Fragrance Reviews by the_good_life

An instantaneous favorite from this house. It smells luxurious and sincere, of good materials expertly assembled, and it has the sumptousness of a classic perfume, as opposed to so many niches which offer an olfactory equivalent to the anemic adolescents populating the catwalks thes days. Citrus-herbal top meets spicy resinous oriental base, allusions to barbershop masculinity wonderfully blend with echoes of Shalimar. Together with the quirkier, more off-beat Messe de Minuit, this is probably Etro's finest.

The full pyramid:
lemon, bergamot, grapefruit, rosewood, coriander
rosemary, tarragon, rose, karo karounde, pomegranate, thyme
cedar, labdanum, nutmeg, frankincense, oppoponax, amber, patchouli, vetiver, musk

No, this will not win a prize for fragrance innovation. But if you want a perfectly crafted green-floral-woody masculine with "gentlemen's sillage" and excellent longevity, then Vetiver de Java (the osmo-parfum version) is for you. Vetiver, as noted in the other reviews, stands for green woody herbacity here more than for the actual smell of the grass, for which I'd suggest Villoresi's brilliant creation or Givenchy's profound Vetyver. Il Profumo's offering is indeed a classic men's scent. arlecchino describes it very well, though I get no sourness, just a very green powdery lavender-bergamot note in the top and find the floral aspect to be quite pronounced - but perfectly set in a ring of strong herbs and woods. That long-lasting interplay is what I love about this fragrance. It may seem to fade at times, but always comes back wafting pleasantly, easily throughout an entire working day. Persistent, unobtrusive and classic, with an Italian vibe, this is a perfect office scent - but it's so good it really deserves a very fine Canali or Corneliani suit, plush carpeting and mahogany furnishings.

Amazing, a carbonated perfume. Don't laugh, I get a "fizzy" sensation from it (must be the CO2-extracted incense :-), actually a bit like what you get when you squeeze a clementine peel and the essential oil squirts out. This has a generally high-pitched feel to it and seems rather one-dimensional compared to L'Air. It's lankey and somewhat spry and could use some buxom olfactory curves on the drydown. Instead I just get some dusty wood from the myrrh and cedar. Neither the rose nor the incense note satisfy me. I do wonder whether making such a marvel as L'Air du Désert Marocain early in your career isn't something of a curse. While it put Tauer on the map, I can't help but measure his later releases against it, unfair as that may be, and have found every one of them lacking in comparison. They're Paul McCartney/Wings albums vying with "Revolver."

This was one of my first purchases after joining basenotes and one of my earliest reviews. What a greenhorn...I can see why I didn't like it then and it's never going to be my favorite (for juniper, I choose Creed Baie de Genievre), but I can appreciate it better today, and, in fact, like it in small doses. The opening burst of lemon and bergamot already comes with a strong powdery-herbal accompaniment, which remains quite tenacious on textile, while settling into a more conventional/palatable wood&spice base on skin after a while. This sharp powdery-perfumey sensation of juniper, absinthe and spices is nearly headache-inducing and quite a turn-off for many, I would imagine - launching this in the acquatic-ozonic era was truly as aesthetically bold as it was economically foolhardy. Coriolan MUST be applied sparingly, worn in cold weather and it smells better from a distance than close-up. The bottle is beautiful, but prone to be read as feminine, which may have not helped sales either - really, the accountants must have hated this one. There are too many ifs and buts about this perfume to really be classed as a masterpiece, but I'll go for three stars and wearing it once a year on a cold fall day.


June 16, 2006 review:
Either my bottle is defective or my skin is just too teutonic for this Roman hero's scent, but wearing it makes me feel a lot more like some ancient harlot in the services of Coriolanus than the man himself. Nothing of the citrus top notes described by others, or even bitterness - which would be a welcome contrast to the suffocating boudoir sweetness this is exuding. The juniper barely shows through a wall of cheap soapy confusion which is entirely too much and entirely too feminine. Burberry Brit works so much better on me, the wild rose blending gracefully with spice notes and the inital freshness. My Coriolan lacks the complexity and drama of Shakespeare's hero, it's not tragedy but just plain farce.

While I understand that market dynamics seem to demand constant expansion these days, even of traditional fragrance firms, it is sometimes just better to keep doing what you have done well for a hundred years and stick with that. And if you're going to branch out, to do it right. Colonia by Aqua di Parma is such a classic, it truly stands tall among traditional Italian colognes and those of the other great perfume nations. Whoever controls this company now seems to know little of the responsibility that should come with bearing such a rich heritage, or so would be my conclusion from trying a number of the more recent offerings from this house: the inept mutilation that is Colonia Assoluta (the Germans have that wonderful word "Verschlimmbesserung," meaning "improving for the worse"); the gruesome cheap-scent-candle vanilla-almond Mandorlo di Sicilia; the insipid Arancia; and now the utterly superfluous Fico di Amalfi. For the perfume world needs an inferor version of Diptyque's Phylosikos with a citrus top as much as Italian democracy needs people like Silvio Berlusconi.
Really, all the folks at AdP need to do now is reformulate the original Colonia with cheap synthetics and another great name will have been run into the ground by the barbarity of brainless profit maximization.

Farina Gegenüber has a long proud history. Johann Maria Farina was the first person to market his hesperidic light fragrant water as Eau de Cologne and fortuituous circumstances (a new philosophy of scent rejecting older animalic styles, the French presence in the Rhineland), sound marketing and last but not least the quality of his product made Farina Gegenüber synonymous with Eau de Cologne for 200 years. After a persistent decline in the 20th century leading to co-ownership by a mass market producer of beauty products in the 1980s, the company was bought back by Johann Maria Farina and his brother in the 1990s and reestablished as a niche house. Farina is a trained pharmacist and perfumer and believes in the necessity of adapting the original formula to present expectations, besides having to conform to regulations and being unable to employ natural musk for reasons of scarcity. The formulation has apparently undergone a number of changes - an older bottle listed hydroxycitronellal, a popular synthetic providing a greenish lindenblossom note, and other synthetics, which have disapperead in the most recent INCI declaration. As a whole, however, the fragrance is still far removed from a natural, more short-lived Eau de Cologne, though it still far superior to the ghastly cocktail of low-end materials that goes by the name of 4711. I enjoy the bergamot opening, but don't find what the ionones add in power and persistence to be particularly pleasant - it is simply too reminiscent of the standard building blocks of mass market perfumery. My four stars, then, are given for the vintage Farina from ca. 1955 I own, which is a completey different creature - a light bergamot and citrus with delicate, whispering undertones of florals, woods and musk that fades within the hour. I'd welcome it if Farina decided to return to the original formulation to produce something as beautiful as Lorenzo Villoresi's Acqua di Colonia.

N..B.: There are still thousands of red and blue "Farina Gegenüber" bottles in circulation which were thrown on the market by 4711, containing an inferior version (if that is imaginable) of that firm's disgustingly low-grade product, in order to compromise the Farina name - the last chapter of the Eau de Cologne wars of the 19th and 20th century. You will never find authentic Farina Gegenüber dem Jülichsplatz 1709 bottles for 2 Euros. Many other pseudo-Farinas can be found on ebay as collector's items - the company has fought over 2000 court cases to protect its name.

One of those truly niche Creeds that doesn't get talked about much and is more interesting, and, I feel, better than MI, SMW or Himalaya. As often, the cypress notes can be a little harsh and lacquer-like at the outset, though this is far more restrained than, say, DSH Hinoki. The slightly sulfurous note, which Turin refers to as "boiled egg" is less evident on me in hot weather and the fragrance quickly evolves into a pleasant and subtle woody-green plus very fine sweet musk - the latter much better than many of those terribly cheap-smelling skin scent musks. Not something to show off, but rather to quietly enjoy one's idiosyncratic taste.

The official list reads orange leaves, lemon, sandalwood, vanilla and tonka beans, the description additonally mentions "notes of greens." The opening blast also unmistakeably features, if only briefly, a Jickyesque fecal civet note, which mercifully drops into the background to enhance a beautiful creamy-sweet woody oriental that manages to smell of true sandalwood, whether by artifice or nature (I suspect at least some of the former). Bois de Santal avoids the cedary character of many supposed sandalwoods, as well as the incomplete feel of Santal Imperial or the monomolecular harshness of Floris Sandalwood in their current sad states. It is very much a unisex fragrance - Creed lists it as masculine, on the net it is frequently classed as for women. It seems unavailable except, ocassionally, from one ebay retailer, which is a shame as it is easily not just the best Creed sandalwood but at the top of the entire genre. It lends to its wearer a distinguished air of old world sophistication and for me is very much an evening/romantic scent, perfect with a fine suit, though more relaxed and pleasurable than the somewhat austere vintage Tabarôme and certainly not misplaced in a more casual "cold autumn day promenade" context.

I can't add much to hirch's lucid desciption. It is indeed a wonderful, must-try fragance. I, too, appreciate the absence of honey-dripping sweetness, as in SMN's Acqua di Cuba, Boellis Panama and many other tobaccos and anyone who finds the musty density of vintage Tabarôme overly stifling will find here a clearer, more accentuated and tobacco-focused scent. That said, it is by no means simple - Dubrana has pointed out that this is in fact his most complex fragance in which he employs ingredients themselves constructed from many individual oils. Yet it is supremely elegant and easy to wear and even quite long lasting for a natural perfume.

Much more impressive than the dubious claim of having been made for George IV in 1875 (after all, the rake died in 1830) or worn by Churchill or Bogart, is the fact that this version of Tabarôme, whenever it may have actually been put together, perfectly evokes the late Victorian era and its slowly atrophying upper class, private club, leather chairs, Savile Row frocks and all.
This is certainly one of the more complex Creeds and the officially listed ingredients (bergamot, lime/clove, sandalwood, vetiver/leather, ambergris, tobacco leaves, tonka beans) cannot alone account for the overpowering effect that delights some and scares off others. To me, it seems, this pyramid completely omits the sweetness (save tonka) which I find characteristic of VT. In fact, I would go as far as to call it an occidental version of Fumerie Turque - less syrupy, not as harsh and smoky in the tobacco, but similar in blending tobacco, leather, florals, vanilla/tonka and perhaps beeswax or honey. I'm pretty sure there is tobacco blossom in VT, too, as well as jasmine, perhaps a little bit of rose and other florals. The clove&vetiver in the heart reminds me of Spiced Limes by Crown. There seems to be sweet-animalic castoreum here as well and orris provides a diffusive/powdery effect. The end result is a dense, sweet, yet also abrasively masculine powerhouse of a perfume which certainly will work best on an over-40 male in very formal attire. A superb scent and one of Creeds very finest.

Lorenzo Villoresi pays homage to Eau de Cologne, a fragrance that changed perfume history, by offering his own all-natural rendition of this classic genre made famous and christened by Johann Maria Farina of Cologne in Germany.
It is the best of its kind out there and thus by no means redundant if you enjoy this type of light hesperidic scent. The néroli is indeed wonderful and Villoresi adds his signature resinous aspect in the form of elemi, which also seems to enhance longevity. As one may expect of the creator of Spezie and Uomo, Villoresi's Acqua di Colonia is strongly herbal as well, with noticeable rosemary and clove notes and a musky base which must consist of ambrette seeds. It is sufficiently different from, say Acqua di Parma Colonia with its citrus-floral character, to justify owning both. Highly recommended and by no means discontinued. It is featured on the Villoresi website and available at perfumeries in Europe carrying the line.

An obnoxious fabric-softener floral paired with the essential-oil smell of my all natural tick-repellent. The latter is actually nicer - and repels ticks, so I'll pass on L'Artisan's offering.

I suspect the ingredients in the original version of Bowling Green may have been of a different caliber than in the low-end $9.99 product offered today at every discounter in the US. In any event, what I wore gave me little pleasure - an extreme blast of cheap soapiness that wore on for a good half hour, before evaporating into a decent but unexciting blend of herbs and spices. The high-end version of this, to me, appears to be Miller&Bertaux's No. 2 Spiritus/Land and I'll gladly pay the vastly higher price for the genuine pleasures it has to offer.

Michael Edwards classifies this a as a rich citrus and that is exactly how it comes across to me. The density of the scent is owed to the healthy dosage of treemoos, which is exquisitely married to the long lasting petitgrain-heavy citrus notes. While there is a moment of sweetness here, it is not the sticky candied citrus peel variety (amply displayed in the hard to find Tova Cologne for Men) which I am personally not fond of. I find the lavender plays but a supporting role here. It is light and contributes some herbaceous treble counterpoint to the mossy base, rather than showing a strong personality of its own. All in all Albi squares several circles in presenting itself as an innovative citrus, blending spriteliness with masculine mossy gravity, and providing astounding freshness-cum-longevity (and sillage). A masterful creation and a pleasure to wear.

A very well-made modern fragrance, the epitome of 21st century niche: incense, wood, iso-e-super, transparent, short-lived, skin scent, very light, slightly sweet base. The approach reminds me a lot of Acca Kappa's Cedro, another low-key minimalist modern fragrance (greener and woodier, though). A lot less irritating than most of what's on the market, but does not trigger the supsension of disbelief I'm looking for in perfume.

Cedrat (citrus medica) is neither lime (citrus aurantiifolia or latifolia) nor your normal household lemon (citrus limon), but a thick-peeled variety best known in the form of candied lemon peel. The people of the Mediterranean use it in a variety of ways, liqueur de cedrat (from Corsika) not being the worst of them. As I have now learned, from Nigel Groom's Handbook and the wonderful Perfumes of Yesterday by David G. Wiliams, cedrat oil no longer refers to oil of cedrat, but a composition of citrus oils/synthetics. As Williams writes (p. 201): "Genuine Cedrat Oil disappeared from perfumery no doubt because it was found not to supply any interesting fragrance notes that could not be produced by the use of other materials at lower cost." He quotes from Piesse's 1855 Art of Perfumery that it had a "very beautiful lemony ordour" and "was principally used in the manufacture of essences for the handkerchief." Creed's Bois de Cedrat, if the listing on cale.it is correct uses bergamot, Sicilian lemon and mandarin over a cedar base and the result is an immensely refreshing, zesty citrus with a soft woody underbelly. The citrus is the star, of course, it's very natural (compare it to the artful fiction that is Terre d'Hermes) and, amazingly, lasts a while. Bois de Cedrat is a good compromise between Trumper's West Indian Lime, which is pure citrus and gone in a flash, and Monsieur Balmain, which is a fantastic - and very affordable - lemon beauty with a lot more going on in the drydown. There are of course many very nice citrus scents (classic sharp Eaux de Cologne like Guerlain Impériale or Eau des Fleurs de Cedrat, Eau d'Hadrien etc.) and when you scour the markets of Southern France you will find local products on par with this at a fraction of the cost of a Creed. Buying this at full price is thus a luxury, but pleasure it will certainly give.

first submitted May 31, 2008

It may just be the weird effect of the comingling of juniper, angelica and iris, but the end result to me is old-fashioned powderiness in a cheaply synthetic-smelling "modern" context. The typical "violet leaf" note doesn't help either. A sinus-irritating bother of a fragrance. I find dior homme or TDC's Bois d'Iris far preferable.

The Platonic essence of "old-fashioned women's perfume." Your choice whether "old-fashioned" means classic or dated. One things is for sure: they don't make 'em like this anymore. Because.e most people don't want 'em like this anymore. I can't help but smell a 40+ conservative high-end designer clad society-lady within these vapors. It would truly seem out of place on a young 21st century woman, in the way that Vintage Tabarome would seem like an olfactory oversized suit on a 20-year old bachelor. These may only be conventions, and the perfumista will ignore them - but conventions are pretty powerful, after all.
It is a brilliant perfume and I cannot add much to the descriptions. A peachy aldehydic top, which I find better-tempered than in Chanel No.5, whose aldehydes knock me over. A perfect heart of blended florals - indolic jasmine, noticeable muguet and rose (as well as Ylang, orris and orchid) and slowly emerging spicy sandalwood and musk. A pronounced civet note hovers above it all from the opening, to slightly recede into the floral mix, adding some raunchiness to the bouquet of innocence. Add the wonderful art deco flacon (though the current incarnation has plasticized the stopper) and you have one of the all-time greats of 20th century perfume culture.

Maroc? This is the best perfume rendition yet of the smell in an Indian convenience store - that unique combination of spices wafting through their plastic bags, incense, sandalwood soap, jasmine and orange-blossom scented hair oil. Very good ingredients, no particularly strong rose, a rather sweet amber base. Nothing particulaly gendered about that, but it does get more florally sweet on the drydown. Serge Noir is smokier and Ambre Sultan spicier, but this is the one for Bollywod fans.

An amazingly dull, inferior, overpriced and thus entirely superfluous citrus fragrance. While a fan of Sandalo e Thé, I've found the other BOIS 1920 scents to be well made but rather too conventional affairs, but this is simply bad. A grapefruit-centered top, that lacks the refreshing punch you expect from a fragrance called bitter citrus of Sicily. Neither petitgrain nor cumin help to give the lame pamplemousse a hard citric-orangy edge or some suggestive dirtyness. Instead, an irritating synthetic haze hovers above the fragrance, not too dissimilar from the little helpers that ruin the current incarnation of Farina Gegenüber. It would be nice to get some good jasmine and patchouli notes in the middle, but there is nothing of the sort in here, just the inchoate fruitiness of a thankfully brief drydown to cheap wood and musk notes that would make even Ulric de Varens cringe. It's embarassing to smell this besides Acqua di Parma or Eau de Patou or any quality Eau de Cologne. In fact, Monsieur Balmain, 100ml of which can be had for around 15 Euros online, is a vastly superior citrus fragrance. This BOIS 1920 rip-off ranges in quality with the recent abominations put out by 4711 as their new "Acqua Colonia" line. I didn't think one could be more audacious than to charge 35 Euros for 150ml of toilet-air-freshener-quality lavender, verveine and what have you scents, but Enzo Galardi takes the cake and truly, in the face of this achievement, he can stick his hand-turned precious-wood bottle cap where the Sicilian sun don't shine.

"Waiter there's an air freshener in my herbal tea."

The godawful mango-fig-floral synthetic dominating this caricature of the Mediterranean has become ubiquitous in toilet cleaners, air fresheners and a variety of other non-Hermès products. You can check out a variation of it at Frankfurt airport, where all the public restrooms smell like this.

I have to say that I'm pretty tired of closed circuit perfumery, which doesn't even make an attempt at relating to natural smells but rather just imitates imitation smells in an endless cycle of self-referentiality. Can somebody tell Mr. Ellena it's time he moved into functional perfumery full time, please?

I can see the potential attraction this may have to lovers of classic 80s fragrances, but for me it's too much of a floral-soapy-orange sweet-powder powerhouse to enjoy. I do not get freshness at all, just a very thick lather of perfumeness right on from the top. I will stick with the leaner but certainly not meaner Mark II

Yeah, nice concept, but the perfume is cheap dreck indeed. As bront82 says, it's an off-the-rack synthetic floral with none of the promised notes present.

Marina is a bourgeois who married into the house of Bourbon-Parma in 1960. Sort of like this fragrance, which is aristocratic on the outside and very petit-bourgeois inside, i.e.: the cardboard box is the best thing about this product, it's quite stylish and sets the tone for a luxury fragrance. The perfume however is a rather quotidian affair, and more late 80s than late 90s really. It's a quite synthetic citrus-aromatic wood with dark smoky-green notes and some tobacco. With a little more budget it could have been a nice one, but as it is, it oozes plastic-imitiation royal kitsch rather than true nobility.

A superfluous, uninspired fragrance that cannot hold an incense stick to masterpieces such as Villoresi's Incensi, the quirky Messe de Minuit or even the the better ones of the CdG incense series. The name certainly raises false expectations, as this is a light, floral, white musky and heavily synthetic-smelling incense obviously worn exclusively by the pink-robed Holy Order of the Fluffymonks and Giddynuns.

It's totally synthetic and I hate it. Consider this entirely personal, but I'm 100% finished with this style of early 21st century perfumery. 21 resurrects key notes of Scent Intense and blows them up into a more projecting variant with a kilo of woody-anisic fuzzy cashmeran, iso-e-super and vanillin orientalness which is Disneyland cardboard to the depth and artistry of a Shalimar. Professionally engineered olfactory elevator music of this kind leaves me ice cold these days. Will be forgotten by 2010.

I consider this one of the best designer scents of the post-Cool-Water era, really standing out from the sea of acquatic boredom and in-your-face artificiality. Burberry Brit has a very clear agenda and fulfills it brilliantly: to build a bridge between the classic British fragrance tradition and an appealing contemporary image, which is of course precisely what the Burberry brand is aiming at fashion-wise. What we get, then, is the citrus top and powdery rose-based florals reminiscent of Floris No. 89 and many other classics, with some modern oriental spice - ginger, nutmeg, cardamom - and a tonka sweetness imaginable only after the "sweetness fo men revolution" of the 1990s that gave us Le Male (1999), Pi (1999) or Jaipur (1997). What Anton Maisondieu has masterfully achieved is to seamless blend these concepts into a harmonious composition, in which all the parts balance each other out wonderfully. Admittedly, men who generally do not enjoy powdery sweet florals will not be enchanted by Burberry Brit, though this is a far more accessible and better constructed fragrance than the ones mentioned above - of which I personally only find Jaipur wearable, though much less interesting than Brit. Brit is a comfortable scent with a rich lineage, presenting itself in modern garb, yet avoiding the synthetic shrillness of so many of its contemporaries. An aristocat with the refined breeding of his ancestors, yet not beyond working for a living, and perfectly comfortable in the popular culture of the 21st century.

How very sexist of Rosine to designate this as a men's rose scent and then to make it harsh, synthetic AND boring. Is there a message here? This stuff smells like a rose-scented soap in the kind of hotel populated by down-and-out traveling salesmen. A poor performance by these supposed rose specialists, who already flunked on Rose d'Homme. Rose for men? You need to spend some apprentice time with the boys - you know, Domenico, Washington, and that Czech dude from No. 88.

I failed to enjoy both "Casanova" and this perfume from the HdP brand. They seemed nice enough in the top but the base of both was uncomfortably cloying and in fact headache-inducing even on light application. Thus they conveyed a sense of history indeed - as stuffy, stultifying bunk. Perhaps Henry Ford was the nose. I enjoyed the topnotes of 1828, though I find there are more interesting greens, but it's all academic anyway. I gave Casanova to my father-in-law who wears it well and sold off my Jules Verne. He had no future in my wardrobe.

The question is: why put the costliest natural frankincense in a perfume if you are goingt to bludgeon it with a standardized accord of (in my opinion unbearably tacky) fruity-floral synthetics and Iso-E-Super (if you're interested in an amplified version of that, just try Paestum Rose by Eau d'Italie, also by Bertrand Duchaufour). The other question is: why pay €210 Euros for 50ml of an experimental afterthought to a much better fragrance, where Duchaufour had already achieved the perfect balance of his favorite components (L'Artisan's Timbuktu) ?

How I tried to love this. One of my earliest, pre-discount, Creed purchases acquired blindly in a frenzy of adoration for Royal English Leather. I just cannot warm to it. It's cloying ginger from hell and in combination with the tea notes, a highly synthetic sandalwood and unattractive tobacco, the Millésime base comes out smelling sordidly cheap. And it lasts forever. If vintage Tabarôme is a hand-tailored suit by Anderson & Sheppard, this is M&S off-the-rack polyester. By all means a try-before-buy.

I am generally not a great friend of JC Ellena's style of perfumery and thus did not expect too much from L'Eau d'Hiver. I was not disappointed. The top is dominated by a boring florist / green-house violet note with the irritating insistence only synthetics have. This is followed by the much mentioned watery almond note, a little bitter, a little peppery, a little powdery sweet, but mainly continuing the cheap artificiality of the top. Any decent iris root that may be in here does not have a chance except to add a minor powdery accent (and we know he can do a great iris from TDC's Bois d'Iris, another incomplete creation which in that particular aspect is perfect, however). Rather than a winter landscape this conjures up images of a Yankee candle in homeopathic dilution. Yet again Ellena fails to prove his thesis that a minimalist/high synth approach can yield a similarly satisfactory result as a complex composition with a large percentage of naturals - in this case his model was Guerlain's Après L'Ondée. If this is the future of perfumery, I will gladly keep living in the past.

This is one elegant werewolf of a scent. I can only add my praise to what vibert, foetidus, and joe_frances have described in such vivid detail - and even the ad copy gets it right on this one, when it speaks of savagery robed in refinement. There is that rich purple brocade of mature patchouli on the verge of decaying decadence, the smell of polished leather saddle with sweet stable aromas in the back and there is a musky sledgehammer which I find could have been toned down just a bit, as its syntheticness can overwhelm the bountiful naturals here, which have been so ably amplified, and which rudely pushes aside the spicy and floral complements that round this composition off so well. Thankfully this effect is more noticeable on paper than on skin, where the musk blends in better and Lui works true wonders. Slip into your bespoke tuxedo, lead the pack, howl at the moon and fascinate the ladies.

Headache-inducing synthetic brew thrown together with all the care of a Jackson Pollock. Say no to action-perfumery! Jasmin should sue for having been put in that note pyramid against its will and I would rather be thrown into a vat of Iso E Super than having to wear this sinus-searing concoction for more than thirty seconds. If you want a decently made version of this, just go for mat;very male or B* Men. Parfums Raffy seriously needs to refocus on selling other people's perfumes.

How do I put this politely? It smells like a cheap drugstore scent from the 70s that's been standing on a shelf without a box in bright daylight for way too long. I'm not making this up either. It comes rather close to an ancient bottle of Mülhens Men's Classic I have lying around here. Spineless and thin, it yet manages to be sharp and irritating because synthetic loose ends are not properly tucked away. A complete aesthetic and technical failure. OK, not so polite after all, but please consider I inhaled this.

Excellent. This is not an attempt at infusing some avant-garde concept into a rose perfume, but no more and no less than an extremely well-executed traditional, oriental-style, spicy-warm rose. It has a very restrained citrus elements in the top and a disinct cinnamon note, which I happen to like a lot. The soft rose focuses on blossom-notes, there is only little green and no damp earthiness here, and that meshes nicely with a warm vanillic base, which is saved from tooth-aching sweetness by a dose of patchouli. The quality shines through in that this perfume lacks the sickly sweetness, infantile fruitiness and sledghehammer artificiality that characterize so many contemporary florals and I therefore find this eminently wearable for anybody with good taste, regardless of gender. I couldn't think of a better introduction to haute parfumerie on a small budget. On a side-note I find it quite different from Flechier's Une Rose for Malle, which is much greener, ethereal and slightly urinous.

Which one doesn't belong here?

a. washing-up liquid
b. fabric softener
c. Citrus Allegro
d. cleansing agent

The answer is: d. (the only one with four rather than five syllables)

Judging from the negative reviews on makeupalley and trebor's comments, this prodct seems to be frequently misunderstood. It is not a perfume, but a sin tonic. Scentred vinegars bcame popular in the mid-18th century coterminously with new washing habits. Increased use of soap required skin tonification and vinegar served as an astringent, cleanser, disinfectant and refresher. It can also be used as a hair tonic or room freshener etc. pp. - in a way its multipurpose application as a toiletry is not unlike that of bay rum. The Diptyque product, apparently based on a 19th century recipe opens with a neroli note. this is followed by a herbal note clearly dominated by thyme. As these notes blend together they produce an impression of factory workshop - lubricated metal and rubber machine parts generating heat at high speed. This phase fades quickly to leave a strong thyme with a light floral element lingering on. Probably some lavender is involved, too. I actually only get a very light whiff of vinegar and it is not unpleasantly sour in any way. In sum this is quite close to an Eau Tonifiante by Roger & Gallet I own, based on thyme; citrus and sandalwood - that one is lighter but actually more interesting fragrance-wise, while Oyedo's offering, apart from being much too expensive for a simple skin tonic, is too monotonously thymey to evoke much olfactory enthusiasm.

At first I was repulsed by it. Then I thought it brilliant for a moment. I have now settled for a detached "passable," and an intense personal dislike. I think Turin's description of OM as "a muted tourmaline-green chord from top note to drydown" hits the nail on the head. But contrary to Turin I do not find it particularly exciting or original. The top still exudes some freshness, but soon the perfume acquires a certain foggy denseness ("sultry" to Turin) which actually causes me something of a headache. "Black hemlock" evidently summarizes a number of floral components which smell distinctly "synthetic" to me, i.e. do not succesfully trigger associations with flowers, but rather remind me of generic cosmetic olfactants found in hairspray, creams, and countless perfumes. There is a dry, rasping note in there I find irritating and ultimately, the strong blending of notes, which obscures the individual character of oudh, vetiver or cedar, does not create a sum larger than its parts, but only precisely the above mentioned hazy green constant - rather boring, and to me, off-putting. As to its incense character, compared to C&S Frankincense & Myrrh, which I happen to be wearing on my other arm, Ormonde Man smells nastily unrefined and outright trashy, I am sorry to say. For "English green" I will remain partial to one of the old-time Fougères by Crown, Trumper, or Penhaligon's.

Impressively restrained. A pronounced, rooty -though not radical - green vetiver note at the center, surrounded by a conservative and very well executed bouquet of masuline gentility - cedar, perhaps sandal, refined sweetness of tonka, mossy diffusion. Where Villoresi's excellent Vetiver is all about panache, this one is all about low key style. Not exciting, indeed, but excellent. A great alternative for those who cannot stomach the tobacco in Guerlain's version.

In many ways I concur with foetidus review, but my conclusions are quite different: I absolutely adore this sent for the quiet perfection it exudes, a polished quiet aura speaking of impeccable quality, understatement and just a hint of the unconventional - for, and here my perception is different from that of my highly respected fellow reviewer - I find there to be a pronounced saffron note that invests the trademark depth and beauty of Forester Milano's rose/floral notes with a wondeful twist distinctive of that magic yellow spice. This is a perfect fragrance to be comfortably enveloped in in a leisure context, but no less wonderful at the workplace, where it is quiet and reassuring. It would be no less suitable in the surroundings suggested by its name, if restrained elegance is the desired impression. A great success marred only by the rather high price.

I love tea. Black and green, Assam and Darjeeling, pure or (naturally!) flavored, straight and with sugar and milk. The tarry smoky notes of Lapsang Souchong are not for everybody - it's the Islay of teas - and much of the stuff on the market (which is mostly not genuine LS from the Wuyi mountains) is pretty awful. Which brings us to T42. A pretty awful perfume - for me. Smoke and honey, the combination simply turns my stomach and it basically ends there - if it only would, that is.

Here's one where I entirely concur with Turin/Sanchez. This is a disgusting mess on my skin, sour, thin and reeking of decomposing vegetables. An utter disappointment from a house I adore for Eau d'Hermes, Eau d'Orange Verte and Terre d'Hermes.

I appreciate the significance of this perfume, but I cannot wear it. I don't smell something that pleases me, I smell a museum. Yes, there are too many aldehydes, they almost tear open my sinuses. Yes, I get musty connotations of endearing old ladies who still wear the fashions of long forgotten seasons. Yes, I too get a sensation of heating up peanut oil in a wok - not rancid, but less than pleasant. There is no peach and a lot of dark unconciliatory moss. This review is based on a 7.5ml pure perfume from the 1980s or earlier.

This is not a fragrance to write home about. The type of gentleman this was intended for would consider that vulgar. He's one who expects this fragrance to serve a clearly defined purpose: smell unobtrusively decent, as an English gentleman should. Fresh citrus on top for a morning perk up, settled before the Georgian door of his home snaps shut behind him. Subtle rose and soft spices for the office. Quietly stated quality, no surprises. Like the crisp white Sea Island cotton shirt by Turnbull & Asser and the pinstripe suit by Anderson & Shepherd he's wearing. From a bygone era, but nice to have around.

Jaded as their view of ambers is, even Sanchez/Turin can't help but give Ambre Sultan 4 stars, despite putting it down as a scent for those who prefer "folk-naivité to the artfulness of Shalimar." Well, I'll take a good Berber tune anyday over Berlioz, so perhaps that explains why I find this to be most accomplishec Lutens/Sheldrake composition of the 20-odd I've tried, most of all because the tendency towards syrupy sweetness of ocassionally headache-inducing intensity is controlled here. Indeed, Ambre Sultan is a perfect perfume in that it achieves a wonderful interplay - harmony and tension - between bitter, dry, dark herbal yin and sweet, resinous, glowing yang, that adds up to much more than the sum of its parts. Ambre Sultan's quality lies precisely in taking things above 'merely' dressed up amber, it is a multidimensional scent, which becomes obvious by the multiple perceptions of it in the reviews - sweet, dry, dark, relaxing, stark, erotic... But for all its intricate twists and turns it also just simply smells wonderful and effortlessly perfect and that's what defines a true masterpiece. I find AS to be extremely powerful both in terms of longevity and sillage and prefer wearing the Eau Fraiche Parfumée, which in any other perfume line would qualify as an Eau de Parfum.

A fruity fougere this scent is literally mouthwatering. Yes, I get an utter "juicy fruit" effect from this, which lasts and lasts - usually I would hate that, but the citrus-anise-raspberry combination manages to avoid the juvenile stickiness of many similar designer concoctions. The base well done, but not overly exciting, the usual synthetic fare. I would never wear this with a suit or if I was aiming at coming across as "serious", to me it's a leisure fragrance for fun wearing, but I dare say it's a masterpiece in that category.

Another great one from C&S! The grapefruit is strong, fresh and nicely modulated by the rosemary. The civet note is the same as in C&S Cuba - unmistakeably present, but of a transparent dirtiness that is much easier to handle than your typical old-fashioned French dirtbomb. In no way fecal, it comes across as light, sensual body odor, rather than as "it's cruelly hot and I haven't washed myself in two weeks." The drydown is perhaps less interesting than Cuba's but it is just as good. The coriander holds things together until the oakmoss (CP still contains the genuine article) comes forth for an extremely pleasant finale, all the while the grapefruit marvelously keeps lingering on. In sum, this is a perfectly crafted gentlemen's summer fragrance that towers above the boredom and artificiality of most modern fresh colognes while competently modernizing the traditional male approach to citrus.

Not enough leather, not enough Spain, why not just honestly call it English Barbershop (Edwardian). Basically an old-fashioned cacaphony of sweet and spicy notes that's gone in half an hour. Either my sample is off or this is one I definitively do not need.

Evidently inspired by Creed's Green Irish Tweed, though it has neither the ingredient quality, complexity of composition or longevity. The Lord of the Mansion's illegitimate brother forced to grow up as simple-minded shepherder.

The citrus opening (lemon and lime?) is good, but a bit household-cleanerish. Very quickly FdV donns its GIT cloak, though it is more muted and herbal (tarragon?) than the sparkling clean green original. The lasting power ranges around two hours for me. For 20 Euros (Creed is 3.5 times as expensive) this is certainly a nice enough fragrance, but superfluous if you already own GIT and/or a nice green vetiver such as Dominguez Vetiver hombre or Creed's Original Vetiver.

The packaging is a bit gaudy, featuring the colorful 1570 painting The Alchemist's Workshop by Jan van der Straet (fittingly located at the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence), but I kind of like it. A nice contrast to the "designer cool" of so many niche lines.

Incensi’s brother lives in the forests, garbed in dry herbs. While his sibling loves old cloisters and churches he is rarely seen near towns or edifices. You may rarely spie him near a farmer's garden and he is said to spend time at the old healer woman's on the edge of the village, who is rumoured to be a witch. Yet, brothers they are, as even a stranger would easily recognize at a glance.

My Singapore patchouli oil has a certain licorice quality to it, but Villoresi's Patchouli is dark and bitter, it smells what a bitter infusion of medicinal herbs taste like, to the point of almost reminding one of damp wood beginning to mould. I could swear there is also immortelle in this, providing a salty-spiciness faintly reminiscent of Sables. Dry-bitter-salty woodiness. It’s intriguing in its sheer intensity, but I would not want to wear it as a perfume.

Sisley's Eau de Campagne after a raging brush fire. A citrus opening with interesting green herbal notes and a bit of soapiness soon turns into herbal-bitterness and then a woody, dry, scorched-macchia landscape. Related to Gigli Sud-Est and other hardcore herbals with no floral compensation. Interesting, but not a great wear.

Detergent people are always thinking of something new to consume, however pointless it may be. Say, cotton candy scented fabric softener. "Yeah, great idea, let’s make a sticky-sweet-synthetic-citrus-fresh fabric softener. But guess what, we'll test-market it as a niche fragrance." This was designed by one sick puppy of a nose. On the drydown it gets to smell like very hops-heavy beer spilled over a barroom floor the preceding night. Actually, that is nearly an improvement. One of the all-time lows of niche perfumery.

The British old school tie rendition of Goutal's Eau du Sud or Dior's Eau Sauvage. Strong citrus notes (including some slightly sulfurous grapefruit?), dirtied up by green herbs (basil, tarragon?) making it fresh-gentlemanly or fresh-musty, depending on your perspective. It gets a bit plasticky on me in the middle (same effect as with Trumper GFT - tarragon?), which is why I prefer Eau du Sud, but the price difference alone makes this one an interesting alternative to consider.

My plea for adding this to the pantheon of the great perfumes: few scents develop in a more brilliant and meaningful way. Piper Nigrum is a day in a mediterranean dream world. We begin in the morning, the coolness of the night still blankets the fields of wild herbs and refreshingly welcomes you at the open window of your Tuscan farmhouse. Mint and anise enliven you and prepare you for the day. A day, rich and full of nature and culture intertwined as only it is in these old, old lands. As you stroll through the streets, across the markets, you recall the merchants bringing the invaluable pepper and other spices, like nutmeg, from afar, creating powerful dynasties in the wake of their success, to which the beautiful palazzo you now admire bears witness. Beside it stands and old woman selling local herbs, fresh and dried oregano, and with the oriental odours it blends into something both invigorating and soothing, like sitting in the cool shade of ancient ochre walls on a warm day, watching life on the piazza, the plaza, in the mdinas of the Maghreb. The day passes quickly and you retire to your fireplace, burning spicy woods, with a libation of wine and warm bread, and now the pepper embraces you, with styrax and amber, like a silk and cashmere blanket, like the glow of the embers, power in the service of tranquility.

Piper nigrum is unique in the way that it suits my olfactory needs at every phase of the day in its own specific way. There may be other beautiful drydowns, but none can be more beautiful, pefectly timed or more tailor-made than this one. This will always be one of my most cherished scents.

Notes: hesperides, vetiver, lavender, artemisia, cedar, musk
Ligne St. Barth is a small cosmetics and wellness company located in the French Caribean, but well established at high end spas across the world. It was started and is still family-run by a German emigré to St. Bath and her husband, whose French family had been living there since the colonial era. Their "story" is the use of ancient prescriptions of the local Caribs, from whom the rare Roucou oil was also purchased. Judging by how crazy ebayers go over their sun tan lotions, body oils etc., they have managed to establish quite a reputation for their brand. While their perfumes are likely not fully natural, I was always intrigued to try them and I finally captured a bottle of "Ulysse" on the net. Ulysse is a unisex lavender fragrance and thus has a Provencal rather than a Caribean vibe. In fact, the closest association to me is with de Nicolai's Haute Provence lavender, though the notes are quite distinct (Provence featuring Myrtle, Rosemary, Oak Bark and Orange Branches). Still, both are relaxing, soft lavenders of very good quality and relatively low complexity. The orange is noticeable in de Nicolai's, while Ulysse's hesperides are subdued. The former is generally a bit brighter, but not quite as rich. The vetiver and artemisia seem to add a bit of spicy and creamy greenness, providing a touch of classical fougère (befitting this fern-green juice), and the basenotes add a gentle woody sweetness. This is, despite its moniker, not an (ad)ventuorous fragrance and those keen on a more manly variant would be better served by Creed's Royal Scottish Lavender. It is highly recommended to anyone who enjoys quality, simplicity and the varietiey offered in perfumery of that wonderful violet-blue plant.

This fragrance illustrates why people like Andy Tauer are so important. It's actually a pretty good composition, but the ingredient quality drags this down in the direction of mundane designer fragrances. There are unpleasant and clearly unintended off-notes here, metallic and oniony, layering this onto an Axe deodorant shouldn't be a problem. Mind you, it's still fair, and obviously reasonably popular, but to me it is mainly a terrible waste of potential. Spray this on your left and L'Air du Désert Marocain on your right arm. Study and learn what is wrong in the mainstream perfumery business. God only knows why Beam chose a no-name company like Kraft, known on the web only for a trashy discount fragrance named Caution, to head this prestige project. Then again, the target group seems to be the "pass the Courvoisier crowd" which prefers to focus on facades, rather than substance. The Empire-style bottle is magnificent, and makes Tauer's look cheap and amateurish. Content-wise, it's the reverse. 50ml of L'Air are $90, 75 ml of L'Edition Imperiale are $110. Guess which one is way overpriced?

This is not a patchouli fragrance. However, if you enjoy smelling like "Katenschinken" (a heavily smoked North German ham) it is just the right perfume for you. Since I dislike Lone Star Memories and Bulgari Black intensely it's no surprise I can't stomach this one either. The other notes in this are entirely irrelevant, if you don't have a huge love affair with excessively sooty smoky birch tar and, like foetidus, I can't stand the stuff except as an accent in more complex leather compositions, such as the far superior Knize Ten. Extremism for its own sake, recommended for leather-clad demons from the eighth circle of hell (where those dwell who do violence to others and themselves).

Notes: mandarin, bergamot, lemon;
tarragon, lavender, cypress;
light musk, cedar, moss;

under construction

This is an insanely good perfume. I have the original Crown version, not Anglia's, so I can't say whether their representation is faithful - but this wonderful scent is certainly worthy of living on. I find spraying this more satisfying than splashing: this gives the wonderful citrus top more sparkle. It is, indeed, one of the finest aromatic citrus openings I've ever had the pleasure to smell, and it has surprising lasting power. The basil lends Spiced Limes just the right amount of green dirt - I actually think there is also a small dose of civet in here - but there is also an interesting transparent note, reminscent of a wet gravel road, contributed by the vetiver. The spices are beautifully blended, the clove is prevented by the nutmeg and cinnamon sweetness from drifting into the kind of mustiness that compromises Park Royal. Serenely fresh and debonaire, with perfectly placed accents to keep it more interesting than many simply "nice" citruses, it is the perfect olfactory complement to the English gentlemens' outfit and one of the quiet masterpieces among the wonderful line of Crown scents.

An extraordinarily complex and brilliant composition. It's taken me about three months to decide whether I even like it or not. I do. This is an oriental of sorts, but the sweetness is restrained and sophisticated and entwined with resinous and herbal elements - there is the "Occident meets Orient" feeling here that I like about Nicole Farhi pour homme, only this is on a higher plane. Nothing about this perfume is loud. It opens without fanfare, like a true gentleman easing into the ballroom it elegantly takes its rightful place without verbose pronouncements. There's nobility here, and no need to firework the budget on a few dazzling topnotes. What there is, is a beautiful haze of blending notes, the citrus fruits, the green, spicy, foresty, floral and woody elements melt effortlessly into something quite unique - to my nose there is a milky coconut-like sensation at the intersection of all these aspects. There is richness without the heaviness the list of basenotes would suggest. As the long-time head of R&D for Haarman & Reimer, which then became Symrise, Egon Oelkers knows his materials and he certainly had fun with them here. Nearly on par with the oriental perfection of Ambre Sultan.

A drugstore-focused fragrance company that churns out a confusing number of lines, perfumes selling in the € 9-15 Euro range. I got my three bottles for a Euro each on ebay out of sheer curiosity, as Jean Claude Ellena did a lot of work for Varens. "Best of" is already discontinued (embarassing, considering the name) , which is a good thing for Diesel, because the top of this smells a whole lot like the juicy-fruity-citrus opening of Fuel for Life men (a good designer scent which gets an exaggerated e 4 star rating from Luca Turin). It peters out into a rather bland fabric softener kind of thing I don't want even close to my skin. Not really good except for the first five minutes, but you could spend a whole lot more money for this with a designer label slapped on.

This Creed does nothing for me. The opening is very 1948 indeed - it smells like a postwar ramshackle barbershop - residues of spilled cologne, shaving cream, quinine, perm chemicals, dust - yuck. Thankfully it morphs into a soapy floral skinscent after a few minutes, with a touch of cedar and "grey stone" - not bad, but at this point it's already beginning its disappearing act, without any vetiver ever having come to the fore. Two years after this dreary affair came the bold and wonderfully technicolor Orange Spice. I'll stick with that for postwar Creeds, thank you.

There is only one word for this: Maggi. Maggi is a liquid spice hailing from Switzerland, the basis of which is concentrated lovage. Maggi is the beginning and epitome of industrial convenience food and its norm-spice flavor, of lowest common denominator taste levelling. Eau Noir is Maggi from the bottle, Maggi in the air, Maggi on my skin. Forget the complaints about celery salt in Sables or Sud-Est or Yatagan, this is ten times more intense, read: worse. I can only surmise this results from the weird interaction of the anise, sage, fennel, and caraway perversely amplifying an already hefty dose of immortelle. Someone please drive a wooden stake through the heart of this truly undying savoury flower. If this were the last perfume in the world I wouldn't wear it. No summer of lovage for me (and heck, a bottle of Maggi is only € 1,99).

If thou hast tired of lemon and of lyme
Know now Signoricci! No pledging burst
Which falters in a passing moments’ time,
Or dries down from the decent to the worst.

O no, it is an ever fixéd mark
Of taste on those who own rather than claim it.
Agrumes and flow'rs and musk build up an arc
So faultless, time is at a loss to maim it.

Outranking whate’er in its purview fell,
Torino-born designer’s Lord of scents,
It's glory merely aims to serve you well,
Providing substance always, ne’er pretense.

If this be error, which Turin forbid,
I ne'er inhaled, nor no man ever did.

This is a great perfume. It's as if Jean Kerleo had reengineered Bois du Portugal - to the point where what defines it invites comparisons with Patou pour homme rather than the popular Creed fragrance. The essence of the Creed lies in its Occam's razor-like reduction to a few brilliantly combined basics that make for a sharply contured, beautifully precise masculine smoky perfection. Despite clear similarities in actual smell to Portugal at some stages of New York's development its attitude is entirely different. Like Patou pour homme it indulges in the complexity of its construction and wealth of rich ingredients, shapeshifting between oriental and chypre, layering citrus upon powdery florality, spicy wood and animalics, even crossing gender lines. It achieves this, amazingly, within a more conservative frame of gentlemanly deportment than Patou (which has a far more daringly herbaceous opening and turns sweeter in its cinnamon-clove-jasmin heart) but that is just another indicator of the particular genius of this creation. I would not want to be without any of these three masterpieces, which are related, yet so very distinct. My only wish would be that Patricia de Nicolai do something called "San Francisco" next.

A Victorian body splash rather than a fragrance. But unquestionably the zingiest zestiest lime of them all - St. John's, e.g. pales before it, while Crown's Spiced Lime is far subtler and more of an actual fragrance. This beauty gets five stars for doing what it does perfectly, never mind construction or longevity in this case.

Creed's Royal English Leather will always remain the quintessential Anglo-aristocratic perfume for me. It's quality-cum-simplicity speaks of unquestioned confidence in one's own status, horse-drawn carriages and fox hunts, a world where everything is in and everyone knows his place. Enter Knize Ten, the fragrance of modernity's gentleman. There's the powdery-floral refinement of yore here, mirroring the ties and tails tailored at the number one men's fashion address in Vienna. But there's also the pumping motor of a Brescia Type 23, the syncopation of the Jazz tunes, the complexity of modernism, Ulysses, Picasso, Dada, quantum theory, the new chemistry and all this makes Knize Ten the modernist equivalent to the venerable Creed - brasher, louder, more complex. If REL exudes the clarity and calm of a classicist landscape, Knize is like a Braque unfolding the dazzling complexity of space and time on its olfactory canvas, yet creating aesthetic coherence in the process. What an irony to call this an "antiquated" scent. It's high modernism in perfection. One gentlemanly rule remains essential, though: apply with a light hand.

Dunhill London, like the other recent releases from this formerly reputable house, is crap. It's the same tired old cheap synthetic spiel, the ever-present calone and dihydromercenol used with no sense of inspiration whatsoever. An insult to London, to what dunhill used to be, to the English rose this supposedly embodies. It smells pretty much like your generic, 1.99 drugstore showergel. This is the kind of junk that has given "designer fragrances" the reputation they currently enjoy, at least in my book. My advice: stick with Burberry Brit. That's a designer fragrance which managed to capture the English spirit while modernizing it, turning a profit, surely, but without abandoning any and all standards of quality and originality. I will refrain from even mentioning the grand old English masculine rose fragrances in the same breath as this garbage.

To me this is a cross between a citrus-floral and a fruity gourmand. It does remind of Wrigley's Juicy fruit chewing gum, but there's also a strong note of prepackaged pina colada there, which is what others may be smelling as suntan lotion. I think the green-herbal, very slightly spicy element is nicely integrated, lurking beneath it all. It's not the kind of perfume I'm really into (this bottle came as a freebie), but I think it's pretty well made and conveys a sense of leisure in the sun, dressed in a nice white suit, panama hat and all.

Official PR pyramid: <br>Citrus, green notes, Provencal lavender, Italian clary sage, Brazilian rosewood.<br>Sicilian melon, Italian linden blossom, Turkish rose, cedarwood.<br>Italian iris, Moroccan coriander leaf, amber, tonka.<br>Alternative pyramid from parfyym.pri.ee:<br>bergamot, lemon, clary sage, pineapple.<br>Violet, Lilly of the Valley <br>Tonka, cedar, moss, musk. <br><br>Ketone, I mean, Kiton is a fair fragrance, but hardly worthy of the renowned name it bears, a name that stands for high end rather than middlebrow. It would do well enough as the olfactory backdrop to an off-the-rack suit and perhaps even lend the wearer some sophistication, but I doubt whether wearers of Kiton suits would not prefer a fine Creed over this standard designer fragrance. <br>Kiton Man is not fresh as in zesty cologne fresh. The top is fougery creamy green and the fragrance is quite powdery and floral in the middle, with some modern synthetic notes (Sicilian melon, haha) to keep it young. The divergent olfactory pyramids available (the first sourced from Michael Edwards) for Kiton Men suggest they are only window-dressing, the percentage of synthetics seems high to me indeed. I do not much enjoy the floral notes, finding the violet in GIT far preferable. Cedar, moss notes, musk and a little sweetness are identifiable in the base. This should be lightly applied, for me it has cloying/headache potential and it does remind a bit of hairspray. GIT is far better and, as pointed out elsewhere, Fahrenheit is much bolder, which, to me, leaves Kiton without much of a purpose.

The best release of 1934 – yes, it outshines the classic Caron pour un homme – and a monument of modern perfumery. Foetidus has said it all – nothing about this fragrance could be improved, not by the million new scent molecules developed in the last decades. And for all the progress in perfume technology, that Dunhill for men has been discontinued speaks volumes about how little such progress means in terms of the aesthetics of scent. Yes, tastes change, of course, but: would anybody consider taking Benny Goodman off the airwaves, just because Amy Winehouse is more popular these days? Yes, it’s about profits, of course, but we are talking here about a cultural treasure, a fascinating conception of masculinity that intelligently challenges its contemporary incarnations (FDR vs. W, Duke Ellington vs. 50 Cent), and an aesthetic triumph. The persistence of subtlety, the refinement of true luxury, which is never ostentatious, the harmony of perfect chords rather than the deafening blare of tin fanfares. Nostalgia for the 1930s is certainly inapposite, but those things that were indeed good about them are captured in this fragrance. It still satisfies today - immensely.

I wish Angélique Encens would stop at the beginning, when there's a perfect accord of vegetal angelica and (already) a noticeable presence of incense, with the bergamot providing a bit of freshness. However, as the drydown progresses it becomes headier and headier on my skin, reaching an almost headache-inducing intensity in the combined power of the florals and particularly the vanilla. At this point I come to agree with Caltha on the connotation of cheap perfume oil, which is a shame, knowing how fine a creation this is. But the overbearing vanilla inescapably conjures up olfactory images of $1.99 scented candles. The angelica and incense struggles to be heard in the background and they rebound somewhat, but ultimately I'll have to say that I could only wear this in deepest winter, in miniscule amounts. My 30% full apothecary bottle should thus last me well into the next century. This is a classic, "old-fashioned," perfume which needs to be tried on skin.

Boring? Just because there's Schoenberg or John Zorn, does that make Mozart or Benny Goodman boring? Perfume should not just be measured by our consumer society's hysterical demands for relentless innovation and ever greater excess (required apparently to pierce through its proportionally increasing jaded numbness), but by an appreciation of craft and beauty proud of linking up to traditions worthy of preservation. This is one of the handful of fragrances presented in 1998 that embodies quality and impeccable craftsmanship and the result is absolutely beautiful. Scentemental, foetidus and others have given excellent accounts that require no addition, merely a footnote: it's not all that close to Cologne Sologne, which is de Nicolai's take on the classic Eau de Cologne recipe (bergamot-citrus-neroli-rosemary-restrained wood). Here, it is indeed the perfect harmony of neroli and rose that stands at the center of attention, making this a neroli variant of Acqua di Parma (where the rose intertwines with agrumes). This is not a scent for hard partying or steamy sex, it is a proposition for gentlemen who can also appreciate the quieter subtleties of life. If you prefer a frail pinot noir to oak- drenched CabSauv, this might be a scent for you.

Citrus-herbacity plus clove (and vetiver?), together with the floral heart, make for a very soapy smell, whch befits the athletic associations of the name Racquets. A quality soap, what the boys shower with after a lawn tennis match at an exclusive club. But soap nonetheless, which is not among my favorites fragrance styles. In these early stages Racquets reminds me of Beene's Bowling Green, a coniferous chypre with a stronger citrus opening, but a similar herbaceous soapy freshness. However, the more pronounced clove in Racquets already announces what is to come. That is what makes this one interesting and somewhat unusual: sporty freshness being blended with spicy oriental components of cedar, moss, amber and frankincense. I would not have payed retail for this, but it is a good one, especially for the inbetween weather of April or October.

A gift from a very kind basenoter. I was expecting something along the lines of a classical Eau de Cologne, considering the notes given, which I love, regardless of how conventional they may seem these days. However, to my nose the dominant note in this is "hairspray" or "generic deodorant." It smells somewhat feminine, in a cosmetic kind of way, and not at all like an expensive perfume. Is it an overly sweet lime note, or just an unfortunate hodgepodge that covers any distinct neroli, bergamot or other citrus beauty after two nanoseconds?
Blind I would have judged this a $10 drugstore scent, cheap synthetics and nothing beyond that. They offer this to guests at the Savoy? Remind me to book at the Stafford.

I must be doing something wrong here. To me this smells like the Axe of 1959 - horribly synthetic, cheap, loud and obnoxiously lasting. I've tried it a couple of times, but when my son, who got it as a gift, fumigated the bathroom with it, my opinion-forming process was abruptly completed. Perhaps the dry spice combo is at fault, for I have a huge problem with a certain style of barbershop clove, it badly irritates my throat and literally makes me gag (e.g. in Park Royal & Leonard pour homme and to an extent in Curzon), though I quite enjoy a number of barbershoppy Trumpers and the likes of Vetiver hombre etc. pp. That alone does not explain, why this comes across to me as vile AND cheap (I quite appeciate the quality of Curzon or Leonard, despite not enjoying them). In view of the overwhelming support of this it's a personal idiosyncracy, perhaps. But seriously, folks, Tabarome it ain't.

Attempting to blatantly rip off Mugler Cologne, the Creeds messed up and wound up with a similar but superior fragrance. A wonderful citrussy opening turns into a soapy-fresh barbershop middle and a somewhat familiar sandalwood-amber-musk base. The Vetiver is there, but not as prominent as in Etro's, Villoresi's or Malle's offerings. It might not be worth the higher price to you if you enjoy Mugler, which is really quite nice, and I personally like Dominguez' Vetiver Hombre even better, but contrary to Original Santal and a number of other modern Creeds, I did fall for this one. And one can never have enough good vetivers, with global warming and all that...

It's not surprising the views of this fragrance are so disparate. I was never a big fan of it, because I found it rather too conventional in an 80s kind of way. Even now, I prefer what I would dare call the more audaciously direct and more radically minimalist approach of Bois du Portugal, that precision laser of a perfume. But when I recently wore 3rd Man and systematically studied its development I had to conclude that, while working within a conventional frame, the execution is indeed masterful and the quality impeccable, as has been sufficiently and expertly described in preceding reviews. So it really depends on what you expect from this fragrance. Come winter I shall be wearing it more frequently when desiring to feel comfortable and refined, rather than wishing to intimidate.

A citrus burst, tastefully constructed coconut (quite an achievement and just what I expected from Creed), mellow white musk is what I predominantly get from VIW. It's pleasant, very topical (vacation, cocktail bars, Caribean parties) and slightly on the feminine side. A winner, but too expensive at full retail.

Bay Rhum harks from a strange and distant land . Faded Hemingway photos, San Juan Hill, forgotten rituals of masculine virility. A terpene, medicinal harshness far removed from what the contemporary incarnation of the beau would think of labeling as "fragrance." All-purpose lotion, a very 19th-century concept, diametrically opposed to the notion of hi-tech eye-wrinkle cream for men over 40 (one for the left, one for the right eye). Disinfects minor injuries, kills bugs, polishes boots, will do if whisky is not to be had. Don't forget your bottle when you go out roughin' it with Mark Twain.
Quite honestly I prefer Royall Spice.

I think Indie-Guy has it pretty much nailed. This is an excellent Eau de Cologne and it manages to be different from other Vetivers in a godd way. To me Creed Original Vetiver, Mugler Cologne and Dominguez Vetiver hombre share a certain barbershop-freshness, which I immensely enjoy. Guerlain, on the other hand, nauseates me due to its vulgar tobacco note (a minority view, I am aware). Then there's Etro's harshly woody take or Villoresi's brilliant uncompromising savage vetiver and also the richness and powder of Vetiver Oriental. This one just does its own thing. It's light, but persistent, it has both a green sting and a milky gentleness to it. Drench yourself in it and it will be softly wafting into your nose all day and make you feel good. To me it's far superior to the designer blandness of either Bulgari ph or Paul Smith Story - what an irony that a CdG fragrance not only smells far more interesting, but actually much more "natural" than these standard offerings. Five stars indeed.

It's muggy and cloudy outside and that is not a good setting for a dry chypre such as Curzon. So I might just have to eat my words after retrying this on a cold autumn day. For what it's worth: no sweetness to talk of here for me, in fact, the citrus and lavender top is disappointingly muted and the florals also never really make a convincing appearance on stage. Everything is happening behind a musty curtain of arid herbacity dominated by what seems to me to be clove, flanked by mossy notes. Too conventional by contemporary standards, but then it dates from 1882, so one should concede it probably became so conventional by being consistently plagiarized. What's worse is that it never achieves a proper balance on my skin, which makes it mediocre for me, though I appreciate it's objective quality.

Notes:
Bergamot, Neroli
Lavender, Clove
Sandalwood, Amber, Vanilla
Reformulated in 1975

A splendid lavender it is. All that easy to wear it is not. If I may quote the venerable de Charlus:"Poetic, quaint, fresh, prim, confectional, medicinal, old fashioned, somewhat delightful if somewhat staid."
If you want a fresh, spring-time, 'joie de Provence' lavender, de Nicolai's Haute Provence (nomen est omen) will be a good choice. If you want straightforward natural lavender, why not try the pristine lavender water from the good monks on Caldey Island, whose prices, I may add, are also more in the Christian spirit of sharing than Creed’s Royal Bill? RSL, despite its reformulation, does have a distinctly Victorian air about it, which is owed to the noticeable clove. It adds warmth and spiciness, but also makes for that certain stuffy-medicinal feel (not anywhere near the degree of Crown’s Park Royal, mind you). This, however, passes after a half an hour or so, as the clove recedes and the classical base note triad comes forth. The amber is first and adds a slightly animal/BO note, finally a very gentlemanly sandalwood-vanilla combination, interacting quite beautifully with the lavender, smoothens out matters significantly. The fresh opening and the classy drydown are the best parts of this fragrance, while the middle, which I would speculate was somewhat clipped in the reformulation, recalls memories, fond or possibly less so, of days long long past.

To quote the Dead Kennedys: "Chemical Warfare, Chemical Warfare, Chemical Warfare, Warfare, Warfare." Blasphemy? Let me explain myself: I think CdG is an avantgarde fashion house that makes a point of stressing the 'artificiality' of their fragrances. In upper echelon perfumery synthetics are generally employed to make a fragrance appear more natural. I should think CdG would have a gas using natural ingedients to produce a synthetic smelling perfume (but I guess economy dictates they use synthetics to that end after all). Now, I am a great lover of incense, and regarding perfumes Incensi by Villoresi and Valentino's Vendetta pour homme are among my two favorites, both give an incredibly authentic, i.e. very natural smelling rendition of incense. With Jaisalmer,IMHO, the synthetics scream in your face. It's an Indian spice market allright, but, like a 'ship in bottle,' it's a 'spicemarket in test tube,' assembled with pride and a sense of irony. Which is fine by me, except I really don't much like ISO-E-Super, somehow it just massively irritates me. But please don't let this opinion by a minority of one spoil your enjoyment of this fine fragrance. In fact, my bottle is up for swap :-).

Top: Anise, Bergamot, Lavender, Lemon, Rasperry, Tarragon
Middle: Clove, Cinnamon, Heliotrope, Jasmine, Muguet, Rose
Base: Amber, Benzoin, Cedar, Musk, Tonka Bean, Vanilla
Rare and highly sought, Background commands three-digit prices on ebay Germany. Being a great fan of the equally rare Man Pure I was intrigued by this. The mini I was able to acquire for a few Euros, though it might of course be somewhat off, has put my interest to rest. Background is one of those "Nivea" fragrances - it reminds me of the generic smell of drugstore hand creams. There is a spark of that in Nino Cerruti, but that perfume goes elsewhere. It's very pronounced in Casran and also in Ronaldo Esper's Graphite. The effect seems to come about through the combination of fruity/citrus and herbal notes. Majoram/Basil and Tangerine/Bergamot in Graphite; Bergamot/Lemon and Juniper/Galbanum in Cerruti; Bergamot/Lemon/Rasperry and Tarragon here. Aided by the middle notes of heliotrope and rose in particular that add to the handcream feel, as well as vanilla or tonka and certain balsamic basenotes The sum total inevitably conjures up images of well-groomed, somewhat conservatively dressed women of 45+ age, as I encountered them during childhood, who used Nivea, Atrix, Creme 21 or whatever brands were popular in the 70s. No masculinity in this for me. Well, don't let my personal hang up spoil your pleasure in any of these fragrances. I just needed to point this out.

Azahar is Spanish for orange blossom and it's easy to see the word is derived from the Arabic, like so many names for beautiful things in Spanish (azzahár in Andalusian Arabaic meaning the same, stemming from the Arabic "zahr" for flowers). What indeed could one associate more closely with Southern Spain, its breathtaking landscapes, endless beaches, pueblos blancas, its rich Arabic heritage and gitano folklore, than the scent of the Azahar, wafting through the nocturnal streets of Cadiz, Cordoba, Granada or Jerez.
Were the folks at Myrurgia up to the challenge of capturing these romantic visions which already enchanted Washington Irving, as he walked the Alhambra in awe? Well, they did a good job, but, national shame, the French can do it better.
Castorpollux has got it quite right. Azahar begins with very zesty orange citrus, refreshing, pleasant and natural smelling. It quickly settles into a soft neroli, which is not too powerful, as it is blended with soft floral notes, making for a slightly sweet general impression. Some might consider it a tad feminine but I would place it squarely in unisex territory. The general impression is of an orangey Eau de Cologne, the official designation being EdT Fraiche. It doesn't last longer than Eau d'Orange Vert, though. Which brings us to the French. D'Orsay's Etiquette Bleue is closer to what you smell walking through Cadiz at night as the orange trees scent the old cobbled streets - more neroli, and of the finest quality at that. So is the exquisite but little known Extra Vieille EdC by the house Berdoues in Toulouse. In terms of citrussy orange I prefer the inimitable Hermes Eau d'Orange Verte. I do like Azahar better than the concentrée version, however, which is too musty for my taste. All in all, Azahar does hold its own and it is recommended when seeking a pleasant mixture of zesty and sweet orange with a subtle floral complement different from all the other products mentioned. The bottle is beautiful and the fragrance affordable, especially through English channels (look to the right). I do however think that Puig/Myrurgia owe it to their Spanish heritage to go forward and create the perfect neroli cologne, whatever the cost. Of course, they may have done so, but I will not be able to try "1916" before I get to Spain.

Very much the Sandalwood complement to Dominguez' Vetiver hombre. Both are masterful blends in which actual sandalwood or vetiver are not dominant, both are incredibly clean and fresh (as castopollux points out for Sandalo), both exude an incredibly refined, understated elegance and masculinity. While Vetiver hombre is a perfect fragrance in my book, this gets only four stars because I am a little disappointed in the top notes, the "watery" aspect of which comes across as somewhat too synthetic to me. The drydown, soft clean wood wrapped in silky transparent floral notes, is utterly addictive. It is, however, more of a cedary than a sandalwood note, in my opinion, or rather: we are dealing with (very well employed and high quality) synthetics. I truly love this fragrance, but it is on a different plane than Villoresi's divine Sandalo, which will give you an appreciation of what true Mysore sandalwood blended with rosewood smells like (LV Sandalo is my holy grail for a good reason). Nonetheless, Myrurgia's concoction is an excellent designer scent that leaves many better known brands in the dust. It is one of the few fragrances I paid full retail for - with no regrets - which says a lot about how much I like it. I have said it before and will say it again, that perfume afficionados are missing some very fine fragrances if they fail to seek out the Adolfo Dominguez line, difficult as it may be to find it beyond the borders of Spain.

Portos (btw: is there also a fragrance called Athos?)is the statistical average of all those 1980s leathery chypres made manifest. All the usual suspects are assembled, from artemisia through geranium and patchouli to the leather, labdanum, castoreum etc. base. This summation, while decent, lacks the distinctiveness that would save it from being a somewhat dated archetype of 1980s men's fragrances. Neither is there the white floral boldness of Maxim's, or the intriguing rose of Leonard, Trussardi or Van Cleef. The construction is unrefined when compared to the true ancestor of them all, Knize Ten. And while Portos is too aridly herbaceous, yet it falls short of the radicalism of the closely related Yatagan, which, while not to everybody's taste (including mine) must be acknowledged as grandiose in its bold and uncompromising stance regarding just such arid herbacity (notice that I am inverting de Charlus/Naed Nitram's judgment of these two). Portos is the average, the mean, as I stated at the outset, and I can't help but subscribe to the popular pejorative connotation of those arithmetically neutral terms when applied to this fragrance.

An amazing scent. I fully agree with CoL that this one sticks out of the mass of designer blah in a very very good way.I tried it at Heathrow and it was the only perfume to leave a lasting impression. Luckily aquired some on ebay.uk (I believe it is not available in Germany) The notes given are tea tree, lime, armoise, white pepper, birch leaf, snow bark, white musk and fresh patchouli. Snow bark I suppose is the white bark of the snow gum, a relative of eucalyptus. This together with the other cool, bitter ingredients blends with spice and musk into what I would call a Northern Oriental (well, Farhi, of Algerian ethnicity, lives in London, so that makes sense, no?). It has a piney- foresty coolness (A Scandinavian winter wood indeed) as well as a gently sweet orientalness, as in Envy, Jaipur or Jivago 7 elements, though without any heavy vanilla or tonka. The combination is unique, exciting, and smells very classy and masculine. Highly recommended.

A sweet wisp of a fragrance. Honey, restained smoky-woodiness and iris. The conceptual kinship with dior homme is most evident, a light powerdery iris-based fragrance which is, of course, not at all "males only" but actually consciously unisex with a feminine edge. On me this is a skin scent which is pleasant, hardly noticeable and somewhat unoriginal. Good quality, but ridiculously overpriced considering its thinness and lack of innovation. I would prefer Lutens' Vetiver Oriental anyday, which is more complex and interesting, less sweet, longer lasting and requires a much smaller application to work its magic. But then Dior is not a house I get along with very well fragrance-wise.

As the preceding reviews make clear, this is a well-made fragrance, which does not rock the boat and will please any man looking for an all-purpose scent in a lighter style. That said, it is somewhat of a sleeper and far superior to the many watery and cheap smelling designer frags out there. Very much in tune with the casual "Cape Cod weekend" chic of the (Italian) Brooksfield label, this the perfect complement to a relaxed yachting-style or country-house outfit. A pleasant green top, which reminds me a bit of Esper's Millesimé, subtly spicy, tart and just a tad smoky (like black cardamom)in the middle, with the distinct apple note supplying freshness, it ranks above average in quality. Add the nicely designed bottle and the decent price and you have an excellent product worth seeking out.

A sweet, oriental leather, not of the birch tar variety. Do not expect a dirty, challenging, cowboy leather, but a regal potion oozing nobility, crawling into every crevice of a throne room like some rich, dark golden, olfactory honey, forming a shimmering luxuriant aura around its wearer. Bend your knee indeed. A gentle, rather than zesty, fruity top, creamy beige-rolls-royce interior leather, and the oriental caramel sweetness of a fantasy Taj Mahal-India. Indeed, the year of its creation, 1780, saw the second Mysore war of the British in India. Strange coincidences.
This opulent yet absolutely lucent fragrance smells of pre-democratic, pre-capitalist Old Europe (in the nice part of town, that is). I’m not surprised it was created just at the time when democracy and capitalism started taking off seriously (it was reformulated in 1805). Mr. Creed must have known he was creating a fragrant preserve of the old order. While I’m with Tom Paine politically, the winner in the aesthetics department is the ancien regime, or rather, the English constitutional monarchy. Royal English Leather deserves six stars for having aged so very gracefully, for its abundant but not overwrought luxuriousness, for being a monument to the idea that quality may transcend epochs and their fashions.

On a personal note: this was my first Creed, and smelling it caused an olfactory epiphany that assured my abiding interest in this house .

I daresay, the only person this fusty concoction would befit is Sir Humphrey Fitzroy-Jones, who has not risen from his chair at the Garrick Club since April 4, 1911.

Smells like watermelons bobbing in the sea,
Looks like MI dressed in sailorgarb to me
You might find this heady potion
Smelling like your favorite ocean
But beside the pleasant salt
I just find too many faults
No these synthy modern Creeds
They just do not shake my reeds
From Erolfa I'll retire
Royal English takes me higher

Epicéa gives me an outdoors-indoors feeling: in the middle of a winter forest, but not walking throught it. Rather sitting in a log cabin made from pine trees, with a hot pine-wood fire burning in the fireside, spreading a warm, spicy resinous smell that drives out the cold, which you know is out there. And I suppose the top note is having just squeezed some lemon into my Earl Grey. A fragrance for winter or to wear while watching Dr. Zhivago.

I instantly liked and can#T add too much to what has been so competently said. So I'll furnish some facts:
Did you know there was a male and a female version of Eau de Patou?
Eau de Patou pour homme from 1976 is listed in the H&R Duftatlas from 1989 with these notes:
Top:Lemon, Lime (Bergamot, Mandarin, Basil, Aldehyde)
Middle:Jasmin, Patchouli (Iris, Clove, Fruit note, Cedarwood)
Base:Moss, Musk (Amber, Civet, Labdanum)

The presently discussed female version contains (according to parfyym.pri.ee):
Top: Sicilian Citrus, Guinea orange
Middle: Tunesian orange blossom, pepper, honeysuckle, Ylan Ylang, nasturtium
Base:Musk, Moss, Amber Civet

The midnote florals somehwat remind me of Dukes of Pall Mall Cotswold, though that has quite a different citrus top.

I do find Eau de Patou rather feminine in the middle courtesy of the pronounced Ylan Ylang notes. I like Ylan Ylang, thankfully and there is nothing suffocatingly heavy here, of course.

Those florals create a certain (hand)creamy sensation which I also get in Casran (no good), Sander Background, Esper Graphite (soso). Here it's quite pleasant, though I can't help seeing a well-groomed attractive woman in a pastel spring or summer outfit before me when smelling this. As foetidus says, it gets less feminine as it dries down. Wonderful, but I really would like to try the men's.

First of all, it is a shame this house was closed by Clive Christian, though he was probably merely reacting to lack of interest. "Rule Britannia" perfumes are not for "Cool Britannia" times perhaps.
I adore Sandringham and I love Quinine and Town&Country, as well as Maréchale. As for Imperial, I wish I could have the top without the bottom. This is surely the most refreshing, natural and powerful lemon in fragrance history. Just the right thing to kick the sleep out of the eyes of Sir Humphrey Caton-Jones, MP, before a day of parliamentary debate or help a dapper Lieutenant Colonel keep fresh at 45 degree Calcutta heat. What follows then, however, is a very powdery and somewhat musty (rather than musky) drydown which irritates like invectives from the opposition bench or nasty mosquitos. Like a shirt collar that's too tight or an out-of-tune brassband you want it to stop, but it won't. Such a shame. Thumbs up for the lemon, thumbs down for the rest, makes a neutral.

One of a trio of Capuccis packed in trapezoidal ceramic bottles: Corps Fou, Sang Royal, and this 'beauty.' They date from some time in the 1980s and represent the Hades to R de Capucci's Olympus Mons. Summer day? A sweet powdery citrus of almost nauseating quality, this smells of shabby old prostitute rather than a gentleman in white. Well, I’ll settle for “tacky drugstore frag”. Come to think of it, this is a travesty of Capucci pour homme, an extremely well made floral citrus. Jour d'Été is “Divine” (as in John Waters, not Yvonne Mouchel) impersonating Faye Dunaway.

Notes:
Bergamot, Lemon, Petitgrain, Clary sage, Green note
Jasmine, Mandarin, Clove, Rose, Aldehyde
Patchouli, Moss, Leather, Amber, Vetiver, Musk, Tonka
Unquestionably the greatest Capucci contribution to perfumery and indeed one of the best chypres ever produced. In fact, I believe this is one of the best perfumes ever produced. The quality, the mastery of the assemblage, the charmingly smooth, yet intellectual texture – this is the chypre complement to Eau d’Hermes, no less. Shake your heads in disbelief but this one is on par with creations by Roudnitska, Daltroff, and the Guerlains. A fantasy citrus according to the H&R genealogy (which I find a bit misleading), fresh chypre in other categorizations. More complex, less citric than Capucci pour home, a chypre but not identifiably “80s.” There is no herbal Artemisia bludgeon here, but a cleaner, straighter greenness in the top notes, more in the direction of Bowling Green, but infinitely more sophisticated – and the floral middle notes come on quite early. Gentle, slightly dark rose, smooth aldehydes, the sublime use of jasmine add up to an incredibly suave, classy feel. Brilliant! The base is softened by Tonka and amber, but nothing is here is remotely powdery. The “macho” components are very subtly employed, making this much less dated, or dateable, than your Portos, Ho Hang, Yatagan, etc. Soft, suede-like leather, low key, nothing either birch-tarry (as in Cuir de Russie or Lonestar) or lushly sweet (as in Royal English Leather. Mossy notes are dominant in the base, there is some dry patchouli and just a hint of Tonka sweetness, all this melting together into sheer delight. All in all, R stays very “clean,” as hirch-duckfinder correctly notes, but do not confuse this with the limp, synthetic, fabric-softener “clean” of the ‘90s and ‘00s, it is infinitely superior. I should add that R is much finer on skin than on a test strip – it is one to be tested live. Regrettably I do not know the perfumer. A big name, an unsung hero, a one hit wonder? Whichever, “R” is a perfectly balanced display of subtle masculinity, seamless from top through base, refined as an Italian silk suit. Speaking of which, this is far superior as a suave suit scent to Kiton Men, which, while decent, smells like ineptly thrown together synthetics in direct comparison with R. The difference in quality between the two rose notes is an object lesson in the art of perfumery. In fact R degrades a whole lot of better known gentleman’s fragrances to the status of pimply faced kids. Can you understand now, why after trying this I was obsessed with getting my hands/nose on every other available Capucci? I found them all and none matched this, not even the glorious Punjab. I will go out on a limb and say: no one with the remotest interest in fragrances can afford to ignore this. I speak in earnest. This is the sleeper of sleepers. Or, as Squire duckfinder has patiently proclaimed for some time and much more succinctly than myself: "Wear 'R' de Capucci!"

Notes: English Lavender, Sicilian citrus, rosemary, verbena, Bulgarian rose, jasmine
vetiver, Mysore sandalwood, ylang ylang, cedar, amber, white musk
“Tradition” rarely represents the seamless historical continuity that invests ideas, objects, or practices with authority or cultural cachet. How many times have you stood in a supposedly medieval church that was really bombed to rubble in WWII and then rebuilt as a “medieval church” ? The famed Nuremberg Christkindl market is a Nazi invention in its current form (they also gothicized many Romanesque or Renaissance buildings because gothic was considered to be “Aryan.”) I do not know how many tourists take the Houses of Parliament to be medieval buildings rather than neo-gothic reconstructions actually of more recent date than the White House.
What am I driving at here? The fact, of course, that many fragrance houses use their supposedly venerable age and an unbroken tradition reaching back to some quasi-mythical founder as a means of increasing their prestige, turning cultural capital into brand power, higher prices and a marketable story. 4711 and Carthusia give us romantic fairytales about monks. Creed is the most blatant example, perhaps, of a constant insistence on traditionality, coupled with virtually absolute silence on any significant details of the house’s actual history. Who ever learns, that the Creed’s were couturiers first and only incidentally perfumers (these crafts being closely related, of course, since perfume served to scent accessoires, not skin, until the end of the 19th century). Acqua di Parma is another case of history looming large, though they have not chosen the seamless tradition spiel for their narrative, but the “phoenix risen from the ashes” model. A prestigious cologne, though hardly old, the (supposedly, hopefully) all-natural AdP was created in 1916, when synthetics-based perfumery was already in full flush and the market had shifted from its restricted aristocratic and haute-bourgeoisie clientel towards mass production for an increasingly broadening white collar consumer class. It is just about the time that 4711 (as which it was reinvented 1881 after Farina Gegenüber achieved prohibition, having lobbied for the introduction of the trademark system, of the use of its name by plagiarizers such as the Mühlens family), an industrially produced cheap cologne became a household name that would obliterate the original artisanal product (Farina Gegenüber) in the public consciousness. AdP was a late but successful newcomer, and like Creed, it played on its popularity among the new aristocracy during its halcyon days in the 1930s-1950s: Hollywood stars. Then, as tastes changed, it was out, living a twilight existence, only to be rejuvenated in the course of the new craving for old style luxury that began in the yuppie 80s and became full-blown during the New Economy, whose progenitors, like the robber barons of the 1880s craved the emblems of old money once they retired to their patrician estates. The Italian rejuvenators, old hands in the luxury business, refashioned AdP into a prestigious “must have” in the right circles, expanded the line massively (they have very mediocre fragrances now, too) and sold out for what was probably a 10000% percent profit. Good for them, though it pains me to see, that a fine product such as AdP is now another “preciousss” in the slimy grasping hands of Bernard Gollum Arnault of LVMH, the Woolworth’s of the rich and famous. LVMH squares the circle by mass marketing exclusivity, by making the rare universally available, by marketing tinsel (such as Vuitton luggage) as “haut gamme” to anyone who is willing to fork out surplus cash for a label that signifies old world prestige (for readers of Germany, here are Luca Turin’s thought on this: http://snipurl.com/1ci7o.) A sure sign of the success of LVMH marketing machine is the wild popularity of AdP products on ebay, where it is always the subject of bidding wars, while at the same time so ubiquitously present that I must wonder how many of these bottles are Eastern European fakes. Either that, or many people who buy this as a form of prepackaged good taste find out they don’t really like it (perhaps because they actually lack good taste). So the question is, I suppose, can you enjoy a great cologne knowing that thousands who wear it do so, not because they appreciate it, but because it is a life-style ‘choice’ dictated by fashion rags like GQ? Well, I do. AdP Colonia is a nice departure from classic French (and the one German) colognes that emphasize hesperides and herbs, only rounded off with a touch of rose, musk or tonka. Here, the rose is far stronger, really defining the fragrance (with some help from the subtle but persistent ylang ylang) after the initial, incredibly refreshing lemon- blast, itself cleverly prolonged by the use of verbena. The woody base is more fortified as well, giving this excellent longevity, especially for a cologne. This hovers close to your skin all day, providing the finishing touch of sophistication that makes you feel so genteel. Acqua di Parma is a marvellous, refined, unique product, not because, but inspite of the hype created around it by its execrable owners. It bears its fate with the poise and imperturbability of a true gentleman.

Notes:
Lime, Bergamot, Orange, Neroli, Lavender, Rosemary;
Jasmin ,Rose, Neroli;
Patchouli, Sandalwood, Amber, Musk.
Nice. The top note citrus here is not lemon, but lime, which makes a considerable difference, as you know if you like Caipirinhas - or the various traditional English lime colognes. The lime note is sharper, brighter, zestier than lemon, as well as lighter and makes for a nice citrus sparkle. The other top notes are typical Eau de Cologne ingredients, so, not surprisingly, this bears a resemblance to Guerlain's Impérial, du Coq or Farina Gegenüber. It is sweeter though, and florally so, through the midnote presence of neroli, rose, and jasmine in particular. Of those I know, Coq comes closest, in fact, as it also contains jasmine, but it has a stronger herbal counterweight, while Genova fuses the jasmine, rose and neroli into a soft floral impression, reminiscent of the recently acquired Azahar by Adolfo Dominguez. As always with EdCs do not expect too much from the basenotes, they are at best very subtle. Compared to the better known EdC in the neighbourhood, Acqua di Parma, this is softer, lighter and a good deal more feminine. Parma’s lemon entwined with rose is almost assertive in contrast. Thus, if you find Parma too floral or short lasting, Genova is a definitive nono. Personally I clearly prefer Aqua di Parma, as the lemon is deeper and the smooth rose darker (relatively speaking), longer lasting, simply with more oomph to it. For hesperides I’ll choose Farina or Guerlain, for florals Asprey or, better even, Dukes of Pall Mall Cotswold, which delivers white blossoms in a manlier fashion. Genova is a well-made scent, an Italian spring day in a bottle, but due to its floral sweetness it will not become a huge favorite of mine. Nonetheless, fans of classic Colognes are obliged to try it and draw their own conclusions.

Experience has shown
That I am not prone
To enjoy a perfume
Full of hedione

Though I really did try
I am sorry, dear Gai,
But 'ere wearing Mattiolo
I would rather go solo.

Executive summary: Go! Away!

Rant:
I happen to be wearing Go! (2007) on my right arm, with Acqua di Genova (1853) on the left and the comparison would turn Pollyanna herself into a cultural pessimist. Not only does it seem that perfumers today are forced to create a new fragrance in three months, they also seem to be kept in dungeons so as to prevent them from making sensory experiences such as smelling an orange or a bouquet of flowers. This is synthetic garbage, subcategory nauseating fruity-sweetness, which you've smelled a thousand times before under a thousand different names. Little boxes made of tick tacky, to quote Pete Seeger.

Same experience here as MonkeyManMatt. What others describe as decaying flower presented itself to me clearly as "cat pee," identical to a classic faulty note in red wines caused by excessive geraniol due to mishandling. Either there is an interpretive split on this note or the mini I tried was also a off, which is quite likely. Either way, as there is no more fresh Ténéré to be had, a blind buy would seem quite risky. This did smell quite promising, from what I could tell beyond feeling like Felix the Cat had given me some golden shower.

Reveived a bunch of samples of this from an Italian specialist in discontinueds where I bought my Balenciaga Portos and a few other gems.
Evidently, Charro never made the grade, remained a local phenomenon or was quickly forgotten, which perhaps says something about the level of quality the perfume industry had achieved in 1989. For while this is in many ways a typical 80's scent (but so is Portos) it is an excellent composition with quality ingredients. Spicy, I particularly like the shimmers of pepper, subtly floral, just enough sweetness, soapy-clean feel from the carnation and coriander. Clearly a child of its time, but not as dated smelling as a whole lot of other 80s stinkers. And without wanting to bore you with the "laudatio temporis actis" rants of an old fogey, this forgotten beauty does have more class, creativity and costly ingredients than at least 20 designer releases from 2006 combined (thinking YSL homme here, not Terre d'Hermes or Varvatos Vintage, which are winners IMO)

L'Eau d'Hadrien is guilty by association, a tragic victim of the contextual nature of scent perception. That overpowering, bitter cedrat and lemon oil scent has become so typical of "natural oil"-embellished household cleaners, detergents, furniture polishes and what have you, that the first whiff alone is enough to remind me of duties around the house I am little enamored of. Just what I need in a luxury fragrance. If we should ever be able to afford a cleaning lady, she'll be getting this for Christmas.

The most meditative fragrance I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Perhaps as close to a holy grail as I will ever come, and this quite literally: warm, comforting, tempering, fortifying, Sandalo is virtually a pocket-size religion. The spiritual dimension and ritualistic importance of several key ingredients support this bold claim. I find the sandalwood to be an immediate presence here and the oils grouped around it serve to emphasize its calmly uplifting woody sweetness rather than the harsher, pungent aspects equally latent in this mysterious Mysore wonder. You will find very different sandalwoods, but none better than Villoresi's intellectual and emotional masterpiece.

"Are you wearing Mandorlo di Sicilia or did you just spill cream soda all over yourself?"
Better keep talking & moving while wearing this or people will mistake you for a giant vanilla-scented candle. Those always smell cheap and artificial. So does this.

A pale preraffaelite rose blooming in cold moonlight upon mine own grave.

To wit: the English rose is a many facetted thing. And where Penhaligon's Hammam Bouquet represents to perfection its Victorian incarnation, imperial, orientalist and full of brimming but only indirectly acknowledged sexuality (see my review) No. 88 is a different creature altogether, as its vapors entwine John Donne's darkest moments, Burne-Jones canvasses, My Last Duchess, Aubrey Beardsley, Joy Division and the album cover of Depeche Mode's 1990 Violator. Not surprising then that I would be instantly captivated. This is the kind of scent which I have no desire to rationally understand and only feel I can adequately describe in the given associative manner.

Considering this was dirt cheap, it's a great alternative to classy, read: expensive (or discontinued), citrus-wood traditionals. The wood component sticks out a bit strongly for me to give this 5 stars, plus it isn't really innovative. In sum though, for me it's another winner by this house, joining Vetiver Hombre, Agua Fresca, and U Hombre. These guys know what they're doing, they're way too restricted to the Spanish market for their own good and I want them all.

Everything has been said and the opinions remain as incompatible as the components of this fragrance do to the nose of this wearer. I tried to like this and do in fact love both grapefruit and licorice, as well as ginger and smokey components, but they just never come together in harmony here. Yes, if this were a memoir, I would welcome jarring fragments of the remembered self revealing it to be but a construction of a coherent identity. But in this fall/winter perfume I sought solace and resolved tension to take me through the dark nights of the year, soothing, strengthening. It hasn't happened yet.

One of my absolute favorites and to me the measure of all dry wood scents. How I adore it for lacking any soapiness and florality. It has the perfect balance, power, beauty and precision of a damascene steel blade. It can appeare pungent at first, due to its smokiness, the scent of finest aromatic woods smoldering in a fireplace, which reenforces the lavender top notes. But this never gets cloying or bogs you down in any way. BdP is often characterized as a fragrance perfect for performing in power deals, but, while true, functionalizing it in this way almost seems degrading. I for one love to wear it on walks through cold autumn and winter days, it blends perfectly with a thick pullover, red-golden forests, a pale winter solstice sun, a crackling fire and hot toddy. In the all time top three. All thumbs up. Six stars. You get my meaning.

I saw her in the kasbah between the spice merchants' cries and the smell of fresh fig cakes. Her eyes read me the verses of a lovedrunk troubadour and her hands fed me the sweet meat of fleshy dates. I drank her wine and she devoured me like an iftar at Ramadan's end.

I was very interested in this and had nearly bought it blind. Then I got to try it. Incredibly, it does not smell like sandalwood at all on me, but like food, as a kitchen would smell where pots full of soups ate bubbling and meats stewing. Weird and positively awful to wear. I guess the inverse would be to take a spoonfull of food and discover it tastes like perfume. And who would want that (yuckyuck)?

A blind buy, this one was a very pleasant surprise. I wasn't sure whether I should not expect another hypertrendy synth bomb confusing a good composition with a list of fancy pseudo-ingredients, but no: While I'll settle for anise or licorice rather than Sambucca accord, it is quite nice. Fresh yet elegant, staying closer to the skin rather than projecting widely, and drying down into a nice, relaxing cedary base, which has some synthy notes but really works quite well. I do like Douce Amère better overall, which is a different, very rich and heady take on the anise, but mat would be the perfect choice with a cool, modern black designer outfit. Will be fun to wear in fall and winter.

Both previous reviewer's make good points. Maxim's, produced by Pierre Cardin, is unquestionably a typical supercharged 80s fagrance. It is, however, one of the best of its kind and unjustly forgotten. It does begin with an overwhelmingly heady confusion of bergamot, clary sage, lavender nto which the rich middle notes of jasmine, carnation and cedar already interfere, enfolding its wearer in an almost headache-inducing cloud of sweet-spicyness. But once the dust settles, there remains a beautifully crafted composition perfectly blending floral, wood and spice, shifting accents beautifully through the drydown into the ambery base. This deserves to be up there with the dearly sought Havanna and every lover of complex scents should seek it ought.

Happiness is unwrapping your freshly arrived bottle of Cacharel EdT pour L'Homme, a 30ml edition limitée in a beautiful silver and greyish-blue box that contains the even more beautiful bottle that contains an even more beautiful fragrance. Ah, it's even better than the miniature, which was pretty much reduced to a (beautiful) nutmeg note, this here is evidently in perfect condition, so I get the wonderfully fresh citrus opening which transmutes into that incredible nutmeg extravaganza, I can even sense the florals doing the backing vocals. God, this nutmeg could just go on forever (I confess I am a sucker for all those Chistmas goodies), but the gentle drydown into relaxing woods, like a soft-focused, impressionistic complement to Bois du Portugal, the spicy nutmeg still lingering, is just as satisfying and a wonderful conclusion to this journey. Wonderful, unique, exactly the kind of experience I'm into this whole fragrance thing for. Cacharel pour L'Homme, the warm glow of comfort, soothing body and soul. I'm adding the fifth star now.

There is a pungent synthetic-smelling wood note in Etro's Sandalo, which makes that particular fragrance less enticing than it could be. For Mahogany they lifted precisely that note from Sandalo and amplified it to the power of 10. The lumber yard association is fitting, but on me this simply will not fade or transform into something better. It is dissatisfyingly monochromatic (like the "cedar" in Tumulte which is ISO-E-Super) obnoxiously synthetic and a plastic, imitation-wood thumb down for me.

This is sooo sexy spraying it on makes me want to sleep with myself. So find someone else to spray it on you, cause they will want to sleep with you then.
On a serious note: while this is sex in a bottle, it's not really dirty, but who say s plain vanilla can't be fun, too? In fact I was at first slightly let down by the dry down, but only because Ravageur comes on so incredibly and delectably powerful in the top and the middle. Meanwhile I've concluded that it's simply a brilliant concoction, and who cares about top middle or bottom as long as you're having fun, right? Not just thumbs up on this one.

This one you'll either love or hate. It comes in a pretty, Egyptian looking bottle, which is a hint, perhaps, at the content: perhaps the most extreme flowery oriental for men around. It's flowery and creamy and flowery and creamy again and it's incredibly potent. I can see Southern Belles, or even better, southern-belle drag queens wearing this, Mr. Julian, I ab-so-lute-ly cannot. It smells too much like my auntie's cosmetics case. I respect it though. It does what it does with aplomb.

At last I got to try this at the Diptyque boutique in San Francisco and it was a fantastic as hoped. I personally would not wear it, but I could stick my nose in a jar of it all day. I must say though that my primary association is not fig, while that is in there, simply because I've never smelled any fig with such powerful... sillage, so to say. I am reminded of the smell of a perfectly ripened juicy peach. But I shall not pick peach or any other botanical hairs in light of this wonderful olfactory experience, which everyone needs to and should by all means make for themselves

The petals of a wilting rose, brittle as the sepia-toned letters of a long-forgotten love, faded avowals; but her pefume still lingers

With its strong hesperidic overture melting into one of the finest neroli notes ever and its general lightness this is a cousin of the great French Eau de Colognes by the likes of Roger & Gallet or Berdoues. While R&G has a more pungent citrus opening and fades quickly in direct comparison, Berdoues puts a stronger aspect on the orange blossom, but betrays quite some similarities, before Bleue’s gentle balsamic basenotes take over and it shows its greater fullness and roundedness. A classic Cologne promoted to Eau de Toilette, subtle, ethereal, brilliantly assembled. To me it is a scent of the South, conjuring up memories of strolling through the dusky streets of Cadiz, lined with orange trees releasing their beautiful fragrance as if to suggest the nights in Andalucia are not for sleeping.

I need to vent my disappointment. This should have been perfect. That gorgeous bottle which made we WANT the moment I saw it. Even the cardboard box is beautiful, for god's sake. Then that enticing pyramid, promising rum, fruit and oriental delights, right down my alley. Finally all the rave reviews here from respected basenoters who know their frags. It should have been perfect, yes, but it's a total letdown. On me this is rather thin, and not luscious. There is abso- posi -tively NOTHING in there from the pyramid. Well, if there were light fruit aspects, or some booziness at least, but what there is is just a boring creaminess which somebody here very rightly associated with NIVEA. I hate the smell of Nivea. I just don't get what is supposed to be so great about this fragrance. Boredom, linear mediocrity and of the kind I personally don't like at that. Ironically I bought this blind together with Opium EdT, which I was very uncertain about, but loved immediately. I hope I'll find something in Casran that will make me revise this judgment, but I frankly do not see where it should come from. Sigh!

I can't believe serious perfume lovers like this. To Germans it rightfully embodies the epitome of cheaply synthetic drugstore granny cologne. It's agressively sharp, short-lived and tacky and does not hold a stick to a genuine, natural-ingredient Eau de Cologne by Roger et Gallet, Berdoues, or, to stay in Cologne, the original Kölnisch Wasser by Farina. Btw. if you forget about the 4711 myths for a moment - its originator was a speculator and conman who sold it as a cheap imitation of the original Farina cologne under the same name. After decade-long court battles the company had to give up the name Farina and switched to 4711 in the 1880s. The story about the monk's gift of 4711 at Muehlen's wedding and the French officer writing the house number 4711 on the wall are PR-poppycock. To all connaisseurs of perfume I can only say: next time you're in Cologne, avoid the 4711 tourist trap and check out Farina, who are still in business (since 1709)

(a W.C. Fields type trying to attract customers to the ramshackle fairground attraction he is standing in front of)
Yessir, Ladies and Gentlemen, don't miss out on P.T. Coty's sensational Rocky Mountain mechanical diorama. Not like anything you ever want to see, um have ever seen, yeeeees, I can hardly believe it myself and I have to watch it every day. See the great bald eagle spread its wings over presently unsoiled canyons, life size and wing flapping, smell the invigorating Aspen pines, so real you won't believe it, I sincerely promise you won't, and all of this authenticacious near natural Western mountain glory is yours for only 25 cents a sniff here. That won't buy you a ticket to Hoboken, Ladies and Gentlemen. (to himself): Hm, come to think of it, maybe a Hoboken diorama would work better.

As English as a perfectly tended Wimbledon lawn, scones with homemade strawberry jam and Devonshire clotted cream, or Prince Charles complaining about contemporary architecture (he's right, too). Classic, but indeed Edwardian rather than Victorian, i.e. no priggish fusty-mustiness here, but aristocratic joi de vivre in perfection. Fresh citrus opening, settling into a very refined blend of lavender and woods, with a continuous subtle floral note (and the neroli) keeping it sexy. Citrus plus wood does not get more sophisticated or well constructed than this. No matter what his other achievements, Clive Christian's head should grace Tower Bridge for discontinuing such a national treasure.

Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly propose that too much of a fuss is made about the inestimable genius of Monsieur Jean-Claude Ellena, the supernose of Hermès and innumerable other fames, who has become a celebrity in his own right. My exhibit A is Concentrée d'Orange Verte, which - I will say it in harsher terms as some of the speakers before me - is a most maladroit debasement of the original.
Yes Eau d'Orange Verte is fleeting, that is part of its frail beauty, it is, in the tradition of Eau de Colognes, a burst of invigorating freshness and of a green orange purity and naturalness that is unrivalled. Reapply, reapply, Ladies and Gentlemen, and don't think of your purse, for if you do, you should not have chosen Hermès in the first place. So, here we have a nonsweet orange zephyr as Turner could not paint it better - this should be to M. Ellena's liking, as so many of his watery creations are most fleeting, shall we mention the recent Hermessence series for q.e.d. And what does he do with the perfect model of citrus airiness, revealing its perfect nude beauty for the wink of an eye only? What does he do, one is almost tempted to think out of malicious envy over this sparkling masterpiece? He turns it into a spinster of a musty orange dressed up in old lace, into the drying wrinkled oranges on a forgotten dust-laced fruit platter in that spinster's dark and aged-smelling chambers. More length, perhaps, but of something only for everyone's cranky stepmother to wear.
There are other misdeeds and affairs of little merit one can accuse M. Ellena of, but for today I rest my case and advise you to do as I do, and employ your bottle of Concentrée as a luxurious shoespray for frequently worn favorites. Here alone it can serve as an atmospheric improvement.

At first I was enchanted by what appeared the loveliest melody of cedar. But soon I learned the true nature of this creature, a mechanical contraption made to fool naive romantics such as myself, uttering its soulless, hollow tune without variation, a punch-card aria of everlasting synthetic monotony.

The name Tsar evokes the splendor of gilded onion domes, Western Enlightenment (as in Peter the Great) meeting Eastern opulence, perhaps a whiff of Russian Orthodox incense. But alas, this is just the stuffy tired smell of an exhausted, brained-drained aristocacy at century's turn, leeching off the people while devoid of inspiration, vigor, life. Bring on the Revolution I say, and off with their empty heads.

When two things make a perfect One
Like Mani Padme goes with Om
Quand la vanille embrace lavande
It’s Daltroff’s Caron pour un homme!

I was so looking forward to Silver Scent, being a worshipper of the original Bogart and a huge fan of Witness. Alas, this is one of the most preposterous propositions for a fragrance to be worn by humans I have ever come across. It reeks before you even open the package. Imagine the cheapest imaginable synthetic orange scent as used in 99 cent toilet cleaners or the no-budget stuff they use to mop schools and government buildings. Or those little stinky trees olfactorily challenged people hang in their cars. That, my friends, is Silver Scent, a monstrous insult to the art of perfumery and every nose that must bear this execrable violation of not just good but any taste. I cant even get beyond that opening (and neither does the pefume, apparently), one spray has practically made my appartment uninhabitable. Thumbs down all the way to Hades.

Some fragrances are simply meant to be worn, not sniffed, test-carded or partially applied. I did Incanto injustice , having already mentally discarded it after a few test sprays which left me with the impression of an uninspired wispy floral bore. Luckily I decided to apply it liberally and wear it outside and lo and behold - it turns out to envelop you in a fresh, green, elegant and subtle haze of pleasantness. As stated in the other reviews, this will not raise eyebrows, but that's precisely the point. A very good choice for conveying style and sophistication in the summer season. On a side note: If "Incanto" is this subtle, what can "Subtil" be but distilled water?

I can add little to Ken Russell's review. Very generic indeed, but slightly more intelligently crafted than the low end of design house Eau de Clones. It's the noted hint of sweetness and some intimations of spice that linger below the synthetic-aquatic conformity that raise this from the level of abomination to the category of wearable but not really necessary. Probably not a good choice for a house whose name, in fragrance, does not have the clout enabling it to sell boredom as the new hip. That might explain why I got this for a song on ebay.

With merely two fragrance lines to its name, the design house of Réné Lézard has managed to scale the world of perfume from its depressingly abysmal depths to its triumphantly towering heights. At one end of the spectrum, we have Réné Lézard homme, whose generic name and greyish packaging might be read as a harbinger of the utter conformity of the content. With not even the trace of an identity of its own, this lame excuse of a juice joins the ranks of the thousand score clones of purely synthetic smelling "fresh" "ozonic" garbage, for which any attempt at applying an adjective is really already an undeserved exertion. For the 21st century issue of the "man in the grey flannel suit."
Mystifying how only a year later Lézard could come up with such a masterfully crafted, deliciously enjoyable and underappreciated sleeper among the category of gourmand scents as Identité, where, once again the name's the thing. For while gourmands were certainly nothing highly innovative anymore by 2003, one cannot deny that this perfume, in a beautifully designed bottle, has a distinct identity,which is fittingly announced by the cognac-coffee tinted container. The PR speaks of cognac indeed, but to this reviewer the obvious assocation is a Starbucks-type coffee, i.e. not the straightforward southern European style, but a flavored, sweet-caramelly creamy "fun" beverage representing an enjoyable form of culinary regression. One is reminded of the heavenly odor of Muscovado sugar with its fine caramel notes reminding of the long gone status of sgar as a luxury product. These warm and delicious notes, which achieve a sophisticated and well-rounded sweetness (not of the suffocating, stifling kind too frequently encountered these days) predestine Identité as a fall and winter scent when its wafts of gourmand pleasure will make its wearer the messenger of comforting "coming in from the cold" pleasures of the communal hearth.

With merely two fragrance lines to its name, the design house of Réné Lézard has managed to scale the world of perfume from its depressingly abysmal depths to its triumphantly towering heights. At one end of the spectrum, we have Réné Lézard homme, whose generic name and greyish packaging might be read as a harbinger of the utter conformity of the content. With not even the trace of an identity of its own, this lame excuse of a juice joins the ranks of the thousand score clones of purely synthetic smelling "fresh" "ozonic" garbage, for which any attempt at applying an adjective is really already an undeserved exertion. For the 21st century issue of the "man in the grey flannel suit."
Mystifying how only a year later Lézard could come up with such a masterfully crafted, deliciously enjoyable and underappreciated sleeper among the category of gourmand scents as Identité, where, once again the name's the thing. For while gourmands were certainly nothing highly innovative anymore by 2003, one cannot deny that this perfume, in a beautifully designed bottle, has a distinct identity,which is fittingly announced by the cognac-coffee tinted container. The PR speaks of cognac indeed, but to this reviewer the obvious assocation is a Starbucks-type coffee, i.e. not the straightforward southern European style, but a flavored, sweet-caramelly creamy "fun" beverage representing an enjoyable form of culinary regression. One is reminded of the heavenly odor of Muscovado sugar with its fine caramel notes reminding of the long gone status of sgar as a luxury product. These warm and delicious notes, which achieve a sophisticated and well-rounded sweetness (not of the suffocating, stifling kind too frequently encountered these days) predestine Identité as a fall and winter scent when its wafts of gourmand pleasure will make its wearer the messenger of comforting "coming in from the cold" pleasures of the communal hearth.

I cannot get excited about either the name or the fragrance. It's a trendy synthetic for the youngens and as always with these, it does not live up to the prepostorous claims of the scent pyramid. I truly adore lavender, but there is no measurable quantity of quality lavender oil in this perfume. It's more of the cheap laundry softener type. Perhaps this is something like an aqua-ozonified update of Caron pour un homme, whose simple but ingenious lavender-vanilla dualism I find far more compelling, however. The bottle design looks great, but the perfume does tend to leak. All sleek surface, but somewhat shoddy on closer inspection: very contemporary, indeed. I'll quit here before this turns into a reactionary "everything used to be better" rant.

Spray it on and suddenly smiling little citrus fruits appear everywhere, holding hands singing: happy happy happy, feeling happy happy happy. It's over as quickly as it started, but a little bit of that Sesame-street joy lingers on throughout the day. Good to have around.

Usually I do not mind that CSP stands for Cunningly Synthetic Perfumes*, but this one is straight from a failed lab experiment. Smells like someone was working on an artificial vanilla and created hazardous waste instead. Unhealthy chem odor & tonka is what I get, maybe this freebee leftover bottle is a little stale. But if this should actually be Vetiver Haiti, verily I hate thee.

*note that I love Eau du Gouverneur, Aqua Motu, Écume de Thé

Your zephyr carries memories
Of sparkling meadows caressed,
Clear streams traversed.
Sweet Lavender muse,
Now whispering joy unto my Northern heart.

Purple Water by Asprey is, evidently, so very exclusive, it isn't even reviewed. I just happen to know someone whose friend's cousin is married to a person who works in side BP (That's what us Insiders call Buckingham Palace, or Betties Pad, haha) and got access, if you know what I mean. So, here's the scoop. This fragrance is very aristocratic, in that it doesn't care - whether it's supposed to suit a man or a woman, whether it isn't too propostorously expensive for being nothing but a nice little cologne. It's made for people who do not even notice spending 60 quid and for whom this will never be more than a beauty accessoire not even worth mentioning, just as their Asprey watch or their Asprey teawarmer. Purple water will clearly not be a hit among US college frat boys (too feminine) or the Paris Hiltons of this world (not gaudy enough). A lot of people will think it smells like their stepmother - somehow oldfashioned. It's for ladies, dandies and gentlemen beyond all that gender claptrap. Oscar Wilde would have been amused and I think he would have worn Purple Water with pleasure. Another artists that comes to mind smelling this is Morrissey. As stated, it's really just a nice, fresh cologne and the light, refreshing citrus components are the most evident part of this composition. The twist is in the unique "purplish" smell - is it the jacaranda, indeed, perhaps with the basil? Restrained ginger sweetness blends in and we close on a whispering drydown with just hints of musk and pepper, no vetiver to speak of. The bottle is of a matching elegant simplicity. Understatement is the message here. Well, enough talk, do just hop into your MG convertible, while the weather still permits and try this while summer lasts. Just don't ever talk about it, that would give you away as an impostor...

This, together with Dominguez', is my favorite Vetiver. It manages to keep the typical grassy-earthy character at the center of attention, but surrounds it with a clever melange of scents which subtly make it brighter and sweeter than the pure oil. It is still earthy and dark, mind you, but in an eminently comfortable and wearable way. I suppose the sweetness derives from the nutmeg or macis, which also gives it the slightly oriental touch, together with woody cypress. Bergamot brightens, as well as rosemary which probably also adds complexity. Simply excellent.

If they just spent half the time and money on the fragrance that they invested in the bottle design...
This is just another of those soapy-clean-showergel (and synthetic)-smelling industry clones with a designer-name slapped on the bottle. Where are the promising ingredients?
Italian bergamot, French lavender, bay, green mint, coriander; cinnamon bark, geranium, clove; Patchouli, Sandalwood, Musk. All I can perceive is that standardized INCI-declaration "fragrance" smell. Be warned: your eyes will enjoy the slick bottle, but your nose will be boooored.

The name Dunhill evokes a class of its own. I suppose that's why the dropped the "unhill" from the name of this fragrance. It is not to be seen on the bottle, just that lonely amputated "d" and the menetekel "Scannon SA" promintently printed on the back.
No sooner have you sprayed it on, do you forget this manifestation of mediocrity, which would serve the house of Calvin Klein well. I expect the next release in Alfred's name will be Duh?hill.

I have not come across many seriously fougère, i.e. really intent on capturing fern, scents yet. I think of L'Aquatonic as an updated version of British classics such as Penhaligon's English Fern which has a closely related green note which would probably also apppear too overwhelmingly heavy/sweet to those choking on the "dandelions." Perhaps the limited resonance to this style results from it being neither sufficiently aquatic-ozonic mainstream nor provocatively avantgarde (L'Artisan recreating the smell of Serge Lutens' armpit after wrestling Fréderic Malle or something along that line). I must admit I enjoy this unpretentiously unusual green creaminess, as StevenB put it. Evidently not one to be bought blind, though.

Well, this is the very first (and hopefully last) fragrance I have experienced which miraculously achieves to reproduce almost to perfection the smell of a certain brand of urinal tabs ubiquitous in the German restroom landscape. Thus be warned that wearing this will make Germans instinctively do something on you, which only Bobby Brown would find enjoyable. I need a (soap and water) shower - now!

I rechristen this fragrance: Ephemeral!
It is so both aesthetically and physically. It smells empty and uninspired rather than subtle, as intriguing as the components may look in theory. Before it rapidly expires on a forgetable note of synthetic sweetness (modern musk?) it is reminiscent of a weak imitation of Theorema by Fendi, the far better choice for an extremely subtle and fresh scent. Nothing about this fragrance is extreme except the disappointment after opening the beautiful bottle.

What intrigues me about this wonderful scent is that it effortlessly brings together the solid masculinity of sweet spice and leather with a suave herbal freshness. Decidedly pre-80s - and the better for it - this exudes so much more sophistication than many of the Gordon Gekko-era frag dreadnoughts. As stated previously, utterly classic, but in no way outdated and deserving of much greater attention than it seems to receive these days. Certainly a must for anyone with a deeper interest in fragrances.

Orientalism captured in a bottle. This is the olfactory complement to Ingres’ Turkish Bath, which is, of course, what a Hammam is. A brilliant projection of repressed Victorian sexuality upon the foil of an imaginary Araby. Fantasies of a Sultan’s absolute power and unrestrained sexual indulgence with unlimited numbers of women, of reversing the strict codes of the British social veneer in the dreamland that Stephen Marcus, in The Other Victorians, labeled Pornotopia. What better way of scentualizing these desires but by combining the rich floral power of rose attar and the violet-like orris, supported by a hint of cedar that adds a traces of oriental spiciness, with the smell of sex created by musk and amber. Hamman, we realize, is just a code for what a Victorian perfume could not be called, despite deliberately intending the association: Harem bouquet. This smells like a heady opulent boudoir in which people have just had sex, pure and simple. And certainly everybody in fine society knew this and yet did not – Victorian doublethink. Few scents could be richer in cultural history and this, seriously, should be smelled by students in seminars on the Victorian Era, British imperialism, Orientalism - and gender history, since quite likely many present-day individuals would experience gender confusion here, associating femininity (perhaps even of the Queen Mum sort)with the flowery aspects and then stumbling over the sexual-animalic component.

The working titles for this were ‘Oedipus’ and ‘Régréssion pour homme’ since it is all about smelling like that tangled creature that was you/your mother when she was cleaning up your little wet-diaper behind. That sweet flowery blend of soap, cream, baby talcum and her perfume... I have it on good authority that this was created by Sigmund Freud for the house of Dior in 1935, but it was not released at the time due to the excessive popularity of anally repressive scents in much of Europe. Now, however its time has come. It is brilliantly executed, as you would expect from the greatest healer of tormented psyches, wrapping you in a seamless warm blanket of long-repressed infant memories of unlimited attention-pleasure-instant-gratification. What better scent to comfort (and, perhaps, anaesthesize) the anxious multitude cowering in the cold light of the neoliberal global order?

Amazing what they can do these days. Smells exactly like in a Kingsgard dry-cleaners. This is supposed to remind one of freshly washed laundry, right, in fact it smells like the spray they use for starching shirts or mangling bedsheets which makes us think that this is what fresh laundry smells like. Ah Gendarme, just another slippery signifier in a universe of deferred meanings where we never ever get to the real thing. On the pragmatic side: I do not want to smell as if I’ve worked a twelve-hour shift at the dry-cleaners, it's so minimum-wage. But perhaps this can serve as an olfactory setup for a cheap come on: “hey, since it smells like fresh linen here, wanna hit the sheets?” For this cultural achievement, I award one star and a thumbs down, while acknowledging that no one else seems to hate this.

I was watching a lawn tennis match between the young Lord Asquith and Sir Humphrey Caton-Jones from my leather and teakwood recliner, sipping a lime cordial, when inexplicably, the thought came to my mind that I needed to stock up on my cologne. Personally, I prefer Penhaligon’s Extract of Limes. It’s got that fresh, tangy top note which so gracefully settles into a comforting, highly refined leather note - not unlike the one in Creed’s Royal English Leather, mind you, but more restrained, of course, and making for an enchanting dialogue with the citrus. Excellent craftsmanship for you there. Forty Love. Excellent, Sir Humphrey. You wield that racquet like a Dragoon’s sabre. Where was I? Oh yes, was it Reginald Barclay who told me at the club that Penhaligon’s had actually discontinued the Lime? Shocking! Next thing they’ll abolish red double-decker busses and phone booths. Blast, such a thing could only happen under Labour now, could it. I shall have to search the web quickly and see whether they have any stock left on the continent or perhaps in Boston. Oh, here we are now, game, set and match. Well done, Sir Humphrey. I say, Wimbledon will be yours next year, old boy.

I can only concur with the majority. A comfortable fragrance, elegant yet complex, well-rounded, but interesting, very well crafted from the fresh top notes (my skin carries the mint and bergamot nicely) to the sweet-creamy wood base, which is persistent, but not obnoxious (and I easily tire of wood). Truly an organic fragrance, as everything comes together as if this was just how it was meant to be. One of the classiest fragrances I have had the pleasure to encounter and excellently priced at that.

This smells like an only slightly more sophisticated version of your run of the mill 'athletic' shower-gel. It does suggest you've just stepped out of the shower (after pumping iron, har har) and it's quite long lasting.
Info lists top notes of bergamot, tangerine and grapefruit (very synthetic, however), waterlily and star anise and a base of cedar and amber.
Not worth the full price, acceptable at the 12 Euros it cost on ebay, if you like modern, fresh synths

Here's my theory. A certain percentage of the human population still carries a miniscule amount of Neanderthal genes. And there's a really simple way of distinguishing them from the rest - spray liberally with Eau Sauvage: a wonderful masculine citrus means your pure Cro-magnon. A nice citrus topnote, followed by an atrocious "smelly old man"/fecal/body odor scent, sorry, you're part Neanderthal. The government eugenics people posing as createurs des parfums at Dior knew this of course and tongue-in-cheekly titled their project Eau Sauvage.
Unfortunately, my genes are clearly contaminated. Thank god the stuff fades so quickly.

Placing my bid on ebay I was expecting to make a good deal and what would hopefully turn out to be a fragrance as pleasantly fresh and clean as described by others. How could I have known that I would regain a piece of my own past, a lucid, incredibly precise childhood recollection released from its own bottle by just a sniff of this elegantly unassuming flacon of Adolfo Dominguez Vetiver.
The memory came on at the first spray, without hesitation. Friseur Gerber, the barbershop in Frankfurt where my father had always had his hair cut, and where he took me as a toddler. It was not just the shop that exuded the distinctive vetiver scent, but even moreso its owner, Herr Gerber, a smallish corpulent man with a slightly pressed voice and full, longish, but conservatively groomed hair, wearing a brown barber’s smock (this was ca. 1973), an incarnation of artisan pride, whose curious blend of dialect-tinged, common-sense solidity and a casually debonaire habitus could only ever have sprung from a most distinctive union of what and where: styling and beautifying, with great earnestness and ambition, in the heart of an old working class neighborhood, right beside Frankfurt’s central railway station, which was bordered on the other side by the then notorious red light district. He may have come from a modest background, but those click-clacking scissors wielded by a masterful hand cut through the walls of social stratification like rice paper, connecting him to the grand coiffeurs on the city’s high street, the stylists, couturiers and parfumeurs of London, Paris, Hollywood, all those who shared in the glorious labor of making humankind glamorous and beautiful. His vetiver cologne, so strikingly resemblant to the after-the-fact creation of Dominguez was a tart, crisp claim to an unquestionably bright future, while a lingering sweetness suggested an underlying sense of security and satisfaction, a beautifully crafted pas-de-deux of harmony by contrast. Ethereal, yet earthy, Herr Gerber had found his signature scent and would not hesitate applying it to his valued clients. Later, he would move to the outskirts of the city in pursuance of his dreams, and my father and I followed him, despite the long distance to Griesheim, another working class quarter. The prices rose dramatically, as did the status claims manifested in the debonaire turning into mere airs, fantasies, indeed, whose incongruence became too painfully evident as for all the soaring claims to classiness, the shop remained class-based in grimy old Griesheim, never to rematerialize, upon a wish, in Beverly Hills. So Herr Gerber and his vetiver disappeared from my life and recollection. Now that image is brilliantly reborn by olfactorial recollection and that scent, so light and intense, so conservative and unusual, remains, like the memory, for good.

It does not get worse than this. What incredibly cheap-smelling garbage. Sharp, disharmonic and synthetic and it goes nowhere from there. As pathetic as an impoverished nouveau-riche who has nothing left but his lack of good taste.

Ah, the complexities of the post-post modern age, when you read a John Donne sonnett one moment and watch Spongebob in the next, and your bathroom shelfspace is shared peacefully, like lion and sheep in paradise, by a bottle of Creed Orange spice and Calvin Klein's Crave.
There are plenty of reasons for hating this fragrance as a cheap, synthetic, imitative hodgepodge lacking both substance and style. But if it were only that, should it not have been a huge success in today's perfume market? So why not read this against the grain and take it as a courageous artistic statement of early 21st century popculture. Starting with the plastic bottle that won't stand up. And from there, on to a non-apologetic tutti-fruitness-greeness with unabashed synthetic undertones, developing into brash metrosexual sweetness (forget the icon on the bottle, this is by no means masculine). It does what it does in an overblown matter, evidently too much so even for the 'undiscerning consumer' of this type of scent. Too bad, every technoclub from Manchester to Agia Napa should be reeking of this stuff. It makes me feel 23 and I'm way beyond that age bracket. Thumbs up for this heroic failure.

This was my first fragrance, in the mid-80s, so I have subjectiveley fond memories of it. Today I would consider it a total mismatch - can you picture a lankey, pomo-bespectacled academic wearing this 70s macho-man fragrance. Nope, Jil Sander was far the better match. This said, old brown-bottled Wizard of Az is a first-rate, classy cologne for the right kind of wearer - my uncle, solidly built, heavily mustachioed, cigar-puffing BMW-driver would make a perfect fit (but he prefers Cool Water, which however is perfectly in character as well). Strong, persistent, woody and musky, well-complemented by high quality tobacco. For the fortyish crowd, I would agree, and the perfect hair water - chest hair, that is.

With time to kill at the Frankfurt airport "duty free" shop, we spent a half-an hour confirming our belief that most current fragrances are quite forgetable and everything was much better before mass culture was invented (at least for 1 per cent of the population, but boy, did they have a good time). With my nose up in the air (it did not help escaping the morass of sickly synthetic scents) I decided to try the special offer (I may slightly snobbish, but, alas, the account balance doesn't match my attitude): Paco by Paco Rabanne. This turned out to be one of those paranoid experiences leading me to supsect they put better different, better, stuff in the testers. It was not earth shaking, mind you, but a pleasently direct, plain, fresh and naturally smelling grapefruity thing. Sure, bagged it for 20 Euros. Eagerly applied under the blue skies and gentle sun of Cyprus, crying for a nice citrus application, it revealed itself as a rather plump concoction, weak on fruity top notes, descending immediately into a far to diffuse melange of exactly the sickly synthetic sweetness both sophisticated Old Worlders and boldly energetic Americanos cannot possibly condone. If it be contemporary citrus, let it be Clinique Happy.

My second long-term fragrance after growing tired of Azzaro. And what a change. Where Azzaro is all chest-haired Burt Reynolds 70s, this represented the good side of the eighties - like Sander's couture: clear lines, black/white, Zen-like elegance, a cool androgyny (more Grace Jones than David Bowie). Clean, but its directness was simple only in a deceptive way, like a Mondrian painting. Cool, but never cold, sweet, but never sickly, light but no lightweight. Severely missed, the newer Sanders pale by comparison