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01/29/2021
FioreMarina
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FioreMarina
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Rockstar
When did we actually bury rock 'n' roll? Did we bury it together with Kurt Cobain, its last, tragic hero? Did he go over the Rainbow Bridge with David Bowie, wrapped in stardust and weeping with shimmering tears? Did he perhaps simply take the fate of a Keith Richards, to grow old and survive wise and all, even himself in the end?
What actually happened that we stopped debating the provocation of a trashed hotel room, or the radical feminism of groupies? Instead, I listen with growing dismay to a federal drug commissioner who, after careful consideration, concludes that cannabis is not broccoli, and take irritated note of a penetratingly fresh-looking Gwyneth Paltrow on Netflix promoting orgasms as an anti-aging concept, part of the Daily Workout, as it were. Christ, where, I wonder, did we lose rock 'n' roll along the way?
And: am I the only one who misses it?
As of today, I at least believe there is one person who knows what I mean. That one person, Stephane Humbert Lucas, created Mortal Skin. And Mortal Skin is rock 'n' roll.
The provocation starts with the bottle. Shiny black, glittering gold. And with my grudging admission that, despite my painstakingly refined tastes over the years and 180 hours of instructional analysis, I do find this golden cobra on a black background almost as hot as a Red Hot Chili Peppers performance, and somehow already pretty good.
In this moment of admission, the scent makes a promise.
It's the promise of a concert hall, filled to bursting, the moment the lights go down. When the drummer counts in and all you hear is the sticks clacking on each other.
When you hold your breath for a few seconds and your pulse races. When the crowd pushes into the small of my back with the hard force of a storm wave, and the barrier pushes into my stomach from the front. The promise of something wonderful about to happen.
Press spray button, spot on the band, and what happens next is as wild and untamed as it is intimate and tender: it's the sensation of warm, fragrant, breathing skin. Of course, I can now claim that this impression comes from leather, ambergris, musk, and civet, but if I'm being completely honest, I can't smell any of those scents out. I just get this impression of skin, subtle, unobtrusive, soft and beautiful. On top of that, like a second track, is something sacral, frankincense and myrrh, and that fits very well, rock 'n' roll is always cult too. Woody and powdery notes, all very finely tuned to each other, give the perfume the depth of an intense experience, and all the time the fragrance stays very close to me. Only a true rock star can do that: that feeling of intensity and exclusivity for every single person in the crowd - and it's wonderful, "like making love to a hundred thousand people". It's crossing boundaries, from this-side blackberry to other-side styrax, transcendence and fusion and party and fun.
I'm heading over to my record collection. Free Mötley Crüe from the thin layer of dust. Sum Absolute Beginners in front of me and suddenly know: the rock 'n' roll is not dead. It's alive, as long as there are people like you and me. And a scent like Mortal Skin.
What actually happened that we stopped debating the provocation of a trashed hotel room, or the radical feminism of groupies? Instead, I listen with growing dismay to a federal drug commissioner who, after careful consideration, concludes that cannabis is not broccoli, and take irritated note of a penetratingly fresh-looking Gwyneth Paltrow on Netflix promoting orgasms as an anti-aging concept, part of the Daily Workout, as it were. Christ, where, I wonder, did we lose rock 'n' roll along the way?
And: am I the only one who misses it?
As of today, I at least believe there is one person who knows what I mean. That one person, Stephane Humbert Lucas, created Mortal Skin. And Mortal Skin is rock 'n' roll.
The provocation starts with the bottle. Shiny black, glittering gold. And with my grudging admission that, despite my painstakingly refined tastes over the years and 180 hours of instructional analysis, I do find this golden cobra on a black background almost as hot as a Red Hot Chili Peppers performance, and somehow already pretty good.
In this moment of admission, the scent makes a promise.
It's the promise of a concert hall, filled to bursting, the moment the lights go down. When the drummer counts in and all you hear is the sticks clacking on each other.
When you hold your breath for a few seconds and your pulse races. When the crowd pushes into the small of my back with the hard force of a storm wave, and the barrier pushes into my stomach from the front. The promise of something wonderful about to happen.
Press spray button, spot on the band, and what happens next is as wild and untamed as it is intimate and tender: it's the sensation of warm, fragrant, breathing skin. Of course, I can now claim that this impression comes from leather, ambergris, musk, and civet, but if I'm being completely honest, I can't smell any of those scents out. I just get this impression of skin, subtle, unobtrusive, soft and beautiful. On top of that, like a second track, is something sacral, frankincense and myrrh, and that fits very well, rock 'n' roll is always cult too. Woody and powdery notes, all very finely tuned to each other, give the perfume the depth of an intense experience, and all the time the fragrance stays very close to me. Only a true rock star can do that: that feeling of intensity and exclusivity for every single person in the crowd - and it's wonderful, "like making love to a hundred thousand people". It's crossing boundaries, from this-side blackberry to other-side styrax, transcendence and fusion and party and fun.
I'm heading over to my record collection. Free Mötley Crüe from the thin layer of dust. Sum Absolute Beginners in front of me and suddenly know: the rock 'n' roll is not dead. It's alive, as long as there are people like you and me. And a scent like Mortal Skin.
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