Tag Archives: Blondie

“Spineless Movement and a Wild Attack…” Alien by Thierry Mugler The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

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.

A masterpiece?

If Frankenstein’s monster could be so acclaimed….

With very special thanks to the sublime Blondie.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy


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Stack Heals and Hearts Aflame………. Tom Ford Black Orchid The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter


Sweat like an oil slick secreted from the smoked glass mirrors hanging on bitter chocolate walls.

Super sweet fruit cocktails ‘straight from Fire Island’ going half drunk on low tables, others tipped over, their cheap containers crushed under foot.

Four tonnes of silver glitter mixed with shards of glass and fresh cut coke for a floor.

Schrager says ‘it’s like standing on stardust’.

Secretly you’re thinking ‘how would he know he’s flying with the stars’.

She enters on a white horse: red dress, black hair, scarlet lips.

Supernature gives way to Heart of Glass.

And the beat goes on.

Around her, instantly, a crowd, a clamour for her glamour.

Photographers and their flashes, an instant strobe.

It’s all too much.

‘Someone will have a seizure’.

Behind Bianca you see her, pale and slim in a green sequined dress like a tube giving way to her equine neck and explosion of crimped coiffed hair, dusted pink.

She’s a flower.

An orchid.

And she’s holding his hand.

The skinny black kid wearing skinny pants, topless except a for a crimson bow tie, sucking on a lolipop holding a golden briefcase.

Blondie hands the baton back to Ceronne.

“We all feel the pain.
Is it necessary?”

You kiss her and your lips gloss leaves a mark on her powdered porcelain cheeks.

You can’t take your eyes off of him.

You long for Frankie Valli to come on, for the room to melt away for there to be just you and her… and him.

“When we feel the pain
Better stick together.”

You smile in his direction, he cocks his afro-ed head back and opens his plushly upholstered mouth ambiguously.

Is it a smile, an invitation?

“Music is the way
To relieve the pressure.”

She laughs and strikes a pose, he starts to dance and so, as if worked by wires, do you.

You spin and send out arms at diagonals, snake her under your embraces, crane yourself backwards against his leaning body.

In the heat their scent rises, they smell as though they came from a squat via a head shop and a candy store.

You’re high as hell on them.

“Music all the way
Do you get the message?”

His face in yours he mimes the words.

You close your eyes.

A kiss.

“Music all the way
Do you get the message?”

You come up for air.

It’s her staring back at you.

When did they change?

When did you stop caring?

“Music all the way
Do you get the message?”

You go straight back under.

The damndest happy drowning man in NYC.

Je suis musique.”


Je suis musique.”

To be clear Tom Ford Black Orchid emphatically does not smell like Studio 54, or at least not how I imagine it.


This rich pseudo-intellectual, uber-complex, grand confection of a scent is an unmatched olfactory soundtrack for contemporary disco decadence everywhere.

It is the spirit of the dance floor at the end of the universe, bottled by Biba shipped by Star Wars.

Just as ’54 was very nearly the real incarnation of that concept.

It is perfume to be sexually ambiguous to, a fragrance for “girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they´re girls who do girls like they´re boys”.

Sweet toothed and narcotic, floral and cordial-fruity it is a vulgar, beaming, over-opulent, grotesque of a thing.

And I love it.

I love the fact that it is everything that every two bit celebrity scent aspires but cannot bring itself to be.

I love it because I shouldn’t, because I know I should know better, because of all the ‘it’s beneath me’ baloney.

I love it purely and simply as a not-guilty pleasure and because if I were a clutch of years younger I’d be bathed in it every Saturday and silly on the fumes.

And in these times when it seems to have become a fashion, a sport even, in the Western world to wage cultural war on the young, this is one un-adult unadulterated pleasure we can and should afford them and, indeed, everyone.

There are acres of space devoted to this perfume’s notes, structure and development, so I feel no obligation to describe them in detail here.

It’s sticky, patchouli, smoky, berry and very, very chocolaty. It seems to make some people feel sick and an awful lot of others inclined towards sex.

Just like a good discotheque then.

Fans pretend after sophistication, but actually it’s a bit of wonderfully old fashioned razzle dazzle.

And if it seems already a little out of date in this age of austerity… wait, it’s time will come again.

Ring my bell.

By the way I hope you enjoyed all the tunes (try tapping on the pictures).

Just call me DJ Dandy!

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy


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