January 6, 2022 • 31 mins
Amy Winehouse wasn’t sure exactly what she was getting into when she accepted a £1million offer to play a private show for an anonymous Russian oligarch. Even more concerning was the uncertainty that lay ahead. After she squandered an opportunity to collaborate with a living legend and tried to burn the bridge of one of her most steadfast musical partners, Amy faced a crossroads. The two paths were clear. One was brightly lit; the other was dark. The choice was surprisingly difficult.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
The twenty seven Club is the production of I Heart
Radio and Double Elvis. Amy Winehouse died at the age
of and she lived the life full of opportunities that
she both seized and missed. I can give you twenty
seven reasons why that statement is true. Eighteen would be
(00:20):
the age she was when she first stumbled onto a
Monday night music scene that would change her life, shape
her career, and keep certain bad habits within reach. Another
one would be the number of years she would string
along a dream come true collaborator as he waited in
vain for her to contribute to a tribute album in
his honor. One more would be the number of loyal,
(00:41):
longtime collaborators who would unwittingly find himself on the receiving
end of an early morning social media flame war. Yet
another one would be the number of pounds and millions
that she would be offered to play a private forty
minute show for an anonymous Russian oligarch. Four more would
be the number of hours past midnight when Amy's new
(01:02):
flame would be ambushed by the press, photographed walking hand
in hand with his ex girlfriend. And two will be
the number of distinct paths she could choose to take
as her life stared down a very clear set of crossroads,
all totally on this our seventh episode of season four,
(01:24):
Bad Habits and anonymous Russian oligarch, Flame Wars and Amy Winehouse.
I'm Jake Brennan in This is the Seven Club m Y.
(02:18):
The DJ could feel the promoter eyeing him as he
set up his gear. He knew the guy wanted to
come over and talk to him. They tried to seek
a furtive glance, but the promoter locked dies ship. Come on, man,
don't do it, don't assle me. The DJ had spent
more nights absorbing one in nightlife than he could remember.
(02:40):
He was there, he was always there. He watched bands
make a bloody racket, DJ is spinning their sirens. Web
dance floor is packed with sweaty bodies. Now on this night,
the tables were turned. He was the one up on stage,
preparing to play his own set, and of course, just
as law, this promoter was ready to pounce. As the
(03:04):
DJ finished arranging his decks and plugging in his gear,
the promoter finally approached and handed him a list. Right
there was a list of records and artists he shouldn't play.
The club was worried he would spend something the audience
didn't want to hear, worried that he would clear the
dance floor, But Errol Alkin could give a funk about
(03:25):
clearing the dance floor. Errol would later state that playing
a record the audience didn't dig was just confirmation that
he wasn't resting on his laurels. He was always pushing,
always experimenting. He understood that life wasn't just about success.
Life was about being real above all else, and sometimes
being real meant screwing up. It may suck in the moment,
(03:48):
but it gave context to your truth as an artist.
He wasn't about playing it safe. Safe was boring. Erroll
didn't give a shit about genres. It was music for everyone.
This voter, though it was proven to be a major downer.
The guy didn't understand the alternative culture. How could he
buttoned up in a suit, just looking for the next
(04:09):
buck punching the clock. And that wasn't what this was
all about. This was about the music, the music that
ran through Errol's very being. Some of his earliest memories
were listening to his parents record collection, t Rex, the Stones,
the Beatles, By twelve years old, he was speaking out
of his parents house to play gigs, and by twenty
(04:29):
he was fully immersed in the alternative music movement in England,
spending nearly every eatning and nightclubs and concert halls. From
to two thousand, he listened to everything he could get
his hands on. Djaying was essentially sharing music, and he
wanted to make sure he shared the best. Music. Was
all connected the old and formed the new. The new
(04:50):
reflected on the old, and there was no reason to
draw lines. Regardless. Errol finished a set according to the
promoter's rules. He strayed from the songs they didn't want
to play, but he knew when it was over that
he was done. Not just at the Dog and Pony Show,
he was done playing other people's venues. He wanted to
make his own rules for playing to an audience. Just
(05:12):
one rule actually, and that rule was there were no rules,
total freedom of expression. That rule was in full effect
from the first night Eild debut his own weekly nightclub
Trash in January, all the way to the night it
closed a decade later. That rule stayed in place. Trash
(05:33):
took place on Monday nights, not on the weekend, which
was also a giant middle finger to the rules, to
the way things were usually done, no matter where the
club called home from venues like Plastic People or the Annex,
and soho, all the way to the end in London's
West End, where quite literally came to an end in
two thousand seven, Trash embodied that one critical rule, no
(05:57):
fucking rules. On its first night, sixty people showed up.
Errol knew all of them, no worries. It gave Trash
the tight knit field. It was more than a club
that was a community. Errol mixed deep cuts and classic
tracks with all the independent music that was coming out
of the time. It felt new, unexpected, something out of
(06:21):
time and space. As dance music began to take on
the aesthetics of alternative music throughout the start of the
twenty one century, the lines between genres continued to blur,
and Errol's nightclub blew up right place, right time, but
also right attitude, the right time. At Trash, the sub
will first thumped impossibly loud, the walls vibrated, and the
(06:44):
foundation shook. Bodies kept coming. Nights that were once averaging
sixty guests soon bawoun to seven d all of them
packed into the dark, cavernous room with walls painted by
a never ending white show that emanated from the stage.
In the typical Alcin set, you could hear Destiny's Child's
Bootylicious mixed with their vanas smells like teen Spirit, followed
(07:06):
by Tom Tom Clubs Genius of Love before transitioning nearly
effortlessly into Mary J. Blige's Family Affair sets and segues.
Paid no mind to arra or genre. If it feels right,
do it. It shouldn't have worked, but it did, and
Errol oversaw it all standing at his console with a
cigarette hanging out of his mouth, pumping his fists along
(07:28):
with the crowd. Errol wasn't separate from the audience and
they were all in it together. He was the most
sought after DJ in London and it made Trash one
of the hippest indie clubs in the world. And it
wasn't just DJs that got their shot at Trash Garage.
Rock Revival and Electroclash reigned supreme on trash Is stage.
The club hosted up and coming American indie acts like
(07:49):
the Yea Yeah Yeahs and LCD sound System, along with
UK up starts like block Party. The artists would play
with the crowd right on top of them, and there
were no barricades separate and who was on stage from
the audience. It was feral and honest to god punk
show and procedure, and had the energy to match. Soon,
bigger bands dropped off fresh pressings of the latest singles
(08:10):
to arrows, turntables, the verve, the strokes, the rapture, kindred
spirits from all corners of the city made the spot
their regular hangout, their sanctuary, their source for anything hip
and new. Their Monday nights were alive with the sound
of trash. Amy Winehouse was only eighteen when she became
a regular devotee. Like so many others, she was drawn
(08:33):
to the movement, to the culture, into the vibe. Amy dugget.
The old mixed with the new, the well known mixed
with the unexpected. Trash exposed Amy to new music in
new ways of thinking about how music could be made
and transmitted, how genres and styles could supersede whatever gimmicky
top forty prepackaged bullshit the record labels were pumping out.
(08:54):
As long as the music was good, as long as
the music was real. Trash was where Amy gazed into
Crystal Ball saw her future. She could be true to
herself as an artist, played by her own rules, and
be accepted not just by a room of trash kids
who dressed in vintage thrist store duds and dance to
motorheads Ace of Spades one moment and abbess dancing Queen
(09:16):
the next, but by the world at large, a world
that was beginning to embrace the kind of culture clash
that trash was promoting. Errol Alkins Monday Night dance club
was also where Amy would routinely bump into that skinny
guy with the troopy hat who spent many nights handing
out flyers at the front door, the one who's claimed
(09:37):
to fame before being a flyer hander outer was working
on that one Lily Allen music video. She didn't know
what she saw in him, but she saw a future
that included him in it, and a relationship with only
one rule, no rules at all. Quincy Jones knew a
(10:21):
user when he saw one. It wasn't just their appearance.
It was more than an unnatural discoloration around the eyes.
It was the look in the eyes, piercing, bottomless, desperate, sketchy,
a look that we'll push a ninety year old woman
out of the way if I'm in a direct line
to the next fix. Quincy gave off that look more
(10:41):
than a few times himself. This was back in the
late forties early fifties. Ray Charles turned him out of
dope and q was just fifteen. Quincy was already doing
benzos and papers by that point, and heroin was something else,
so in its own category of high, a high so
high that it was low. When Quincy went on tour
with Lionel Hampton in the early nineteen fifties, the junkies
(11:05):
sat in their own section of the tour bus and
the straits sat up front, weed smokers behind them, then
the boozers, and then the users back of the bus.
With that ship, seemed like everybody else was using back then,
dealing too hell. Every time the tour bus rolled into Detroit,
it would make a can't misspassed by the Majestic Hotel
so that the band could buy some dope off Malcolm
(11:27):
X no ship. This was before he was Malcolm X, obviously,
and they all called him Detroit Red Red went to
prison for that. Quincy never went to prison for dope,
but he did have his own come to Jesus moment.
Only five months or so into his habit, he was
stone out of his head. He tripped at the top
(11:47):
of a staircase and he fell five flights, tumbling down
head over heels. Each stair found a new body part
to bruise, and that was it. Quincy Jones didn't funk
with dope, and he more after that, but he could
still pick out the ones who were fucking with dope
from a crowd, even if the crowd was fort strong,
(12:09):
like it was on June two thousand and eight at
Hyde Park in London. The occasion was Nelson Mandela's ninetieth
birthday party. Queens on the bill that night with bad
companies Paul Rogers attempting to fill Freddie Mercury's immortal shoes,
Will Smith Annie Lennox. The performer that everyone had eyes
(12:29):
on that night, however, was Amy Winehouse. Surely more than
a handful of friendly bets were placed as to whether
she would pull herself together for long enough to properly
honor Nelson Mandela, or if she was once again going
to self destruct on stage. Just five months prior, the
Sun had leaked that grainy video where she allegedly took
(12:50):
hits from a crack pipe. And then there was that
dust stuff with the guy playing pool at a Camden pub,
followed in quick succession with the head bluff she delivered
to the blow could tried to hail her cab. There
was Wine Mouse, that strange video co starring Pete Darty
with cameos from Baby Mice. Not to mention the revelation
that she had early onset and physion, and the crowd
(13:11):
had hide part braced themselves for the worst, and they
were pleasantly surprised when they were given the best. Quincy Jones,
like all others in attendance, was duly impressed with Amy's performance.
He also saw a look in her eyes when he
met her for the first time after the show. That look.
She didn't appear high at the time, but the look
(13:32):
was right there, lingering, lurking, hanging out at the back
of the bus for the next stop to score right now. Backstage,
Amy was charming, nervous too, so nervous that she sent
her father Mitch over to broker the introduction. Mitch led
Quincy back to where Amy was anxiously waiting. She greeted
(13:53):
him like Royalty, dropped to her knees, kissed his hand.
She rambled on about how she had been listening to
his record It's Her Whole Life and not just Michael
Jackson's populist bangers. She was down with Ray and a
Reason and count Basie, Dinah Washington, Dizzy, Sara Vaughan. Quincy
was blown away with Amy's knowledge of jazz and R
and B at her age incredible. He thought. He was
(14:16):
so impressed that he invited Amy and Mark Ronson to
work on a new project, a tribute album that would
honor Quincy himself. Amy couldn't say yes quickly enough. A
chance to work with one of her idols. She was
in the project would pair her and Mark with one
of the most respected men in the entertainment industry, and
there were even rumors circulating that she get the opportunity
(14:37):
to perform tracks from the album live with none other
than Michael Jackson. Amy wanted to cover some old Leslie Gore,
one of the iconic songs Quincy at helm back in
the yearly sixties, you Don't Own Me or maybe It's
My Party. They both gave off huge Amy Winehouse fives
it was a massive opportunity. Who knew what else would
lead to If there was a reason for Amy to
(14:59):
hold it to get there, this was it. She managed
to hold it together for a little under two weeks.
At her next show in Glastonbury, she punched a fan
in the face. A month after that, she pulled out
of the rock On sund Festival for the second straight year.
A week after that, she showed up to Best of
(15:19):
All forty minutes late, Hammered. Close to a year later,
Quincy Jones was still looking for the song Amy had promised.
Quincy knew Amy was a once in a lifetime talent,
and that's why he gave her so much time to
turn the track in. Mark Ronson meanwhile, was standing by
ready to finish the tune. They were so close it
(15:39):
wouldn't take much time at all. It didn't matter Amy
was in St. Lucia or wherever, and obviously had other priorities.
The track was never delivered. Quincy Jones noted the user behavior.
One minute they were in, the next minute they were out,
dropped out hard, and so in turn Quincy dropped her
from his album. Amy stewed in private she was pissed
(16:02):
at Quincy Jones for not giving her more time, pissed
that he thought she was a strong out junkie even
though she was making a concerted effort to get herself
off dope once and for all. She was also pissed
at herself for taking so long to turn something in
and that was on her. And she was pissed at
Mark Ronson because of how disappointed he was. The whole
thing ate away at her for a long time, until
(16:25):
one morning she took all her anger out on a
computer keyboard. September two thousand five, sixteen a m. The
sun was starting to rise, but the dull glow cast
on Amy Winehouse's face was coming from her laptop. She
was fuming. She had just seen the interview Mark Ronson
(16:45):
gave to Jules holland he took credit for the work
she did. She wrote that album. It was her emotion
that she had put into words, her heartbreak, and he
had the nerve to say. She stumbled into the studio
with an acoustic guitar, plucked a you strings like some
remedial bimbo, and he did the rest bullshit. She made him,
(17:06):
not the other way around. If it wasn't for her
he'd be stuck in DJ booth purgatory for the rest
of his life. She rubbed her eyes and she was
be maybe she should just go to bed. Fucking She
opened her browser and pulled up Twitter. She was using
her burner account at Amy Jade Mermaid, but there was
nothing anonymous about it. Her followers knew it was her good.
(17:29):
She wanted everyone to know this prick with the slick
back Pompadoor wasn't gonna pull one over on her. Nobody was.
She began to type Ronson, you're dead to me one album?
I right, and you take half the credit. Make a
career out of it. I don't think so. Rough. She
sat on it for a day and then another, and
the tabloids took her missive to the next level. Amy
(17:52):
Winehouse starts feud with collaborator Mark Ronson on Twitter or
the headline of the Daily Mail. Mark appeared on the
morning TV show be You See Breakfast to admit that
he wasn't sure what he'd done to upset it. He
even went his first to say that Amy was the
reason he was on the map, and why would he
try to take credit for her hard work. On the
third day, Amy sat back down at her laptop and
(18:13):
composed a follow up tweet, Ronson, I love you. That
make it better? You know I love you. She regretted
what she had said, just like she regretted what she
had done with the song for Quincy Jones, or rather
what she hadn't done with that song. At least she
didn't make Mark Ronson wait a year for an apology.
(18:33):
Quincy Jones never got his. He was still waiting. Not
that she dissed Quincy Jones in her mind, she just
had a change of heart. It was her track. She'd
sing it as she wanted to. She knew it would
be more opportunities, including one so lucrative it would be
damn near impossible to pass up. We'll be right back
(18:56):
after this word. We were. December two, the wheels of
the impressive private jet touched down in snowy Moscow. The
opulence Amy Winehouse was treating to was stunningly over the top.
(19:17):
Crystal hung from the ceilings and gold plating radiated in
the bathrooms. The furniture screamed House of Romanov, even though
it looked like it hadn't been sat on in centuries.
Maybe ever. The hotel room alone was worth seventeen dred
pounds a night. She didn't mind that the man paying
for it all wanted to remain anonymous. Nor did she
mind that the same man had assigned to staggering fifty
(19:40):
bodyguards to escort her to and from the show. That's
after flying her from London to Moscow for his private
one off gig. She also didn't mind what his politics
were or what he thought about anything. Really, one million
pounds meant that she didn't have to mind one million
pounds for a forty minutes set performed at the request
(20:03):
of a billionaire Russian oli arc. That's pounds a minute.
The olive Arc got the hand pick the set list,
and that seemed only fair. The way he treated Amy
before she even put a microphone to her mouth, well
that was more than fair. That was red carpet. She
felt like a queen. Amy had played a similar show
two years prior, when a Chelsea football club owner paid
(20:26):
her one point five million pounds to perform at his
girlfriend's art gallery, and that gig also happened to be
in Moscow, but it did not go as plan. She
took a stage two hours late, drunk or higher bowls.
She couldn't remember which and managed to inform the audience
that she had also arrived commando, which she did by
hiking up her dress. But that seemed like forever ago
(20:49):
at this point. At the same time, it also seemed
like it hadn't been that long ago at all, probably
because in the time since Amy hadn't completed a full concert,
it was all she could think about. If she took
the stage on the top floor of a Moscow shopping center,
it was closed off to the public. Again, more opulence,
dresses and gowns and suits that probably cost as much
(21:12):
as they were paying her. She walked out in a
tight lever print dress to deafening applause. Her mind raced,
and the last time she took a stage was eight
months ago, the St. Lucia Jazz Festival. Everyone knew how
that turned out, and the halves here in Moscow weren't
placing friendly bets on whether the show the night would
be good or bad. It would be good, it had
(21:34):
to be good. Amy's heart beat faster. What if she
couldn't do this, What if she couldn't keep it together,
What if she bombed? What if it was worse than
the last private Moscow gig? And that would be worse
than bad. The rich Russian guy take the money back?
Would he ding her a thousand pounds for each flood
line like James Brown did back in the day. The
(21:55):
faces in the crowd went gooey. Woman's eyes like guardboards.
Their eyes had a succession of increasingly severe concentric circles,
and the circles rotated like hands around the clock. Amy
didn't dare stare at it too long for fear that
she'd be hypnotized. But maybe this was all a ruse.
There was some bond villain plot to get her locked
in a private room, and for what she had no idea.
(22:19):
She didn't speak Russian. They could do whatever they wanted
to or no, whatever, no, and the fifty bodyguards standing
in a perimeter around the room and make sure of that.
She stepped up to the microphone and cracked a Joe
lighten things up, But no one laughed, and they probably
didn't even understand what she had said. They all just
sat there, mouths a game. The lights caught their gaudy
(22:39):
jewelry flashes of silver and diamond and pearls shone in
Amy's eyes and caused her to stumble a bit to
the side. The band began to play, and the song
was familiar. Amy knew that she knew it, and she
fell into the rhythm, found her place. The microphone beckoned
her to step forward, and she did, and then she
opened her mouth to sing. Amy was already a few
(23:05):
drinks deep when her father Mitch got to her. It
was early in the morning, probably too early for a
drink let alone too. It was February two thousand eleven.
Amy was thinking of Ronnie Wood and a warmer environment
like Brazil. Ronnie Wood and Brazil went hand in hand.
She was there in January for the Summer Soul Festival,
(23:28):
and Ronnie was there too, same hotel. The Rolling Stones
guitarist was ten months sober. At the time. Everyone knew
that a life spent as a rolling Stone was a
life lived harder than most. So to be ten months sober, well,
that was like a decade sober and non Rolling Stones heres.
Ronnie had seen many friends come and go over the years,
(23:49):
many of them gone to that place of no return,
gone forever. He saw firsthand what excess and excessive accolades
could do, not just to a person's music, but to
a person. Some emerged from the wreckage with scars and
stories to tell. Others just succumbed to the undertow. Ronnie
(24:09):
and Amy took a walk through the gardens, and Ronnie
imparted what advice he could without sounding too much like
a fucking after school special. It was hard to fly straight.
It's a little easier in a place like Brazil. The
weather was divine. London, on the other hand, was dank
and dark. At least it wasn't as cold as Moscow
had been. She had left Moscow riding high on her
(24:32):
own talent. Moscow felt like a dream. She pulled that
performance out like a rabbit from a hat pounds a minute,
and she delivered every minute like a goddamn pro. Rode
that positive momentum on the plane all the way back home,
went to Brazil, still positive. That even got the positive
pep talk from Ronnie. But Ronnie wasn't with her now
(24:53):
in London, and neither was the nice weather or the
one million pounds pay day. Her father, Mitch, was understandably concerned.
She saw that look in his face. Her daddy didn't
think she was fine. She knew what would happen next.
She'd go to Dubai for her next scheduled show. She
wouldn't be able to use the weather as an excuse
(25:14):
anymore because it was hot there, like desert hot, and
she'd still be drinking. Somebody, whether it was her father
or a record company or her management, would install the
seven surveillance unit again like they have before, outside her
hotel room, and maybe she'd know their names and maybe not,
and they would operate under strict instructions that no contrabank
(25:34):
could go in or out, and keep her dry and
get her up, get her to the show, get her
on the stage, get her back to the hotel, and
get her home. The Dubai show would be another disaster.
The people would turn on her again, or maybe they
had never really been on her side in the first place.
(26:14):
They walked down the streets of Bomby, London, hand in hand.
It was four in the morning and a long Saturday
night was slowly turning into an early, warm Sunday morning.
They had broken up a month ago. She accused him
of cheating. He begged forgiveness, and was all forgiven. At
the very least. Here on Great Queen Street, with sun
(26:34):
yat to rise, all had been forgotten. They had been
madly in love before, and maybe they could be again.
The neon signed for The Red Rooms, a gentleman's club,
buzzed overhead. Inside, it was still the night before and
morning would never come. She nodded towards the front door,
and then she smiled. They both entered. When they exited
(26:57):
the club a short time after morning had broken, but
word had broken too that he was there at the
Red Rooms with her, and they both lit up a
cigarette and began to walk down the street. Paparazzi was
stationed outside the club, waiting in the tall grass where
they to launch their ambush. He managed to catch a
glimpse of a man with a camera off to the side,
(27:19):
right at the moment when he grabbed her hand. Shit,
He tried to disappear, to run, to dive out of
the way. He had to do something he could not
be seen with her. He wasn't fast enough. The cameras
got what they came for, money shots galore. He should
have known, should have seen them coming. He could never
be too careful. This, this was just careless. Red Travis
(27:43):
Amy Winehouse's current flame had been caught red handed, photographed
for this ex girlfriend and burlesque dancer No less after
a long night out on the town, in and out
of a strip joint, even and just a month after,
Amy had given Redg an ultimato he could cut all
time eyes with his X or he would lose Amy.
Then this is the same X who had sold taddre
(28:05):
stories about Amy to the tabloids. The fuck. Amy looked
over the pictures in the Daily Mail the next day.
No way, no chance. Here he was her boyfriend, allegedly
walking down the street hand in hand with his ex
at four in the morning. It had been nearly a
year since Amy's very public divorce from Blake Fielder civil
(28:26):
in six months since her last public mountdown. Redd was
aware of all she had gone through and what she
was still going through, and that's what made it hurt more.
Amy had finally allowed herself to feel vulnerable. She opened
herself up to Redge. He grounded her and gave her
the space and support to get her ship together. She
was truly moving on from Blake and starting a new
(28:48):
chapter in her life. Sobriety was at the end of
the tunnel, not just the Class A ship, but alcohol too.
Amy had been laying low, keeping out of the spotlight,
keeping her head on straight, much to the chagrin of
the vultures and the media, of course. But here was
this a piece of news, a bit of gossip, something
to throw on the front page, get people talking. A
(29:09):
few quick photos that equal to solid payday, and that's
what the media saw it as. Amy, however, saw it
as a shattering betrayal. Redg told Amy that he had
broken it off with that girl and that it was over.
He was with Amy now, but the X was telling
the papers the opposite. According to her, she had continued
her romance with Redg throughout the better part of Regg
(29:30):
and Amy's four month relationship. According to her, Redge came
crawling back and he groveled he was ending it with Amy.
Amy meant nothing to him. Amy was confused. They had
talked about marriage, It talked about kids, about settling down
for real. She didn't know who were what to believe anymore.
Over the next few weeks, reg would avoid Amy when
(29:52):
he saw her out at the pub, and he failed
to show up at her brother's engagement party. He even
skipped out of the Libertines concert they had planned to
attend together months ago, and just months ago, Amy had
been the other woman and now the tables had tragically turned.
The stars were crossed up in the sky and down
here on the ground. The universe had dealt yet another
(30:13):
shitty hand. There was only one rule in this life,
and that rule was that there were no rules, none
at all. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is the Seven
Colors Club is hosted and produced by me Jake Brennan
(30:43):
for Double Elvis in partnership with My Heart Radio. Zeth
Lundie is the lead writer and co producer. This episode
was mixed by Matt Bowden. Additional music and score elements
by Ryan Spraaker and Henry Luneta. This episode was written
by Ted Omo, story and copy being by Pat Healy.
Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot
(31:05):
com on the twenty seven Club series page, talk to
me on Social Act, Disgrace Sland Pod, and hang out
with me live on my Twitch channel Disgrace Sland Talks.
For more news on your favorite podcast, fallow at Double
Elvis on Instagram, Rock rolla, what's up for your ears?
The twenty seven Club is the production of I Heart
Radio and Double Elvis. Amy Winehouse died at the age
of and she lived the life full of opportunities that
she both seized and missed. I can give you twenty
seven reasons why that statement is true. Eighteen would be
(00:20):
the age she was when she first stumbled onto a
Monday night music scene that would change her life, shape
her career, and keep certain bad habits within reach. Another
one would be the number of years she would string
along a dream come true collaborator as he waited in
vain for her to contribute to a tribute album in
his honor. One more would be the number of loyal,
(00:41):
longtime collaborators who would unwittingly find himself on the receiving
end of an early morning social media flame war. Yet
another one would be the number of pounds and millions
that she would be offered to play a private forty
minute show for an anonymous Russian oligarch. Four more would
be the number of hours past midnight when Amy's new
(01:02):
flame would be ambushed by the press, photographed walking hand
in hand with his ex girlfriend. And two will be
the number of distinct paths she could choose to take
as her life stared down a very clear set of crossroads,
all totally on this our seventh episode of season four,
(01:24):
Bad Habits and anonymous Russian oligarch, Flame Wars and Amy Winehouse.
I'm Jake Brennan in This is the Seven Club m Y.
(02:18):
The DJ could feel the promoter eyeing him as he
set up his gear. He knew the guy wanted to
come over and talk to him. They tried to seek
a furtive glance, but the promoter locked dies ship. Come on, man,
don't do it, don't assle me. The DJ had spent
more nights absorbing one in nightlife than he could remember.
(02:40):
He was there, he was always there. He watched bands
make a bloody racket, DJ is spinning their sirens. Web
dance floor is packed with sweaty bodies. Now on this night,
the tables were turned. He was the one up on stage,
preparing to play his own set, and of course, just
as law, this promoter was ready to pounce. As the
(03:04):
DJ finished arranging his decks and plugging in his gear,
the promoter finally approached and handed him a list. Right
there was a list of records and artists he shouldn't play.
The club was worried he would spend something the audience
didn't want to hear, worried that he would clear the
dance floor, But Errol Alkin could give a funk about
(03:25):
clearing the dance floor. Errol would later state that playing
a record the audience didn't dig was just confirmation that
he wasn't resting on his laurels. He was always pushing,
always experimenting. He understood that life wasn't just about success.
Life was about being real above all else, and sometimes
being real meant screwing up. It may suck in the moment,
(03:48):
but it gave context to your truth as an artist.
He wasn't about playing it safe. Safe was boring. Erroll
didn't give a shit about genres. It was music for everyone.
This voter, though it was proven to be a major downer.
The guy didn't understand the alternative culture. How could he
buttoned up in a suit, just looking for the next
(04:09):
buck punching the clock. And that wasn't what this was
all about. This was about the music, the music that
ran through Errol's very being. Some of his earliest memories
were listening to his parents record collection, t Rex, the Stones,
the Beatles, By twelve years old, he was speaking out
of his parents house to play gigs, and by twenty
(04:29):
he was fully immersed in the alternative music movement in England,
spending nearly every eatning and nightclubs and concert halls. From
to two thousand, he listened to everything he could get
his hands on. Djaying was essentially sharing music, and he
wanted to make sure he shared the best. Music. Was
all connected the old and formed the new. The new
(04:50):
reflected on the old, and there was no reason to
draw lines. Regardless. Errol finished a set according to the
promoter's rules. He strayed from the songs they didn't want
to play, but he knew when it was over that
he was done. Not just at the Dog and Pony Show,
he was done playing other people's venues. He wanted to
make his own rules for playing to an audience. Just
(05:12):
one rule actually, and that rule was there were no rules,
total freedom of expression. That rule was in full effect
from the first night Eild debut his own weekly nightclub
Trash in January, all the way to the night it
closed a decade later. That rule stayed in place. Trash
(05:33):
took place on Monday nights, not on the weekend, which
was also a giant middle finger to the rules, to
the way things were usually done, no matter where the
club called home from venues like Plastic People or the Annex,
and soho, all the way to the end in London's
West End, where quite literally came to an end in
two thousand seven, Trash embodied that one critical rule, no
(05:57):
fucking rules. On its first night, sixty people showed up.
Errol knew all of them, no worries. It gave Trash
the tight knit field. It was more than a club
that was a community. Errol mixed deep cuts and classic
tracks with all the independent music that was coming out
of the time. It felt new, unexpected, something out of
(06:21):
time and space. As dance music began to take on
the aesthetics of alternative music throughout the start of the
twenty one century, the lines between genres continued to blur,
and Errol's nightclub blew up right place, right time, but
also right attitude, the right time. At Trash, the sub
will first thumped impossibly loud, the walls vibrated, and the
(06:44):
foundation shook. Bodies kept coming. Nights that were once averaging
sixty guests soon bawoun to seven d all of them
packed into the dark, cavernous room with walls painted by
a never ending white show that emanated from the stage.
In the typical Alcin set, you could hear Destiny's Child's
Bootylicious mixed with their vanas smells like teen Spirit, followed
(07:06):
by Tom Tom Clubs Genius of Love before transitioning nearly
effortlessly into Mary J. Blige's Family Affair sets and segues.
Paid no mind to arra or genre. If it feels right,
do it. It shouldn't have worked, but it did, and
Errol oversaw it all standing at his console with a
cigarette hanging out of his mouth, pumping his fists along
(07:28):
with the crowd. Errol wasn't separate from the audience and
they were all in it together. He was the most
sought after DJ in London and it made Trash one
of the hippest indie clubs in the world. And it
wasn't just DJs that got their shot at Trash Garage.
Rock Revival and Electroclash reigned supreme on trash Is stage.
The club hosted up and coming American indie acts like
(07:49):
the Yea Yeah Yeahs and LCD sound System, along with
UK up starts like block Party. The artists would play
with the crowd right on top of them, and there
were no barricades separate and who was on stage from
the audience. It was feral and honest to god punk
show and procedure, and had the energy to match. Soon,
bigger bands dropped off fresh pressings of the latest singles
(08:10):
to arrows, turntables, the verve, the strokes, the rapture, kindred
spirits from all corners of the city made the spot
their regular hangout, their sanctuary, their source for anything hip
and new. Their Monday nights were alive with the sound
of trash. Amy Winehouse was only eighteen when she became
a regular devotee. Like so many others, she was drawn
(08:33):
to the movement, to the culture, into the vibe. Amy dugget.
The old mixed with the new, the well known mixed
with the unexpected. Trash exposed Amy to new music in
new ways of thinking about how music could be made
and transmitted, how genres and styles could supersede whatever gimmicky
top forty prepackaged bullshit the record labels were pumping out.
(08:54):
As long as the music was good, as long as
the music was real. Trash was where Amy gazed into
Crystal Ball saw her future. She could be true to
herself as an artist, played by her own rules, and
be accepted not just by a room of trash kids
who dressed in vintage thrist store duds and dance to
motorheads Ace of Spades one moment and abbess dancing Queen
(09:16):
the next, but by the world at large, a world
that was beginning to embrace the kind of culture clash
that trash was promoting. Errol Alkins Monday Night dance club
was also where Amy would routinely bump into that skinny
guy with the troopy hat who spent many nights handing
out flyers at the front door, the one who's claimed
(09:37):
to fame before being a flyer hander outer was working
on that one Lily Allen music video. She didn't know
what she saw in him, but she saw a future
that included him in it, and a relationship with only
one rule, no rules at all. Quincy Jones knew a
(10:21):
user when he saw one. It wasn't just their appearance.
It was more than an unnatural discoloration around the eyes.
It was the look in the eyes, piercing, bottomless, desperate, sketchy,
a look that we'll push a ninety year old woman
out of the way if I'm in a direct line
to the next fix. Quincy gave off that look more
(10:41):
than a few times himself. This was back in the
late forties early fifties. Ray Charles turned him out of
dope and q was just fifteen. Quincy was already doing
benzos and papers by that point, and heroin was something else,
so in its own category of high, a high so
high that it was low. When Quincy went on tour
with Lionel Hampton in the early nineteen fifties, the junkies
(11:05):
sat in their own section of the tour bus and
the straits sat up front, weed smokers behind them, then
the boozers, and then the users back of the bus.
With that ship, seemed like everybody else was using back then,
dealing too hell. Every time the tour bus rolled into Detroit,
it would make a can't misspassed by the Majestic Hotel
so that the band could buy some dope off Malcolm
(11:27):
X no ship. This was before he was Malcolm X, obviously,
and they all called him Detroit Red Red went to
prison for that. Quincy never went to prison for dope,
but he did have his own come to Jesus moment.
Only five months or so into his habit, he was
stone out of his head. He tripped at the top
(11:47):
of a staircase and he fell five flights, tumbling down
head over heels. Each stair found a new body part
to bruise, and that was it. Quincy Jones didn't funk
with dope, and he more after that, but he could
still pick out the ones who were fucking with dope
from a crowd, even if the crowd was fort strong,
(12:09):
like it was on June two thousand and eight at
Hyde Park in London. The occasion was Nelson Mandela's ninetieth
birthday party. Queens on the bill that night with bad
companies Paul Rogers attempting to fill Freddie Mercury's immortal shoes,
Will Smith Annie Lennox. The performer that everyone had eyes
(12:29):
on that night, however, was Amy Winehouse. Surely more than
a handful of friendly bets were placed as to whether
she would pull herself together for long enough to properly
honor Nelson Mandela, or if she was once again going
to self destruct on stage. Just five months prior, the
Sun had leaked that grainy video where she allegedly took
(12:50):
hits from a crack pipe. And then there was that
dust stuff with the guy playing pool at a Camden pub,
followed in quick succession with the head bluff she delivered
to the blow could tried to hail her cab. There
was Wine Mouse, that strange video co starring Pete Darty
with cameos from Baby Mice. Not to mention the revelation
that she had early onset and physion, and the crowd
(13:11):
had hide part braced themselves for the worst, and they
were pleasantly surprised when they were given the best. Quincy Jones,
like all others in attendance, was duly impressed with Amy's performance.
He also saw a look in her eyes when he
met her for the first time after the show. That look.
She didn't appear high at the time, but the look
(13:32):
was right there, lingering, lurking, hanging out at the back
of the bus for the next stop to score right now. Backstage,
Amy was charming, nervous too, so nervous that she sent
her father Mitch over to broker the introduction. Mitch led
Quincy back to where Amy was anxiously waiting. She greeted
(13:53):
him like Royalty, dropped to her knees, kissed his hand.
She rambled on about how she had been listening to
his record It's Her Whole Life and not just Michael
Jackson's populist bangers. She was down with Ray and a
Reason and count Basie, Dinah Washington, Dizzy, Sara Vaughan. Quincy
was blown away with Amy's knowledge of jazz and R
and B at her age incredible. He thought. He was
(14:16):
so impressed that he invited Amy and Mark Ronson to
work on a new project, a tribute album that would
honor Quincy himself. Amy couldn't say yes quickly enough. A
chance to work with one of her idols. She was
in the project would pair her and Mark with one
of the most respected men in the entertainment industry, and
there were even rumors circulating that she get the opportunity
(14:37):
to perform tracks from the album live with none other
than Michael Jackson. Amy wanted to cover some old Leslie Gore,
one of the iconic songs Quincy at helm back in
the yearly sixties, you Don't Own Me or maybe It's
My Party. They both gave off huge Amy Winehouse fives
it was a massive opportunity. Who knew what else would
lead to If there was a reason for Amy to
(14:59):
hold it to get there, this was it. She managed
to hold it together for a little under two weeks.
At her next show in Glastonbury, she punched a fan
in the face. A month after that, she pulled out
of the rock On sund Festival for the second straight year.
A week after that, she showed up to Best of
(15:19):
All forty minutes late, Hammered. Close to a year later,
Quincy Jones was still looking for the song Amy had promised.
Quincy knew Amy was a once in a lifetime talent,
and that's why he gave her so much time to
turn the track in. Mark Ronson meanwhile, was standing by
ready to finish the tune. They were so close it
(15:39):
wouldn't take much time at all. It didn't matter Amy
was in St. Lucia or wherever, and obviously had other priorities.
The track was never delivered. Quincy Jones noted the user behavior.
One minute they were in, the next minute they were out,
dropped out hard, and so in turn Quincy dropped her
from his album. Amy stewed in private she was pissed
(16:02):
at Quincy Jones for not giving her more time, pissed
that he thought she was a strong out junkie even
though she was making a concerted effort to get herself
off dope once and for all. She was also pissed
at herself for taking so long to turn something in
and that was on her. And she was pissed at
Mark Ronson because of how disappointed he was. The whole
thing ate away at her for a long time, until
(16:25):
one morning she took all her anger out on a
computer keyboard. September two thousand five, sixteen a m. The
sun was starting to rise, but the dull glow cast
on Amy Winehouse's face was coming from her laptop. She
was fuming. She had just seen the interview Mark Ronson
(16:45):
gave to Jules holland he took credit for the work
she did. She wrote that album. It was her emotion
that she had put into words, her heartbreak, and he
had the nerve to say. She stumbled into the studio
with an acoustic guitar, plucked a you strings like some
remedial bimbo, and he did the rest bullshit. She made him,
(17:06):
not the other way around. If it wasn't for her
he'd be stuck in DJ booth purgatory for the rest
of his life. She rubbed her eyes and she was
be maybe she should just go to bed. Fucking She
opened her browser and pulled up Twitter. She was using
her burner account at Amy Jade Mermaid, but there was
nothing anonymous about it. Her followers knew it was her good.
(17:29):
She wanted everyone to know this prick with the slick
back Pompadoor wasn't gonna pull one over on her. Nobody was.
She began to type Ronson, you're dead to me one album?
I right, and you take half the credit. Make a
career out of it. I don't think so. Rough. She
sat on it for a day and then another, and
the tabloids took her missive to the next level. Amy
(17:52):
Winehouse starts feud with collaborator Mark Ronson on Twitter or
the headline of the Daily Mail. Mark appeared on the
morning TV show be You See Breakfast to admit that
he wasn't sure what he'd done to upset it. He
even went his first to say that Amy was the
reason he was on the map, and why would he
try to take credit for her hard work. On the
third day, Amy sat back down at her laptop and
(18:13):
composed a follow up tweet, Ronson, I love you. That
make it better? You know I love you. She regretted
what she had said, just like she regretted what she
had done with the song for Quincy Jones, or rather
what she hadn't done with that song. At least she
didn't make Mark Ronson wait a year for an apology.
(18:33):
Quincy Jones never got his. He was still waiting. Not
that she dissed Quincy Jones in her mind, she just
had a change of heart. It was her track. She'd
sing it as she wanted to. She knew it would
be more opportunities, including one so lucrative it would be
damn near impossible to pass up. We'll be right back
(18:56):
after this word. We were. December two, the wheels of
the impressive private jet touched down in snowy Moscow. The
opulence Amy Winehouse was treating to was stunningly over the top.
(19:17):
Crystal hung from the ceilings and gold plating radiated in
the bathrooms. The furniture screamed House of Romanov, even though
it looked like it hadn't been sat on in centuries.
Maybe ever. The hotel room alone was worth seventeen dred
pounds a night. She didn't mind that the man paying
for it all wanted to remain anonymous. Nor did she
mind that the same man had assigned to staggering fifty
(19:40):
bodyguards to escort her to and from the show. That's
after flying her from London to Moscow for his private
one off gig. She also didn't mind what his politics
were or what he thought about anything. Really, one million
pounds meant that she didn't have to mind one million
pounds for a forty minutes set performed at the request
(20:03):
of a billionaire Russian oli arc. That's pounds a minute.
The olive Arc got the hand pick the set list,
and that seemed only fair. The way he treated Amy
before she even put a microphone to her mouth, well
that was more than fair. That was red carpet. She
felt like a queen. Amy had played a similar show
two years prior, when a Chelsea football club owner paid
(20:26):
her one point five million pounds to perform at his
girlfriend's art gallery, and that gig also happened to be
in Moscow, but it did not go as plan. She
took a stage two hours late, drunk or higher bowls.
She couldn't remember which and managed to inform the audience
that she had also arrived commando, which she did by
hiking up her dress. But that seemed like forever ago
(20:49):
at this point. At the same time, it also seemed
like it hadn't been that long ago at all, probably
because in the time since Amy hadn't completed a full concert,
it was all she could think about. If she took
the stage on the top floor of a Moscow shopping center,
it was closed off to the public. Again, more opulence,
dresses and gowns and suits that probably cost as much
(21:12):
as they were paying her. She walked out in a
tight lever print dress to deafening applause. Her mind raced,
and the last time she took a stage was eight
months ago, the St. Lucia Jazz Festival. Everyone knew how
that turned out, and the halves here in Moscow weren't
placing friendly bets on whether the show the night would
be good or bad. It would be good, it had
(21:34):
to be good. Amy's heart beat faster. What if she
couldn't do this, What if she couldn't keep it together,
What if she bombed? What if it was worse than
the last private Moscow gig? And that would be worse
than bad. The rich Russian guy take the money back?
Would he ding her a thousand pounds for each flood
line like James Brown did back in the day. The
(21:55):
faces in the crowd went gooey. Woman's eyes like guardboards.
Their eyes had a succession of increasingly severe concentric circles,
and the circles rotated like hands around the clock. Amy
didn't dare stare at it too long for fear that
she'd be hypnotized. But maybe this was all a ruse.
There was some bond villain plot to get her locked
in a private room, and for what she had no idea.
(22:19):
She didn't speak Russian. They could do whatever they wanted
to or no, whatever, no, and the fifty bodyguards standing
in a perimeter around the room and make sure of that.
She stepped up to the microphone and cracked a Joe
lighten things up, But no one laughed, and they probably
didn't even understand what she had said. They all just
sat there, mouths a game. The lights caught their gaudy
(22:39):
jewelry flashes of silver and diamond and pearls shone in
Amy's eyes and caused her to stumble a bit to
the side. The band began to play, and the song
was familiar. Amy knew that she knew it, and she
fell into the rhythm, found her place. The microphone beckoned
her to step forward, and she did, and then she
opened her mouth to sing. Amy was already a few
(23:05):
drinks deep when her father Mitch got to her. It
was early in the morning, probably too early for a
drink let alone too. It was February two thousand eleven.
Amy was thinking of Ronnie Wood and a warmer environment
like Brazil. Ronnie Wood and Brazil went hand in hand.
She was there in January for the Summer Soul Festival,
(23:28):
and Ronnie was there too, same hotel. The Rolling Stones
guitarist was ten months sober. At the time. Everyone knew
that a life spent as a rolling Stone was a
life lived harder than most. So to be ten months sober, well,
that was like a decade sober and non Rolling Stones heres.
Ronnie had seen many friends come and go over the years,
(23:49):
many of them gone to that place of no return,
gone forever. He saw firsthand what excess and excessive accolades
could do, not just to a person's music, but to
a person. Some emerged from the wreckage with scars and
stories to tell. Others just succumbed to the undertow. Ronnie
(24:09):
and Amy took a walk through the gardens, and Ronnie
imparted what advice he could without sounding too much like
a fucking after school special. It was hard to fly straight.
It's a little easier in a place like Brazil. The
weather was divine. London, on the other hand, was dank
and dark. At least it wasn't as cold as Moscow
had been. She had left Moscow riding high on her
(24:32):
own talent. Moscow felt like a dream. She pulled that
performance out like a rabbit from a hat pounds a minute,
and she delivered every minute like a goddamn pro. Rode
that positive momentum on the plane all the way back home,
went to Brazil, still positive. That even got the positive
pep talk from Ronnie. But Ronnie wasn't with her now
(24:53):
in London, and neither was the nice weather or the
one million pounds pay day. Her father, Mitch, was understandably concerned.
She saw that look in his face. Her daddy didn't
think she was fine. She knew what would happen next.
She'd go to Dubai for her next scheduled show. She
wouldn't be able to use the weather as an excuse
(25:14):
anymore because it was hot there, like desert hot, and
she'd still be drinking. Somebody, whether it was her father
or a record company or her management, would install the
seven surveillance unit again like they have before, outside her
hotel room, and maybe she'd know their names and maybe not,
and they would operate under strict instructions that no contrabank
(25:34):
could go in or out, and keep her dry and
get her up, get her to the show, get her
on the stage, get her back to the hotel, and
get her home. The Dubai show would be another disaster.
The people would turn on her again, or maybe they
had never really been on her side in the first place.
(26:14):
They walked down the streets of Bomby, London, hand in hand.
It was four in the morning and a long Saturday
night was slowly turning into an early, warm Sunday morning.
They had broken up a month ago. She accused him
of cheating. He begged forgiveness, and was all forgiven. At
the very least. Here on Great Queen Street, with sun
(26:34):
yat to rise, all had been forgotten. They had been
madly in love before, and maybe they could be again.
The neon signed for The Red Rooms, a gentleman's club,
buzzed overhead. Inside, it was still the night before and
morning would never come. She nodded towards the front door,
and then she smiled. They both entered. When they exited
(26:57):
the club a short time after morning had broken, but
word had broken too that he was there at the
Red Rooms with her, and they both lit up a
cigarette and began to walk down the street. Paparazzi was
stationed outside the club, waiting in the tall grass where
they to launch their ambush. He managed to catch a
glimpse of a man with a camera off to the side,
(27:19):
right at the moment when he grabbed her hand. Shit,
He tried to disappear, to run, to dive out of
the way. He had to do something he could not
be seen with her. He wasn't fast enough. The cameras
got what they came for, money shots galore. He should
have known, should have seen them coming. He could never
be too careful. This, this was just careless. Red Travis
(27:43):
Amy Winehouse's current flame had been caught red handed, photographed
for this ex girlfriend and burlesque dancer No less after
a long night out on the town, in and out
of a strip joint, even and just a month after,
Amy had given Redg an ultimato he could cut all
time eyes with his X or he would lose Amy.
Then this is the same X who had sold taddre
(28:05):
stories about Amy to the tabloids. The fuck. Amy looked
over the pictures in the Daily Mail the next day.
No way, no chance. Here he was her boyfriend, allegedly
walking down the street hand in hand with his ex
at four in the morning. It had been nearly a
year since Amy's very public divorce from Blake Fielder civil
(28:26):
in six months since her last public mountdown. Redd was
aware of all she had gone through and what she
was still going through, and that's what made it hurt more.
Amy had finally allowed herself to feel vulnerable. She opened
herself up to Redge. He grounded her and gave her
the space and support to get her ship together. She
was truly moving on from Blake and starting a new
(28:48):
chapter in her life. Sobriety was at the end of
the tunnel, not just the Class A ship, but alcohol too.
Amy had been laying low, keeping out of the spotlight,
keeping her head on straight, much to the chagrin of
the vultures and the media, of course. But here was
this a piece of news, a bit of gossip, something
to throw on the front page, get people talking. A
(29:09):
few quick photos that equal to solid payday, and that's
what the media saw it as. Amy, however, saw it
as a shattering betrayal. Redg told Amy that he had
broken it off with that girl and that it was over.
He was with Amy now, but the X was telling
the papers the opposite. According to her, she had continued
her romance with Redg throughout the better part of Regg
(29:30):
and Amy's four month relationship. According to her, Redge came
crawling back and he groveled he was ending it with Amy.
Amy meant nothing to him. Amy was confused. They had
talked about marriage, It talked about kids, about settling down
for real. She didn't know who were what to believe anymore.
Over the next few weeks, reg would avoid Amy when
(29:52):
he saw her out at the pub, and he failed
to show up at her brother's engagement party. He even
skipped out of the Libertines concert they had planned to
attend together months ago, and just months ago, Amy had
been the other woman and now the tables had tragically turned.
The stars were crossed up in the sky and down
here on the ground. The universe had dealt yet another
(30:13):
shitty hand. There was only one rule in this life,
and that rule was that there were no rules, none
at all. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is the Seven
Colors Club is hosted and produced by me Jake Brennan
(30:43):
for Double Elvis in partnership with My Heart Radio. Zeth
Lundie is the lead writer and co producer. This episode
was mixed by Matt Bowden. Additional music and score elements
by Ryan Spraaker and Henry Luneta. This episode was written
by Ted Omo, story and copy being by Pat Healy.
Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot
(31:05):
com on the twenty seven Club series page, talk to
me on Social Act, Disgrace Sland Pod, and hang out
with me live on my Twitch channel Disgrace Sland Talks.
For more news on your favorite podcast, fallow at Double
Elvis on Instagram, Rock rolla, what's up for your ears?
Host
Jake Brennan
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Decisions, Decisions
Welcome to "Decisions, Decisions," the podcast where boundaries are pushed, and conversations get candid! Join your favorite hosts, Mandii B and WeezyWTF, as they dive deep into the world of non-traditional relationships and explore the often-taboo topics surrounding dating, sex, and love. Every Monday, Mandii and Weezy invite you to unlearn the outdated narratives dictated by traditional patriarchal norms. With a blend of humor, vulnerability, and authenticity, they share their personal journeys navigating their 30s, tackling the complexities of modern relationships, and engaging in thought-provoking discussions that challenge societal expectations. From groundbreaking interviews with diverse guests to relatable stories that resonate with your experiences, "Decisions, Decisions" is your go-to source for open dialogue about what it truly means to love and connect in today's world. Get ready to reshape your understanding of relationships and embrace the freedom of authentic connections—tune in and join the conversation!