America was introduced to Amy Winehouse through her second album (her U.K. debut, Frank, saw release during Back to Black's reign at the top of the charts), but got caught up with storyline quickly enough: "Rehab," her inescapable and perfect single, branded her right from the start. Here was Amy, obviously a major vocal talent, but also nearly superheroically self-destructive. Unlike her hometown audience, we never got to hear that expressive, jazz-indebted voice outside of the carnival of tawdriness that has followed Winehouse since Back to Black surfaced, that is, apart from the cartoon. But our gain is an artist fully formed. The album is smartly conceived, and as lean as the anorectic-seeming Winehouse would herself unfortunately become. Thanks goes to the production team: Salaam Remi, whose hip-hop record meshes perfectly with the increasingly interesting Motown fixations of Mark Ronson. The pair devise a musical space tailor-made to Winehouse's contemporary take on the '50s bad girl that was already apparent in her tart lyrics and wild bouffant 'do. Honking saxophones, tambourines and hand-claps (most from the busy Brooklyn studio band the Daptones) herald a sound that's been attempted before but never fully succeeded. And that's where Amy comes in, with that wonderfully singular voice, equally at home crooning pillow talk as gutter talk, each surprisingly, shockingly delivered verse a lot more interesting than her tabloid exploits would warrant. Here's hoping she finds a way to top one of 2007's best albums.
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