Flagrance

I'm afraid I've been somewhat short of time in the last few days to do any serious preparation for the blog. That, coupled with the fact that the topic of fragrance has come up before, means that I'm going to show flagrant disregard for one of the basic rules of blogging - never recycle material - and I'm going to regale you all with a story that I've told before (back in January 2015 to be precise). In mitigation, most of you probably weren't reading my blogs back then and perhaps those who were have forgotten it anyway...

When I was a young man, newly arrived in the metropolis and teaching English and Drama at a north London comprehensive school, I met Madeleine (not her real name) at a party and was rather taken with her. She was very pretty, vivacious and carefree, a socialite of the Chelsea set in the decade before Sloane Ranger became a term of contempt.

Although she was a few years older than I, she still lived at home in SW10 with mummy and daddy in one of those leafy squares off the Brompton Road. Daddy was “big in meat in the city” and mummy was the embodiment of Mrs Dalloway. Madeleine (not her real name) was a fashion model who’d also appeared with very few clothes on in a couple of John Boorman movies, including ‘Zardoz’, I believe, with Sean Connery and Charlotte Rampling.

We became friends and lovers. She called me her “young man” and I arrived at the conclusion that Madeleine (not her real name) not only used Chanel No 5 – ‘that scent’, yes, we’re getting there – she probably bathed in the bloody stuff! I didn’t mind. To begin with, I quite liked the fragrance because I quite liked her.

However, during the course of our several-month liaison, it gradually became apparent to me that, while I might be her “young man”, I wasn’t her only man. There was the aspiring racing-driver who used to get her drunk on Moet and occasionally beat her up. There was also the old Etonian who was very adept at replicating Queen Anne furniture which he off-loaded to less than scrupulous cronies in the antiques game. I think he kept her in class A recreationals as well as Chanel.

But the alarm bells well and truly rang the night when Madeleine (not her real name) arrived at my house at 3 in the morning, barefoot and delivered by fire-engine. I just refused to let her in – I had to be up for school at 7 – let the firemen put the fire out.

I never saw her again but I have acquired a life-long aversion to Chanel No 5. The olfactory key is a potent instrument in any memory-picker's tool kit and it only takes the merest whiff of No 5 to unlock a sequence of evocative and not always pleasant Madeleine moments for me. All true, and very Proustian to boot.

I had a performance slot at Montague's open mic night on Thursday and it being 4th July, that was the theme of the event. I wrote and performed this new poem, one more from the imaginarium. It draws its inspiration from two sources. One is a fabulously succinct line in an Aimee Mann song about the 4th July being "a waste of gunpowder and sky"; the other is an article I was reading about sexism in 1950s American advertising which referenced an infamous campaign for the new Pontiac Star Chief showing a young lady climbing into the back seat above a strapline that read "Spread Your Legs!" Whatever were they thinking?

1957 Pontiac Star Chief

Anyway, I've tried to turn all of that, hinged on the evocative smell of cordite, into an impressionistic piece that intertwines the lasting power of love and the declining fortunes of the American industrial complex and its motor industry. It's hard to believe that gasoline cost 30 cents a gallon back in 1957. It's not surprising to see that rampant capitalism has left ugly urban scars across the rust belt. Reet Petite is still a great song and one whose success precipitated the creation of Motown Records. The poem might get tweaked, refined a little somewhere down the road, but for now, revv it up...

 

Pontiac Dreams
Another fourth of July,
gunpowder and sky.
Sharp pall of cordite drifting
over the sprawl of Detroit
lights a touch-paper in memory
one more time,
horizons burning bright
with incendiary flowers of  night...

recalling Reet Petite in daddy's borrowed car,
'57 top-down Pontiac dream
and heavy petting one block off Main Street,
you the finest girl I could ever want to meet,
just like Jackie Wilson said
and neither of us wanting to stop
or go too far...

...but then our sticky-fingered stalemating
resolved, transposed to some higher key
by a climactic light-show in the heavens,
our stars, our stripes emblazoned,
our songs across the airwaves,
the future ours to grasp, young hopefuls we,
with brave new worldliness to spare.

Come up the years and...
things don't always work as one expects.
Witness the rust-belt of urban decay
wound around fat America's midriff now,
a monster in the White House,
no-go ghettos, welfare despair,
millions in thrall to opiates
and all our Pontiac dreams
crushed to tangled salvage
in the wrecker's yard, no spangles anymore -
a nation hoist on its own petard
seemingly crashing into darkest disrepair.

A wonder still that you're by my side,
five decades and counting,
my soul, my joy, my pride,
the only reason that I pray to God to live.
Bless apple pie, Motown records, the FBI,
and keep holding me tight darling
through twilight's last gleaming.

 

That's it. Thanks for reading, have a fine week, S ;-)

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'That' Scent...

Let us call her Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious reasons). When I was a young man, newly arrived in the metropolis and teaching English and Drama at a north London comprehensive school, I met Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious reasons) at a party and was rather taken with her. She was very pretty, vivacious and carefree, a socialite of the Chelsea set in the decade before Sloan Ranger became a term of contempt. Although she was a few years older than I, she still lived at home with mummy and daddy in one of those leafy squares off the Brompton Road. Daddy was “big in meat in the city” and mummy was the embodiment of Mrs Dalloway. Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious reasons) was a fashion model who’d also appeared with very few clothes on in a couple of John Boorman movies, including ‘Zardoz’, I believe, with Sean Connery and Charlotte Rampling. We became friends and lovers. She called me her “young man” and I arrived at the conclusion that Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious reasons) not only used Chanel No 5 – ‘That scent’, yes, we’re getting there – she probably bathed in the bloody stuff! I didn’t mind. To begin with, I quite liked the fragrance because I quite liked her. However, during the course of our several-month liaison, it gradually became apparent to me that, while I might be her “young man”, I wasn’t her only man. There was the aspiring racing-driver who used to get her drunk on Moet and occasionally beat her up. There was the old Etonian who was very adept at replicating Queen Anne furniture which he off-loaded to less than scrupulous cronies in the antiques game. I think he kept her in class A recreationals as well as Chanel. But the alarm bells well and truly rang the night when Madeleine (not her real name, for obvious reasons) arrived at my house at 3 in the morning barefoot and delivered by fire-engine. I just refused to let her in – I had to be up for school at 7  – let the firemen put the fire out. I never saw her again but I have acquired a life-long aversion to Chanel No 5. The olfactory key is a potent instrument in any memory-picker's tool kit and it only takes the merest whiff of No 5 to unlock a sequence of evocative and not always pleasant madeleine moments for me. 

Staying with London as a locale, I wonder how many of you have read and enjoyed Ben Aaronovitch’s brilliant ‘Rivers Of London’ series of novels? Ben, was born and bred a Londoner, has written TV scripts for Doctor Who (‘Remembrance of the Daleks’) and the space soap ‘Jupiter Moon’ and also worked at Waterstones in Covent Garden for a while when times were lean; but his novels, five to date, have all been best-sellers so he only goes to bookshops for signings these days. The premise of the novels is that magic exists, can be used for nefarious ends and the Met has a special division, based at The Folly, responsible for investigating and dealing with any criminal activity that has a whiff of the supernatural about it. Chief Inspector Nightingale (wizard) and his sidekick DC Peter Grant (apprentice wizard) are the heat on the streets of London with sharp noses for vestigia, sensory traces of wrong-doing involving magic. The novels are all cleverly devised, entertainingly told and ripping good yarns that reward your suspension of disbelief. If you haven’t stumbled upon them yet, they are a treat in store. To find out more, check out The Folly - “official home of English wizardry since 1775” - at www.the-folly.com

And so, to the poem. This is something I wrote for and performed at the Haunted House event in Blackpool a few evenings ago. It’s best read out loud with all the lights turned down, except for the glow from your laptop/PC/tablet screen. Look out for ‘that’ scent, reeking sulphurous…..

 

Whispering Winds

The city sleeps

while in its streets

move tortured spirits of a cruel past,

seeking rest. 

Trees whine in parks,

wires whistle, papers rustle -

sounds easily explained by day

grow bold at night. 

Shackled dogs howl,

hackled cats growl,

fear drops a frosty few degrees

because

unquiet is on the prowl. 

You didn’t spot those shadows,

dark wraiths milling round

mottling the ground,

insubstantial all night long,

lurching, shifting, searching. 

Such emptiness in solid air,

such almost tangible despair

might shape to rend this curtain of complacency. 

Soot billows out of grates,

ridge tiles begin to fly,

shop-signs tumble,

trees are ripped from hallowed soil

by manic gusts.

The hour is both profoundly dark and late

when disaffection, reeking sulphurous,

tears at our smug substantiality. 

Pray that this night won’t go on forever… 

Then, as a pearl-edged dawn approaches,

for those who have the ears to hear,

(dogs in shackles, cats with hackles),

a million jangled,

paranoiac screams

mingle west,

lost on whispering winds.

 

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)

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