I wanted to read the review of Amy Winehouse's latest concert/debacle in Zurich, but it was in the newspaper Tages Anzeiger, which doesn't have an English translation. So I ran the page through the Babelfish translator engine.
What I got sounded more entertaining than the concert itself...and more drugged-up than Amy herself:
Both happens rarely: That a concert is so terrible
that one would not have experienced it rather, and the fact that an
individual concert moment is so large that one stands there
shock-frozen before chicken skin and then dearest would like to
loose-howl.
Amy Winehouse, 24-jaehriges R'n'B wreck genius from
England, offered yesterday in the community center actually both.
Of first much and ever more, of the latter a little. Oh
Amy. however one saw it coming, and actually their bare presence was
in Zurich already a miracle: Their present tour is again and
again interrupted and by drug collapses, prison stays or
gerichtstermine of their man, from everywhere is to be heard that it
can to Amy very badly and that it condemned still times no more is not
to say to "NO, NO, NO" to the "Rehab"...
And then it stands thus there, the small person
with the large hair-style, stands there in a long white Strickpulli,
pulls around, trembles, always wipes themselves with the handruecken
over the nose, drinks, drinks, drinks, it looks abwechslungsweise like
wine and Gin Tonic, cries that you run the make-up over the face,
scratches themselves continuously, yawns, sits down on the stage,
schmeisst the microphone, runs away again and again. From their
rotated eyes under the famous black bars we see usually only the
white. Humans torment themselves. Behind it their name
stands on a midnight-blue frill curtain written in large kind Deco
type characters. So that the girl still knows at least his name.
And humans sing. So beautifully that it can be
already nearly no more humans. The voice, this powerful,
unusually black Soulstimme, seems to be the only organ in the system
Amy Winehouse, on which still relying is. An organ with an
independent existence. Drum around a living corpse. The
first numbers are fantastisch, their live-interpretation of the by
program "bake tons of Black" an illuminating: The spacious
nostalgia Orchestrierung is reduced to a rhythmic skeleton by
schlagzeug and guitar, over it raises Amy for several minutes a
vieloktavigen complaint call, far like the sky and deeply like the
sea. The chicken skin moment. Then only it flows into
facilitates swingende confidenceness of its album hit.
The translation concludes, ominously:
It strikes three
of it perfectly: sexy the Melodram "I'm NO good", "ME and Mr.
Jones" _ the radiating small Hommage to the Soul classical author "ME
and Mrs. Jones", and in the end "Rehab".
Only one tragedy.
The disturbing decay of a Idols in fifty minutes. Then
nobody wanted additions more.
