My New Year's resolution: Amy, Amy, Amy

January 1, 2:08 PMDenver Live Music ExaminerWilliam Jiles

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There has always been a small, figurative, hole buried deep inside my heart.  Initially, you can see a large Ketel One shaped organ dipped in caramel and rolled in nuts and Dippin' Dots. But after studying it carefully, you'll see the bottle is actually Amy Winehouse, the caramel is crack-cocaine, and the nuts and Dippin' Dots are actually just track marks and meth sores. This is something me and Amy share: Strong Love. Albeit, my love  is for her and her's is not so much for me as it is for stained wife beaters and street drug addictions. Yet despite all her dramatic publicity stunts and strained public appearances, my love still goes strong

Amy first became the apple of my eye a couple years back when I saw a Family Guy billboard that depicted Brian, the dog, saying, "They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no." Although I thought it was funny, there was a twinge in my soul, like a spring snapping or having all the happiness and love sucked out of through a Dirt Devil
vacuum. Who was the person Brian was making fun of? Surely it wasn't that sassy Hispanic woman from the UK with bad teeth, over-processed hair and a stolen wardrobe from Forever Twenty One! Alas, it was, and I had never known the two were the same person.

Amy's debut album Frank, holds a special place in the foundation of my soul. Filled with classic jazz structure and simple drum beats, Amy's voice dances through the songs weaving in an out to create a really intricate melody of vocals. When listening closely, I was able to pick the guitar Amy had indubitably written. Amy generally plays an array of five to six jazz chords on the guitar and it is pretty much buried under synthesizers as well as the full band. Now, I absolutely love this album, down to every song (Even "In My Bed" which was pimped out for the text screens on MTV's Made) however, I have to let everyone who has not listened to this album know: The woman sings VERY aggressively. Amy's voice initially sounds like a banshee. It sounds harsh and left me wondering how, between the screaming and smoking meth out of a light bulb, Amy has any vocal chords left. After a few listens on repeat to any given song, your brain starts to put the madness together and the finished puzzle beams like a pack of menthol cigarettes through the darkness of heroin withdrawal.

Amy's second album, Back to Black, was deemed a masterpiece by not only me, but pretty much the general populous. She was awarded five Grammy's in one night, putting her up with ever changing skin pigment diva Beyonce. Her songs fluttered across the charts of every major country making her an instant star. But, like drinking during a pregnancy, some things that sound like a good idea, turn out to be bad ideas. Amy eventually spiralled into what was originally a very funny, easily joked about drug and alcohol addiction leaving my crying heart sore and bruised.

What I'm trying to get to is a plea. A meager plea, plead from bleeding love and the bootilicious depths of my soul, a simple wish: I want to make love in this club. Anyone who cares about music, anyone who cares about love, anyone who, in all actuality, cares about ANYTHING knows that the best thing for Amy, drug trafficking, music, and really the entire country of Britain is to bring Amy to me. She needs to be under my total and complete care and super vision. This is why I need to raise as much awareness as possible for this daunting cause, possibly involving the UN, to make sure that my New Year’s resolution for the safety and well being of Ms. Winehouse is executed flawlessly.

I'll even wear a cardigan, fedora and brightly colored shoes. And I'll tattoo a breast pocket below the name "Amy" written in cursive that I have decoratively tattooed on my chest.

This next year will be good, real good.