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The week Michael Jackson died still sticks with me two years later. I remember being at my awful internship, carelessly perusing the Internet when news of his death went live. I stood back, as if inspecting fine art at a gallery, as the web fired back words, speculation and many other things pertaining to the King of Pop.

That weekend, then, I was in Vegas with a good friend, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget the surge of excitement that went through me when Jackson tunes like “Thriller” or, maybe, “I Want You Back,” got spun by house DJs or were chosen as somebody’s karaoke song. It’s like anything else that weekend was second-rate. Jackson was all I requested, and all I really wanted to hear.

Amy Winehouse died a few days ago, and a similar thing has happened. I’m finding that listening to Amy makes sense right now. It’s appropriate and good. Just this morning, a co-worker of mine brought up Winehouse. When he finished speaking, I fired up Back to Black without question and listened to the thing twice over. If anything, I couldn’t believe it’d taken me ‘til 10 a.m. to realize she hadn’t played on my iPod yet.

So, what is it about an artist’s music that, in the wake of their death, feels so right?

For me, listening to Amy belt it has been a huge rediscovery of her talents. Back to Black – her second and final album, and really the only one in her discography I’m familiar with – was a big deal for me when I first heard it. It came out in 2006, but I don’t know that I listened to it much before the following year. In 2008, practically everyone I hung out with while studying abroad in Madrid was gaga for Winehouse at the time. Her music, then, was committed to memory.

I listen to Back to Black now – three years later – and think, damn, what an album! How had it been “forgotten”? The easy answer would be just the sheer amounts of music I’ve crammed in my head since then. Neglecting Back to Black isn’t a reflection of how I felt about it. It just got lost in the shuffle as more and more music – new and old – filtered through my iTunes.

Next to rediscovery, the music itself sounds crisper. Fresh. Somehow, it’s better. It’s as if “Rehab,” “Back to Black” and so on have taken on new lives. Like re-capturing an animal you thought was extinct. Only it’s surprise, surprise, not extinct, and it’s way better than your internal Rolodex might have had you remember.

A similar thing happened with Michael Jackson, but his music’s effect on me isn’t on the same plane as Winehouse. I think the difference is that Amy’s music was released at a time when I was actually listening. I have distinct memories of consuming her music both when she was alive and after her death. I’ve got interest on both sides.

With Michael, a lot of his material was released either before I was born, or before I knew who Michael Jackson was. Re-listening in summer 2009 was, then, totally nostalgia – “Oh, the song from Free Willy!” “Oh, that rain forest song I used to sing aloud in the backyard!” “Oh, the song with the kid getting yelled at by his parents for playing music too loudly!” I felt like I shrunk down to my 10-year-old self with every play, since much of my Michael experience happened at an early age.

With Amy, it’s largely about appreciating her flavorful contributions to music. It’s less about selfishness – basing my enjoyment on memories drummed up by the songs themselves – and more about being an admirer of her impressive catalogue.

Come to think of it, much of the fun in listening to Amy Winehouse this week is an effort to, yes, hold personal vigils for her at my workspace for most of the day. But more than that, it’s about claiming her music as influential to my generation of 20-somethings, represented by repeated (and uninterrupted) plays of Back to Black.

There’s a “comedian” about twice my age in my office who’s already rattling off Amy Winehouse punch lines, and every time he passes by, we – my cohorts, my people – give him the stink eye and say, dude, it’s too soon. When he continues, I just flip up the volume on my dock. We Winehouse fans got to stick together.