Why the caged bird sings

Amy Winehouse was a brand. She might or might not have realised it, but we did. Yes, she was a woman, a girl, a singer, an artist, a soul - an extraordinary talent and a most grotesque example of excess and internal torture that we've seen in modern times. Yet, she was also a brand - utilised by many marketers seeking that rough-edged ride that we admire from afar and then gasp at the crash.

That very edge for which she was so often scorned was her greatest marketing asset, and Universal Records knew it. So did Fendi and fashionista Fred Perry. So too did the highbrow institutions which deployed massive campaigns inspired by her - Vogue and Lagerfeld's Chanel among them. Even the non-profit sector had her kitless, waif boned and hiding behind a guitar in a campaign for breast cancer awareness. Millions will mourn her death while the world's bean counters calculate the fallout.

Winehouse channelled the torch song divas with tragic trajectories – Billie, Sarah. She lived fast, we just didn't expect she would die so young, and with so much more to contribute than we or even she knew. Yet from the moment her stylised beehive and overworked makeup hit our view, one look into those over-kohled eyes was all it took to see the end would be tragic one.

None of this is new. Genius and tragedy are longstanding bedfellows. What is sad is that even with everything we know about drugs, addiction, pop culture, mental illness and modern psychology, this brilliant and disturbed woman simply fell to pieces in front of us. 

So off to the 27 Club she goes, there to hightail and hi ball it with the best of them – Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin, Basquiat and Johnson. We watched her self-destruction like fans from the bleachers. Yet it always seemed different to the recent celebrity escapades of Spears and Lohan. Winehouse was that rare jewel, the true unadulterated talent. Whilst the world's media focused on her radically public emotional undoing, those who know and love music appreciated there was greatness in the room, whether she was in it, or just seeping from our speakers. 

Jeff Dorenfield, an associate professor at Berklee College of Music in Boston, said in 2008 on brandrepublic.com that Winehouse was a rare commodity for brands targeting young adults as she was seen as edgy and reckless, with even her accent contributing to her rebellious allure. As well known for the wrenching tunes like Love is a Losing Game and Tears Dry On Their Own as the prophetic Rehab, she appealed to music fans, tabloids and marketers who couldn't get enough of the tough, frail chick who looked like she didn't care.

She copped it hard from all quarters, and many raised eyebrows, sniffing down self-righteous noses at her recent debacle on stage in Belgium. Her public had given her a long rope and those who remained were tired of the piss-take. Thirty-five days later she was dead.

Amy Winehouse represents a side of our personalities that more than a few recognise. The beast lives in many of us – some just have a better lock on the cage. In the wake of her premature death, what people around the world might finally reflect upon - instead of her look, her brand, her 'it' factor - is the fragile caged bird with the transparently tough facade, the beautiful and broken thing that she was. 

RIP Miss A.