Siobhán Longreviews Amy Winehouse at the Ambassador, Dublin
With the mother of all beehives and a penchant for eyeliner that'd trump the Banshee's Siouxsie any day, Amy Winehouse launched herself on her Dublin audience with a vengeance, and proceeded to deliver an adequate, if at times workmanlike facsimile of her Back To Blackrepertoire.
For a woman who has elevated pout and sneer to a fine art, Winehouse's live shows lack a certain backbone, and reek of a stage manager's finesse rather than the expected fire and brimstone of her recorded output. Still, swaddled by the Last Waltz-like velveteen of the Ambassador stage backdrop, and a band that'd hold their own comfortably in Harlem or in Huddersfield, Winehouse was well-groomed for her chocolate-box wrapper of a show that burnt itself out after just 75 minutes.
Kicking off with I Know You Nowand Tears, she let the engine idle a while before launching into Addictedand a suitably ferocious Unholy War. The band's innately funked-up gene pool bathed Wake Up Alonein a mirage of keyboards and bass lines that mercifully countered Winehouse's husky, road-weary vocals.
At times the disparity between the band's old pro status and Winehouse's shape-throwing cast a sharp spotlight on the question of whether she's anything more than this year's model.
She plodded through Me And Mr Jones, struggling to capture a tincture of the requisite soul the song demanded of her, and even as she let rip through Rehaband You Know I'm No Good, it seemed as if Winehouse was already on countdown to the departure lounge. Greeted with open arms by her punters, she rarely managed to connect with them, opting instead to cling to what are becoming already lacklustre postures that often failed to prop up her frail, minuscule frame.
Winehouse's strength is in her laden vocals (that hint at a life thoroughly, if not well, lived) and her blithe insistence on kicking against the traces. Whether or not the music can ultimately speak for itself remains to be seen, but Friday night's performance whispered of the possibility that countless tired and emotional nights might metamorphose a deliciously jagged repertoire into a jaded one before too long.
