(Think Lauryn Hill without the preachiness.) My love only increased with Ghostface Killah’s 2006 remix of her salty “You Know I’m No Good.” But of course it was Back to Black-a chart-topper in the U.K. Much like Back to Black sans the throwback sonics, the record articulated a wise-beyond-her-years wisdom with smoky jazz phrasings and hip-hop/r&b shadings. My personal Amy fixation had kicked off two years earlier with Frank, originally an import-only debut (released domestically this past fall) with a smiling, curvy, weave-less Amy on the cover. It made me fear that Amy had the talent to be a star, but might not have the strength. She sounded great, but acted like she didn’t believe it. And yes, she was drinking, but no more than anyone else there. She constantly fiddled with her weave and tugged her cocktail frock outside of acknowledging Mos Def (her friend) and Mark Ronson (her producer), she rarely made eye contact with the crowd. But between her flashes of genuine happiness, Amy was distracted and disengaged. The intimate club was filled with unabashed love, and she knew it. By the end of the gig, everyone knew that Amy, all 85 or so pounds of her, had smacked r&b back to life. I first saw Amy Winehouse live in January 2007, at Joe’s Pub in the East Village: her American debut.