I bought Winehouse’s first album, “Frank,” in 2004 at a Heathrow Airport music kiosk. I listened to it on the plane home and dropped it in a garbage can on the way to baggage claim. “Frank” was Winehouse being showy before her voice could raise the curtain: she sounds thin, misses notes, and lacks any specific character.
True that. Frank wasn’t anything like Back to Black. The change was significant.