into the world can. When I fell pregnant with Alex, a baby stopped being someone else's child when I felt his first kick against my belly: then he became my baby, and I loved him unconditionally. When Amy was born I thought of them both as simply 'my babies'.
Mitchell and I had planned for another child, partly because we wanted Alex to have a brother or sister and partly because Mitchell's grandparents were still alive. We wanted Ben and his wife Fanny, who by now were in their eighties, to see our family complete. Ben ran a barber's shop on Commercial Street near Whitechapel and we would often travel to the East End to visit them, climbing the treacherous staircase to reach their flat above the shop. I knew that whoever came along would just have to go with the flow, but for some reason – I have no idea why – I was convinced I was having another boy.
Life had been getting cramped in the two-bedroom flat in Winchmore Hill, north London, Mitchell and I had bought when we got married. Now that Amy was on the way we moved to a three-bedroom house on Osidge Lane, a suburban street in nearby Southgate, where Mitchell had spent much of his life, in Bramford Court just off the high street. In our new house I'd play classical music on the stereo and walk around the living room talking to Amy, the bump who was growing day by day. 'You're definitely a boy,' I would say, rubbing my hand across my belly. Alex would also tell me as I tucked him into bed, 'Mummy, I can't wait to have a baby brother.' We wouldn't really have cared what we had just so long as it was healthy and happy. Secretly, though, I wished for a baby girl. Amy was worth all those months of waiting and hoping.
In the month leading up to her birth I had started taking raspberry leaf tablets. Maybe it's an old wives' tale but I'd heard that a daily dose would bring on the baby and ease labour pains. I'd almost convinced myself that giving birth this time round would be more like passing wind. Talk about wishful thinking. Having said that, I spent much of my four-hour labour standing around the ward clock-watching as my contractions grew stronger and more frequent. In the end I'd left it far too late for an epidural and once I'd reached the delivery suite I relied entirely on gas and air.
I'll never forget the midwife congratulating me on being so calm and quiet during the final stages. I couldn't stop giggling because she'd clearly been oblivious to the screams I'd let out into the gas mask every time I held it to my mouth as I pushed down. 'It's a girl!' I heard her announce as all 7lb 1oz of Amy finally popped out. I sat bolt upright. 'Oh shit!' I shouted, which probably sounded completely inappropriate, but my brain had to quickly readjust. A girl? Really? Wow.
Sometimes now I think Amy's life was written in the stars, that it was her destiny to be with me for only a short time. But at that moment, nothing could have been further from my mind. She was so perfect, and I had this overwhelming urge to hold and protect her. Nowadays babies are given to mothers to hold on their chest in the moments immediately after birth, but Amy was taken from me straight away and arrived back at my bedside cleaned and clothed and in a cot. The pang of that temporary separation completely unnerved me. I was desperate to see her face and touch her tiny fingers, and on the first night of her life I sat up quietly watching her. She was beautiful. I found it impossible to take my eyes off her.
For me, giving birth to a girl became a unique experience. Any mother knows the anxiety that comes with having children. We all worry about getting it wrong, but with a girl I'd convinced myself that I had a head start. Amy, bless her, was her own person from the off, but I could intuitively understand her, and when she was young I always felt that the connection between us was deeply emotional and complete. I looked forward to all those little rituals that come naturally when girls are together: dressing Amy, brushing her hair, talking with her, cuddling her. With a boy, the love is just as intense, but boys detach themselves more easily somehow.
Out went the name Ames that Mitchell and I had already chosen for another boy and in came Amy. It is Jewish tradition to name a child with the first letter of a loved relative who has passed away. My grandmother Hannah was also known as Annie, so Amy was named in her memory, and her middle name Jade was after Mitchell's stepfather's father Jack.
Alex had been born in University College Hospital, in the busy centre of London. In those days, new mothers were kept in hospital much longer, and I had four days of adapting to feeding and bathing him before I was discharged. From my window I could see the Post Office Tower dominating the city skyline and, when our families weren't crowded into the ward delighting in the new arrival, I would look out at the view and daydream. With Amy, I was back at Osidge Lane after two days. But at my bedside at Chase Farm I had enjoyed just as many well-wishers.
Mitchell and I came from large families who'd settled in London's East End from as early as the 1920s, so no matter what the occasion – births or Bar Mitzvahs – they would descend en masse. My dad Eddie, my brother Brian and sister Debra all trooped in alongside Mitchell's grandparents, his mum Cynthia and stepdad Larry. Our uncles, aunties, cousins, nieces, nephews and friends were all there too – even my present husband Richard, who was married to Stephanie, my best friend at the time. Wherever our family was, there was life, and waves of laughter. I remember Mitchell showing Amy off to anyone whose attention he could attract. He would lift her up and twirl her in the air.
Mitchell adored babies, and both Alex and Amy remain the apples of his eye, but from very early on he found the practicalities of parenthood difficult. I had noticed when we had Alex that the day-to-day childcare was left largely to me; when Amy arrived, that didn't change. Back then my days were filled with an endless cycle of washing dirty nappies and messy mealtimes and the nights were always disrupted, but I got on with things regardless.
I am an instinctively placid person. I have an inner determination that seems to run through my side of the family, but anyone who knows me will tell you I'm impossible to have an argument with. Perhaps, to my detriment, I accepted things as they were when the children were young, often keeping schtum to avoid any upsets and arguments. It was, and still is, my greatest vulnerability. But back then, conflict was never more than a step away.
The day after Amy was born, Mitchell came into the maternity ward in his customary sharp suit looking rather distracted. With his head in his hands he announced, 'Janis, there's something I've got to tell you.' I raised my eyebrows. I knew immediately that with an opener like that anything that followed was not going to end well. He admitted to me that he'd lost his job a few days before. It wasn't exactly the news I'd wanted to hear. We'd just moved house. We had a bigger mortgage to manage and I was cradling our new baby. But I'd known Mitchell since I was fourteen and I'd learned the hard way that as far as he was concerned, nothing would surprise me.
Mitchell was exciting – a risk-taker. Being with him was always an adventure, and in the early days of our marriage we had good fun. In the maternity ward that day there was a part of me that knew he'd be back on his feet soon enough; still, this was neither the time nor the place for such news. I was relieved when Mitchell's mother came to the hospital and took Amy and me back to the relative quiet of Osidge Lane where I felt safe and comfortable. Even now, our old house evokes the fondest memories of family for me.
There, in the first few months of her life, Amy grew into a bright and curious baby. She would often be wide awake and crying at night just when I thought I'd rocked her off to sleep. We had her nursery decorated in sunshine yellow wallpaper with white clouds and I spent many hours nursing her on a chair with a matching pattern. The colours reflected her personality – very loud and loads of fun – and it wasn't long before Amy was tottering around (I remember the elation I felt watching my baby's first steps). It was commonplace to find her practising her forward rolls, or bent over with her curly mop of hair on the carpet and her bottom facing skywards in an attempt to stand on her head. Both Alex and Amy loved playing peek-a-boo in the Ali Baba laundry basket we kept in our bedroom. I was so captivated with their heads bobbing over the wicker rim that I photographed them, and each framed picture sat on a shelf as a bookend, Alex at one end and Amy at the other.
Mitchell had brought Alex to see Amy in hospital soon after she was born. He'd sat on the chair by my bed and smiled nervously as Mitchell handed him his sister. My heart almost melted as I watched their first introduction. Dressed in a little white baby-gro and wrapped in a blanket, Amy looked unwieldy against his childish frame. He cupped her in his arms and looked terrified that her head would roll back or that she would drop. She stank, he said – she had that milky newborn smell. He frowned at her because, all of a sudden, he had been usurped by a red-cheeked impostor who was doing her damnedest to break the sound barrier. And to top it all, she was a girl!
But once Amy was home and Alex had got over his disappointment at having a sister rather than a brother, things changed. I would find him hugging Amy tightly and refusing to let go, having climbed into her cot. Soon the pair were inseparable, although after a few years Alex discovered that having a younger sibling could be annoying too – 'She's a pain in the bum,' he often complained. If he went to dance classes, Amy wanted to go to dance classes. If Alex had a friend, Amy wanted the same friend. The first proper word Amy uttered was 'Alex'. She wanted to be like him and she followed him around like a shadow, but she was also pretty competitive and never let him have the limelight for too long.
I remember, years later, when Alex was studying for his Bar Mitzvah, I recorded him rehearsing the passages from the Jewish bible, the Torah, that he had to read aloud on his big day. Unsurprisingly, on the same cassette is an eight-year-old Amy practising her own imaginary speech. If making a speech was required of Alex, you could bet Amy wasn't far behind, even though she had no ceremony to prepare for. I still have that tape. Aside from the videos of Amy's birthday parties, it's the only recording I have of her child's voice.
Even then, Amy rarely stayed quiet for long. You'd usually hear her before you saw her. She didn't arrive at someone's house, she bowled in. I'd often take her to Richard's to see his son Michael, who was born four months after Amy, and it was there that she earned her first nickname – Hurricane Amy. As soon as the door opened there she was, like a twister, whirling around and whooshing from room to room, always busy, busy, busy, full of energy and impossible to ignore.
I myself had lots of energy in those days. I worked right up until both Alex and Amy's births. I enjoyed working and earning my own money – I'd done so since leaving school at the age of sixteen – but I loved being a mum too. I was often mesmerized by the high spirits of my little girl, and I enjoyed helping both my children navigate their way through their young lives. On reflection, though, I had set myself the impossible task of being a perfect mother, having had no real relationship with my own – and if there's one thing I wanted to change when I had children, it was that.
My own grandmother, Deborah, who was an Eastern European Jewish immigrant, left her husband and had come to London from Newcastle penniless and with three daughters. My mother, Esther Richman, was her youngest girl, and although I was born in Brooklyn, New York, we returned to Hackney in London's East End when I was eighteen months old. As the years passed we made the usual Jewish trek from the council estates of the East End to Stoke Newington before Mitchell and I married and settled in Southgate. We weren't a wealthy family by any means. Across the generations, all the women had exactly the same features – the joke was that we were so poor we could only afford one face. But I don't ever remember a time when there wasn't food on the table.
My dad Eddie, who worked as a ladies' garment tailor, was the most stable influence in my life. Despite growing up with his two brothers in the Norwood Jewish orphanage after the death of his father, he was a calm, gentle and kind man. Everybody adored Eddie. He'd had a tough life, though. Not only had he spent his adolescence in care, he'd been subjected to the most terrible anti-Jewish taunts while doing his military service. So, before he had us, he ditched the family surname 'Steinberg' and changed it to 'Seaton'. Seaton, it turned out, is a small seaside town on the east Devon coast – a place Eddie had visited as a youngster, and which held happy memories for him.
Despite those hardships he seemed to put his head down and get on with things. When he passed away six months after Amy, my cousin Martin reminded me how we used to call him Auntie Eddie because he seemed able to combine the caring role of both an uncle and aunt. In his later years he put himself at the centre of the family. I'll never forget the wall in his house which he called his 'hall of fame'. There were pictures of his parents and his brothers, his children and grandchildren, and every time there was a new addition to the family he'd find a space to hang a new photo. 'I don't have any favourites,' he used to say affectionately. 'I hate you all equally.'
So it was my father who was the figure of stability in our lives. My mother Esther, on the other hand, could never settle. She was a restless and petulant woman, always chasing what she thought was the next best thing. That's what had brought my parents to New York for eight years. She'd heard of an extended family there and dreamed it was the place where our fortune could be made; but she was to be greatly disappointed. My father ended up taking a lower-paid job than my mother had anticipated and we were back in London soon enough.
Esther's own father had died suddenly when she was thirteen years old, and I think that trauma greatly affected her. Even by the time she had her own children she'd never really grown up herself, and my older brother Brian and I were left to bring up our sister Debra, who was seven years younger than me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Loving Amy by Janis Winehouse. Copyright © 2014 Janis Winehouse. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Prologue,
1 Hurricane Amy,
2 Child Of Mine,
3 Dad's Gone – Can We Get a Hamster?,
4 We Three,
5 Take The Box,
6 Frank,
7 Headline Honey,
8 Puttin' On The Ritz,
9 Behind the Beehive,
10 Fly Me To The Moon,
11 Two Steps Forward, One Step Back,
12 Maybe,
13 Island In The Sun,
14 Drinkin' Again,
15 Leader of the Pack,
16 Time Out for Tears,
Epilogue: Life After Amy,
Some Information about the Amy Winehouse Foundation,
Other Useful Contacts,
Acknowledgements,
Picture Acknowledgements,
Photos,
About the Author,
Copyright,