Before this past week, Adele was the British singer of the moment, with "Rolling in the Deep" being played on every station, (briefly) on my iPhone, and remixed into a bass/tub-thumping club beat at 3 in the morning (or so I heard). Personally, I found her a tad squeaky, but that's neither here nor there. Then Amy died.

I am not a music geek. I wouldn't even know how to begin to connois any melodic seurs. The little indie cred in my iTunes library came by way of Rhea's philanthropy half a decade ago. Still, even I could tell the broad could sing.

I don't know her story that well, partly things picked up here and there in the gossip rags, but mostly from what she told me. She had a problem with drugs and alcohol. No, that's not quite right. She had a difficult relationship with drugs and alcohol. And love.

Most of her live performances had stretches of looseness and/or disregard for cleanliness that was probably due to a combination of her demons and talents and a innate funk/funk. They make me wince, then not-quite-smile, and want to watch/listen to more. She died a hundred times, then she faded, as always, to black.