Fragrance Reviews by Merbert

Dirty doings in the library! Has our gent brought in a lady of questionable background? To me, Sandringham is like a member of the upper crust slumming in his own heavily wood-paneled manor. This is most bitter of all the Crowns, topping Eau de Quinine or even the face-slapping Esterhazy. Do I detect quinine amidst the herbs and wood? There is definitely a non-citrus bitter component that performs a great balancing act with the sweetness.

I love to occasionally wear Sandringham for a bit of shock value. On a woman, it's twice as in-your-face as on a man.

This is a frankincense foundationed fragrance for men who are unafraid to wear florals. I think that it's the sweetest Duchaufour that I have smelled so far and, after about a month getting to know it, I can appreciate the sweetness. I found my appeal for Jubilation XXV like a courtship, that develops understanding and appreciation over time.

On initial application, there is a sharp presentation of incense blended with coriander, cumin, cinnamon, mace, and a touch of oud (not quite enough for my taste.) I do like the way that the fragrance develops over time, becoming darker and more mysterious, but also much warmer. This is when the floral aspect deepens and it is a welcome addition, not clashing in any way. I smell orris and even a little violet. By the time it has completely dried down, it's practically crackling dry, a sort of incense-leather-musky combination, still maintaining the floral sweetening.

On my skin, a healthy spraying of Jubilation XXV lasts all day or all night, fading gradually and beautifully.

Thank you, Amouage, for returning to the classics again. I considered Ciel, Cirrus, Arcus and Reflection for Men and Women to be uninteresting and conventional.

I find this and Jubilation XXV for Men my favorite of the Amouage line do date (though I am "courting" Lyric for Women at this time and enjoying it.) XXV for women is a Middle Eastern concept fragrance for Western tastes. Citrus/possibly citron, Bulgarian rose, frankincense and myrrh are up front with a wide assortment of secondary scents that I think that I can identify as tarragon, amber (not quite enough for my taste), a healthy shot of patchouli, musk, with the whole sweetened by what I suspect is ylang ylang.

To me, however, the fragrance has problems. One is a pervasive fruit note that simply won't go away. It is very distracting from the rest of the scent, almost cheapening it. The other is that the bright and wonderful initial blast of resins fades far too quickly. What remains is nice in a conventional sort of way, but not what I expected after trying Jubilation XXV for Men; that's more like the early classic Amouage.

What a strange drydown La Violette creates. The true violet blossom scent explodes upon application, only to nearly disappear within 15 minutes. At that point come olfactory mayhem, pitting odd greens, possibly vetiver, and clove with children's cough syrup. Once this settles, all that remains is piercing, penetrating fresh raspberry which continues for hours.

What is the matter with me? For 30 years I have grown Bourbon, Damask, and other roses in parfumerie and, from all the glowing reviews; I should love Sa Majesté la Rose. I immensely dislike it. I also enjoy dirty and animalic scents as well, and yet I still dislike it. And why is this? There is something that ruins the creation for me. Amidst the lovely rose petals and leaves, geranium, clove and the animalic notes, all classically combined, a cloying and almost gagging lychee/canned evaporated milk note comes and spoils the party.

This is the first Serge Lutens that is a scrubber for me.

The attempt at mixed spices is valiant, but it is destroyed by a double dose of black currant and mismatched florals. I never experience any of the supposed base accords on the drydown except synthetic vanilla. If there are woods in Mania for Women, I can't find them.

Other than the nice tarragon/anise middle note, Armani Code is rather ordinary. There is an attempt a peppery opening but it is very synthetic feeling. The middle notes are fleeting, barely minutes, when tonka, tonka, and more tonka take over as the base, saved from being single-dimensional by the woodiness of guaic.

If you disregard the name, and realize that it's dirt-cheap, it's a decent fragrance. Sure, it has a bit of a harsh beginning, but softens to a nice combination of grass, tea, galangal and, yes, a tiny touch of the Big V. I find that it lasts for many hours and, on fabric, for days.

Perhaps it might be a nice base for layering.

Review of vintage extrait formulation:
The drydown and development of Scandal is an incredible journey.

It begins with peat-infused whiskey, indolic but not sweet florals and a bite of civet. A touch of spice, possibly clove or carnation begins soon thereafter, along with damp, fresh-cut orris. Then comes the leather, and I mean real leather, naturally tanned with plenty of animalic scent remaining. It's the assertive leather of of well-worn saddles and harnesses of the gentry, not delicate handbags and gloves. In fact, you are taken into the stable, with the introduction of grain, hay, damp and slightly sweaty hair, and even a touch of liniment in the form of what I think may be castoreum. There is also a bit of tobacco, not sweet, but slightly biting and tart.

This assertive leather stage softens and sweetens, going from stiff saddle leather to fine kidskin. The powdery orris intensifies and the florals return, albeit subtly, never getting in the way of the now-refined leather.

The final act is pure magic. The musk-heavy base pulls in a slightly astringent incense, complete with the burnt ashes in the censor. The leather becomes damp, mossy, and eventually gives way to costus, oakmoss, vetiver and more musk.

I know that the word 'masterpiece' is tossed about rather casually on Basenotes. I contend that Scandal is the real deal.

Review of vintage eau de toilette:
Yendi is a wonderfully blended ultra-green floral, sparkling with gentle effervescience, a touch of metallic edge, and a soft powdery finish. In addition to the predominance of 'green' I detect hyacinth and possibly a hint of lily but don't know the formal notes. I'd categorize this as a carefree and refreshing scent.

This is a fine example of minimalism found more commonly in pre-1920s fragrances. The lemon note leans toward the exquisite fragrance of a Meyer lemon and smells fresh off the tree on a warm afternoon. I also sense the oil of citron as your fingernail pierces the fresh peel. The drydown brings in hints of fresh woods and a slight herbal finish, yet maintains the citrus up front.

Delicious.

I apologize to those who enjoy this fragrance. The beautiful thing is that perception of scent is so individual and there are no good and bad. This is just my personal experience with Tabu.

As a young child, my revulsion for Tabu was so great that I dared not open a bottle for over 40 years. Surely, after all this time and exposure to so many fragrances, my reaction would be different. One night I dug out a very old yet still unopened bottle and cracked its cap. I tried my best to divorce myself from childhood memories as I dabbed a bit on my wrist. What did I get?

Artificially flavored brandy butterscotch candy tossed into a burning fireplace
The cheapest incense sticks from the 1960s
A long-forgotten and dried carnation boutonnaire.
Fels Naptha soap

At least I tried!

The transformation from initial application to drydown is dramatic. It starts with that classic Guerlain mystery and brooding found in Mitsouko with the addition of what is referred to as plum (I'm not sure of this fruit note) and bergamot. Oakmoss becomes predominant joined with dark rose, wood, spices and incense. Unfortunately, on my skin the oakmoss fades and Parure becomes a fairly innocuous woody Oriental. I did discover that my clothes retain the dark Guerlain mystery and oakmoss 10 hours after application. Because of this, Parure has become a "handkerchief fragrance" for me.

Cristalle is a brighter, cleaner Diorella in many respects. The aldehyde burst lets free a lovely green floral that reminds me most of the Freesia alba, not those ultra-sweet modern freesias in electric colors, but the humble ivory and green blossom that to me is the ultimate green floral note. Both are assertive, but playful. There is a hint of lemon, but definitely not your Lemon Pledge variety. Cristalle's delightful chypre is only slightly metallic and has some richness that I can't put into words. This note stays around the longest, relatively unmodified until it eventually fades away.

After many years away from this fragrance (it was one of my regulars), I tried it again yesterday. In my opinion it has withstood the test of time very well and I'm considering a bottle for old time's sake. Perhaps it's a fragrance more suited to someone young, but smelling it made me feel awfully young at heart.

This is a review of the parfum.
There is no other parfum that reduces me to the inability to form complete sentences.

Long, sharp shadows
Mounds of soft moss
Damp stones under dark clouds
Cool, yet inviting flesh
Freshly dug orris, still damp with earth
A dark glance beneath a darker lace veil
Tart threads still attached to a fresh peach seed
Mezmerizing smoke curling from kyara

...words fail me further when my husband wears it!

I had weird flashbacks of opening my mother's handkerchief drawer as a young child in the 1950s. There's something about the way that the oakmoss and tonka are choked by a mishmash of spices and florals suggests one of the things that sometimes didn't go well during that era of perfume development. Also, I swear that I smell musty old bay leaves somewhere during the drydown. To me, it's a little like Youth Dew gone wrong.

To me, this is one of the worst fragrances I've tested in a long time. It bears absolutely no resemblance to osmanthus. Where is the rich yet fresh, pure yet erotic nature of the real flower? It smells more like a Glade plug-in air freshener. Instead of capturing the bright slightly unripe apricot note of osmanthus, I smell cheap synthetic fruit salad which produces a very unsettling feeling. Even the in-your-face indoles can't save this one.

Review based upon the vintage pafum.
I second Vibert's feelings of Joy's reminiscence of Amouage Gold for Men to be spot on. Unlike the Amouage, the powder, indoles and civet are flawlessly balanced. And what a glorious presentation of civet it is!

After the aldehydes fade, a rich and almost chewy floral bouquet blooms. I don't feel that the rose is as up-front as some people, but sense more Italian and Spanish jasmines, tuberose, and the sweetness of Michelia champaca. Rose is present, but not predominating. Also present is that sweet comfort of sandalwood the way it used to smell, not the biting skanky scent that is passed as sandalwood these days.

You would think that such heady scents as jasmine, tuberose and champaca would eradicate the opening civet, yet it remains until the end.

Joy is a confident woman, subtly sensual, and always romantic.

This used to be a regular fragrance for me about 25 years ago when I was going through my "violet phase". I've grown the petite violetta di Parma and the Borsari does something quite interesting; it makes no attempt to replicate the isolated scent of the bloom. It instead captures the plant in its native environment, shady, damp, green and earthy. It also bursts forth upon application much as the violet does at the end of winter, calmly defiant of the cold. There must be orris root in it which adds a lovely powdery drydown. For those looking for a violet blossom fragrance, Violette di Parma is not a good match. But for a more earthy and green experience with a hint of blossom, this relatively inexpensive perfume is a lovely choice.

I have tried several Rahat Loukhoum based fragrances and find the Ava Luxe the most wearable of those commonly available in the US without coming across as a dessert cart. Almond is balanced nicely with pistachio. Honey, which can be so cloying, is brightened with rosewater. There is a sharp burnt sugar that may be confused with hazelnut which brings out musk on the drydown.

Crown Ess Bouquet is crisp starched linen and modestly coiffed hair. Its slightly bitter herbal components of lavender, basil and thyme work well with bright citrus. Alone, this would be simplistic but Crown introduces powdery orris and what my nose senses as eglantine rose and possibly something animalic like musk.

It is definitely a confident, no-nonsense fragrance with a very Edwardian sensibility.

If you enjoy powdery rose scents and remove the word 'Musk' from the mix, you may really enjoy this fragrance. It is definitely an ultra-feminine floral and a good one. For those who have dreamed of owning Crown Perfumery's Marechale Original, this is a somewhat cheapened distant relative. The rose component dressed in rich cardamom and galbanum receives a sparkling from something I can't identify. On the drydown, the most lovely powder emerges from soft samdal and musk.

The house of Lorenzo Villoresi has really created a beautifully romantic and aristocratic 18th Century feel with Musk, a time of heavy brocades and velvets, powdered gloves, and gardens of deeply scented roses.

I think Hamptons should be renamed "Eau de Dirty Comb". This vile juice is a dead ringer for a dirty comb or a dandruff-ridden scalp coated with cheap shampoo residue. It is completely dissimilar to Creed Silver Mountain Water save for the rapidity of its fade.

Fortunately this vile concoction washes off easily.

With a title like Eau de Russe, one would think Russian leather; not so with this surprising Crown creation. Don't be fooled by the initial sharp sting of bitter orange and lime with herbal hints. Soon the bittersweet marzipan of heliotrope emerges, further sweetened by burnt sugar. Fortunately, this ultra-sweet powdery floral phase is soon enhanced by an assertive one-two punch of musk and amber, where the fragrance remains until it gently fades several hours later.

Eau de Russe is a comfortable and as easy to wear as last year's sweater, but don't count on it for intrigue or romance.

Bubbly, boozy and peppered with bravado, Eau de Quinine combines the herbal edges and angles of fresh coriander, monarda and artemisia, the tartness of bergamot, the slightly bitter powder of petitgrain, and the heat of nutmeg and clove. I always feel energized and quite the bon vivant when I wear this delicious concoction. My only question, should one apply it shaken or stirred!

I imagine a Limoges vase filled to overflowing with the deepest red damask roses, resting on a silk velvet cloth in a darkly paneled salon. Dusty beams of light fall on the bouquet from thick leaded window panes. Where the sunlight warms the wall, the scent of old and well-rubbed wood emerges. Some of the blood-red petals are broken, revealing their tart and almost bitter white bases.

Crown Rose captures the dark, warm and powdery scent of old red roses, framed by hints of sweet spices and rich woods. An assertive fragrance, there nothing timid about it. There is also a touch of mystery, like eyes peering through the black tulle of an elegant chapeau.

Crown Imperial is my citrus fix! It is driving a thumb into a ripe warm-off-the tree Seville orange, beginning with the burst of rich oil which meets the deliciously bitter pith. Driving deeper meets tart acidic juice and sweet glistening pulp. But there is more, as a seed is crushed between the fingers, releasing an astringent and herbal brightness. For hours after the initial drydown, Crown Imperial deepens and becomes richer and warmer, lasting several hours.

Crown Imperial is confidence and focus. An executive acquaintance never enters an important meeting without it.

Of all the heliotrope perfumes I have smelled, this captures the true beauty of the fresh flower. It's clean, sweet and powdery and doesn't smack of almond extract as many fragrances do when approximating heliotrope. It's as warm and comfortable as a fluffy down comforter without being unduly sweet. Unfortunately this Crown creation is not terribly long lasting.

It's like a walk through an herb garden while peeling a fresh lemon on a cool misty day. You stray off the path and your feet crush the leaves of lavender, Baron thyme (caraway thyme), monarda and tarragon. The scent of the surrounding cedar and trees add their rich woodiness of the experience.

Crown Fougere is a clean, earthy and fresh scent. But it also has its dark and mysterious side.

Crown Esterhazy is a brilliant Roman candle of fragrance. It first shoots upward with lemon zest and mint, soaring until it explodes, sending sparkling trails of lemon blossom, alba rose, lemon pulp, rosemary, bergamot, galangal and thyme. It rests on the skin, almost effervescent, and then is gone. Alas, like the Roman candle, after its brilliant display, it too quickly fades away. Ah, but those bright moments are worth it.

For nearly fifteen years, I celebrate the first burst of spring with Crown Alpine Lily. To me the overall fragrance is not that of the Lily of the Valley but of a complex duet of Asiatic Lily and the lovely Gladiolus tristis. It is rich, spicy and sweet in the way that fennel or anise are. The sweetness is sharpened by aromatic herbs. After the initial drydown, Alpine Lily remains nearly constant for up to six hours and fades gracefully like a diminuendo of the sustained final chord of a symphony.

I'm a Crown Perfumery devotee and confess that, for the first time, I can say that a fragrance in their line is not worthy of the Crown on its bottle. It's a trivial, mundane, overly in-you-face floral. What few spices that have been tossed in barely make a dent in the peach-candy sweetness. This creation might work well as a first fragrance for a young lady, but certainly lacks the complexity and maturity those of us whose youth is but a memory.

I own 11 of Crown Perfumery's masterpieces and can understand why one can still pick up Tanglewood Bouquet for a song.

Comfort, comfort and more comfort! There's no intrigue and no mystery, but the comfort is all-encompassing. It is like a bowl of Middle Eastern confections: almond nougat, pistachio loukhoum, and cardamom kisses rolled in dried rose petals. On the drydown is a soft powdery white heliotrope, true to the fresh blossoms, is warmed with amber and vanilla.

When you wear this, don't expect romance. It's more for those flannel pajama nights.

To me it is a walk through an herb garden surrounded by evergreens after a fall morning rain. I detect mint, but not a crass common variety, rather the delicate sweetness of Persian mint. Fennel, tarragon and possibly lemon thyme are there as well. The sweet evergreen scent of cedar and camphor leaves enriches the bright herbs. I don't detect any woods. Quite some time after the drydown, I sense the faintest floral, but not honeysuckle or muguet as others have mentioned. Both are in my garden and are quite different than the floral notes of Chevrefeuille. It is a less sweet and more 'metallic' blossom.

What a delightful daytime fragrance!

So precious Marechale is to me that I have been nursing two 2ml vials of it for years.