There is something arresting about seeing the musical icons of your own era memorialised. I was too young to have really understood what Kurt Cobain’s death meant when the news came on the radio, but I remember bursting into tears in my Hoxton flat when I heard about Amy Winehouse, who was two years younger than me.
I didn’t know her, but I’d often see her around her beloved Camden, in the Hawley Arms or on a night out at Koko. Once at Proud Galleries, some tourists asked me if she was there, as if hunting a favourite character at a theme park. “Camden,” I said rolling my eyes to my friend, “has peaked.”
