Extra terrestrials are unnerving.
They bring out the Clark Kent in even the most super of men.
In this case all such fears are well founded, for this is no beautiful bug-eyed friend of Elliot.
This is an unedifying out of spacer with the social attitudes of a psychopath and the interpersonal skills of a rattlesnake.
He’s a Metal Mickey who wants to shoot you dead and eat your head.
And once inside this Man From Mars you can expect to eat up cars… Mercuries and Subarus, Cadillacs and Lincolns too.
For he has feral ferrous appetites and chromium cravings to feed.
So you’ll go out at night to eat to up bars where people meet.
Dancing slow, cheek to cheek, toe to toe. Man to man.
He blows each away with his jasmine ray.
Dancefloor made carnage, he’s through with bars and eatin’ cars now he’s time only for guitars.
Plastic plectrum at the end of aluminium arm he plays stratocaster, Travis Bean and then some Deans.
He eats the crowd up with his laser beams
Installed on rock star plinth it’s time to introduce yet more synth.
His perspex paws pick out peerless pitch, he plays Moog, Korg, Casio and Yamaha.
And all the floor screams for one note more.
Let them clamber!
He knocks them out for good and proper.
Here comes his horrific blast of metal amber.
And so with all dead or in thrall the man from Mars is through with cars and beat up bars, he’ll take no prisoners or even guitars.
He’s on his way back to the stars.
Alien by Thierry Mugler is an exercise in peerless artificiality and olfactory aggression.
A plastic jasmine plant in the perspex hand of a seventeen foot high cybernetic son of a bitch.
An unending singular neo-industrial note of almost entirely synthetic strangeness.
You have no option but to offer it grovelling and unending worship, or die like a fly caught in its insecticide swoosh.
Yes, there is an amber of sorts, that some acclaim for its powerful almost electric quality, I find it as convincing as a robotic frog.
Alien isn’t the kind of fragrance you wear, it infects you…
Man or woman? Totally irrelevant.
These days we’re all electric.
But while The Dandy’s human and there’s blood not volts coursing through these veins I’m not ready for this robot’s secret Rapture.
If Frankenstein’s monster could be so acclaimed….
With very special thanks to the sublime Blondie.
The Perfumed Dandy.