A scent, a resin, a sound, a song, an instrument, an abstraction – Mr. Oud takes his name from any number of objects or ideas, shape-shifting like quicksilver and sliding into whatever you want him to be. Without one stage and true identity, he is free to become whatever the moment requires. But let’s not even restrict it that much – he is free. It can end and begin there. That’s why some find him problematic; envy of freedom is the most vicious and powerful form of envy in the world. Most of us are not so free; most of us will never be. And most of us have found Mr. Oud odious at one time or another, loathe though we may be to admit it. The loathsome builds on itself.
Mr. Oud, for his part, largely ignores these battles. They long ago ceased to interest him. Instead, he sounds the instrument from which he might have been named, and sprays a bit of ‘Royal Oud’ by Creed onto his neck before donning mask and hat.
With an Orville Peckian slant – a little bit country, a little bit rock-n-roll, a little bit creamy-smooth-pop-icon-goddess – Mr. Oud assumes and achieves a new mustachioed juxtaposition.
A mite of menace, a vivisection of versatility, another zig in a field of zags, resulting in a wondrous whirl of whiplash – Mr. Oud spins dervishly and devilishly, because in chameleonic motion it’s difficult to catch him.
You could never ride such a creature and hope to survive. Let him gallop away.
