People often ask me if dogs smell. 'Of course they do. Have a whiff of this one', I will say nodding towards le half-pug. Fearing the worst they take a cautious little sniff then look up confused, 'Giorgio?',
'Yes', I reply, 'But only every second Wednesday'
Giorgio of Beverly Hills, the indisputable Eau de Eighties.
It is no coincidence that scent triggers memories. There is a very strong neural connection between the olfactory system and the centre of the brain where memories are stored. This would explain why after one deep inhale of the unmistakable, yellow behemoth of eighties power perfumes (the scent of my youth, the first fragrance I ever bought myself) I find myself hurtling through a perfumed portal inside a fragrant DeLorean travelling through space and time straight back to 1987.
An opening slap of bergamot and peaches finds me rifling through the albums in Virgin on Union street. I am wearing a wide brimmed black felt hat and secretly flexing my abdominal muscles like Callan Pickney taught me. I am looking for 'Parade' by Prince. I find it. I am in love with Prince.
Wham! I am whacked around the head with an enormous tuberose and something chemical, almost industrial. I am now in the doorway of a Glasgow nightclub, Joe Paparazzi, putting on a cat mask handed to me by Steve Strange. He has employed me to dance at his club night. It is called Kick because he has 'kicked' his habit. Looking at his smudged eyeliner and listening to his slurred speech I am unconvinced. Never mind. He might know Prince.
The mood changes and calms; musk, sandalwood, vanilla but always the tuberose the ever present, boisterous tuberose. It radiates from me, pushed outwards from the adrenalin in my body as I scale the lighting rig in Joe Papaparazzi wearing my feline disguise. The vapor is almost visible to the eye, a man-made aurora, an atmospheric phenomenon. I stand on top of a gigantic pulsing speaker and survey the crowd below. It is a Thursday night at eleven o'clock. They all have to work tomorrow but are already drunk. A familiar guitar riff rips from the speaker followed by a bass line that pulses through my entire being throwing my arms up in the air. The floor floods with bodies. A cloud of condensed Giorgio rises up from the crowd to join mine. We dance, one immense, pulsating odorous, beast as Prince sings Kiss.
It was amazing. It was the eighties. You got paid to dance. You could fearlessly binge drink on a Thursday because you were young enough to ride out even the most brutal hangover.You didn't have to watch Dynasty to have an attitude but you did absolutely have to wear Giorgio.
I've never found a perfume since that I love as much as I loved Giorgio. I've never found a pop star since that I love as much as I loved Prince. I've been on the double rebound since then.
Were you a Giorgio fan, or was it more a case of Giorgio of Mary Hill for you?
Giorgio of Beverly Hills, the indisputable Eau de Eighties.
It is no coincidence that scent triggers memories. There is a very strong neural connection between the olfactory system and the centre of the brain where memories are stored. This would explain why after one deep inhale of the unmistakable, yellow behemoth of eighties power perfumes (the scent of my youth, the first fragrance I ever bought myself) I find myself hurtling through a perfumed portal inside a fragrant DeLorean travelling through space and time straight back to 1987.
An opening slap of bergamot and peaches finds me rifling through the albums in Virgin on Union street. I am wearing a wide brimmed black felt hat and secretly flexing my abdominal muscles like Callan Pickney taught me. I am looking for 'Parade' by Prince. I find it. I am in love with Prince.
Wham! I am whacked around the head with an enormous tuberose and something chemical, almost industrial. I am now in the doorway of a Glasgow nightclub, Joe Paparazzi, putting on a cat mask handed to me by Steve Strange. He has employed me to dance at his club night. It is called Kick because he has 'kicked' his habit. Looking at his smudged eyeliner and listening to his slurred speech I am unconvinced. Never mind. He might know Prince.
The mood changes and calms; musk, sandalwood, vanilla but always the tuberose the ever present, boisterous tuberose. It radiates from me, pushed outwards from the adrenalin in my body as I scale the lighting rig in Joe Papaparazzi wearing my feline disguise. The vapor is almost visible to the eye, a man-made aurora, an atmospheric phenomenon. I stand on top of a gigantic pulsing speaker and survey the crowd below. It is a Thursday night at eleven o'clock. They all have to work tomorrow but are already drunk. A familiar guitar riff rips from the speaker followed by a bass line that pulses through my entire being throwing my arms up in the air. The floor floods with bodies. A cloud of condensed Giorgio rises up from the crowd to join mine. We dance, one immense, pulsating odorous, beast as Prince sings Kiss.
It was amazing. It was the eighties. You got paid to dance. You could fearlessly binge drink on a Thursday because you were young enough to ride out even the most brutal hangover.You didn't have to watch Dynasty to have an attitude but you did absolutely have to wear Giorgio.
I've never found a perfume since that I love as much as I loved Giorgio. I've never found a pop star since that I love as much as I loved Prince. I've been on the double rebound since then.
Were you a Giorgio fan, or was it more a case of Giorgio of Mary Hill for you?
No comments:
Post a Comment