All of my best stories involve rock stars. I’m the girl who gave Keith Richards the finger, and the girl who almost stole Lou Reed’s luggage, the girl who tried to climb down the balconies at Radio City Music Hall to get near Richard Butler, and the girl who got to hold his hand more than 20 years later. I will tell those tales some day when it’s appropriate, but name-dropping is not the point of this story.
The rock star in question shall remain nameless. Those of you who know me well will know the name of the band I followed around, and those of you who don’t most likely have never heard of them. In 1990 they appeared to be on the verge of total world domination, but were still playing in tiny clubs. I timed a visit to my best out-of-state friend to coincide with their appearance on 6th Street in Austin, Texas, and because they were unknowns there I was treated like a VIP guest. The tour eventually wound its way back to New York, and by then I was on a first-name basis with the band. (Their beautiful but dumb drummer remembered meeting me in Texas, and somehow got it into his head that I was FROM Texas and was flying out to see every show in New York. He began to greet me with “Does your father own an airline?” As one of the most bizarre real life plot twists I have ever heard, he is now the leader of a cult in Canada.)
In preparation for an appearance at Ron Wood’s late, lamented club in the Bowery, Woody’s (I was both afraid and hopeful that I might run into Keith Richards there, as by then I was mature enough to know I owed him an apology for the middle finger incident), I spent weeks painting a banner in honor of the band. I’d interviewed the two principal members by phone for my university newspaper, and during the conversation they had lamented about classic rock stations that did nothing but play bands from the 60’s and 70’s all day and all night. My banner riffed on this idea, showing a radio tower jutting out of the earth into an electrified night sky, with the words “All Name-Of-This-Band Radio, All The Time.” (In an ironic postscript to this story, one of these two guys, not the one I’m discussing below, is now famous as the host of a popular radio show that only plays Beatles songs.)
My roommates were highly impressed with this endeavor, and told me the band should use the image for one of their album covers. The night of gig I carried it carefully, rolled up and tied with ribbon so it would not get crushed in the mosh pit that would form (in New York they were better known, and their best known song verges on thrash).
After the show I went backstage, and waited patiently for my turn to talk to the lead singer. When I finally unfurled the banner, his response crushed me. He glanced at it briefly, smirked, and said, “That’s a little overboard, don’t you think? This isn’t Shea Stadium.”
Dear rock star who has since kicked drugs and become a nicer person (I’ve seen him again since then, and hugged him, and forgave him.) Do you know what you did to me that night? You crumpled me. Crumpled banner, crumpled heart, crumpled fangirl. I tossed my art in the trash and walked out without another word. But I thank you for it, because it changed my life. In the cab ride back to my dorm, I made a vow to myself, which was “I will never hang on someone else’s star.”
Loree Rodkin Gothic I is the fragrance for the rock star inside all of us, not the stereotypical Gothic girl but the whiskey-voiced, kohl-rimmed, bangs in the eyes chanteuse Nico, as I mentioned previously in a piece on CaFleureBon. Its construction is deceptively simple, as the only accords listed are vanilla, patchouli, and incense spices, but Gothic I is a chameleon. The blogger Kafka experienced her primarily as a quality vanilla, and the friend who introduced me to her called her a dark incense. When I applied several sprays the other day, my children responded enthusiastically, “You smell like cake!” But I disagree, unless the cake in question is a dark green patchouli fairy cake soaked in rum.
The friends who I induced (seduced?) to buy full bottles along with me agree that Gothic I is primarily a gorgeous, green patchouli with a hint of tobacco (leaves, not smoked), deepened with booze and spice and ever so slightly sweetened by fine Madagascar vanilla. She does not develop much over time, but has enough facets to keep me more than enthralled every time I wear her. Think of the mythic Green Man deep in the forest; the poor little rich girl rock star, swathed in red ermine, brings him a tribute and makes a wish. The god is appeased and her wish is granted.
Loree Rodkin Gothic I is available from Luckyscent for $140 for a 50 ml edp, and for $110 for 7 ml of roll-on perfume oil. This review is based on the eau de parfum, and I will update it should I get the pleasure of trying out the oil. The scent is also available from Loree Rodkin’s own site, although I must warn you that her jewelry is equally covetable and considerably more expensive. The fragrance is also available as a room spray and candle on the Rodkin site. Give it a try and bring out your own inner rock star.
Disclosure: Review based on full bottle I purchased.