The scent of sadness.this is not a welcoming smell.a nostalgic sunset transported to a unforgettable memory from winters past when you are alone,miss your love,and a walk through a dark forest smell of pine and fir tress with fire and a hint of sweetness, a wisp of gunpowder incence.the smell is amazing,Dark, Melancholic,Woody,Heavy,Smoke Deep and Balsamic Elixir of Indulgence.
The opening is so strong.It is based on the accord between the spicy freshness of fir and pine lurking in the background clouded by a warm envelope of incence makes residual warmth and scent of forest floor and distant wood.it really is a great creation that exudes maturity and demands attention.a perfect choice to anyone who wants to smell real classic woody scent.this head turning perfume is suitable for both intimate and special wear.
Longevity?Very Good on my skin.
Monster projection of natural pine resin. This definitely smells natural, like essential oils. Too linear for me.
I had a slight idea of what to expect out of Slumberhouse's Norne, a celebrated cold-weather fragrance of a few years back, but I wasn't prepared for how dark or powerful it was.
I get a mix of balsam fir, pine, resin, incense, and perhaps even some oud---all the dark elements usually paired with lighter notes are seemingly together in one utterly dark concoction. The blend is outstanding, though, as I can imagine this collection of notes being overwhelming or ugly in other hands.
Norne is strictly appropriate for cold weather, and probably just nights. It's slightly dirty but still probably suits formal occasions (again, in the winter), as it's reined-in enough to offer masculinity without being overwhelming.
Unsurprisingly, as an extrait, the performance is outstanding, one of the strongest fragrances I've ever tried in terms of both projection and longevity. Again, though, it's not overwhelming, but one should apply carefully, as the word seems to be that the juice stains clothing and skin alike.
At $160 for 30ml (at Luckyscent, Twisted Lily), it's not cheap, but it packs a punch if you're looking for an intense winter option that doesn't require a lot of sprays.
Norne is dirty enough that I have some reluctance to give it extremely high marks, but it's an excellent fragrance overall in terms of the scent and performance.
8 out of 10
Yup. Forest, no doubt about that. Dark, damp forest. Incredibly intense rendition while still being enjoyable. Ish.
I don't know. I wore it once. I found it to be to much.
But i still appreciate the craft behind it, and spray a bit on a piece of wood every now and then as a room scent.
It smells good. But on a bit of a distance. Just as the forest smells good walking among the pinetrees, but might be a bit overwhelming when you're impaled by a tree.
A perfume story: Review of Norne by Slumberhouse © 2016 Frankie Chocolate
(For Andy. My soon to be besty besty BFF)
I took the silver box down from the brown wooden shelf and laid it on my desk. Thanks Andy I said to my dog Logan who was in the office with me at the time eating his breakfast. Logan’s breakfast not Andy’s. Logan was having the same thing he had for dinner last night. I had no idea what Andy was having for breakfast in Switzerland but I’m sure it was nice.
Andy wasn’t there at the time but I had hopes… There is a bond between he and I the way there is between all great men and I suppose the mongrels who sniff at their feet hoping for crumbs of recognition. And if perchance one of those crumbs should fall, say in the form of the odd email those mongrels swoop up on it and show it all their friends intimating that they are fast friend and the mongrel is really a big deal so those private messages and they hope very public messages of how great they did on that last perfume review and friend requests and big boxes of chocolates should come roaring in.
The wantabee. Of course I’ll never know what it’s like to be one. Of course not. Ha ha. As if. Ha ha ha………… Ha!......... I can only imagine. But if I did imagine the wantabee is a sort or needy pirate, arrggh, who on his days off wore cheap Ogallala bay rum, didn’t shave, wore the same undershirt three days in a row and was typing from his dank basement in Berwyn but claimed he was just stepping out of the shower, wrapped in a thick luxurious white towel and onto his private terrace at the Four Season George V just a baguettes throw from Champs-Elysées in Paris and was anointed with Fougère Royale, the original from 1882 and not the cheap swill they offer today.
Mais bien sûrthis is all conjecture and supposition. Something I only imagined and could never ever ever ever have experienced. Those needy pirate types with their airs and pretenses. They don’t speak French like you and Moi and must resort to sites like Babelfish to cobble together poorly phrased and even poorer translated French idioms but just like you I already know, Leur nageoire sortira leur pretention.
They never fool me. Starved for attention, recognition and validation. NEVER! Bragging their hollow brags in opaque and poorly written tall tales about whom they know and who’s coming over for brunch.
Now I really only have a moment before Le maid comes in to straighten up for before our little soirée with Luca and Tania and Claire and Collin and Pure Caramel and of course Grant—sorry old bean but before I go I wanted to get back to the review.
My BFF Andy gave me this really swell ribbed top metal box and I only had to give him $130.00 USD. I used it to hold a gazillion of my perfume samples. I have the juice that came in it up on a darkened shelf in my Sanctum Santorum.
I slid the lid off the box and beheld my treasure trove. Never did Smaug look with greater pleasure upon his vast golden heap than I did upon my stash of tiny glass bottles. So many frags. So many stories to tell. I lovingly searched among the vials sifting through them, a Belgium diamond cutter sifting though a box of precious stones. Here. Here was a unique one. I held it up to the light. It was darker than any other, a rich deep green the color of the forest floor in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon…
I sat at the bar stool Brixie’s Mike Anvil’s favorite dive watering hole. On the other side of the bar was my friend Randish the ex-Army ranger part time bartender. One time I asked the Rand. “What does it mean you were a Ranger?” He told me, “It means I can kill you with my bare hands.” Ha ha ha. I backed away just to be out of reach of some flying dragon kick or whatever. Randish works for a Christian organization that picks up newly minted doctors and swaps their massive student loans for time on the field serving people in the name of Christ. I think he plays the barwipe just to keep an eye on needy pirate types. Argggh.
So how you today Francis? The ex-ranger asked moi. (That’s Frencheze for “me,” Collin)
Right as rain I told him. I wish I could say the same thing for your pine tree outside.
What’s wrong with my pine tree? It was a gift from me mudder.
What are you now, Jamaican?
I’m just trying out the accent for a while. Every ting be ire, eh Frankie?
Yeah. Tip top as soon as you switch back to English. American English.
Killjoy. That’s the problem with you Francis. You have no imagination.
Ain’t it so Dish. Ain’t it so.
He turned his back and when he turned around again he placed a tall frosty mug of Dad’s Root beer on a coaster before me. Dad’s or Barqs was my brand.
He switched back to American—with a proper Chicago nasal accent like every man wishes he could and continued.
So what’s wrong with my pine tree?
It looks like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. It’s stunted and bent to one side and there are a thousand cigarette butts around the base of it.
Mm. said the Dish.
You need to take better care of it. Look I broke off the tiniest of twigs to show you. I placed a small sprig of green needles with a drip of yellow sap on the coaster so I wouldn’t sticky up his bar.
You destroyed my mom’s pine tree?
The tiniest bit. I didn’t destroy nothing.
Rrr nothing. Pick it up and smell it. What does it remind you of?
The Dish picked it up and sniffed.
You have such a way with words I told the bar keep, sliding back a few inches just in case he had some sort of judo chop he could administer across a three foot bar.
I picked it up, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, wafting my hand in front of it in circular motions like I was trying to evoke all the subtle nuances and notes it had to offer. And yes you’re right Claire. I was a pretentious wanker but you already knew that about me—I mean moi.
Can you hear it Randish? It’s speaking to you.
All’s I can hear is the water going down the toilet behind us in the men’s room. I think someone was in there and just finishing up.
No. It’s speaking to us of the high Cascades. I was young. Nineteen. Living in a commune. We were based outta Eugene and every day for work we’d drive two hours high up into the Cascades to replant the logged off areas that Weyerhaeuser had cleared the year before. We were up so high the clouds made the tops of the mountains look like islands in a sea of white smoke. We would plant these seedling trees from pouches on our backs. They were so heavy the belt that supported them would cut into our hips giving us rose hips. It was each man’s earnest desire to get those seedlings out of their bag and into the ground. Back then we got a nickel a tree so if you put a thousand in the ground you made $50.00 a day.
When was this the Paleozoic area?
Yes, just before then in the seventies before electricity.
We were planting one day on a south ridge and we were making pretty good time when something flashed and I mean flashed by me. I only caught a glimpse but I saw a tree bag, a long beard and bare skin.
Big foot right out of the shower?
I wish. And Big Foot has got fur or a pelt or something something. This thing was stark naked.
What was it?
It was Yogurt.
What is yogurt?
I really resisted giving him a dozen pithy snarky answers on that one Andy. I really did and it was hard when they lob these marshmallows at you in slow-mo.
The essence of self-control had nothing on me as I replied, Yogurt was the name of the hippy freak that planted buck naked except for his jet-black mink oiled Vasque boots and merino wool socks. He only ate yogurt hence the name.
The planting inspector who dogged our steps and made sure we planted em deep and not j-root or too shallow told us Yogurt had planted ten season and there was no one who could match his speed and accuracy. He planted naked because it freed him up from binding and chaffing. Dude. Stay away from black berry vines.
Yogurt flashed back and forth that day then we collectively breathed a sigh of relief as he vanished into the top of an extinct volcano. I think he lived in it.
Coming back to the bar I sniffed the branch and told the dish. This sprig smells like Norne by Slumberhouse
If I refuse to ask what is a Slumberhouse you’re gonna tell me anyway aren’t you? Said the Dish.
Exactamudo Braniac! Slumberhouse is a boutique fragrance label based in the heart of Portland, Oregon which is close to or in the Cascades—I forget which. Self-taught Josh Lobb is the nose behind their creations. I got a decant of it in the car. Let me go get it.
I went and got it, came back and allowed the Dish to sniff it.
Pine he said again.
You really have a gift. Could you dig a little deeper?
He snifftered again. I smell deep wet campfire. Ash. The color is green so I smell something green. Ash. A deep incense. Thick crisp boughs of fir. Something smooth and calming…and pine.
Dude. That was eloquent. Collin himself couldn’t have done better.
Really? You mean that?
No. C.M. would have nailed it. He would have soared through the clouds and heaven’s gates would have opened up if he gave his review of this juice.
Maybe he did already?
Maybe he did but do you want to slough through all of them and find out?
Me either but let me have a crack at it would ya?
He passed the snifter over to me and I plunged in. It is the smell of wet campfire ash Randish and even more of the wet stones that held it. Here were the ashes of countless fires and the stone that had absorbed the pitch and resin from countless sputtering pine branches till the stones themselves gave off the odor of amber and pine and the green boughs that covered them.
It is the smell of the past not the future. It is a record of past deeds not future ones. Here are men of old wearing thick buffalo plaid shirts worn out jeans and brown boots with clods of dark brown clay filling the lugs sitting around the camp fires smoking and drinking and telling stories. They were barbers and soldiers and schoolteachers who for a time left the trapping of civilization loaded up the old woody and drove into the mountains for a weekend away. Maybe a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle found its way up there and was being poured out in blue enameled tin cups around the fire. Maybe it was cheap rotgut. It didn’t matter. What mattered was they were all up there like they had been for years and now maybe this was the last time so they had to make it good. Make it special because the memory had to last them the rest of their lives. They drank their whisky and the smoke and pine permeated their clothes and skin and they were men.
Frankie that was moving.
Thanks Randish. I uncorked the vial one more time and snifftered it for a final inspiration.
This smell so much like a pine tree I’m going to lavish it all over.
You only got this little vial.
I’ll lavish lightly.
Yeah well I’m go outside and clean up them butts around the tree give it a couple of Jobe tree spikes and put up a little fence around it and tell these hoodlums to keep their butts outta my mom’s tree.
Good man Stan. I’ll lavish lightly then I’m gonna then stand out side stiff like a pine tree. Mable wants squab for dinner and I think I can trick a few pigeons to land on me. Wish me luck. I should maybe get an extra few just in case Darvant or the Pope wants to swing by for a late supper.
How was that Randish?
Good idea said the bar tender through his perfectly flossed teeth. The end.