Fragrance Reviews by Naed_Nitram

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