Blast off the last wafts of patchouli trailing after the Summer of Love. Malaise gives off the metallic smell of the Lead Years. Malaise gives off the metallic smell of the Iron Lady tearing down British society. Malaise gives off the metallic smell of guitar strings being tortured in London squats, of safety pins stuck in cheeks, of razor blades slicing through the skin of pallid chests. Malaise gives off the metallic smell of the spaceships that will carry us “anywhere out of this world”, as Baudelaire once said. “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” with Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia. Malaise gives off the metallic smell of blood, yes, but also the burn of pepper spray in our noses… Ah… ah…ah… nar… CHY! And a strange sweet softness we sink into like we’d grind the flesh of an overripe fruit in our fist. We don’t care about the future, any more than Trainspotting’s antihero, who doesn’t know yet he’s a dead ringer for Obi-Wan Kenobi: “Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?” So we’re going back to our first loves. We choose heroin. Whether she’s called Leia, Ripley or Sister Morphine, she’s still the White Lady who can blast us out of the world bequeathed by the Baroness Thatcher. An act of resistance: like perfume, an ill-bred lout that gets up your nose as soon as it’s released from the bottle – you can’t keep it out of your body, any more than you can stop breathing. Malaise of the 1970s is what today smells like. Not so bad, actually.
Top Notes: Citrus, black pepper, amber
Middle Notes: Prune, electric aldehydes, heliotrope
Bottom Notes: Leather, patchouli, orcanox
Category: for women/unisex
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