Amy Winehouse Was a Nice Jewish Girl With a Big Problem.
Back when Andy Gibb died I was too young to fully comprehend the repercussions of drug addiction and what it meant that someone had overdosed. I assumed addiction was a choice, the word "disease" an abstract tag to prettify obituaries and punch up headlines. Gibb, whose Flowing Rivers album was a staple of my 14-year-old existence 10 years after its release, had made a terrible choice, one that left him dead. I was only 4 when Elvis Presley died, 7 when John Lennon was killed, and so Gibb was the first pop starmy inchoate adolescent taste in Top 40 tunes asidewhose death rattled me in real time. I remember thinking, there must be something "bad" about Andy Gibb, something the winged golden hair and shirtless photo spreads in Tiger Beat didn't quite communicate.
Turns out, "I Just Want To Be Your Everything" was a disco-fied lie; all he wanted was the drugs. I was a nice Jewish girl who had never so much as gotten drunk, because Jewish girls never became addicts, and we certainly didn't snort cocaine until our hearts stopped beating forever.
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