Fragrance Reviews by Naed_Nitram

The opening is strong, startling and uncompromising - rather like waking up inside a cigar box that doubles as a medicine cabinet. But what is so appealing about Czech & Speake's Cuba is the way that this opening olfactory jolt soon transmutes into a softer, far more complex adventure, unique in its way, of the kind which frequently has you sniffing your wrist and declaring "Hmm, that's rather fine." This well-crafted scent, as it develops, somehow manages to combine the pungent with the delicate, warmth with reserve, the earth with the flower, gaiety with gravity, and completes the equation with an authentic air of mystery and distinction.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: "According to the estimable Mario Justiniani, I should love this scent. Sadly, no. Certainly, this is a decadent, hothouse, highly androgynous fragrance, but not in any intriguing way, or so my nose and imagination inform me. Instead, we are treated to a fairly relentless assault of sickly, sweet roses with a definitively cloying and synthetic feel to them. It put me in mind of certain of the scents of Frederic Malle (not many of which I admire).
The association with vampires, mentioned by one reviewer, was unfortunately lost on me. Indeed, I am positive that not one of the vampires of my acquaintance would be seen dead or undead in this fragrance. On the other hand, it did put me in mind of certain overheated salons which my position in society obliges me to endure -- invariably filled with pampered, elderly ladies whose conversation is as suffocating and tedious as their fragrance.
In the domain of decadent dandy's scents, there are far more interesting choices: Anucci Man, Sybaris by Puig, possibly even Frederic Malle's own Musc Ravageur. In the realm of roses, there are also far more intriguing creations: for instance, Alain Delon's Iquitos or, even better, Parfums de Rosine's Rose d'Homme.
Much as I admire certain reviews of the admirable Mario, I am afraid I have nothing good to say of Domenico."

Treading the floor of a medieval maze, brown and green underfoot, warmed by the autumn sun. And, yes, I think that's music and laughter we hear, drifting over the high hedges. Warm brown scent with green spicy undertones, friendly enough, if maybe a bit ordinary in a classy sort of way.

Calm, controlled and subtle. A touch abstract and ambiguous. Serene and elusive, with a trace of wise sadness. I could not decide whether I was inside a philosophical wardrobe or in a mystical boxroom (mysterious whiff of cardboard) or experiencing the memories of an empty alcove or compressed between the pages of a novel by Marcel Proust. A strange, thoughtful aroma, highly poetic, yet also remarkably wearable. (de Charlus).

The ecstatic opening sparkle: like rolling down a joyful bank of flowers, grasses, and precious minerals! Then the long, slow, sweet embrace of its development - pure, light, sensuous, wondrous and warm. A magnificent scent, my masters! (de Charlus).

"My lavender companion, always so welcome, how you greet me with those pure, clear, pale green eyes." "As lavender must, such a spiritual herb." "But why do you lead me now through the ugliness of this acrid slum? The smell is quite putrid, like stale sweat ... Is it the clary sage?" "Just a fleeting detour, my dear. Endure it, for soon we will emerge to the mansion." "Ah, now I see - that big, beautiful house, seemingly conjured from a cloud of vanilla and powder (but still with that acrid undertone). Strange how it seems to fix and fuse the very essence of your lavender dream ... But who are these people gathering there?" "Oh, statesmen and boxers and poets and such. All men of taste and distinction. None can resist my charms." (de Charlus).

A truly wonderful opening, aching with elusive memories. Dame Edith's conservatory ("amid the tiger-purring greenery")? The french windows opening onto the summer night garden of an abandoned country house? The long, empty schoolroom with its wooden floorboards and the silent laughter of dead children? I'll keep it with mine. (de Charlus).

This clean and soapy fellow
Of lavender just sings,
And silky green and yellow
Is the ambience he brings.

The angels must have sired him
Beneath their laurel wings;
The ladies all admired him
And dreamed of wondrous things.

And then he soothes with honey
The sweaty fate of man;
I'll bet you any money
It's Paco H. Rabanne.

Perhaps, like myself, you are an admirer of certain scents of the Spanish House of Puig and of the twist of uniqueness and eccentric originality which it manages to give to some of its creations. To wit: its masterpiece, Quorum, which, despite sneers to the contrary, I still regard as a quintessence of masculine distinction and subtle blending; the sharp yet smooth beauty of Agua Lavanda; Sybaris, where Oscar Wilde meets Attila the Hun in the harem of an Oriental prince; Agua Brava, which, despite its ephemeral qualities and slight suggestion of vinegar, is a unique and somehow very Spanish amalgam of pine forest, bravado, swampy vegetation and murky waters; Vetiver de Puig, profound smell, musty, distinguished and mysterious, of a noble old grandfather.
I am less enamoured of productions like Aqua Quorum and the recent Quorum Silver. In both these cases, it seems to me, Puig offends against the dignity and eccentricity of its heritage by producing scents with no genuine trace of creativity at all. Copies of copies, more or less, mediocrity writ large.
At all events, I could not help being intrigued by certain other Puig productions which are virtually unattainable outside Spain - Brummel, Springfield, Soul of Springfield, Boston Man. Finally, with some difficulty, I managed to locate a bottle of Boston Man aftershave. A definite disappointment. Just another boring, uniformly green scent, determinedly middle of the road, with nothing whatsoever to lift it above the crowd. Boston Man? Mr. Ordinary might be a better name. By no means horrible, but neutral in every way.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: "I recall as a child that one of my first experiences with scent was when I sampled a bottle of Yardley Black Label aftershave in the chateau which my dear father shared with my uncle, the Duc des Esseintes. The exact tone of this scent immediately transported me into a clean, subtle ecstasy of citrus and lavender where, somehow, the fruits of the earth combined with a more ethereal and strange avenue of felt imagination of which, I surmised, paradise itself must be composed.
Latterly, seeking to recapture that childish rapture, I located a bottle of Black Label aftershave (now, according to the label, manufactured by Lentheric and not by Yardley). I was not totally disappointed. A pale reflection of that original realm of refined, heavenly cologne still remained, but certainly less vivid, and I had no memory at all of the elements of wood and spice, now clearly in evidence and pleasant enough, but still an offence to my pure childhood memory.
I found myself wondering. Was it simply the case, as my uncle the Duke was so fond of saying, that Imagination always exceeds Reality? Was it, as my friend Marcel asserts, that to seek to recapture lost time in the present invariably produces a mere shell of that remembered magic? Was it that my taste in scent had altered, perhaps even improved? Or was it just that Lentheric had changed the original Yardley formula?
But it's still a rather fine scent."

Sometimes, when we are at our most extreme point of preciosity and enervation, only Monsieur de Givenchy can satisfy us. At such times, all other scents strike us as too strong, too sharp, too sweet or too bitter. It is then that Monsieur will soothe us with his exquisite refinement and restraint - and all the more so if we take care to close the windows so that the fumes of the infamous Marbert Man, the brash vapours of Calvin Klein Eternity, and the richly thunderous reek of Joop cannot waft up to offend us from the busy streets below. (Marcel).

A fine name, but a dreadful scent, a heavy, chemical, industrial odour that flattens (one cannot say mellows) into something sour and dark. This is a truly lethal elixir. Shoot it! (de Charlus).

Who is this dandy in the red jacket who greets us with sweet, rich laughter and embraces us with a warmth that is almost obscene? Where is this room that he leads us towards, the walls lined with the softest leather, the ceiling composed of pink and of gold? Who are these impossibly elegant people gathering there, who conduct only the most sophisticated conversations amid the tinkle of glasses and music and palms?
Ah, messieurs, I think we are either dreaming or in the land of Habit Rouge. (de Charlus).

When I was a young man and infatuated with the Duchesse de Guermantes, I would always wear Chanel Pour Monsieur because it seemed to me then, as it still does now, to contain some mysterious essence of aristocracy and sophistication. I would follow the Duchess endlessly until one day I summoned up the courage to address her. "Madame," I stammered, we have not been introduced but I believe you know my uncle." "Young man, " she replied with a frown, "I do not know your uncle and I find you presumptuous. Furthermore, you have been following me for days. I have only tolerated it because I adore you cologne."
Although the Duchess and I later became friends, I soon enough lost my love for her. However, I have never relinquished my love for Chanel pour Monsieur. (Marcel).

Many years ago I remember being instantly captivated when I first smpled L'Air du Temps in a store. "Unfortunately, Monsieur le Baron," said the assistant with a smirk, "this is a scent for women." Being young and impressionable at the time concerning such arbitrary social conventions, I blushed and left it on the shelf. Latterly, however, I have renewed my acquaintance with this remarkable fragrance and reaffirmed my first impressions. A sweet heart of carnation surrounded by a clean, fresh breath of joy. Masculine? Feminine? I would rather call it Angelic. (de Charlus).

In whatever afternoon, Pierrot, his creamy costume stained with the blood of a single red carnation, in whatever evening, noble fellow, no longer sad, leaving elegant trails in the air, in whatever morning, with buds of spring and romance on the breeze, you most distinguished stroller, you fine, fine gentleman, prance, dance, click your heels and twirl your cane in the air! (de Charlus).

On initial acquaintance, you might think him a pleasant enough youth. But linger with him awhile and you will discover him to be nothing more than the wooden-hatted cousin of the wooden-headed Azzaro Visit - boring, blatant, relentless, the pair of them. Nice name, though: Borsalini Chapeau.

Well, here we are, messieurs, in the Platonic Essence of Laundry. And very fine it is too: clean, crisp, fresh, smooth, white and pure. After the initial burst of freshness, you might be forgiven for thinking that it has faded into insignificance. But, believe you me, all those around you will be thinking: "What an excellent fellow! How clean he smells! Surely we should invite him home!"

The fairy glade at midnight. Rustle of ivy leaves. Under pallid moonbeams, the Prince of Elves (an enchanting, mysterious fellow) meets the Goblin King (grotesque, sickly, and slightly mad). It is not clear whether they will attack each other or embrace each other. The tension is real, even if it is all a rather too conscious exercise in eccentricity. A touch disgusting, let the strange revels begin! (de Charlus)

Dry, unique, abstract, elegant, elusive. It is almost metaphysical. Against a cool grey background, showers of silver, shadows of sweetness, and somehow, the mysterious smell of empty space. (de Charlus)

Clean, aristocratic, and somewhat mysterious. Perhaps it is the rose interfused with the lemon that gives it that ancient air. I am back with my ancestors, Duc de Laumes, Duc des Dunes, Damoiseau de Meringuez at the court of the Sun King at Versailles. Whispers of intrigue fill the corridors, murmurs of treason, sighs of romance, rumours of elevation or disgrace, promises, threats, despairs. And, pervading all in the busy and treacherous air, this beautiful scent hangs heavy and still in the royal afternoon. (de Charlus)

Do you know Signor Armani,
Sophisticated citrus swami?
With herbs and spices subtly blent
He makes a most superior scent.
If you crave olfactory orgies
There's nothing quite like Gorgeous Georgie's!

Revisiting Drakkar Noir after several years, I was surprised by its strong resemblance to one of my favourite scents - Geoffrey Beene's Bowling Green. For that reason alone I have to love it. Bowling Green (which stands comparison with Nicolai's much-praised New York) is perhaps more subtle and sophisticated, but the resemblance between them is striking.
Clean, green, sharp, and beautiful. Almost sumptuous at times. The trick with Drakkar Noir seems to be not to over-apply it. Let it whisper, not shout. It is certainly superior to supposed competitors/imitators like the aristocratic Duc de Vervins or the proletarian Caesar's Man. It is possibly the equal of Gucci Nobile.
Come to think of it, I suppose Bowling Green may have been partly influenced by Drakkar Noir. But perhaps that was a case of the pupil surpassing the teacher.

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris concerning Versailles Pour Homme: "Messieurs and mesdames, this is not so much a rare and discontinued gem, more a case of the Emperor wearing no clothes. It is sad that I, such a kindly man, should find myself forced to prick the bubble of misguided rapture which so many souls have been deluded into adopting towards this fragrance.
There is about Versailles Pour Homme a certain off-note, a sort of vegetal distemper, possibly belonging to the dusty kitchen garden dreams of pimento or capsicum, that renders it utterly unsuited for more than a median ranking in the realms of fine, spicy gentleman's colognes. Why, in this regard it is surpassed by so many other scents, including the much-maligned Quorum and even, quite possibly, by the brown ruminations of Marbert Man (with which Versailles Pour Homme shares definite affinities).
You may choose to think that my judgement merely reflects the subjective waywardness of a fractious dilettante. I assure you it does not. What I have just told you is an objective truth about perfumery!"
The Baron's address so astonished and angered his audience that he was obliged to hurriedly leave the building under a police escort.

In the house of Grandmaman, the louvred doors opened onto a cool, clean chamber. Inside, a pile of clothes smelling of cool, clean lavender. Serene, elegant, fine. In the house of Grandmaman. Although Grandpapa wore it also. Translucent dandy. Smooth, balanced, quiet, subtle, soft, crystalline. In the garden, a blue-green pool, fringed by delicate woods and grasses. A pure and magical scent.

There is no doubt that Givenchy Gentleman has been reformulated and that there is a significant difference between the old and the new formulae. To my nose, something has been lost in the new formulation and something has been gained.
What has been lost is the sparkling brilliancy of its opening notes (which were some of the most beautiful in perfumery). The opening notes of the new Gentleman formula are, in comparison, rather drab, toned down, and synthetic, not exactly a yawn, but hardly an invitation to poetry and magic. What has been gained is that that beautiful opening is no longer followed by the pungent aroma of civet which loomed large in the old formula and which I always found a trial rather than a pleasure. Instead, the new formula concentrates on a lingering fusion of woods and patchouli.
The old and the new formula really do seem to me to be two different scents - but there is a thread of identity between them. You would not, I think, mistake the new one for anything else.

Remembering the good Captain, I recalled how he would spend most of his time in the ship's laundry, almost none on the bridge. Here was no hearty seadog, but a light, slight, delicate fellow who emanated a faint whiff of lavender amid the essence of clean clothes.
"Spray as we may, Cap'n," grumbled his crew, "we can scarce smell you at all! How's a jolly tar to make the doxies drool when we gets on to shore?" "Belay there, lads," warbled the Captain in his light, pleasant voice, "you'll need an ocean of this lotion! Twelve squirts to starboard and twelve squirts to port! And the ladies love a quiet, clean, mild-mannered man!"

The Baron de Charlus once told me: "It was in a Hampshire churchyard that I first encountered the original Dunhill for Men (1934). It emanated from an elderly and aristocratic-looking clergyman, complete with tweeds and pipe, who was busy poking his walking stick at dandelions among the tombstones.
Drawing rather too close for his comfort, I proceeded to sniff at him prodigiously. 'A somewhat timid tincture,' I pronounced, 'but nonetheless perfectly balanced in its reticence: a conservative combination that manages to be quietly ecstatic in its progressive fusions of citrus, florals and restrained leather. As the admirable Foetidus has remarked, it demands superlatives, although personally I would prefer just a touch more strength and duration.'
'Excellent, my dear fellow,' replied the reverend gentleman rather nervously, somewhat disconcerted by my close proximity, 'jolly good show and all that. But perhaps you and the admirable Foetidus should go back to from where you came, lest, God forbid, something unseemly should chance to happen.'"

The Baron de Charlus once told me: "It was on the South Coast of England that I first encountered Victor Club, Victor's more elevated and distinguished brother. I found myself by chance in a seaside resort - perhaps it was Bournemouth, perhaps it was Torquay - the haunt of that brigade of retired bank managers and elderly small businessmen who invariably dress in symphonies of grey or beige whilst perambulating between the golf club, the Rotary Club and regimental reunions.
As one of their number passed me by, the smell of Victor Club wafted towards my nostrils, lemony fresh, decent and kindly, yet with a distinct air of quiet woody authority.
It put me in mind of more innocent times, certainly vanished and possibly purely imaginary: when bicycles had no gears, television sets were hardly invented, it rained often but always respectably, family picnics were held on the South Downs, and the English middle classes pursued eccentric but sober hobbies in their garden sheds."

The Baron de Charlus once told me: "I recall the time when I was a houseguest at the Firenze villa of Lorenzo Villoresi, the master perfumier and philosopher. Leading me into his airy laboratory above the rooftops, he liberally sprayed me with Garofano and inquired as to its effects.
"Mon cher maitre," I responded, "much as I admire your angelic Yerbamate, your spiritual Wild Lavender, the medieval frankness of your Spezie,the refined coca cola reminiscences of your Piper Nigrum, the eau de cologne quintessence of your Dilmun, the embroidered de Medici intrigues of your Incensi, I fear that with Garofano you have overreached yourself. An initial thrust of carnation is soon overcome and bewildered by a swamp of rotting flowers and slightly leathery spices. Poetic, if you will, but a sickly-stale poetry of the rubbish heap, the death bed and decay."

Curiously located somewhere between a timeless fairytale and the mid-1800s, Acca Kappa's 1869 puts me in mind of a Bavarian village of around that date. The Lord descends from his manor; the goose girl blushes but nevertheless gives him an accusing look. Their poetic love child, steeped in mystery and tradition: Acca Kappa 1869. (de Charlus).

A wispy dream of cedar beside the pale lemon groves. Slight but perfect of its kind. (de Charlus).

Intriguing if slightly suspect, Aubusson Homme is something of a curate's egg among fragrances, its pleasant and enticing aspects being offset by far less pleasant elements.
Two squirts to the wrist will afford an opening medley in which pine is certainly present but strangely mixed with the rather medicinal odour of old-fashioned herbal cough candy. Hence the associations with mint and clove. Lurking in the background, however, is a smell that strikes my nose as that curious and insufferable fusion of ginger, incense and mustard made infamous by the original Carlo Corinto (another curate's egg among fragrances) and still more so by the likes of One Man Show and Krizia Uomo (both not so much curate's eggs as priests utterly disgraced and defrocked for their acts of depravity against the nostrils of the innocent).
Softer, balsamic elements strangely announce their entry into this odd assortment of smells during the later phases of the fragrance, rescuing it to some extent.
As I say, intriguing, if a touch weird, and wearable in certain moods of gravitas, daring or eccentricity.

Perhaps initially pleasant, but then it becomes altogether too much, sweet, overblown, sickly, lush and gross. In his mistress's powdery boudoir, the pale, flabby posterior of the soft, fat Duke reflects itself in the mirror.

Quite an intriguing scent. A powdered fop trapped in a slightly mildewed gothic cellar. Possibly worn by Edgar Allan Poe?

Surely the estimable Senor Cavs is correct: Benetton Sport really is rather cheap and nasty.

I am impressed by the way that Monsieur Madgradrx, with precise poetic accuracy, has likened the smell of Carven Vetiver to "rainwater collecting on a plastic sheet or tarpaulin during a spring shower". (see his review below). Yet, acute as it is concerning the initial impression which Carven Vetiver conveys, this still does not quite capture the superb, balanced,slightly acrid yet enormously distinguished and mysterious aroma of this scent through its whole development, producing one of the finest gentleman's vetivers known to man (and one, so far as I can see, that the later Etro Vetiver rather slavishly imitates).
What is less well known is that Carven Vetiver was apparently created by the Duc des Esseintes (in one of his many experiments designed to demonstrate how art can improve on nature)in seeking to reproduce by artificial chemical means the exact smell of rainwater on a plastic sheet in a spring shower. I think we should judge his experiment a complete success.

Rich, suave juice with echoes of Habit Rouge. There is the same sense of being enveloped in a sophisticated, expensive perfume cloud, deep and dandyish. True, Rochas Lui has less of the "pink perfume citric fizz" of Habit Rouge. Rochas Lui has less of that light sparkle, more of a softly stealing "golden brown" quality - a sort of Habit Rouge feel damped down and deepened by shadowed vanilla woods.
Imagine the Compte de Rochas, having left his stockbroker's office, ascending in the elevator to visit the apartment of his mistress. Surrounding him throughout his entire journey is this luxurious, aristocratic, slightly decadent cloud of scent.
According to my friend Marcel, Rochas Lui puts him in mind of the generic smell of the leisured and haughty Faubourg Saint Germain society of his youth in the 1890s and early 1900s. Of course, this may be to with imagination as much as memory.

Mint and lost laughter in the herb garden. Long sunlit summer afternoons. Was it in Italy or an English country house? Either way, this scent admirably captures such ephemeral moments of youth and joy.

My Lord Pontaccio, cousin of the Earl of Aramis, nephew of the Duke of Chanel, rides through the castle gates. Dark riches in his baggage train: sacks of gold, of spices, of exotic woods, perhaps even a slight hint of slaughtered game. Many a lackey bows, many a maiden blushes. A scent of rough war and smooth politics, fortified palaces and sophisticated intrigues.

It is said of the notorious Lou "Five Potatoes" Barsini that he once persuaded every pharmacy in the Bronx to stock Caesars Man with the following marketing jingle:

It's fresh and clean as my ma,
It's straight and strong as my pa,
It's smart and cool as my bruddah
And every one of the uddah
Connected guys in my crew,
So it's gotta be good news for you.
All the guys will respect yah,
All the goils will inspect yah,
Caesars Man will protect yah.
It's a class act,
It's a lime-filled fact,
It's high muck-a-muck,
So don't be a schmuck,
Go out and get some today!

If you were feeling uncharitable, you might say that YSL Pour Homme Haute Concentree is all about a sweaty man sucking lemons. But that would be untrue as well as unkind. An invigorating opening of sharp lemon is very soon joined by what strikes my nostrils as a rather sour note of male body odour. This is presumably the "dirty herbs" aspect of the fragrance which the estimable Vicompte de K refers to somewhere.
The citrus and the sweating herbs engage in conversation for quite a while, by turns intriguing, attractive, and slightly offensive. The family resemblance with the original YSL Pour Homme is always in evidence, although the Haute Concentree version is a less straightforward fellow, just as refined (both in terms of quality of ingredients and subtle modulations from one phase of the scent to the next), but with a hint of rudeness and peculiar personal habits.
The later phases of the Haute Concentree version are truly delightful and also seem to me to come closest to the original YSL Pour Homme - the slightly suspect dirty herbs/ body odour element surrenders to a warm and exquisite complexity.
I have to say that I still prefer the cleaner, sunnier ambience of the original.

When the reclusive dandy Jean Floressas Duc des Esseintes chose to retreat from the world to his house at Fontenay, it is known that the only mass market fragrance that he took with him was Tabac.
His reasons for this were noted in his diary: " It is perfectly obvious that Tabac, this subtle, carnation-tinged elixir of clean freshness and powdery comfort, is the unavoidable choice of honest, worthy and sensitive souls - bright-eyed and kindly, modest and adaptable, solicitous embrace, fresh laundry flapping in the summer breeze, dear friend of winter days! Niche perfumiers would give their eye-teeth to have invented it! Besides, everyone knows that niche perfumes are generally purchased by braying bourgeois and nouveau riche, the kind of people who talk too loudly, jostle you in the street without a word of apology, and, with utter thoughtlessness, run baby carriages into your knees! For that reason alone, niche perfumes should be avoided!"
What other scents he took with him to his exquisite retreat is uncertain, but they probably included Dior's Jules, Chanel Pour Monsieur, Caron Pour Un Homme, YSL Pour Homme, the original green Jaguar and Jaguar Mark II, Leonard Pour Homme, Worth Pour Homme, the original Paco Rabanne, Quorum, Guerlain's Vetiver and Coriolan, Bowling Green, Nino Cerruti Pour Homme, Cotswold by Dukes of Pall Mall, Signoricci, Portos by Balenciaga, Cacharel Pour Homme and Monsieur de Givenchy.

A sort of plainclothes policeman among fragrances - innocuous, inoffensive, fairly boring, easily lost in the crowd. A hint of spice, a hint of freshness, nothing much to either like or dislike here.

The more recent Luciano Soprani Uomo (2003) is not to be confused with the older Soprani Uomo (1988). The latter is much the better scent to my nose, an artistic and delightful fusion of lemon and herbs. Luciano Soprani Uomo, on the other hand, has a more fruity flavour to its opening, which is pleasant enough. But it soon develops into a sweetish woody smell which I find both cloying and boring. One is left hoping that it will either go away or develop into something more interesting - but it doesn't. Someone has remarked that there is a certain affinity with Cacharel Pour Homme. Possibly, barely. But Luciano Soprani Uomo totally lacks the beauty, panache and sparkle of Cacharel, one of the classics of male fragrance.

I believe that this complex and interesting scent was one of the few perfumes that the reclusive dandy Jean Floressas Duc des Esseintes took with him when he chose to retire from the world to his house at Fontenay on the outskirts of Paris.
His reasons for this choice were noted in his diary: "Since Carlo Corinto contains echoes of so many other scents, perambulating from the sublime and serene to the grotesque and ridiculous, it is obviously more economical, in an aesthetic rather than a merely commercial sense, to encapsulate all these variegated odours and atmospheres within a single perfume. The serene minty abstraction of the slightly bourgeois Azzaro Pour Homme, the aristocratic weight of Van Cleef & Arpels Pour Homme, the poetic autumnal smoke of Leonard Pour Homme, the masculine ruminations of the underrated Quorum, the almost criminal vulgarity of the noxious messes that are One Man Show and Krizia Uomo, the metaphysical peregrinations of Oscar Pour Lui and Zegna - plus a certain flat monotony that is all its own - they are all there. I am convinced that Carlo Corinto will memorialise for me the whole gamut of joy and sorrow, beauty, ugliness and boredom which pervades the world I am abandoning!"
His experiment with Carlo Corinto could, I suppose, be called a success. On occasions, the two elderly servants whom he had brought with him from his ancestral home at the Chateau de Lourps would find him quietly sniffing his wrists, an appreciative look in his eye. At other times, they found him writhing in anguish on the carpet, gasping for breath, as if suffocating from some unspeakable stench from the sewers.

A pleasant, traditional, rather distiguished citrus-based cologne from the little known House of Morris. Its opening is clean, fresh and pure. The development unfolds in much the same vein, although tempered with woods. Some may find it delicate to the point of faint and fleeting. Never cheap-smelling, traditionalists may apply liberally and enjoy quietly. In many ways, a superior eau de cologne sort of smell.

It is said of the aged Duc de Fremeille's head footman, whose name was appropriately Charles, that he always wore the fragrance Chaz by Revlon, the supposed epitome of cheap and cheerful machismo. One day Monsieur le Duc inquired of him gruffly: "Charles, may I borrow your Chaz? I seem to have mislaid my Creeds and I have a reception to attend at the house of the Princesse de Palme."
Suitably soaked in Chaz, the elderly Duke tottered off to his reception. On his arrival, he was astonished to find himself surrounded by a bevy of aristocratic beauties, fluttering their eyelashes at him and uttering noises in unison like some fatuous, fawning choir - a veritable chorus of cooing and oohing, aahing and baaing.
On returning home, the Duke informed his footman: "Charles, although it is neither my wish nor my wont to make the cutecakes crumble, indeed, it would be positively unseemly for one of my advanced years to function as a babe magnet, nevertheless that is exactly what happened! And I believe I owe it all to Chaz!"
(Such the dream of Chaz... The dream meets the reality in a cheap orange-coloured thump of blunt brown vibrations, quite reminiscent of that great boar's pen among male fragrances: Marbert Man. It puts me implacably in mind not of Tom Selleck but of Tom Jones at his most sweating, most grunting and most gross, all thrusting hips and curly black pubic hair).

A definitive study in rich, mysterious, quaintly medicinal brown, Aigner's Superfragrance constitutes a pungent poem of smoky woods and spices. Its opening and dominant note, which sings monolithically throughout the entire melody, is unique and powerful to the point of overpowering. I warn you, messieurs, the merest drop will suffice. Over-lavish application will merely disress the innocents around you. In the appropriate dosage, however, it is poetic, mysterious and fine, and will waft its message accordingly to the surrounding and grateful populace.
I believe that this may have been one of the perfumes that the legendary Ras Tafari ordered to be sprinkled around his stockades and palaces. At all events, it evokes the poetry of ancient traditions and exotic lands, curiously comined with the aroma of pharmacies and elevators in expensive hotels. (de Charlus).

Discovered in Matron's case: a phial of citric, minty, medicinal liquid.

A visit to the library? The strange, reserved, clean smell of the pages of old volumes bound in soft calf leather?

The Baron de Charlus once told me: "I recall the time when once I paid a visit to the Baker Street residence of the great detective Sherlock Holmes.
'Pray be silent,' admonished Holmes, holding up a commanding finger. 'I deduce from your signet ring that you are the Baron de Charlus. No doubt you are here to seek my help in locating a bottle of the rare and discontinued fragrance Cellini by Faberge. I note too that, on the way here, you stopped off at the bootmakers where you examined a number of soft and exquisite leathers, most probably suede. You have also very recently been consuming toffees, again of the finest quality, and most probably of the caramel variety.'
'My dear Holmes,' I responded, 'in this instance the bloodhound-like propensities of your nose have overreached the deductive capacities of your brain. As a matter of fact, I came here to ask your assistance in locating a bottle of the mythical Grosvenor by Dukes of Pall Mall. As for the soft, warm, distinguished aroma of subtle leather eccentrically but exquisitely combined with caramel-like confectionary, this is merely due to the fact that I am wearing Etienne Aigner (1975), the first and perhaps the finest of the masculine fragrances of the House of Aigner.'
Somewhat piqued by the imperfect success of his deductions, the great detective refused to take on my case."

A sharp, piercing, slightly bitter, herbal eau de cologne sort of smell, single-pointed, lacking any real development. To my nose, ordinary bordering on unpleasant. Perhaps I was expecting too much from the makers of the fastidious, dandyish Anucci Man.

Wandering idly through the park of Madame ****, I found myself humming the ancient air "Roses Pour Madame, Roses Pour Monsieur". It put me in mind of Iquitos. Whilst no great lover of rose-based scents, I feel I should make an exception in the case of Iquitos.
Quite brazen and luscious in its overture, Iquitos (all too often mistaken for a feminine fragrance) unfolds into a development where the root of the flower joins the sweet, warm earth. In that bravura of scented depth, I found myself pondering on the darker, even fossilized, remains of that deep and fragrant soil. Arrowheads, amorous primates, mythical deities, long forgotten wars, lustrous dawns and earth quivering cataclysms.
Whilst Iquitos will never figure in a list of my favourite fragrances, I feel I must grant it, as surely you must too, a certain air of poetic profundity. (de Charlus).

A light golden juice with a dark golden smell, rich, soft, leathery, spicy. It exudes sexuality, experience, sophistication. This lady has been around, seen the elephant, heard the owl. Once she went out with Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, don't you know.

This is fit only for the Denizens of Deard (whoever they may be). I mean to say that if you go down to the woods today, these black-hearted, jeering fellows will pop out from behind every tree, grinning vacantly through pointy teeth, shoving their scented wrists towards you with this offensive perfume blaring at you like a tarnished trombone. And what have you got then? Well, to paraphrase the great Robert Preston, you got trouble, right here in Blatant City, you got trouble, right here in Boresville, with a capital T and that rhymes with ... well, actually, it rhymes with blatant, boring, relentless woody smell, totally lacking in subtlety or imagination. Take Azzaro Visit, put it in a box alongside Borsalini's Chapeau and Joop's Rococo, and throw 'em in the deep blue sea!

The Baron de Charlus once told me: "You may or may not have heard of the fragrance 'Silences for Men' by Jacomo. I was presented with a bottle of it when I was a houseguest at the castle of my aunt, the Grand Princess Ermentrude Talbotha der Krateen, she whose family were once tyrannical rulers of all the provinces of Upper and Lower Palatine. Quite a handsome bottle, opaque, oblong, black, with the words 'Silences' and 'Golden' written on it in gold.
'Nephew,' demanded the old crone in a menacing whisper, 'what is your opinion of this excellent fragrance?' Cautiously applying a few drops to my skin, I sniffed and recoiled in horror. 'My dear Aunt Ermentrude,' I responded, 'this is indubitably the epitome of disaster! If I must dignify it with a description, it is reminiscent of nothing so much as rancid soap bubbles! It calls to mind the almost unimaginable concept of a decaying fairy trapped in an old waste pipe! It navigates a territory best left unexplored by all save dungeon masters, torturers, cruel old witches and leprous dwarves! Though it pains me to do so, I feel I should oofer a prayer of supplication to the Great God Tommy T and to the quintessentially clean-cut spectre of the immortal and bespectacled John Denver: Take me home, country roads, take me home!'
Observing the monstrous old lady quiver with indignation, I beat a hasty retreat, being all too aware of her clutching talons and beckoning dungeons. In retrospect, of course, it may have been that the bottle of Silences for Men had gone off, like almost everything else in that gloomy and godforaken place."

The Baron de Charlus once composed an incantation for Mitsouko eau de toilette: "O mighty metamorphoses of variegated impressions, O subtle transmutations of delicate echoes in animalistic abysses, initial whispers of jacinth, tamarind and peaches retreating in smoke, O shifting shapes, ash on an old man's sleeve, the powdery, withered skin of the elderly Duchess, nefarious odours emanating from under the flaps of the crocodile's scales, the rich, overheated boudoir with the windows sealed shut, the Queen's laundry basket full of the smells of soiled and perfumed clothing, the haunted mansion on the hill lost in mist and time, disembodied voices of the dead recalling their memories of fleshly delights, the sweet, powdery smell of slow decay flitting over the pure and virginal skin of the young Princess, frail dawn cobwebs hanging in the sombre woods, somewhat nauseous waves of respectability, decadence, sex and death emanating from the pages of a Victorian novel.
Poetic? To be sure. Philosophical? To be sure. Wearable? Hmmm ... In terms of wearability, its final phase seems to me the best - when Mitsouko takes on the aroma of a warm, kindly, subtle second skin, both natural and elegant."

Imagine a sober, sombre Dickensian lawyer, dressed all in dark grey, with somewhat grim, determined features. Returning home, he enters the kitchen and consults with cook concerning this evening's menu. Moving into the drawing room, the smell of kitchen herbs now clings to his aura of musty, respectable grey. His wife and children greet him admiringly, somewhat in awe of his definite air of herbal gravity. Retiring to the bathroom, he washes himself with a refined lemon soap (the trace of citrus, unusually, entering towards the end rather than the beginning of the fragrance).
What should we call this complex gentleman? Is it Mr. Ebenezer Gilkes? No, it's Mr. Matthias Baladin.

Say what you will, but Shalimar is about first love. Or, to be more precise, Shalimar is about the frail, fantastical exaggerations of first love. Or, to be still more precise, Shalimar is about a mature lady's or gentleman's faded memories of that great and vast first love. Impossible fairy powder, insubstantial yet insistent, it occupies a point where the jubilant whisper of youth's endless horizons meets the enclosed formal gardens of sophistication and mannered regret. (de Charlus).

Dear plum of my heart! Here in the cheery orchard where you exude a certain sensuality and a definite love of life! Here where the ornate murmurs of plum blossom in Japanese gardens are overtaken by the warm and sultry ripeness of Mediterranean nights! Are you too obvious? Surely not! Let us be friends! (de Charlus).

Bearing an indubitable affinity to the smoky, tea-tinged mysteries of its counterpart, Trussardi Uomo, I am not at all sure that the female version of Trussardi is not the finer and more ubiquitous scent.
The smoky, serious, rather masculine opening is somewhat belied by the rumour of sweet spices that murmur beneath its smoke. Yet that sweetness is never allowed to dominate proceedings, so that the overall impression is of a milder, toned down Trussardi Uomo - smoky and abstract, gunpowder and milk, restrained spice and sophistication, profound and immaculate.
I find it a thoroughly androgynous scent, wearable by gentlefolk of either gender. (de Charlus).

Wandering through the labyrinthine corridors of his mind, how often did the great philosopher Immanuel Kant resort to Zegna to stimulate his thought! In that darkened alcove, where unfathomable grey met impenetrable brown, where only the merest shadow of lemon flitted elusively through the dim phenomena of his study, this perfume, like some dark matrix of the brooding possibility of being, formed an enigmatic pool enticingly veiling the absolute.
"It seems to me, guvnor," said his servant, "that this must be the most metaphysical scent that we've encountered so far. When it comes to serious, no-frills professor's perfumes, this must be the thing-in-itself!"
"Yes, indeedy," murmured Professor Kant absentmindedly, "clearly beyond categorization, possibly beyond space and time. Although I find it somewhat strange that it has an abstract aroma of stale tea about it. Could it be that the universe is in reality a giant tea bag?"

Lemon 'n' leather 'n' beans on the trail! No Frenchy frilly-dilly here! A solid scenteroo from the US of A! Bully! Honky Tonk! Bully! (Theodore "Teddy" Roosevelt).

Certainly one of the more pleasant budget scents - clean, green, fresh and somewhat soapy. But, on initial application, hovering around the edges of these pleasant impressions and somehow interfused with them, there is a rather cheap chemical hairspray element which detracts from the whole effect. As the scent settles on the skin (and it is quite long-lasting), the chemical hairspray element fortunately seems to retreat and you are left with a well-crafted, well-balanced fragrance.
I agree with other reviewers that the musk is not very much to the fore, although it is there. I would place Monsieur Musk in the top rank of budget scents, along with Tabac Original, Puig's Agua Lavanda, Acqua di Selva, Victor's Fresco, Blue Stratos and Dana's English Leather.

I like the admirable Lamp-Lad's graphic and accurate comparison of British Sterling with "old pitted English pewter" in the review below. There is an aroma of the musty old English stately home and the impoverished aristocracy about this scent. It has a sort of stale aura of decaying tradition about it. The Duke being mistaken for the gardener, perhaps, metal polish and gun oil on the dining room table, an old riding boot rotting away in the overgrown herb garden, the faintly mildewed smell of the disused ballroom.
While I find its smell fairly intriguing, it seems to fade fairly quickly.

I'm afraid the appeal of this fragrance pretty much escapes me. I agree with the reviewer who described Canoe as both medicinal and powdery. But, unlike him and several others,this does make me want to wax nostalgic about the 1930s and barbershops. Instead, it makes me wonder why anyone would want to douse themselves in something that resembles the smell of a treatment for fungal infections of the feet and crotch.

Deep, deep woods, powerful, poetic, brooding, enigmatic, unique. Sticking my neck out, I would call this the equal of any of the woody creations of exalted Houses like Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier, Comme des Garcons, Comptoir Sud Pacifique or L'Artisan.
A little goes a long way. Classed as an eau de toilette, its strength resembles that of an eau de parfum or even a pure perfume. This is fortunate, since, being discontinued, it is hard to obtain a bottle. But you can still find 5 ml. miniatures from the likes of Dutyfreeperfume or Perfumechoice - and a miniature is all you will need, since a drop is all you will need.
Hardly an everyday fragrance, but fine for special occasions or a connoisseur's private moments of delight. Every fragrance aficionado should try it.

Not so much a Deep Forest, more of a Magic Wood. The name Deep Forest, perhaps, connotes the breezy biff of conifers, a sort of Pino Silvestre tang. But, if this is a forest, it is decidedly deciduous and enchanted: exotic flowers enveloped in clouds of powdery leaves, softly bursting bubbles of incense, sweet heart of strange wood, possibly the odd fairy or elf flitting about. The whole put together with a high degree of artistry. Suitable for either sex, I'd say.

A nice enough fellow (green suit, green smile, green opinions), but he spouts a lot of cliches and is frankly a bit of a bore. Your mother might like him but, if I see him in the Faubourg Saint Germain, I shall pretend that we have never been introduced. (de Charlus).

This is the story of Vera Wang:
Starts with a whispering lemony tang,
Turns to a tobacco and woody affair
But there's nothing spectacular going on there.
It's pleasant enough, my nose surmises,
But hardly deserving of any first prizes.
I find it not so much understated
As overpriced and overrated.
More than a whimper, less than a bang,
And that is the story of Vera Wang.

Strange how a name can mislead. From the name alone, I was expecting Basile Uomo Forte to be rather like Yatagan or Sud Est, a sort of raw, bitter, hebaceous scent. Or, perhaps, with a culinary herbal overload like MPG's Baime. The reality is rather different: Basile Uomo forte is actually rather soft and subtle, almost a quiet background scent. If a slight herbiness is there, it's hardly detectable, being soothed and smoothed in a pillow of soft spices. It's more than a touch powdery. Pleasant, relaxing, refined. Classic and elusive. Unusual and welcome.

Resting his poor, misshapen body by the great bells, how often Quasimodo smelled this scent drifting up to his cot in the cathedral's dome! It spoke to him of that world he saw every day but scarcely understood: rich, royal, powerful and superb.
The Cardinal in consultation with the King. The red and purple robes. The gold brocade and ermine. The lines of nobles and wealthy merchants taking their places in the pews. The rising haze of incense. The hierarchy of rank and privilege. Princes, Ministers, Councillors.
This scent, musty and weighty, rich with incense and spice - it even penetrated his dreams. With a sigh, the hunchbacked bellringer returned to his pauper's supper of grey bread and mouldy cheese.

A bit of a Chinese hermit, if you ask me. Got that elusive smell of the Tao about him. He came down from the mountains, went into the temple, gulped down a bowl of rice, exchanged a few words with the Grandmaster, then disappeared again.
"What a strange-smelling person, Master," observed a young monk, "I'm not sure if he smells nice or nasty, or, indeed, if he smells of anything very definite at all." "Nice or nasty, young grasshopper," replied the Grandmaster, "present or absent, wowzer or yowzer, like it, dislike it - who cares? He has the intangible smell of the Ucarved Block about him. Thumbs up, thumbs down - who cares? Neutral is best."

We are told that when the great philosopher Immanuel Kant finally finished writing his Critique of Pure Reason, he was so near the point of mental exhaustion that his nerves craved some cruder physical stimulus. Informing his servant that he intended to set out for a night on the town, he was about to spray on some Halston 1-12 when his servant stopped him in his tracks.
"Hang on, guvnor, if it's a night of boozing, brawling and wenching that you're after, you'll need something with a bit more oomph than the professorial 1-12 - something more like Halston Z-14."
The Professor sprayed on some Z-14 from the bottle which his servant offered him and thoughtfully sniffed his wrists. "My, my," he declared, "this scent puts me in mind of the Antinomy of Pure Reason with which I have just completed my intellectual struggles, for you could with equal reasonableness advance contradictory theses concerning it: vulgar yet refined, crude yet complex, obvious yet enigmatic, cheap yet distinguished, sweet yet masculine, bold yet soft and warm. A veritable nest of contradictions!"
In the event, the Professor became so absorbed by the paradoxes that Z-14 presented to his skin that he quite forgot about his night out on the town and stayed in his study instead, sniffing himself till dawn.

It is rumoured that when the great philosopher Immanuel Kant was struggling with the finer points of his Transcendental Deduction, he developed a bad case of thinker's block. Dabbing his brow with 4711 cologne was of little help. He took to grunting neurotically and developed a nervous tic.
"It seems to me, guvnor," said his servant, "that what you need is a bottle of Halston 1-12: an oddly intellectual scent, quiet, reserved and abstract, a genteel whisper of sharpness, elusive, delicate and complex - a real Professor's perfume in my opinion."
After several applications of the said 1-12, we are told that the great man stopped grunting and twitching and soared off into the upper stratosphere of critical metaphysics once again.

Hovering on the cusp between vulgarity and refinement, on terms of nodding acquaintance with the formidable Quorum and its ilk, you could certainly say that this scent, like the actor after which it is named, has more than a touch of golden, spicy, masculine charm and warm and handsome glory. Let modern babes pronounce it "Blergh!" while mature madames smile knowingly.

Shades of the original and wonderful Nino Cerruti Pour Homme - but gone wrong. Taken a bad turn under a cruel moon. Pale midnight flowers of metal, sweetly blaring, sweetly glaring, garish, insidious, and somehow harsh. An evil spell seems to surround this potion. 'From the hag and hungry goblin/That into rage would rend ye/And the spirit that stands by the naked man/In the book o' the moons defend ye!'

Everybody's favourite uncle, so his niece Clothilde once observed, he bore the marks of a superb distinction, impeccable taste and rumours of royal connections. Yet he was the most modest of men and possessed of such quiet warmth and charm that you could hardly help but bask in his amiable presence.
Ladies always smiled at him, men acknowledged him respectfully, children felt comforted by his gentle shadow. His symbolic colours, despite that pink and delicate hue, murmured of soft browns flecked with warm tints of gold. His smell: smooth and kindly harmony of reserved herbs and spices, soapy and clean, full of gentleness, nobility and depth.
As his housekeeper so frequently reminded me: 'Ah, that Monsewer Rochas, wot a gent! We'll never see his like again!'

Extraordinary effusion of rich golden brown. The diplomat's delight, the Prince's luscious vice. Why, even Ebenezer the Puritan might secretly lick his lips on encountering Ambre Russe. Take me careening down these potent liquid corridors, past the chambers of beautiful society ladies, past the dressing room of the distinguished Arch-Duke struggling with his truss, five hundred golden mirrors, a thousand secret assignations, ending up in front of the Ambassador's office, a sophisticated if suspect fellow, oozing power and charm. (de Charlus).

A somewhat sad affair of one-dimensional green, lacking flair or complexity. It has with justice been compared to the original Paul Smith for Men: there is the same bright, pleasant opening sparkle of cut green grass about them both. But, like Paul Smith, Greenergy knows not where to go or how to develop. It simply lingers in a mundane haze of vague, flat greenery until, with some relief, it finally expires. While not actively horrible, Greenergy functions rather in the fashion of a green stain upon the pristine white waistcoat of Monsieur de Givenchy or the dandified frilled shirt front of Givenchy Gentleman. A fairly pleasant but rather mediocre scent from the House of Givenchy. (de Charlus).

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'Known among my circle as the Fencer's Friend, how we loved to bathe ourselves in Trophee Lancome after an invigorating bout of thrust and parry in the gymnasium! It was especially beloved of the Compte Robert de Montesquiou-Fesenzac, who once informed me: "Salty encrustations of male heat can hardly withstand its initial thrust of green citrus, still less parry its disarming development of sophisticated golden circles, light, warm and subtle! Fit for the Dauphin's groin! Or the perspiring pate of the man-at-arms! Or the damp armpit of the surly archer!" A great medievalist, the Compte de Montesquiou.'

Fresh, fine citrus which, as so often with MPG fragrances, sets a standard of quality for scents of this type. I thought it quite reminiscent of the splendid YSL Pour Homme, both in its opening and its development.

Monsieur Gendarme stepping out with Lady Lavender. A marriage made in heaven.

I hear that this recently won the Finest Sandalwood Scent in the Universe Award at the intergalactic competitions. Well deserved, too, in my opinion. The kind of fine, light, sweet, warm sandlewood that one can only dream about. A distinguished wonder, suitable for both lads and lasses (and extra-terrestrials too).

The Baron de Charlus recently informed me: 'The other night I dreamed again that I was in the Palace of Versailles. Passing Marie Antoinette on the stairs, I gallantly sprayed her with a bottle of L'Artisan Parfumeur's Ananas Fizz.
"Naughty Charley-Charl," she giggled, "you must not spray the Queeny-Queen. Off with his head!" I made a deep bow. "Your Majesty," I informed her, "I intended it merely as a token of my enormous esteem. Yet what a tantalizing scent Ananas Fizz is! On the face of it, a simple enough citrus effusion, but layered with I know not what ingredients that transform it into a gold and gorgeous mystery! What do you think they might be?"
"Cod and garlic," cackled the Queen, "cod and garlic just for me!" "A truly revolting thought, you regal slubberdegullion," I choked, before hurrying off to the palace latrines.'

Subtle variation on the original Gendarme. To my nose, the same quiet purity and quality but a different dimension of clean with less of a citrus emphasis. Imagine a summer breeze blowing gently through the flimsy curtains of a quiet room that smells vey pure and with a faint odour of fine spice. As with the original Gendarme, a rather frail scent, but utterly wearable, calm and kind.
It's not surprising that some politicians apparently wear Gendarme scents. Perhaps their public relations people ought to insist on it. After all, these scents project such subtle subconscious cues about what a decent, upstanding fellow the wearer must be. No sleaze or chicanery around here, folks!

Clean. Calm. Quiet. Classic. Soap. Citrus. Fresh. Decent. Light. Slight. And, again, clean. It is said of the philosopher Plato that, on first sniffing Gendarme, he declared it to be the equal of the likes of Monsieur de Givenchy and Lacoste Original as the Ideal Essence of Clean and Fresh. 'But do you not feel, sir,' asked his star pupil Aristotle, 'that a little more strength and substance might be a desirable thing?' Plato just frowned at him and waved him away.

Rich smoothie, lush vanilla spice, with certain affinities to KL Homme and some of Serge Lutens'productions. By no means horrible, but it does not make me want to burst my pantaloons in ecstasy.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'Once I dreamed I was out riding with Marie Antoinette in the lanes around old Versailles. "Scenty-scent for Charley-Charl," she tittered, playfully spraying me with Diptyque's Opone. I sniffed myself. "Indeed, Your Majesty," I declared, "definite aroma of an old tea chest - surrounded by I know not what melange of herbs, fruits, flowers and spices." The Queen drew her mount to a sudden halt, her eyes rolling wildly. "Straw and cake!" she burbled, "Straw and cakey-cake for me!" "Yes, you royal poltroon," I agreed, "you could well be right for once. Anything might be lurking within this indecipherable scent, straw and cakey-cake included."'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'Diptyque's L'Autre? A rather maligned fragrance, in my estimation. My nose can scarcely detect the odour of armpits of which this scent is so often accused. Rather, it puts me in mind of an old fashioned apothecary's shop with its faintly dusty medicinal aromas, concatenation of sweet and bitter herbs and spices, the whole evoking a statement of the fecundity and mystery of the ingenious earth. To this extent, it reminds me somewhat of scents such as Piper Nigrum and even Lacoste Booster. I do not aspire to wear any of these scents, yet I admire their evocations. And yet ... and yet ...to be fair ... in its final phases L'Autre is surely most wearable and most distinguished.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'On one occasion, I dreamed that I was drifting in a canoe with Marie Antoinette down a stream near the Palace of Versailles. She held aloft a bottle of Diptyque's L'Ombre Dans L'Eau, all the while singing raucously out of tune, her silhouette shadowed in the water, surrounded on both banks by greenery and roses.
"Ah, a nice ironic metaphor, Your Majesty," I remarked. "For, like your singing, Diptyque's L'Ombre Dans L'Eau provides us with a decidedly out of tune rendition of roses on the riverbank. Whilst I would not go so far as to agree with that poet who asserted that vegetation always bored him, I find this certainly to be the case with L'Ombre Dans L'Eau. A crude and tedious production, do you not agree?"
"Rum and vinegar!" chanted the Queen, "Rum and vinegar for me!" "No, you imperial twerp," I assured her, "rum and vinegar are nowhere in evidence here. Humdrum roses and banal greenery. Do try to get it right!"'

Verbena, woods, and shadows of Coriolan. Your rich vapours transported my being in dreams to a trim, courtly forest glade where Marie Antoinette played at shepherdesses with her courtiers. Among the artful rustic cabins, I spied the Queen and gallantly doffed my hat. 'Magnificently met, Your Majesty,' I cried. 'And Barbier des Isles: a true work of art: as refined as a palace, as woody as a pirates's leg!' 'Milk and lavender,' she cooed, giggling, 'milk and lavender for me!' 'Absolute rot, you tittering ninny,' I declared, 'verbena, woods, and shadows of Coriolan!' (de Charlus)

Goddess of the raw grass, of the strangeness of the breeze, of animal fur, full of presence and reticence. The inside of a summer's day where, through the bones of a dead bird in the vibrant greenery, Nature breathes its complacency and content. Familiar yet elusive, pleasant and unpleasant, quiet but full, as obvious as the smell of skin, as mysterious as the stream of life. (de Charlus).

The preliminary rendition of acerbic grapefruit can only afford our nostrils, one would surmise, a tart and unending melody of bitter citrus. And in this it is unusual, for is not sweetness, in the vocabulary of scent, almost synonymous with citric effusions? Yet it is without blatant contradiction, although most certainly not lacking in an element of surprise, that, in its subsequent lingering investigations of the skin, it mellows out, as they say in my part of Paris, quite nicely. Thankyou. (de Charlus)

Wearing doublet and hose,
With pointed, curling toes,
We step in the royal wood of gold,
We step in the royal wood of gold.
And there, in the suave, rich streams
Where Guerlain Heritage dreams
And JHL embraces
L'Or Masculin's traces,
We sniff out a woodier twist,
We sniff out a woodier twist.
What else can we do but applaud?
It's Bois de Filao, My Lord! (de Charlus)

Slow wind spice. Gentleman in my pocket. Luncheon at the Club. Related to Lord Aramis? I knew the boy, I knew the boy. Your grandchild, sir? Quite possibly, quite possibly. Stroll down the Strand. Meet the P.M. Then off to Buck House. Quality. Reticence. Distinction. All that sort of thing. (de Charlus).

The opening: musty, fusty, almost rank and rotting greens. The development: still musty, fusty - in many of their scents, almost a Crown 'house-note'? - but rather more pleasant as it mellows on the skin.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the mansion of the mysterious Great Gatsby. He gave us each a bottle of Bond No. 9's Great Jones.
"De Charlus, old sport," inquired the enigmatic millionaire, " what's the verdict on Great Jones? Flapper or crapper, duzy or floozy, spiffing or whiffing, humdinger or bumslinger?" "My dear Gatsby," I informed him, "your somewhat trite 1920s slang notwithstanding, what else can I do regarding Great Jones but to unreservedly accentuate the positive? Unoriginal, perhaps, but a magnificent contemporary rendition of a classical citrus scent nonetheless. It puts me in mind of some of those gentlemanly wonders that constitute my aristocratic paradigms of masculine pulchritude and distinction: Signoricci by Nina Ricci, Bowling Green by Geoffrey Beene (rather superior to Penhaligon's Blenheim Bouquet, by the way), Cotswold by Dukes of Pall Mall. Essence of clean, chiselled manhood, white flannels on the green of summer lawns, echoes of boardroom meetings in shadowed, panelled rooms, aching yearnings of lost youthful romance. Indeed, it is obvious, both to my nose and to my imagination, that Bond No.9 wanted to call this fragrance not 'Great Jones' but 'Great Gatsby', but, whether for reasons of legal or literary trepidation, saw fit to capitulate."'

Givenchy Gentleman, anyone? Well, almost. Rich, rather feminine overture, breathing quality. Develops into a fairly rank, raw monster of civet, something like a magnified Givenchy Gentleman's later pronouncements. Pleasant in its last phases when it blends and mellows with the skin. Apply lightly.

Hats off to the reviewer who described Comme des Garcons Man 2 as seriously woody, like inside-of-a-tree-woody. Well, here we are again, plunged inside more deep, evocative timber. Tolkien Tree Beings painted with creosote? But slightly harsh and off beam?

Olive Oyl gave this to Popeye as a present. Carnations wrapped in old leather. 'Who needs it, Toots?' he cried, 'they just don't fits together at all! they just don't fits! I've had all I can stands, I cain't stands no more!'

Cloddish clone of quality that burbles boringly if brilliantly of the Green groans of the irksome Irish Tweed.(de Charlus).

The mystery of the modern metropolis. The soul of office blocks. The spirit of plastic. The essence of industrial process. The ghost of electricity. (Thanks, Bob). Intriguing, impersonal, alive and dead, detached and strange. The Andy Warhol of the Scent World? Or William Burroughs Comes to Town?

Comfort me with fruits warmed by the sun. A happy scent. Good enough but hardly great.

A rather enigmatic, attractive stranger. Not so much black as distinguished, soft-spoken dark grey. Who is this new man in the office? The women are intrigued, the men curious. Perhaps he has a hidden past?
Quite subtle but distinct, a sort of ghost of mysterious spice where all the ingredients, whether by luck or by craft, fuse together harmoniously but elusively. Sadly misnamed as 'Black Jeans', it should rather be called 'Grey Shadow' or 'The Office Enigma'.

Celery boy, rumoured to be the offspring of a groping night of passion between Caron's Yatagan and Nina Ricci's Phileas. Orphaned, abandoned, he emigrated to a harsh, bare plain where he sang plaintive songs about hard times. In subtle tones he told of how the salty water dripped on to the dry herbal plains. A few devoted disciples gathered round.

The Baron's apologies. What he meant to say, he now tells me, is that Spazio Krizia could well be the outcome of the allegedly steamy night of passion that D'Orsay's Etiquette Bleue spent with the aristocratic but troubled Rochas Moustache. Monsieur Rochas, a more conventional gentleman, had nothing to do with it, was not even there, only the Moustache.

A distinguished, masculine, soapy smell, distinct but reserved, enveloping but understated. A very acceptable, carefully crafted scent. A sort of 'Essence of Gentleman's Bathroom' aroma? Short on citrus, long on clean, quiet spice. It has, perhaps, something in common with Caron's Third Man in a toned down sort of way. (This identical review which appears for R&G Open is a 'clerical error'. Apologies).

A distinguished, masculine, soapy smell, distinct but reserved, enveloping but understated. a very acceptable, carefully crafted scent. A sort of 'Essence of Gentleman's Bathroom' aroma? Short on citrus, long on clean, quiet spice. It has, perhaps, something in common with Caron's Third Man in a toned down sort of way.

This probably has more affinities with the superb Leonard Pour Homme than any other scent I know. There is the same 'fragrant bonfire on the breeze' smell about them both. Besides the fragrant burning leaves, a hint of charcoal, maybe even of tar. But it works. Very poetic and evocative but also very wearable. A lovely fragrance.

Memories of Paris in the 1890s. A soiree at the apartments of the great tragedienne Berma. They are all there: the Princesse and the Duchesse de Guermantes, the Marquise de Villeparisis, the Princesse de Parme, the Baron de Charlus, and, seated on a chaise longue, a pale and somewhat tired Marcel.
A dimly lit interior, potted palms, a songbird in a gilded cage, a ray of afternoon sun piercing the thick gold brocade of the curtains, exotic eastern carpets, wrought iron spiral staircases, vases of orchids and lilies.
'And tell me, Monsieur le Baron,' inquires Berma, 'what do you think of Bouquet Imperiale?' 'Definitive luxury,' replies de Charlus, 'if even with a hint of stuffy Victoriana. Quaint aesthetic depth, sheer sophistication, aristocratic shadows, ornate murmurs, while, against the closed windows, throbs the babble of commerce and democracy.'

Seeping from its black container, a fairly sharp green opening. The best is yet to come: green turns to smooth and distinguished grey, velvety and soapy. Another fine Italian gentleman.

Visiting my friend Marcel in his sanatorium the other day, I was accompanied by his valet Andre. Andre had thoughtfully brought his ailing master a bottle of Rochas Man as a gift but I feared the worst.
'Andre,' I suggested, 'do you not perhaps feel that the sweet, rich gourmand fumes of Rochas Man might prove a little too much for Monsieur Marcel? I am in good health but, even so, I find the concatenation of flavours contained in Rochas Man rather sickly and jarring. I fear that Marcel, in his overwrought state of nervous debility, could well suffer a relapse at the merest whiff of such a perfume.'
'No worries, Monsieur Nitram,' Andre reassured me, 'it'll buck him up no end. Everyone knows that Rochas Man is the only Rochas fragrance that can make your actual girlies gurgle. One squirt of the old scenteroony and Monsieur Marcel will be right as rain, fighting off the nurses and the lady doctors. Hubba hubba, Doctor Dora, care for a saunter down the old Palais de Danse? Know what I mean, Monsieur Nitram? It'll be a real tonic!'
My fears, alas, were soon confirmed: at the first whiff of Rochas Man, Marcel's pale features convulsed with horror and he fainted clean away. 'Oh well,' said Andre philosophically, 'you win some, you lose some. Perhaps what he really needed was a drop of the old Lolita Lempicka?'

If you know Timberline, in the Dana English Leather range, then Replay has quite a lot in common with it. A similar dominant note pervades both scents through all their phases. What is it like? In some ways, like the smell of a factory where some unusual but pleasant chemical mixing process is in operation: a smell that is both industrial and poetic, woods and spices entering into its strange composition. Oddly evocative - but, to wear, it can become oppressive after a while. Timberline, being of a weaker concentration, is less so.

When the actor Alain Delon, in his youthful prime the epitome of dark Latin good looks, sauntered forth upon the street exuding masculine sexuality, all the ladies would gaze at him admiringly. When Alain Delon's rich and florid uncle, patting his paunch and twirling his moustaches, accompanied him, exuding wealth, tobacco, lechery and spice, he would gaze admiringly at all the ladies gazing admiringly at his nephew. What Alain Delon was gazing at is none too clear - possibly at his own cologne.
This rather fine scent somehow manages to capture all the olfactory possibilities of this complicated human saga.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a guest on the luxury yacht of Sir Alan Sugar, the celebrated entrepreneur and TV personality (or Sid as we used to call him for obvious reasons). He sold us each a bottle of Coty's Preferred Stock.
"Look, de Charlus," snapped the Grandmaster of Commerce, "I don't like shmoozers and I don't like losers. I don't like posers and I don't like dozers. I don't like tossers and I don't like dossers. Personally I think you're all of those things but they tell me that when it comes to scent maybe you know your arse from your elbow. I need some business advice. I'm thinking of buying up Preferred Stock from Coty and re-marketing it under my brand. But should I call it 'Sugar Homme', 'Bottom Line Uomo', 'No Bullshit', 'Eau de Barrow Boy', 'President of the Board' or 'Lord Blimey'? Tell me, which one? Look sharp now or you're fired!"
"My dear Sidney," I responded with a sigh, "you seem to forget that I am a guest on your yacht and not one of your apprentices or employees. You also forget that, as well as being Baron de Charlus, I am also Duc des Dunes, Prince de Laumes, Damoiseau de Meringuez and Seigneur de Savigney - the owner of vast estates who has little need of your employ. Nevertheless, I confirm that Preferred Stock might indeed constitute a signature scent for you and your ilk: it possesses just the right blending of crassness and gravitas, the elegant boardroom and the sharp street corner, masculine charm and mercenary over-emphasis. However, since the public at large mainly tolerate you on account of your uncanny resemblance to the much loved comic Sid James, my advice to you is that the ideal name for your fragrance should be 'Carry On, Chairman', 'Monsieur Sid', 'Lecher's Cackle' or possibly even 'PHWAAUGH!'. I require no consultancy fee."'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'It was, sadly, in a small town in Alabama that I first encountered Atkinson's Rockford Ice. My nostrils somewhat jaded by a surfeit of exquisite and expensive fragrances, I wandered into a dime store and became unaacountably enamoured of this cheap minty monstrosity. After a liberal application, I handed over a paltry sum and walked out with a bottle of the stuff.
I was no sooner in the street when a couple of policemen, noses twitching in horror, pounced on me and put me in a restraint hold. They demanded that I assume the position while they searched me for weaponry. Discovering the bottle of Rockford Ice in my pocket, they understandably placed me under arrest for possession of a deadly weapon and read me my rights, informing me that I had the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney but that anything I said could be used in a coht of loh.
Blushing deeply with shame, I wisely chose to remain silent, fully aware that it was the fairest of fair cops.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the trailer home of Jim Rockford, the celebrated private investigator. He gave me a bottle of Atkinson's Rockford cologne.
"De Charlus, old buddy," inquired the amiable if somewhat world-weary detective, "whaddya think of this cologne which I guess the folks at Atkinsons must have named after me. Do ya figure it hits the spot?"
"My dear James," I replied, "please excuse my bluntness but honesty impels me to inform you that this cologne does not so much hit the spot as shit the pot. It is truly abysmal. When you consider the rest of Atkinson's line of male fragrances - the wonderful Gold Medal, the dry but acceptable English Lavender, the mysterious Ghibli, the hearty green Hunter, the delicate green Hurlingham, the somewhat imitative but pleasant Executive and Executive Original Dry, even the vaguely oriental Duke - then you cannot help but wonder what insanity possessed the Atkinson noses to produce this execrable scent and its still more offensive companion, Rockford Ice. Were the philosopher Plato in search of a cologne to embody the Ideal Form of Cheap and Nasty, he would need to look no further than these two fragrances. Sweet Corrinja, Dark and Ugly Goddess of the Divine Cringe, how your vile vapours infect these two perfumes!"'

It would be hard to better Ken Russell's tremendous review of this fragrance (see below). As also with his fine review of Roma, he really does have the nose and the prose to evoke the poetic essence of a fragrance. That being said, I have always felt rather neutral about Ungaro III for some reason.

A rather mysterious scent: mysterious name, mysterious brown triangular bottle, mysterious liquid inside - and mysteriously hard to obtain. A quiet opening, which put me in mind slightly of a slow stream tinged with lavender, lemon and peat. A development that seems to belong to the same territory as that sometimes explored by niche houses like Etro: a beige or brown aura that is slight, mild and reserved. Then a stronger edge of earth and tobacco. At the risk of sounding distinctly weird, it is imaginatively a bit like visiting the lair of some rather civilized and friendly underground animal. There is almost a smell of warm, sleeping puppies about it. Thumbs up for strangeness.

A dry, astringent lavender scent with something of the old fashioned feel of Creed's Royal Scottish Lavender. Quite long-lasting and definitely pleasant, especially in its mellower later developments.

About as green as it gets. The middle of the forest, acres of ferns, sun on hot stone. Heap big wilderness scent. Pleasant.

A peculiar dream: two streets in a town in Italy. In the first, dominated by a statue of their founding father, Azzaro Pour Homme, live a number of mature, silver-haired, silk-suited gentlemen of distinction: Gianmarco Venturi Uomo, Borsalino, Sergio Tacchini, Mila Schon Uomo, Basile Uomo, Francesco Smalto. For some reason, they all put me in mind of Vittorio da Sica, that handsome, elegant Italian actor and film director. Their essential colours are silver and grey, their essential themes, sophistication and abstract elegance.
In an adjoining street, the tougher end of the Italian trade: Krizia Uomo, Pancaldi, Sergio Soldano Black, Krizia Moods Uomo: smoky and spicy, bold and slighly menacing.
Moving easily between these two streets, Jacomo de Jacomo, whose pungent, smoky opening unfolds into a development that is smooth and silver-grey.

Very nice light, fresh, refined, smooth citrus. Fresh and light opening, smooth and calm development, citrus always predominating. I really think that this fragrance could give some of the citrus productions of the so-called niche houses a run for their money.

This definitely lives in the same forest camp, if not exactly in the same tent, as those other sylvan soldiers Acqua di Selva, Pino Silvestre and Agua Brava. My provisional ranking: Acqua di Selva: Captain Calm; Victor's Silvestre: Lieutenant Worthy; Agua Brava: Sergeant Strange; Pino Silvestre: Private Dull but Brave.

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris concerning Aigner No. 2: 'Messieurs and mesdames, consider this comportment of mysterious lemon, powder and spices with its distinctly old fashioned feel. Clearly of exquisite breeding and blending, it must surely acknowledge its affinities with Fragonard's Zizanie, D'Orsay's Etiquette Bleue, and, above all, with Rochas' Moustache. You will note that the estimable Monsieur Joshua d'Augustt (like myself an epicure of rare and non-obvious scents) has already given it his approval - a judgement that it would ill afford us to ignore. Let us therefore follow him into this mysterious salon, this masked ball, this lost domain of old world charm, uttering, as with Moustache, our slightly muted felicitations.'

I thought that this scent reminded me strongly of another scent and so it does: it is like a milder version of Adolfo Dominguez' blunt, green and earthy Vetiver Hombre. If you like the one, you will probably like the other. Personally I don't care for either very much.

Anorak News: Atkinson's Executive (Original Dry): There is a distinction between Atkinson's Executive and Atkinson's Executive Original Dry. The first is an Eau Sauvage lookalike. The second, as the name suggests, is an altogether drier proposition, more like a cousin of Carven Vetiver perhaps.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the Western ranch of Theodore "Teddy" Roosevelt, the hearty, rough-riding President of the United States. He gave us each a bottle of Aspen for Men cologne.
"De Charlus, you old dudey-boy," roared the President, "what in tarnation do you think of this bully cologne? Is it the finest two-fisted scenteroo known to man? Better than any old Frenchy frilly-dilly, what the hey?!"
Now, I knew that the President, a lover of the great outdoors and of all things wild and western, had already commissioned a number of fragrances for his own exclusive use. They went by such names as Cactus Jack, Texas Tumbleweed, Leather 'n' Lariat, and so forth, and they all smelled roughly the same: a blend of saddle sweat, gunsmoke, and horse manure. It was therefore with some relief that I was able to inform him that Aspen for Men by Coty was a by no means execrable scent: a citrus opening as sharp as a stetson's brim, with a development, bully if somewhat blatant, as crisp and piercing as dawn in the land of the lonesome pines, as hearty and direct as sunlight on the happy mountain trails.
The President, highly delighted, proceeded to slap his thigh and to bellow: "Bully for you, Charley boy! You're a genuine darned poet of the frontier! And, remember, like I always say, speak softly and carry a big stick!"
"A possible strategy, my dear Teddy," I replied, "but personally, like yourself, I usually prefer to talk loudly and carry a small bottle of cologne."'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'It was, I believe, in Berlin that I first encountered Adlon Homme. Some runny-nosed waif was attempting to sell it on the street without much success. Unaccountably taking pity on him, I purchased a bottle and gazed askance at this square container of pale blue juice. Truth to tell, I expected the worst: something wan and watery, vaguely oceanic and definitively dull.
Imagine, then, my surprise when, applying this unlikely liquid to both wrists, its unpromising pale blue premiss yielded a conclusion that can only be described as soft, deep, warm and sophisticated. Snorting with delight, I immediately purchased the entire trayful of Adlon from the startled youth.'

Through a haze of lemon-tinted grey smoke, the gradually emerging outlines of a muscular black bull. He seems at first quite a peaceful and respectable bull, wearing a garland of meadow flowers as he quietly munches the cud. Yet occasionally he snorts and paws the ground. Some people call him Oscar (after the celebrated Oscar de la Renta Pour Lui). There is, indeed, a slight resemblance, although Soldano is a deal darker and more pungent - almost, in some ways, like the civilized and acceptable face of the much feared One Man Show. (de Charlus).

Fresh on the wind, milk of spice or spice of creams, you are certainly not objectionable. Smooth on the breeze, pimpish diplomat or diplomatic pimp, I'll shake your hand, Monsieur. (de Charlus).

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'It was, surprisingly, on a grey afternoon in a rainy English town that I first encountered that epitome of oriental exotica, Punjab by Capucci. A grizzled old ex-soldier with one eye thrust it into my hands and demanded: "Smell her, matey, and re-port your im-preshuns! I served in the old Indian Empire and I knows the jewels from the jumbles, I knows the devas from the dregs, I knows the kings from the cruds! She's mighty fine, ain't she?"
Applying said fragrance to both wrists, I reported my impressions as instructed. "My dear fellow," I replied, "wherever turbans and moustaches meet incense and dust under a scorching heat, wherever ferocious warriors embrace dark-eyed maidens, wherever love, loyalty, treachery and hate reach bacwards into the history of a proud and mystical continent, wherever in the forensic glare of noonday or the seductive velvet of night come whispers of the ancient epics of a superlative race - so, too, shall Punjab be there! Atten-shun!"'

According to the somewhat dubious taste of Andre, the valet of my friend Marcel, Heaven by Chopard is definitive babe bait. Poor girls?

I thought the opening rather reminiscent of Caron Pour Un Homme. But then you go off on a different journey altogether. Down sweet, rich, light paths of whipped cream and pillowy clouds of flowers and soft spices. It is never cloying, just fantasy-land-relaxing. A Wizard of Oz among fragrances? Or a Magical Mystery Tour?

Very, very fine. In fact, to my nose, a fragrant revelation. How best to describe it? In some ways, like a rather sharper and herbier Ho Hang. In other ways,like a cousin of Monsieur Rochas. It has, too, some affinities with the long forgotten but excellent Cellini by Faberge. In sum: the essence of clean and refreshing with a distinguished herby development and a slight sharp edge - yet the overall blend is harmonious and smooth. Quality all the way. A real work of art.

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris concerning Sergio Tacchini (1987): ' Messieurs and mesdames, this is quite possibly the finest of that distinguished group of silver-haired, silk-suited Italian gentlemen who breathe their air of Mediterranean elegance upon us. This slim interface between lemon and mint, this cool fusion of silver and subtle grey, this abstract, elegant air, this urbane expedition to the far reaches of quiet sophistication - what else can we do but applaud it?'

Creamy rich effluvium of the supposedly monarchical mandarin - yet somehow blatant and nondescript. A present for your servants, messieurs? (de Charlus)

A fine old woody gentleman from yesteryear. (de Charlus)

Opens like a cold green tonic splash. A murmur of mint, tangy citrus, mellow yet still green development. Delightful.

Superior eau de cologne smell. Sharp yet smooth, clean and fine, an edge of sweetness. Beautifully put together and quite long lasting. Did people really smell this good in 1799?

Impressionistically, a sinus-blasting opening of ginger and chili reinforced with mustard. Dilemma: should you put this on your bread or on your body? Probably neither. Best to play it safe. Yes, this definitely went to the same school as Bogart's One Man Show. They led a gang called 'Stink of Satan' who terrorized the neighbourhood. Gets better as it fades - but that's a bit like saying your head feels better when you stop banging it on the wall.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'The odd thing is that I agree with nearly all estimates of Rochas' Moustache - which must tell us something about its strangeness. As the admirable Senor Cavs puts it, this "rotten" powdery lemon does indeed put you in mind of something that an eccentric, even slightly mad grandmother might wear. Yet, as other reviewers remark more positively, it does manage also to smell fresh, classic, very French, soft, gentle, long lasting.
The excellent Comrade Trotsky has discovered in it "a rather rustic aromatic scent that contains somewhat clashing notes of rare fruits and pine". The estimable Vicompte de K. has described it as his "number one weird fragrance" and I concur.
Like those very different scents by Rochas, Macassar and Globe, Moustache somehow manages to be offputting and fascinating at the same time. This paradox is something that the House of Rochas does rather well in its classic masculine fragrances - it is even true of the less eccentric but herby and distinctive Monsieur Rochas.
Moustache is an odd scent, oddly offensive and oddly addictive, but well worth investigating by fragrance aficionados. The scenario: an attic apartment in old Paris where curious loves, mysteries and scandals surround the degenerate scion of an ancient and noble line. It is effete, weird, decadent, distinguished - a somewhat sickly dandy, perhaps, but with attitude, edge and seductive menace nonetheless.'

Quite unusual, almost clinically clean laundry sort of smell. A touch of ozone and a hint of starch?

It seems that what this is mainly reporting on is Paco Rabanne Pour Homme. Lavender, laurel, citrus, and a feel of honey. Highly delightful, of course!

Poetic and unique. Like entering some wood-panelled room where historic events have occurred and quiet old mysteries hide. In some ways, too, like stepping into some medieval English tavern, soaked in the past: old creaking floorboards and a slight smell of fermented malt. Musty, dusty, shadowy, ancient, deep.

Faintly flowery opening. This scented air would fly up and escape but is drawn down by a more sober and manly gravity. Pleasant.

Unusual. Decaying roses and mildewed old leather? I don't much like the smell. It reminds me quite strongly of Ebene.

The Baron de Charlus once composed an incantation for this fragrance: 'Spirit of lavender, spiritual herb, spirit of heaven on earth! Art of Lorenzo, turn thrice to the wind and cleanse our hearts with your mysterious lavender! Soul of Lorenzo, whose artistries span the spirit of innocence and the spirit of man! Song of Lorenzo, do not let it cease: your chant of wild lavender, your perfume of peace!'

Biagiotti Uomo, allow me to introduce you to your long lost cousin, Salvador by Dali. Conventional chaps, the pair of them, but sharp, pleasant, and excellent company nonetheless. Tangy citrus and woods done well. (de Charlus).

Surely Santos is the grandfather of gourmand scents (sigh) but saved by the artistry and finesse of its blending? Does my nose detect coconut, vanilla and only the sweetest of sandalwoods? Or is it my imagination? Paradoxically, a pimp of enormous distinction. (de Charlus).

Jostling spicy elbows, all shouting 'I'm Spartacus! I'm Spartacus!', a long line of rich golden gladiators: Lord Molyneux, Marbert Gentleman, Omar Sharif, Weil's Kipling, Otto Kern's Cycle, Krizia Moods Uomo, Lauder for Men and many, many more. At their head, Tiffany for Men, slightly more smooth in his spice, slightly more gold in his guise, slightly less harsh in his shout: 'I'm Spartacus, I'm Spartacus!' ((de Charlus).

Visiting my friend Marcel in his sanatorium the other day, I found that they had moved his bed out onto the balcony. A pale sun shone through the crisp mountain air and a few early flowers peeped shyly through the snow. I inquired as to his fragrance. 'It is Quartz, mon cher Nitram,' he whispered. 'I am not at all sure that I greatly like it but it is a perfect fragrance for an invalid. To me, it exudes the quintessence of the sanatorium: a chemical, medicinal smell interfused with pale flowers and long clean corridors.'

Brash old belcher, you say? Leathery old lump, you say? Retire the old fogey to a Rest Home, you say? I tell you this: there's a fine, high, secret heart to Aramis that few fragrances can equal. They found this mystic note of masculinity and then threw away the key. As with Kouros, Van Cleef & Arpel pour Homme, Coriolan, Quorum and Derby, a unique fragrant enigma.

Shadow of elusive roses, soft and dark - there in the evening herb garden. (de Charlus)

A pleasant enough fellow who seems paradigmatic of a number of other smooth and silver Italian gentlemen - Francesco Smalto, Basile Uomo, for example. All quality scents, all very acceptable, all perhaps lacking that extra something which would make them really unforgettable classics.

Strong masculine scent with a blunt grey opening that could be a milder cousin of Jacomo de Jacomo's first furious few minutes at the kipper factory. As Pancaldi develops, it seems to declare its affinities with two other creations of smoky masculinity - Vetiver de Puig and Trumper's Astor. Good stuff, the lot of them, to my nose.

Visiting my friend Marcel on his sick bed again the other day, I brought him a gift of Comme des Garcons 2 Man. On application, a smile of quiet pleasure stole over his pale lips. 'Ah, mon cher Nitram,' he whispered, 'what deep and evocative woods! Sensation-memory immediately transports my whole being back to an afternoon in my youth when I sat with my first love Gilberte in an old wooden summer house near Paris. It had exactly the same smell. How infinitely poetic yet wearable this scent is! Thank you, cher Nitram, for introducing me to this exquisite and poignant fragrance!'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'O Christmas spices, flowers andd herbs! O assault on the nasal passages! O Comme des Garcons eau de parfum, gigantic whiffery, powerful stiffery, herbal biffery! In truth, as it softens, lessens and develops on the skin, it achieves a kinder and more wearable ambience - a sort of frail, Elizabethan beauty.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the residence of the Governor of French West Equatorial Africa (well, actually, it was little more than a shack in a jungle clearing). The year was 1912, I believe, and he gave me (since I was his only guest for years) a bottle of Comptoir Sud Pacifique's L'Eau du Gouverneur.
"You know, de Charlus," spluttered Monsieur le Gouverneur in desperation, "I believe I should go mad in this god-forsaken spot if it wasn't for my brandy, my cigars, and my L'Eau du Gouverneur! How I long to be back in France!" "Indeed, my dear sir," I responded, I do appreciate your predicament. Here we are in this barely adequate patch of civilization, far from the salons of Paris, forlornly dressing for dinner while the jungle encroaches. Yet, as you say, let us rejoice that this somewhat lugubrious situation is redeemed by the poetic glories of L'Eau du Gouverneur: its warm, mysterious spices are redolent with all the distinction and futility, grandeur and cruelty, romance and sorrow of the Empire's grab at the Tropics!"'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'Hey, dude, that's Cool Water you're wearing! ... What the heck is G.I.T.? ... Prince Charles? ...Grumptious ...Flumptious ... Stop talking like a jerk! ... What the hey! ...Where the D? ...Tell me you're kidding me! ...Ah, yer fadder's mustache! ...Like a pigeon's muddy dream!'
I could make little sense of his ramblings and assumed that he had either been possessed by the ghost of a deceased American shoe salesman or had been imbibing too much absinthe - possible both.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'Next to the kitchen condiment aroma of Baime and the armpit-effusions of Route du Vetiver, Jardin du Nil is my least favourite of Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier's otherwise excellent array of masculine fragrances. Why? I can tell you quite precisely. Jardin du Nil has a strange opening that manages simultaneously to be sweet and inviting and rotten and offensive. It contains a distinct odour of mouldering peaches, reinforced, I fear, by a hint of parmesan cheese - somewhat akin to the sweet, clinging, slightly fungoid sweat of certain body odours. As it softens and develops and the ingredients attain more of a balance, it definitely improves - but not greatly until the very end. When you consider the sublime heights to which MPG's male fragrances sometimes ascend (Eau de Iles, Eau pour le Jeune Homme, Ambre Precieux, Racine) and the truly pleasant lower slopes which most of its fragrances occupy (Centaure, Garrigue, Secret Melange, Iris Bleu Gris, Santal Noble and Parfum d'Habit), it rather puts Jardin du Nil in perspective, along with Baime and Route du Vetiver. One can still admire the bold experimentation and unique aroma of these latter three scents. One can still ascribe to each a definitive atmosphere: poetry of the pot (Baime), poetry of the earthy gutter (Route du Vetiver), poetry of sweat and perfume clinging to unwashed sheets (Jardin du Nil). But do you really wish to go there? Not I, messieurs.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'Comme des Garcons Odeur 71? A merely passable, undistinguished modern scent, reflecting ozone and ordinariness. A somewhat boring and watery work, wholly generic, in spite of its eccentric pretensions and strange list of ingredients: dust on light bulb, typewriter ribbon, dewdrop on nose, bleach on fingernail or whatever.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the country estate of Ozzie Osborne (or Osbert as I insisted on calling him for reasons of decorum). He gave us each a bottle of Czech & Speake No. 88.
"De Charlus, you old c***," croaked the poete maudit of rock music turned national treasure, "what the f*** do you think of this f****** fragrance? Is it good shit, bad shit, or indifferent?" "My dear Osbert," I responded, "what we have here is poetry of the coffin laced with infinite solitude and emptiness. It would not be erroneous to describe it as embodying a metaphysical menace. You have to admire its evocative qualities, this strange, left-handed cousin of Messe de Minuit, itself a fairly odd and deathly scent. Personally I would shudder to wear either. I also feel that it is totally inappropriate for your good self. Given your curious combination of histrionics, vagueness and blokeishness, I feel you would be far better suited by a combination of Joop, Latitude Longitude and Marbert Man. Then you would smell like a proper f****** c***."
My host, I fear, was distinctly unimpressed by judgement and proceeded to unleash on me his whole menagerie: wife, cats, dogs, children, musicians and bats out of hell.'

Tendentious scents float by my window ... But you, my beauty, bespeak only of subtle odours blown by the winds along the boulevards. Precious green glade, pervaded by the smell of mysterious pale branches and shy grasses, here where the sophistications of the city meet the countryside. (de Charlus).

An overlooked gem? A golden brown juice that somehow also has a golden brown smell. Soft, deep, rich and luxurious, it reminds me rather of JHL by Aramis. The ambience: a gentlemen's club with oak panelled walls, deep leather armchairs and rumours of quiet authority.

A rather unusual woody fragrance that to my nose has certain affinities to YSL's M7. There is a brooding, ominous quality to both of them. A vaguely medieval setting but lost in the mists of time and legend: Gothic shadows, dark deeds in dark forests, echoes of Grimm's fairy tales, frightened peasants, possibly vampires and death.

An eccentric, unusual fragrance and definitely unique. It puts me in mind of other such quirky scents such as Evyan's The Baron and Caron's Third Man. I'm not suggesting that these three scents smell alike because they don't. It's just that they all share an eccentricity which certainly stops them from being boring. I don't much like the small of Ebene but I admire its unusual blending and composition.

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the subject of Carven's Ma Griffe: 'Mesdames and messieurs, this delicate, sensitive scent, thoroughly wearable by gentlemen as well as gentlewomen, how it is redolent with the pure juice of air, sun, grass and flowers! How it can bring calm and hope to a troubled soul! I know for a fact that my poor friend Marcel, when he is feeling especially etiolated and defeated by life, will often retreat to his bed, pull the covers over his head, and spray liberally with the kindly and calming Ma Griffe. After several hours of this marvellous therapy, he emerges with a new spring in his step, a sparkle in his eye, and a positive effervescence in his aura!'

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris concerning Nicolai's Vanille-Tonka: 'Mesdames and messieurs, this is like the unfortunate offspring of Serge Lutens' already misbegotten fetish with florid and overripe adventures in vanilla. Why should Nicolai (who, incidentally, gave us among other things the excellent New York) apparently aspire to imitate what in the first place was neither worth imitating nor creating - namely, the vanilla belchings of the said Serge Lutens (who, to be fair, did present us, among other things, with the quite passable Douce Amere)? All too often, the creations of Lutens put me in mind of a three year old child splashing about in a paintbox of crude primary colours, producing only garish daubs without much artistry or finesse, too rich with the red, too glaring with the yellow, and so forth.
To me, Nicolai's Vanille-Tonka and so many of the creations of Serge Lutens seem a crass masquerade of luxuriousness and sensuality. Hence, I intend to send to Nicolai a bottle of Creed's Acier Aluminium and to Lutens a bottle of MPG's George Sand, each bottle bearing the message: "Children, suck your toes, sniff, listen and learn."'

Into my lady's chamber. Seduced by a deep, luxurious yet sober and restrained trail of scent reminiscent of dark brown velvet and old books. But who is this gentleman confronting me there? And why do these distinguished fumes seem to emanate from him rather than from my dear lady Hortense? I draw my swordstick. Simultanously he draws his own. We posture and growl at each other menacingly. Enters Hortense. 'De Charlus, you old ninny,' she cries, 'why are you preening in front of the mirror? And why are you growling at your own reflection? And who gave you permission to wear my Caron's Montaigne?'

Encountering the Baron de Charlus the other day, I could not help remarking that he seemed unable to stop yawning. Did he really find me so boring? 'Forgive me, mon cher Nitram,' he replied, 'it is merely that I have spent this morning sniffing such unalloyed atrocities of generic tedium as Alain Delon's Pharos, Pierre Cardin's Insatiable, Essenza di Zegna and Dior's Higher Energy. I can hardly keep from falling asleep.'

Surely the most poetic and profound of the Royall fragrances? The House of Royall describe their Bay Rhum as cool, refreshing, bracing. And that is correct. But to my nose and imagination, there is also a warm, friendly, honest feel to this fragrance and one that is extremely natural. On top of this, there is also, strangely, a shadowy, deep, mysterious quality with almost a slight air of menace - rather like gazing down into some deep, dark well. The scent itself may be relatively simple but its impression is complex. Royall describe their fragrances as 'all purpose lotions' (doubling as both aftershave and cologne) but Bay Rhum, like Royall Lyme and Royall Mandarin, does not have great lasting qualities.

Perhaps not the best of the Royall fragrances, but certainly longer lasting than Royall Lyme, Mandarin or Bayrhum. What's it like? Simple. Light, sweet, lingering musk.

I can see why Royall Lyme is justly famous. An honest opening of sharp, cool, tangy lime develops, as the fragrance warms on the skin, to a warmer, mellower note of lime. this must feel wonderful to splash on yourself in very hot climates and is very wearable anywhere. If it has a slight air of disinfectant plus lime candy about it, this is not offensively so. could be longer lasting.

What can you say? It's extremely orange. One dimensional but pleasant. Great stuff if you like the smell of mandarin oranges. Could be longer lasting.

Thoroughly wearable but also a touch safe and boring, with echoes of a thousand other male fragrances. However, the final developments are very acceptable.

Visiting my friend Marcel on his sick bed the other day, I found his mind had strayed to former times. 'I must tell you, mon cher Nitram,' he confided, 'when as a youth I was infatuated with the Duchesse de Guermantes, once I managed to sniff the inside of her handbag. It had a golden quality, both fruity and floral, with perhaps an elusive odour of almonds, but the predominant note was a sweet and rich confusion of powder and leather. Sensation-memory being what it is, when first I encountered Molinard's Habanita (which strangely it is rumoured was inspired as a celebration of the tawdry glamour of the cigar girls of Havana), it immediately put me in mind of the Duchess's handbag: the mysterious and expensive aura of womanhood compounded by the poetry of aristocratic lineage. That being said, I believe that any man who can wear Habit Rouge could also wear Habanita.'

The exaggerations of Marcel
Might cause a trusting soul to yell:
"Keep Marbert Man away from me!
I want no smells of lavatory!"
In fact, it is an honest chap
That smells of neither piss nor crap
But rather of quite friendly spice
Which some might even think is nice.
I'm sad it gave Marcel a fright
But, truth to tell, it's quite alright.

It is said that when the philosopher Plato was seeking a fragrance that embodied the Ideal Form of Clean and Fresh, he narrowed his choice down to four candidates: Monsieur de Givenchy, Lacoste Original, Colours by Alexander Julian, and Blue Stratos.

Roll in the earth. Mineral smell of the dry dirt. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, wander into the woods and catch a whiff of Ungaro I. Develop into something smooth. This is an interesting scent but, truth to tell I prefer the unalloyed oil of patchouli.

Sir, you may be a Lord but you are no gentleman. You are blunt and crude and offensive. Never come to the Faubourg Saint Germain again. Take that! And that! And that! (de Charlus).

Here is an honest gnome, woody and worthy, unoriginal but what it does it does well. Fragrant fellow, we salute you. (de Charlus).

Well, blunt my beard with a rusty razor! Twin of Lauder, Jack of Diamonds, cat of nine tails, grunt of macho, bulge of biceps, citrus-spicy-mean. (de Charlus).

God wot! Thick spice inside my armour! Almost medieval fumes. Lash it on gently, knaves, for fear ye distress the damsels. (de Charlus).

Casran: there among the silver birds and the falling cadence of flutes in the twilight. (de Charlus).

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'It was in the East End of London that I first encountered Davidoff's Zino. Two tough-looking young men thrust a bottle of it into my hands. "'Ere you are, mister," they growled, "we like it but our mum reckons it's a ponce's perfume, so you 'ave it." Applying said lotion to both wrists, I approvingly registered its suave golden glory, as well as its partial affinities with Guerlain's Heritage and the much older Crown's Sandringham. "Garn, mister," piped a scruffy urchin, "wossat the Kray twins just give yer? Gissa a sniff!" "My dear child," I riposted, "I fear you are so inured to the smells of poverty, so begrimed in the odours of chip fat, snot, unwashed clothing and ordure, that the scent of such a delectable fragrance as Zino would probably only afford you a seizure!"
At this, both he and his equally grimy gang of companions grew surly and menacing. I fingered my swordstick. Fortunately or unfortunately, two burly constables intervened at this point, arresting me for being in possession of stolen property and an offensive weapon.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'It was in the forest of Fontainbleu that I first encountered Sander for Men. It appeared magically by my right elbow as I lay reclining against a tree. I knew immediately that I was in fairyland. Judicious application to both wrists served only to confirm this impression. "Messieurs and mesdames," I intoned to myself, "dear hearts, wunderkind, there is a quirky, delicate, elusive quality to this fragrance that distinguishes it from others of this ilk, from the run of the mill of modern airy scents that bespeak all too often only of sythetic scenarios lacking any real heart or mystery." Whilst I was thus nodding my approval, an ancient peasant hobbled by. When he was almost out of sight, he turned, winked and waved, transmuting into a being of beauty. It was, of course, Oberon, indisputable King of the Fairies.'

It is exactly what the name suggests: a wholly successful fusion of lime and spices. The spices do not shout, merely add a warm and mellow edge to the citrus. Very pleasant and very wearable, even a touch gorgeous and seductive in an understated way. Unlike some of Crown's other offerings (Sandringham, Eau de Quinine, Fougere, etc.), Spiced Limes does not seem particularly old fashioned. There is supposedly some association between Crown Spiced Limes and that ascetic hero Lawrence of Arabia. An improbable pairing? I would have expected T.E. Lawrence to stick strictly to carbolic soap and to disdain cologne as decadent. But the story goes that Crown composed this scent inspired by Lawrence's travel and adventures.

Another fine offering from the sadly discontinued Crown range of fragrances. Marquis has quite a modern feel to it and has a pronounced tangy, astringent green quality. My nose tells me that it has affinities with several other scents but my head can't quite put a name to them. Azzaro Chrome? Davidoff Good Life?

Abstract, dry and refreshing, cool and clean, minty elegance touched with lavender notes, a subdued song, utterly acceptable.

Sweet, cool, quiet, clean.

Strange amalgam. Several reviewers of this scent have remarked on its complexity. Its complexity actually seems to reside in its being a hybrid of a number of other well known quality scents. The opening seems to occupy a rather undefined territory, dry and reserved with a twist, somewhere between Azzaro Pour Homme and Caron's Third Man. Then, as it develops, it gets softer and warmer, nodding a recognition to scents like Ungaro II, Escada Homme, and the original Caroline Herrera for Men. At all times quite soft and subdued and acceptable, it is without doubt a scent of complexity and delicacy for a so-called 'mass fragrance'. It is a very different animal from Tabac Original (which I love) and doesn't win me over in the same way. Neutral or thumbs up? Highest common factor or lowest common denominator? I'm not sure. An Edsel among fragrances?

Peace to the previous reviewer but no cigarette smoke in evidence here, so far as I can tell. Instead, a fairly conventional citrus opening leads to a quite wonderful and unique development of subtle spices. Special stuff and hard to put one's finger on. Could be longer lasting.

I can't really see the point of this. To my nose, it's so very close to the venerable old Knize Ten.

A very fine light oriental scent, especially through the subtle phases of its development. Think of the aristocratic gold of Chanel Pour Monsieur with a touch of light leather (even though there's no mention of leather in the fragrance table above, see the fragrance table at Scent Direct).

Racine is actually quite a conventional citrus and vetiver offering but blended to such perfection that you can't help wanting to bow down in gratitude. Another jewel from MPG that sets the standard for scents of this type.

'Now entertain conjecture of a time/Of creeping murmur and the poring dark ...' Dark, rich, sumptuous murmurs indeed. It sets the tone for scents of precious amber.

It reminds me of a herb omelette. Kitchen smells are all very well in their way but not as fragrance on the skin.

A somewhat melancholy autumn scent. Softly burning leaves carried on the breeze. Deep, brown and distinguished. Wonderful! (de Charlus)

Regiment of taciturn officers in the dry heat of afternoon. Dark reservoirs of masculinity. Bitter memories. But warm ones as well. Rumours of superb bravery and tragic loves. Loss and endurance. Dry, subtle, reticent, mature. The long march of manhood. The scent of Ajax and Achilles? Well, Gary Cooper, at the least.

Somewhere to the South of Heaven, somewhere to the North of Eden, somewhere to the East of Venusburg, and somewhere to the West of Cockayne, we found ourselves floating on a stream of silk inside a golden cloud of the most serene perfume. From one perspective, the sheerest luxury and decadence (soft pillars, scented chambers, caves of velvet), yet so warm and kindly that all negativity was banished at the door. From another perspective, the smile of a golden child, the pulse of a suave, rich music, and the workings of a strange magician with obviously royal connections. (de Charlus).

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the Highgrove estate of Charles, Prince of Wales (or "Chaz" as we used to call him in an effort to be friendly). He gave us each a bottle of Creed's Green Irish Tweed.
"One would like to know, de Charlus," said the Prince, "whether one approves of this fragrance which one has presented to one." "My dear Chaz," I replied wearily, "I fear that this blatant scent has very little to recommend it. When you consider the heights to which the House of Creed occasionally rises - I speak of Vintage Tabarome, Baie de Genievre, Acier Aluminium, Chevrefeuille Original, even of Cuir de Russie and Green Valley - then Green Irish Tweed groans with banality by comparison. It is obvious, vulgar and boring."
My words, alas, were wasted on the Prince, since he had already wandered off in the middle of my discourse to chat to his plants, embrace his lady wife, open a couple of factories, don a Rear-Admiral's uniform, and design at least three model villages, pausing only to inform everyone that the Baron de Charlus had very poor taste in scent.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the Hollywood estate of Errol Flynn. He gave us each a bottle of Creed's Cuir de Russie.
"De Charlus, old sport," roared the actor in fury, "some reviewer on Basenotes has said that Cuir de Russie reminds him of Cary Grant's arse on a saddle! Everyone knows that Creed designed Cuir de Russie for me! And everyone knows that I've got a better arse than that lounge-lizard Grant! You're the expert, you decide the matter!"
"My dear Flynn," I responded, "I steadfastly refuse to allow an aesthetic review to degenerate into a discussion about whether you or Mr. Grant has the most fragrant posterior. I can, however, tell you this: although not normally a lover of overtly leather scents, Creed's Cuir de Russie was a revelation to me. While I can appreciate that the likes of Bandit, Knize Ten, Etro Gomma, and Creed's Royal English leather are well-crafted scents, I'm afraid I endure rather than enjoy their fragrance. But Creed's Cuir de Russie seems to take leather scents into a different dimension altogether: beautiful citrus with a suggestion of the softest leather, clean and pure. I cannot connect at all with those reviewers who talk about sour lemons, gasolene and rubber but I quite agree with the gentleman who describes Cuir de Russie as taking leather scents to a new level of sophistication. That being the case, I conclude that the comparison with Cary Grant is quite apt. While I am sure you are his equal in terms of virility, you will perhaps concede that his image is a tad more sophisticated than that of your good self."
It was, of course, not what Mr. Flynn wanted to hear and he never again invited me to his Hollywood estate. Indeed, I believe, had he not been aware of my skill with a swordstick, he would have challenged me there and then to act out Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham.'

According to my nose, Lemon met Lavender in the Gentle Woods and they all enjoyed a very fine relationship. Develops to a light, sweet, warm sandlewood smell. Pleasant, understated, underrated.

I would locate this among that family of powerful spicy scents which includes Boss Spirit (use only a drop!), Lauder for Men, Omar Sharif, Marbert Gentleman, Lord Molyneux, the noble Quorum, of course, and, in some ways best of all, the lovely bonfire-incense smell of Leonard Pour Homme. Many of these can seem overpowering and crude on initial application but come into their own as they develop slowly on the skin. In certain moods I like them all. Quorum and Leonard Pour Homme ( both more refined and subtle than the rest) I love all the time.

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the subject of Trumper's Malborough cologne: 'Messieurs and mesdames, this is, I believe, together with Astor, my very favourite among Geo. F. Trumper's distinguished range of colognes. Imagine, if you will, a dandy emerging from a barber's shop. Malborough, to my nose, combines a soapy, clean barbershop smell with the distictly sweet fragrance of an old-fashioned dandy's cologne. A fairly unique aroma. Think of a tablet of perfumed soap, one which might be used with equal facility by either sex. Of its kind, it is close to perfection - a fragrant reverie of sweet, clean freshness.'

Sky blue juice with a fragrance of warm gold. It reminds me quite strongly of Ungaro II and perhaps also shares some notes with Chanel Pour Monsieur, although Skye is a lot less lastinfg than either. A delightful scent, quality all the way.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the Berkshire estate of Lord and Lady Astor (or Gus and Matilda as we used to call them). They gave us each a bottle of Trumper's Astor Cologne,
"They tell me, de Charlus," said His Lordship, "that you're a bit of a chappie for fragrance. So give us your opinion of Astor cologne." "My dear Gus," I responded, "it is a truly remarkable fragrance, one of the finest creations of the House of Trumper. It has the further distinction of being quite unique in its distinguished aroma of deep but mellow spices. Although they are very different animals, I find it to be the equal of Creed's Vintage Tabarome in its depth and dignity and its subtle evocations of tradition and prestige. Trumper's colognes are not in general famed for their lasting qualities but Astor lasts longer on the skin than most. You must feel inordinately proud when you are wearing this sublime poem of masculinity which bears your family name."
"Good Lord, no," replied His Lordship, "I never touch the stuff. My lady wife Matilda, on the other hand, swears by it and wears it all the time."

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'It was in Dieppe that I first encountered Aramis Devin. Some strange young man rushed up and thrust a bottle of it into my hands. Why he should do this I have no idea. Possibly he disliked it and wanted to palm it off onto the first person he met. Possibly he was so overawed by my unique and elegant presence that he intended it as a token of esteem. At all events, I immediately applied some Devin to both wrists and stood there in the street sniffing fastidiously. Citrus dominant, I judged, but taken off on a strange tangent ... exotic grasses ... a somewhat mysterious juice, inviting a green and gold reverie ... a tunnel of promise ... an envelope of enigmatic desire ... indeed, somewhat trance-inducing. I emerged from this fragrant trance to find myself surrounded by a crowd of coarse sailors and grimy urchins jeering at me and greeting me with such epithets as Plum-Pants and Fancy-Doody. Having unfortunately ventured forth without my swordstick, I had no other recourse but to spray this hoi polloi with the Aramis Devin. Tasteless wretches that they were, it unmanned them completely and they ran away in horror. But what a waste of such an excellent juice!'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the heavenly mansion of Erzulie Geh-Rouge, the Voodoo Goddess of Love. She gave us each a bottle of Royal Bain de Caron (formerly known as Royal Bain de Champagne).
"De Charlus," whispered the Goddess, "although a mere mortal, they speak in awed tones of your bizarre knowledge of perfumes. What is your opinion of Royal Bain de Caron, reputedly poured out as a libation in my honour by my adherents and supposedly commissioned from the House of Caron by an eccentric millionaire to replace the baths he was wont to take in champagne?"
"My dear Erzulie," I responded, "I am less than enamoured of this quaint yet nondescript potion. It opens, as one perceptive reviewer has noted, with a somewhat fermented feel. To my nose, this fermentation is compounded by the smell of a rather cheap bubble bath. Its floral development, whilst not grossly offensive, I find to be sweetly tepid and somewhat yawn-inducing. I fear it has very little to offer in the way of either divinity, sublimity or amorousness. Why your followers should choose to honour you with this particular fragrance truly defeats my imagination."
The Goddess, incandescent with rage, proceeded to heap a number of curses upon my head, my nose and my arrogance. So far as I can tell, these curses were not wholly effective. I still have half a head and half a nose and my honesty and arrogance remain intact.'

It opens, quite bitter and minty, somewhere to the exotic left of Azzaro Pour Homme. It continues down this path: cool, enigmatic, with almost a sense of elegant melancholy as the previous reviewer has so aptly observed. A deep and sober scent, highly poetic and evocative ... but of what? Death, regret, loss, age, time itself? There seems to be a sort of 'Creed notes' about the final developments.

The opening is strong and almost too sharp and shares, as one perceptive reviewer has commented, some notes with that fine scent Bowling Green. But the true wonder of Nicolai's New York is in its development. We tend to think of citrus as clean, sharp, bracing. But New York underwrites this with warm, sweet,seductive, sophisticated, mysterious tones that are quite ravishing in their way. In spite of partial affinities with Bowling Green, this is fairly unique and a bit of a wonder. A sort of 'citrus-oriental'? Very layered, suave and luscious.

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the subject of Kouros Fraicheur: 'Messieurs and mesdames, I hear that this strange cousin of Kouros retreated to the deep Grecian woods and there established his hermitage. The inevitable Kouros smells of goats, sex, and barbarism were as ever in evidence, but now they were tempered with the mossy water from the cousin's well and the foliage and minerals from the damp ground of his grotto. It lent a mystery that was both raw and abstract. He lived there alone for many a year until at last a beautiful princess came and claimed him for her own, seduced by his strange perfume.'

The Baron de Charlus once delivered a lecture to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the subject of Vetyver-Vanille by Le Jardin Retrouve. 'Messieurs and mesdames,' he began, 'indulge me while I engage in another of my impressionistic rambles. Alphonse and Eugenie, you know, the children at the picnic, how they are full of delight on this beautiful summer's day! Creaking hay carts, waving branches, easy majesty of summer. Bitter vetiver, sweet vanilla. Hand in hand they go. Mama and Papa are sipping champagne. The children are hiding in the tall grass of the meadow. Sunlight, shadows and confectionary. Bitter vetiver, sweet vanilla. Little do they know that they will carry this scent with them, this secret poem of childhood, half remembered, through their whole lives - like some deep forgotten yearning.'

The Baron de Charlus once informed me: 'Concerning Dunhill's Blend 30, two questions presnt themselves implacably to my mind: (1) Why is this fragrance so fleeting? (2) Why does it bear the faint aroma of someone breaking wind after eating too many eggs? It is possible to evolve several hypotheses to account for these unfortunate results but it would be too tedious to pursue them. Suffice to say, I am disappointed by this much lauded liquid.'

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris concerning Silver Mountain Water: 'Ah, my friends, memories of morning silver and the bright metallic clatter of streams! Cold smile of fruits in the snow! And there, on the tea-wafted winds, a soltary high-flying bird calls to us from strage horizons! ... But then, alas, all this poetic fragility collapses into the odour of what the admirable Poppinj has called that "infamous Creed arse note". Whether it be civet or something else, I neither know nor care. I only know that it is foul. It is rumoured that certain ancient tribes would amorously smear themselves with excrement in the hapless delusion that this constituted an aphrodisiac. It would appear that the House of Creed, supposedly the epitome of European civilization and refinement, has unconsciously emulated them in this unfortunate protocol - and not just in one but in several of their scents.'

My friend Marcel reports how one day he accidentally wandered into one of the seediest taverns in the whole of Paris. Peopled by some of the most desperate characters in the city, inevitably filled with the pungent smell of One Man Show, the odd whiff of Yatagan and the blunt reek of Marbert Man, Marcel's fastidious nose detected a stll more acrid odour that simultaneously fascinated and appalled. It seemed to emanate from a huge ruffian in the corner, a certain Gaston "Bad Boy" Gabouche, one of the most feared gangsters in the whole of France. Rather timorously, Marcel approached him and inqired concerning his fragrance. 'Ha, my little potato,' snarled back Gabouche, 'I chew the head off the snake, I bite the metal bullet, my testicles shine like tarnished gold! In my guts there throbs the heartless hum of the city, in my mouth there swirls the cruel bile of ambition! My head is mad with a bitter and masculine juice, for I must never be defeated! What else should I wear but Rochas' own special poison? Pure wild stench of Macassar!'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a houseguest at the Balmoral estate of Queen Victoria (or "Quack Quack" as we used to call her on account of the fact that she reminded us of a small stout duck). She gave us each a bottle of Creed's Royal Scottish Lavender.
"We are curious to know, de Charlus," demanded the Queen, "whether this fragrance, reputedly commissioned by ourself in memory of our dear Prince Albert, meets with your fastidious approval." "It is well known, my dear Quack Quack," I responded, "that sadly many Creed scents suffer from one of two faults: either from the infamous Creed arse note or from an incurable air of stuffiness. In the case of Royal Scottish Lavender, the infamous arse note is mercifully lacking, but not so the air of stuffiness. If I let my imagination wander, I conjure the following image: three of us are seated together in the royal train travelling through the Highlands: my own elegant self, your prim and portly personage dressed in widow's weeds, and the serious shade of your dear deceased consort Albert. The tenacious scent of Royal Scottish Lavender fills our compartment,strangely combining a sharp, natural air with an over-civilized medicinal and stuffy quality - in some ways reminiscent of herbal candy or those sticks of lavender rock one sometimes still finds in the jars of certain pharmacies. Poetic, quaint, fresh, prim, confectional, medicinal, old fashioned, somewhat delightful if somewhat staid."
The Queen blinked back a tear. "Much like my dear Albert, then," she commented, "and much unlike you, reeking of your decadent dandy's scents, your Musc Ravageur, your Habit Rouge, your Anucci Man and your Sybaris!"
I felt somewhat annoyed by these jibes at my exquisite taste and resolved to respond with the deadliest insults that a fragrance master can muster. "My dear Quack Quack," I replied icily, "I have it on the best authority that your precious Albert, when he was not stinking out the royal palaces with Cigar Aficionado or offending foreign dignitaries with the injudicious odour of Joop, would insist on boring the whole of English society to death with the bland tedium of Memoire d'Homme and Dior's Higher Energy! Enough said, I believe."'

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus gave to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the subject of Tabarome Original: 'A scent of the inner sanctum, a soft grey lucidity, elusive delicacy of mauve, complex rumours of a brown and silver background. It whispers an enigmatic invitation. If you prefer a musical analogy: a melody slightly sad, yet gentle and kindly, and filled with an inner force and conviction. Let us pause at the turning of the stair and savour this wise old scent, breathing in its impossible charm and unutterable distinction.'

Not really. Like Lord Molyneux, a rather crude, cheap, blunt use of spices. Better as it develops and gets more subdued.

What the previous reviewers say is all true: a more refined take on the original Polo.

How delightful to meet Mr. Calvin,
He smells so amazingly clean;
How delightful to meet Mr.Calvin,
His smoothness is almost obscene;
How delightful to meet Mr. Calvin,
The mellowest spice ever seen.

Not sure about the mustard, Mike, but orange, mint, metal - yes. Also: aloof, enigmatic, cool, warm, urban, sophisticated, androgynous, highly charismatic. Anarchist? Well, perhaps in the sense of someone who keeps you guessing about their identity and their values?

What a peculiar dream! I was in the Botanic Gardens, crashing through what appeared to be acres of laurel bushes, surrounded on all sides by the sharp, pungent smell of exotic grasses. Suddenly my friend Marcel materializes and hands me a tablet of clean-smelling soap. I promptly drop it among the grasses. Behind us, the Baron de Charlus appears and makes a strange gesture of benediction. 'Go gently with this juice,' he whispers dramatically, 'or its bittersweet alchemy will bury us all in its vegetable depths! Implacable liquid, O Versace l'Homme: funereal, romantic, distinguished, mysterious one!'

Out of the old man's grumblings and rumblings, out of the dry, crusty sweat of his urine-stained trousers, out of the blunt reek of ammonia oozing from his armpits, out of the assembled smell of cats, dogs and hamsters he keeps locked up in his fetid kitchen with the closed windows, there rises up this milk of horror - they call it Route du Vetiver.

I like most citrus scents and I certainly like this one. Pure and refined, it puts me in mind of two similar scents: Nina Ricci's Signoricci and the (now discontinued?) Cotswold by Dukes of Pall Mall. I agree that Citrus Bigarrade does not last or, if it does, it is in a very quiet, discreet way. Clean, distinguished citrus whispers all round.

This is very nice - but then so is its grandfather, Vetiver by Carven (1959), which it so closely resembles.

The opening is like suddenly walking through the door of an apothecary's shop: a strong blast of medicinal herbs and spices. You think: this is a highly evocative scent but I am not sure that I would want to wear it or to smell like this. Then it changes gradually to what I can only describe as the quite inviting smell of a thick, strong cola. You are still unsure if you waould want to wear it. Finally it evolves into a gentler and thoroughly wearable background of herbs and spices with, yes, still that hint of cola,

A challenging scent to review. It does not fit into any obvious category. The scent is pronounced, unique, soft and elusive all at the same time. It is neither sweet nor bitter. It hints at flowers and woods wrapped up in a refined milkiness. The name perhaps suggests that some wizardry of herbs and tea is also at work to produce this unusual and spiritual perfume. Does it conjure up any image or atmosphere? A very pure human love, perhaps? Or the fragrance of angels in the fields of paradise? At all events, unique and wonderful.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I remember as a child that I would be taken on occasion to the apartment of my uncle, the Duc des Esseintes, the celebrated dandy and recluse. He frequently insisted on bathing both his person and his apartment in the fragrance Spezie by Villoresi. He declared that this enabled him to recapture former existences in the medieval castles of his ancestors: the spices of the kitchens and the spices of the bedchamber, the festive smells of Christ's Mass in the great hall, the banter of the guardroom and the chatter of the sewing room, the pieties of simple souls in the chapel, and the warming scent of mulled wine drifting up to the frozen battlements on winter afternoons.'

A really lovely, subtle scent on a foundation of smooth, subdued citrus. Of the four men's scents by Amouage that I have sampled - Gold, Dia, Ciel and Silver Cologne - Dia strikes me as the jewel in their crown. (You can obtain inexpensive sample sets of these hugely expensive perfumes from www.chantalflorist.co.uk).

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'Baby powder and vinegar? Cloying cousin of Habit Rouge? Ghost of Ma Griffe? Epitome of European elegance and refinement? Snobbish syrup of the nouveau riche? Impeccable traditions of the ancient perfumes of Araby? Arrogant, spoiled young princes leaving nightclubs in red Ferraris? Calculated creation? Labour of love? Contrived? Crass? Subtle? Sublime? It is all true. True of all Amouage and of Amouage Gold in particular. Postmodernism incarnate!'

Sometimes the Baron de Charlus and his cousin Oriane, Duchesse de Guermantes, could be found in the afternoons sipping tea together in one of the more exalted salons of the Faubourg Saint Germain. It was understood between them that on such occasions they would always both wear Tea For Two by L'Artisan Parfumeur. It seemed to suit them perfectly. The same exquisite breeding touched by eccentricity, the same subtle yet haughty grandeur, the same sophisticated civilities reaching almost into infinity, quite untouched by anything brash, vulgar, brutal or mundane.

It is like opening an antique chest in some forgotten attic. The chest itself is empty. It bears only the memories of the treasures it once contained: a fragrant space filled with the imprint of the exotic spices which once lay within it, mingled with the smell of precious woods of which the chest itself is made. Like so many of the creations of L'Artisan Parfumeur, the finest quality meets the purest poetry.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I quite like this, but why do they call this oh so reserved bunny a wicked wolf?'

Blackberries in milk. Musk within that milkiness. Very fine.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I am slightly concerned that some believe The Baron cologne was either commissioned by me, composed in my honour or at the very least named after me. I can assure you that this was never the case.
The Baron is not an unmitigated disaster but nor is it an unqualified success. It is an inevitably fraught procedure to try and make the floral propensities of, say, a Grey Flannel cohabit with the herbal propensities of, say, a Lacoste Booster - which it seems to my nose is what The Baron cologne almost attempts to do, binding them both within a saccharine sweetness. Unique, I grant you,but a somewhat unfortunate blend nonetheless.
Unfortunate, too, are the poetic vistas which it envelops: if The Baron cologne transports me anywhere, it is probably to some flimsy film set where, in a nightclub composed of cardboard, middle aged gangsters flirt idly with peroxide blondes over cheap cocktails. This is hardly an ambience that a personage like myself is anxious to inhabit.'

Place me in aristocratic bathrooms, give me as a present to tramps, carry me over continents, let me greet you in international hotels and warm your welcome in faraway cottages. I am, sir, but a humble yet beautiful soap with echoes of English tradition, here to make your life that little bit finer.

The scholar, the soap, and the beautiful tomorrow. Amid the dusty Greek and Latin texts, the dark brown benches stained with the sweat of centuries, the mingled reek of cabbage, frustration, tradition and privilege that fills the corridors, seeps this clean blue fragrance of youth and hope. The scholar, the soap, and the beautiful yesterday.

A cold, rainy, desolate autumn night in Northern France. He walks alone by the gloomy canal. Is he depressed? Not a bit of it! Since he is wearing Zizanie, that sweet, warm, deep and welcoming scent from Fragonard, he feels himself indefinably cheered whatever the season hurls at him.

Let us enter this humble wooden shack with its tarred paper roof in the twilight. Inside, dim figures are moving amid smouldering fires of smoking turf. At the other end is a door that leads to a magnificent drawing room, painted in pearl grey, filled with the distinguished hum of masculine conversation. I am about to pass through when a man bars my way and demands the password. I rack my brains. 'Rough meets smooth,' I improvise. 'Peasantry meets gentry. Turf-smoke meets elegance in grey. Jacomo de Jacomo. Unique atmosphere.' 'Pass, friend,' he declares.

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a houseguest at Chartwell, the country estate of Sir Winston Churchill (or "Vesuvius" as we used to call him on account of his volcanic eruptions). He gave us each a bottle of Blenheim Bouquet.
"Tell me, de Charlus," said Sir Winston in that celebrated slurred growl of his, "as a connoissheur of schent, what is your opinion of Blenheim Bouquet? Shum shay it is one of the finest schents in creation - and I concur!" "Then we are of one mind, my dear Vesuvius," I responded. "An opening of clean pure citrus with a truly divine development of warm woods. It has hardly been bettered before or since." Sir Winston looked surprised. "Sho," he said, "you do not intend, then, to asshail me with one of your shelebrated inshults?" "Merely to remark, my dear Vesuvius, given your capacity to engage in some of the fiercest and foulest eruptions known to man, that it is most gracious of you to counteract these assaults on your fellow creatures by bathing yourself in the fragrant ambience of Blenheim Bouquet. It leaves us all wondering whether we are surrounded by citrus or shitrus."
At this, much to my admiration, the famous statesman and bon viveur growled, scowled, guffawed, and threw a steak and kidney pudding at my head.'

The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the Sandringham estate of Bertie, Prince of Wales (or "Tum-Tum" as we used to call him on account of his girth). He gave us each a bottle of Crown's Sandringham aftershave.
"Tell me, de Charlus," the Prince inquired, "as a famed fragrance aficionado, what is your opinion of Sandringham, what?!" "My dear Tum-Tum," I replied, "it is extraordinarily strong and long lasting for an aftershave, being almost of cologne or even eau de toilette strength. It is rich, royal, sensuous, sweet and generous, most certainly an extrovert dandy's scent, possibly rather too exuberant if one is feeling at all fragile or reflective. I feel it to be poetically suited both to your good self and to your illustrious ancestor King Henry VIII, since it is a touch gross and overblown. There is perhaps a hint of the royal brothel about it, but it is none the worse for that in my estimation. I believe that latterly both Davidoff's Zino and Guerlain's Heritage have explored a somewhat similar terrain a trifle more subtly."
Although I believed I had given Crown's Sandringham my qualified approval, I fear my judgement may have offended the Prince, since he never again invited me to one of his Sandringham weekends. Needless to say, that was his loss.'

This fine fragrance might almost have been made for my friend Marcel, since it seems to constitute the veritable Platonic Idea of those distinguished assemblages of citrus and herbs which Marcel loves so dearly. His valet Andre seemed less sure: 'It's a bit quaint old lemony, ain't it, Monsieur? A bit of the old herbal tea bag, ain't it , Monsieur? Maybe it needs a drop of coffee or chocolate or mysterious plum to liven it up? As they say in Timbuktoo, I doubt it'll make the girlies gurgle.'

A dark and dense enigma threw
A shadow most mysterious,
Sophisticated through and through,
Perhaps a touch nefarious,
A smooth, metallic, spicy brew
With undertones most various,
And then of course at last we knew
It had to be Xeryus.

Quality all the way, but unfortunately there is no outstanding note and no outstanding blending of notes to make it, well, stand out. Perhaps we could call it 'expensive-ordinary'? Not in the same league as the grand Van Cleef and Arpels Pour Homme.

A not so poor man's Chanel Pour Monsieur? Not so very poor at all. There is the same air of a gentleman's dressing room in some stupendously expensive apartment, the same trail of refined talcum powder surrounds us. The butler coughs apologetically. The Rolls Royce awaits. It reeks of privilege. You have a social conscience? Come now, we're only playing at millionaires for the price of a bottle of scent!

Oh dear! Wear it and wince! I don't mean to sound snooty about this because there are more than a few so-called 'drugstore fragrances' - the fresh and refined Tabac, that early streetcorner dandy's scent Blue Stratos, Victor's poem of mysterious pine Acqua di Selva, Puig's smooth and pleasant Agua Lavanda - that put many more expensive scents to shame. Unfortunately, Dana's English Leather Lime does not appear to be among their number: it's too much like disinfectant, cheap disinfectant at that. The original English Leather smells rather better to my nose than this.

I agree, this is OK. According to my nose, a genuinely nice opening salvo is a bit let down by a slightly cheap-smelling development. A sort of 'mundane mass fragrance' meets 'I coulda been a contender, Charlie, I coulda had class'?

I remember the time when my friend Marcel, accompanied by his valet Andre, played a game of golf with the Englishman Bertie Wooster, accompanied by his manservant Jeeves.
Since they were playing golf, they were all naturally wearing Henry Cotton's (in Blue, as it happens). Characteristically, Marcel seemed more interested in sniffing his wrist than in hitting the ball, declaring that Henry Cotton's in Blue was rather like a more civilized, less noxious One Man Show. 'Don't know about that, old bean,' Bertie responded genially, 'personally I just slap on the jolly old lotion and forget about it! The fillies seem to like it though!'
Behind them, Andre snickered confidingly to Jeeves: 'I reckon your master must be as clueless about fragrance as my master. Henry Cotton's could never be a babe magnet!' Jeeves raised a querulous eyebrow. 'I take it that you are intimating that young persons of the female persuasion are unlikely to be amorously aroused by the said lotion? I fear I must disburden you of that belief. Whilst wearing Henry Cotton's in Blue, several damsels have distinctly drooled over me, a number of sugars have obligingly shaken, and more than one cutecake has condescended to crumble.'

This was the lecture that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the subject of Acqua di Selva: 'Messieurs and mesdames, this is surely among the finest of the pine family of scents. It outstrips the somewhat eccentric Agua Brava, it outsoars the mundane Pino Silvestre, and it sails in dimensions unknown to the worthy but unimaginative Polo. This is not, as some have mistakenly called it, "a cheap drugstore fragrance". Rather, its whole beauty lies in its exploration of one of the subtlest yet simplest notes of quiet, clean pine known to perfumery. I sniff my wrist...I lose myself in a reverie...I find myself in other lifetimes...a maze in the gardens of the Court of Versailles...a familiar phantom leads me on...simple, childlike, regretful, mocking...a long, green, pure echo...it promises a deep and very upright bliss amid all these blind alleys and illusions.'

Clean and fresh meets smooth and warm - but with so much subtle elegance, so much quiet refinement. A pool of whispering gold.

ARISTOCRAT SHOOTS FRAGRANCE AT LEARNED SOCIETY! Police were called last night to the Society of Perfumes in Paris following the shooting of the fragrance One Man Show by the eccentric aesthete Baron de Charlus. Eyewitnesses report that de Charlus was heard shouting: 'I refuse any longer to dignify this sinus-destroying syrup with words!' Producing a revolver, he tossed a bottle of One Man Show in the air and shot it to pieces. 'I have no regrets,' de Charlus was reported as saying later, 'I only wish I had shot it sooner!' One Man Show is believed to be in a critical condition but the House of Bogart are confident it will recover.

A highly refined, truly gorgeous woody scent that really stands out from the crowd. A beautiful and unusual blending, nothing sharp about it at all, just deep, smooth, gentle explorations in woods with hints of spice and sweetness. Quite capable of restoring your faith in fragrance, close encounters of this kind are sadly all too rare. If I may be so bold, Vendetta is the scent that the slightly off-beam Ungaro I could have been, should have been.

Dan Hechter's son, the handsome Caractere, used to hang out with a crowd of equally good-looking guys - Joint, Omar Sharif, Lord Molyneux, Free Life, Marbert Gentleman, etc. Sweet Jane used to tell them: 'All you boys are real babe magnets, so smooth and so cool when you dance to that fine, fine music! But I've got to tell you, guys, Caractere's got the edge, Caractere's got smoothness squared, Caractere's got coolness cubed, Caractere can really make the cutecakes crumble!'

I understand from his valet Andre that my friend Marcel has been praising more 'boring old man's scents' again. This time, apparently, it's Eau de Rochas which Marcel has singled out as a refined and distinguished assemblage of citrus and herbs worthy of any true gentleman. Of course Andre had to inform him that said fragrance was hardly like to make the frails faint or the ladies linger but was almost guaranteed to make the babes barf, the honeys heave and the chicks chunder. A shame for all concerned,really.

I can never forget this strange, recurring, and almost blasphemous dream: Marcel, de Charlus and I are together in one of the more exclusive salons in the Faubourg Saint Germain. Evincing that curious yet all too familiar logic of dream, de Charlus remarks casually: 'Indeed, my friends, it seems that we, rather like the Trinity, are three persons in one, a miracle of mysterious coalescence. Yet, even more mystically, it seems that we are on the point of experiencing an epiphany, some ultimate, total and fragrant revelation, some arcane secret, some Holy Grail of Perfumery. And its name is surely...PORTOS!' At this point in the dream, I always wake up, only to discover that the miraculous Portos by Balenciaga has been discontinued. Both Marcel and de Charlus have reported the same dream, the same sense of awe and wonder, the same sense of sadness and loss.

It was not so much a lecture as a rhapsody that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the subject of Derby by Guerlain. 'Let us rejoice and give thanks for the wonders of Derby,' he declared, 'and also give thanks to Monsieur de Milamber for his estimable review of this fragrance. I especially appreciate his likening of Derby to a "Habit Rouge without the Rouge...a darker, dirtier scent but refined as well". I would only add: Perfumery at its best is an art form which, like poetry, music and song, aims to evoke a variety of often complex and elusive feelings, thoughts, memories and imaginings. It is only the sheerest prejudice which denies it this distinction and equality with other arts! In the case of Derby, the sweet red richness of Habit Rouge seems to tranmute into more mysterious and browner dimensions, utterly enigmatic and strangely captivating. A unique aroma in a rather fine bottle!'

Definitely a Parisian dandy's scent. Baudelaire could have written a poem about it. But it does not have the same obvious aura of sheer decadence and sensuality that a dandy's scent like Sybaris by Puig has. By comparison, Anucci is almost fastidious: sweet, flowery, rich, delicate, and pervaded by what someone called an unusual amaretto note. Very unique, but too sweet and strange for many men. A mood scent. Some women like to wear it. But, then again, according to reviews on certain sites (less dignified than the estimable Basenotes) Anucci sometimes functions as a babe magnet or damsel drooler or, even more poetically, as a cutecake crumbler. Possibly also worn by foppish gamblers in Dodge City in the 1870s (imported from Paris, of course).

With the names 'Sagamore' and 'Balafre', the House of Lancome has provided us with two fine Gothic signifiers worthy of a tale by Edgar Allen Poe ("The Count Sagamore at his Castle of Balafre...", etc.). But what sort of fragrance is Sagamore? It seems to me quite a near neighbour of Bel Ami by Hermes, sharing the same quality and sophisticated blending. It certainly shares some of the same notes, and for me has the same overall atmosphere of an almost creamy refinement that simultaneously manages to be beautiful, complex, wise, calm, and slightly sad.

A fine name, a fine bottle, a fine box, and a fine enough fragrance. But, as reviewers here and elsewhere have hinted, I can't see that it has much to offer that the grand old Drakkar Noir did not offer first.

Did Weil intend the name Kipling to evoke Rudyard Kipling, poet of India, Empire, and the English countryside, or to evoke Mr. Kipling, that 'maker of most excellent cakes'? Or have I lost the plot completely on the naming of this fragrance? If Rudyard Kipling, it ought to be both more oriental-exotic and woodsy-rural; if Kipling of the Cakes, it ought to be more fruity-edible. What we actually get is refined spicy-woods somehat in the manner of Quorum by Puig. Since Quorum is one of my favourite fragrances, Kipling gets my vote too. If you don't like Quorum, I suppose you should avoid Kipling as well. Since it's discontinued, that's not hard to do.

I bought a 15 ml miniature bottle of G-Man's aftershave out of sheer curiosity. It's quite well named. You might think that J. Edgar Hoover's boys should be dedicated wearers of clean cut citrus, but they could wear this one too: subdued yet smoky, formal administrative grey meets the grey of gunpowder, respectability with a hint of sex and danger. Long lasting and with some similarities to Trussardi Uomo.

I recall how once the Baron de Charlus, inspired by numerous glasses of wine, extolled to me in an inebriated ramble the several virtues of Acqua di Parma. 'Hmm, ha, yes,well, mon cher Nitram,' he began, 'flintlocks, filigree and fine old lace...that ancient air...hmm...an old chateau in the morning mist...ha...lemon and faded rose...exquisite!...my lady's wardrobe?...hum, perhaps...the old, the true aristocracy!...Monsieur le Duc....swathed in supreme citrus...carriages on cobbled streets...Acqua di Parma!...a gift for His Majesty!...all gone...faded glories...lost swan of youth...all...quite...gone...' At which point, having had one glass too many, the Baron surrendered to sleep.

Sagamore...Balafre...two poetic, Gothic names from Lancome. And, in the case of Balafre, a poetic, Gothic scent. Here is the castle door, here are the long, winding corridors down which this deep, elusive fragrance leads us, breathing of lost time, whispering of forgotten loves, and murmuring of improbable destinations.

An opening of strong but delicate citrus notes with a tremendous feeling of quality. It develops into something warm, soft and restrained, but the beautiful opening notes never disappear completely. If you like fine citrus creations, I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Pleasant enough. An opening salvo of strong herb notes. A slight lemony aspect seems to creep in later. I don't find it particularly strong or long lasting.

To my nose, Rococo has a lot of similarities to Oscar for Men. Both scents have the same dominant and enduring note of exotic woods. If you're in the mood, this can seem fine and intriguing; if you're not in the mood, it can seem oppressive and monotonous. Of the two scents, Oscar has the edge on quality.

Insatiable? To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, this is the Uninspired in pursuit of the Ordinary. Both would be better names for it.

A rather shamefaced sibling of the splendid Z-14. Halston Z is not actively unpleasant but it does manage to be weak and watery in its opening notes and ordinary and uninspired in its light woodsy development.

Not horrible, but nor will it win any prizes for originality or refinement. Conventionally sharp and woodsy. A bit crude.

The Baron de Charlus once delivered a lecture to the Society of Perfumes in Paris on the topic of Santos Eau de Sport. Dispensing with his usual preamble, he spent the first ten minutes studiously sniffing his wrist, occasionally nodding and muttering to himself. The audience grew restless. After ten more minutes of his sniffing and muttering, several people were on the point of leaving. Suddenly the Baron declared: 'Messieurs and mesdames, can this be Cartier's finest? O subtle blendings of sandalwood, spices and I know not what mysterious ingredients of the perfumier's art! O sensation so smooth and exquisite that it verges on sheer monarchical indulgence and aesthetic prurience! Forgive me, but I must leave now, for if I stay any longer I fear I shall burst into tears!'

Rich,dark, warm, smooth and spicy. Quite pleasant.

The other day I happened to bump into Andre, the somewhat fractious valet of my friend Marcel. 'You know, Monsieur,' he confided to me, 'I am beginning to despair of my master's taste in fragrances. Now he has been trying to persuade me what a distinguished scent Eau Sauvage is. I had to tell him bluntly: "Yes, Monsieur Marcel, distinguished as you like, but can it rake in the honeys? Is it a babe magnet? Will it make the chicks chuckle? Will it make the damsels drool? Will it make the sugars shake? Will it make the cutecakes crumble? I don't think so!" Between you and me, Monsieur Nitram, as one man of the world to another, I'm afraid my poor master hasn't got a clue about what it takes to make a good fragrance!'

Smooth and warm yet fresh and clean. It's a fairly quiet scent that doesn't shout its presence but definitely has a voice all of its own. Pleasant and original.

One of the briefest but most memorable lectures that the Baron de Charlus delivered to the Society of Perfumes in Paris concerned the much praised Versace Dreamer. 'Non!' he thundered,raising his hands dramatically to the heavens. 'Non!' he declared again, this time with his voice ascending to a falsetto shriek. 'And again, non!' he announced a third time, his voice descending to a barely audible growl. 'Messieurs and mesdames, abjure this vile synthetic concoction!'

The Baron de Charlus once delivered a lecture to the Society of Perfumes in Paris concerning the Mysteries of Kouros. 'Messieurs and mesdames,' he began, 'I am aware that the world is divided into two camps: the lovers and haters of Kouros. In an impressionistic ramble I shall explain why this is so. Kouros is a fragrance of gross richness where a honeyed sweetness joins hands with the blunt smell of semen, where hot Mediterranean suns glisten on bronzed and sweating bodies, fading to sultry nights of passion. It conjoins love and hate; it occupies a domain that unites a lazy sensuality with horny handed toil and where forever lurks the threat of danger and barbaric cruelty. Notice how it achieves its extremes of masculinity without any of the conventional mannerisms of deep leathery reticence - it is too hot blooded for that! Notice too how it is redolent with the ancient mystery of Homeric Greece - warriors, heroes, demigods, fabulous beasts, dreadful wars and mythical voyages. All in all, love it or hate it, messieurs and mesdames, I think you will have to admit that Kouros is one of the most blatantly sexual and poetic fragrances in existence - and truly unique! You do not have to wear it or even like it but I urge you to appreciate it as a true creation of the perfumier's art!

If Tactics by Shisheido illustrates that a fragrance with some affinities to detergent can be a thing of beauty, then the much acclaimed Knize Ten seems to demonstrate that a fragrance with some affinities to insect repellent can be beautiful too. All this means is that the opening and dominant note is frankly a bit weird, even slightly unpleasant, but the melodies which grow out of it are rich and strange and, partly because of the weird note they blend with, pretty unique. Subtle complexities of leather, tobacco, herbs and sweetness - I agree with the other reviewers about this.

A strange scent and quite difficult to describe. My first impression was that I didn't much like it and, even now, it can still remind me of a superior washing detergent. But it is a fragrance, if you'll pardon the pun, that really gets under your skin and has you compulsively sniffing your wrist, partly in pleasure, partly trying to penetrate its secret. It is poetic and unique, and somewhat monolithic in that the opening notes never change much, they simply get more subdued. It somehow manages to smell both conventionally clean and eccentrically weird at the same time. I still think the detergent analogy is a good one, but a detergent layered with overtones and undertones of mystery and refinement.

Opening of sunlight on grass. Then it gets more subdued and subterranean. Ancestral earth, spirits of nature. Adam stirs, stretches, sniffs, savours the muted green garden smells. It's not a bad place this.

Quite a smooth and pleasant gentleman. If he has a blunt edge, he keeps it well wrapped in velvet.

Reticent woods filled with gentlemen strollers. Hints of lavender and maybe mint on the breeze. A quiet pool, a quiet distinction.

A scent of quiet authority, subdued, subtle, but with great presence. It has initially less of a marked citrus note than other classic vetiver scents like Guerlain or Carven. Sweet and bitter ingredients blend together in the most harmonious and distinguished way. A fine old gentleman, this, long lasting and with a real air of depth. A forgotten gem?

Hardly pretty, but certainly a different kind of scent: poetic, evocative, elusive: melancholy of desolate kitchen gardens, mystery of old attics, memories of crumbling greenhouses, an abandoned warehouse still fragrant with the smell of sweet and bitter herbs. But the greatest mystery is this: what idiot thought fit to call this highly poetic scent by the prosaic name 'Lacoste Booster'?

It is rumoured that the Baron de Charlus was once observed strolling through the Faubourg Saint Germain wearing absolutely nothing except a liberal application of JHL cologne. Interrogated by a curious policeman concerning his state of undress, the Baron replied haughtily: 'My good fellow, I am far from being undressed! Since I am wearing JHL by Aramis, one of the finest creations in the whole history of human endeavour, I consider myself not merely to be adequately adorned but to be positively garbed in glory! Now be off with you and about your business or I shall complain to your superiors!'

How my friend Marcel loved this fragrance! I recall that once, a little the worse for wear from champagne, he confided tearfully to me: 'Here was the odour of earth and sweet woods, so gentle, so refined, where once I walked with my first love Gilberte. At the centre of the forest we paused to savour the deep and distinguished smell, causing us to stare at each other in the astonishment of our affection, the captives of scarcely glimpsed poetic impressions which revealed to us the impossibility of tracing them to their mysterious source, so profound and with such elegant reticence did they seem imbued and simultaneously to entice us whilst withdrawing their secret. Ah, Gilberte! Ah, Jules! Where are you now?

Agua, Agua Lavanda,
Mild but macho meander,
Worn from Spain to Sumatra,
Worn by Francis Sinatra,
It's a classic departure
From Old Lady's Lavanda,
Mild but macho meander,
Agua, Agua Lavanda!

When it first hits your nose
Like a bouquet that flows,
That's Escada!
When those shadows of gold
Softly start to unfold,
That's Escada!
When it's golden and olden and everything's smooth and it's mellow
(Lucky fellow!),
Pardon me, can't you see
That this sweet symphony
Is ESCADA!