Recently, a dear friend overseas asked me to find a specific perfume for her. The simple request took me back in time to the night of September 22, 1997. LIVE was performing at the Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion outside of Houston. The stroll through the woods to the open-air seating alone made this venue my favorite. But it was the mysterious, intoxicating scent of the woman seated in front of me that distracted me for much of the evening.

I anticipated the concert from the band LIVE, named for the fact they were so absurdly incredible with live performances. I Alone. Lightning Crashes. Selling the Drama. All Over You… Their strong repertoire had just begun and would continue to fill the shelves of poetic rock music history for years to come.

The evening brought temperatures in the mid 70s, a little rain and the onslaught of Houston mosquitos. In the thick night, permeated by the humidity, the scent of the occasional joint wafted through the air with each sporadic uplifting breeze. LIVE fans filled the pavilion with anticipation of a great show.

When the concert began, the drums, guitars, bass and Ed Kowalczyk’s powerful vocals concurrently surrounded and penetrated me. My heartbeat caught up to the drums. But it wasn’t the distinctive music or vocals that mesmerized me. It was the woman and her exotic perfume. Like the lyrical poetry sung by LIVE, the woodsy and exotic perfume of this woman composed its own poetic verse that remains written in my memory decades later.

She was sophisticated, stylish. Her caramel brown hair lifted off her shoulders and wrapped in a movie-star fashion seemed highlighted, nearly framed, by the arm of her male companion. Her white, sheer dress flowed tastefully around her arms. The wind would silently catch a whisper of her dress, her hair, her scent… Her perfume was persuasive, elegant, enticing and descriptive of the woman in the seat in front of me. It hypnotized and absorbed me.

Throughout the concert, while Ed expertly and touchingly belted my favorite songs, my attention swayed to the woman and her perfume. I yearned to be filled with the sophistication and grace she seemed to emit, even at a rock concert where most attendees wore jeans and a t-shirt. I was a young 20-something. I admired how put-together she was, especially with the final elegant touch of an interesting, unique, woodsy perfume. I wanted to be this woman. More than anything, I wanted that scent. I desperately desired to know the name of the perfume she wore, but my introverted nature overshadowed that need.

I was insecure. Several times I tried to gather the courage to tap her on her shoulder, ask her what perfume she wore, but she seemed like a princess, much too grand for my ordinary question.

The concert ended. We stood. She smiled. I smiled back. It was my opportunity. Within seconds, it became my missed opportunity. She walked away, the scent of the perfume still highlighting the air behind her. Why I couldn’t say “I love your perfume! What is it called?” I will never know. Perhaps it was meant to be her charmed secret. Her perfume, as every woman has her own signature scent.

While I easily fulfilled my friend’s perfume request, for more than a quarter of a century I’ve wondered about that perfume at the Woodlands on that warm September night in 1997, when LIVE performed. Donna Karen once said, “Smell is a primordial sense, more powerful, more primitive, more intimately tied to our memories and emotions than any other.” The smell of that night became a memory I couldn’t let go.

Over the years, while in a department store, at Duty Free, at a fragrance boutique, I’d fill my senses with hundreds of scents, hoping that one day I would come across that one. I am still certain I would recognize it. Perhaps one day I will find it. But the quest for this specific perfume led me to an unexpected realization of opportunities missed. Had I only tapped her on the shoulder, my last 25 years might have been scented more fragrantly.

Photos and Article By: Ivana Segvic-Boudreaux