Fragrance Reviews by FloatingPoint

Okay, I'm a big Ellena and Hermèssence fan, and this is by no means a bad scent, but it's barely noticeable and thus hardly worth the asking price. There is such a thing as being TOO discreet. This is a lovely composition--why not give it just a little more oomph?

A citrusy, Cologne-type opening soon yields to a rich, spicy vetiver. I love vetiver, so what's not to like? This is my favorite masculine from Guerlain, bar none. I love it on my skin, but I also love spraying a little on my bed linens before going to sleep--it's guarantee to give me sweet dreams. If it still smells this good after all of the reformulations supposedly ruined it, it really must have been some kinda fantastic back in the day.

This is one of the best things Chanel has unleashed on the world in a long time. Perfectly blended, approachable yet mysterious, radiant, classy. It reminds me a bit of Après L'Ondée, but slightly more piquant thanks to the pepper and a touch sweeter. It's also quite feminine, but it smells so darn good that I just want to run out into the street and yell "To hell with these arbitrary gender distinctions!" and then douse myself with it. I decided to throw caution to the wind and wear this out in public today, and I swear to God some woman was following me, no doubt unable to part with the celestial aroma emanating from my person. She didn't have the courage to ask me what it was, though. I'm sure the memory will haunt her for a long time.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."

-- Charles Dickens

I'm just going to come right out and say it: I love the 70s. Bell bottoms, flower shirts, long hair and moustaches, funk and disco, swinging, Good Times and Sanford & Son, Burt Reynolds--I'll take it all. Before Reagan. Before AIDS. Before padded shoulders.

Azzaro PH and Paco Rabanne PH evoke the 70s for me more than any other fragrances, and that makes them winners in my book. I have nothing to add to the fine descriptions of this fragrance below, except to say that there's nothing wrong with unbuttoning your shirt, growing a moustache, and channeling your inner swinger. The 70s are dead. Long live the 70s!

A super blast of powder soon gives way to a magnificent blend of hay, woods, yerba mate, and incense. I'm sure it's not for everyone, but it's certainly original and unique. My only complaint is the longevity, which on my skin is only a couple of hours at best. So it's not going to the top of my "to buy" list, but I can see a day when I'll break down and decide that I want to be able to smell like this at will.

Synthetic and headache-inducing accord of violet and ozonic cucumber. Original? Yes. Pleasant? No. Not my cup of tea and, like most designer fragrances, it smells cheap.

Some of the reviews on this page seem to be for the Concentrée version. This review is for the older, non-Concentrée version, which as of this writing is almost impossible to find in the United States. Despite sharing the same name, the two fragrances are very different.

Chanel Pour Monsieur is a classic masculine chypre. It starts off with citrus and the trademark Chanel aldehydes and soon dries down to the classic chypre base of oak moss and woods. No surprises, no hard edges, no weirdness, just excellent ingredients and a perfectly blended composition. This is a deceptively light fragrance that seems to disappear long before it's actually gone, but just breathe on your wrist to warm it up a bit and you'll notice that it's actually still there. It's the kind of fragrance that the wearer's nose habituates to quite quickly, which is disappointing in some respects because it smells so good, but at least has the advantage of not interfering with dining.

I wouldn't rank this among my favorite masculines of all time, but I own a bottle and I fully recognize its excellence. I just wish it were a little stronger, though without being as sickly sweet as the current Concentrée version is. I don't think that's asking for too much, but given how preoccupied Chanel seems to be with Titanium Megalomaniac or whatever blockbuster it is they're peddling to the aspirational punters at the moment, I realize it's not likely to happen.

Gingery, soapy, and loud. I've smelled worse, but this should have been toned down, and sexed up. My mother likes it, though, so I don't have the heart to give it a thumbs down even though I want to. Good longevity.

This has one of the most astonishingly beautiful and refreshing openings I've ever smelled. Citrus, vanilla, woods, and spices in an accord that is more than the sum of its parts. The dry down is not as breathtaking without the citrus to give it oomph, but is still lovely and mysterious, quite resistant to any kind of note identification--if you don't believe me, just look at the disparities in the notes below. The base certainly wouldn't meet any classical definitions of "masculine," but I also don't consider it any more feminine than a couple dozen other unisex niche fragrances, so I don't have any self-consciousness about wearing it. This baby is definitely going into rotation.

This is my favorite of the AdP colognes--I find it to be more understated yet also more complex than the others. I think I detect some Iso Super E in this composition, and consider Intensa to be one of the subtler and more skillful applications of that aromachemical. None of the AdP colognes really knock my socks off, but this is the one I could see in my rotation.

I can understand why many revere this as a classic, but it has poor longevity on my skin and the dry down just smells musty. I can't give it a thumbs down, though, because clearly the problem is with me and not with the juice itself.

Count me in the "Lemon Pledge" column. I don't mind it in the top notes when it's very sparkly, but something happens about twenty minutes in that just doesn't agree with me at all. The lemony note becomes duller yet doesn't go away, and enters into an accord with the woods that smells very synthetic and odd--except, interestingly, when it's very hot and humid. I put this on, started running errands, and noticed that it smelled nice in the humidity but not nice at all when I was inside in the air conditioning. I've never worn a fragrance that changed character so radically depending on the ambient temperature and humidity. I don't work outside, however, so anything I wear is going to have to smell good inside as well.

This one's a winner. I wasn't crazy about Dzongkha or even the fabled Timbuktu, but this fragrance has all the right moves. The blending is remarkably smooth, without any of the oddball notes that tend to dominate many of Duchaufour's other incense compositions. A slightly sweet floral incense that softly, yet confidently, announces its royal lineage.

I applied this today and for a long time couldn't stop thinking to myself how good I smelled, even without having to smell my wrist. That's pretty good sillage, if you ask me. Too bad it costs a fortune.

It boggles the mind that something so sweet doesn't grow cloying, but there you go--the transparency saves it from that fate. Others have noted that there's very little amber here, and I would have to agree. The best description, to my mind, is Turkish Hookah Dancer's. I really can't better it, so I'll do the next best thing and cut and paste it: "a delicious, yeasty raw dough swirled with black raisins and sweet cinnamon. The amber in this fragrance anchors it, acting as a warm, skin-scent undertone throughout, and emerges on the drydown to meld with a sweet and dry, woody cinnamon stick and cedar."

Hear, hear! I would only add this: the important thing to remember about the Hermèssence fragrances is that they may not always be that interesting to sniff on your wrist (no pyrotechnics here), but they are FANTASTIC to smell like, beautiful with an understated yet persistent radiance. I think perfume connoisseurs get so caught up in identifying notes and in pursuing new horizons of complexity that sometimes they forget it's nice just to smell GOOD in a quiet, classy, almost ambient way. Ambre Narguilé is no exception to that rule.

I can't add much to the wonderful reviews submitted below by the devotees of this fragrance. I simply wanted to echo the (near) unanimous praise, even if only to add to the statistical certainty that this is an extraordinary scent that everybody should try. A Homeric epic of a fragrance, timeless, masculine, and profound.

This is easily one of the top three vetivers I've tried, and on some days I even think it's the best of all. Through an astonishing feat of perfumery magic, this manages to be bitter and raw yet moist and refreshing at the same time, all the while remaining true to vetiver in all of its moods. No verbal description and no other vetiver fragrance can adequately prepare you for your first encounter with this almost otherworldly scent, so just hurry up and try it already. Earthy yet luminous, it will always have a place in my wardrobe. Excellent sillage, outstanding longevity. Thumbs up all around.

Am I the only one who smells a Sambuca/Ouzo aniseed liqueur accord in this fragrance? I think it may be an olfactory hallucination arising from the interplay of bitter almond, honey, and myrrh. As a lover of aniseed liqueurs, I have to say I'm quite beguiled by this little number, although I'm not really sure when I would have occasion to wear it--certainly not when I want to remain inconspicuous, because this scent is quite distinctive and projects strongly.

The BN notes tell me I should like this. Berries... yeah, I like berries, more to eat than to smell, but why not? Rose and peony... both flowers with very nice aromas, especially (to my nose) peonies. White musk... who doesn't like white musk?

Yet I don't. Like 100% Love, that is. Notes, after all, are approximations, metaphors, flights of fancy. It's impossible to predict what a fragrance is going to smell like from any kind of verbal description. You just have to smell it.

I can imagine what it would smell like to take a piece of rich, aromatic chocolate and a rose and hold them together under your nose. This doesn't smell like that. Not that it's even supposed to, although Luca Turin did describe it as a "chocolate rose." I do get the berries and rose, but I also get something else, something that it's impossible to sum up in a word, but something that reminds me of standing dish water, of the insides of dishwashing gloves, or of an old sponge. I don't mean the smell of dishwashing soap, I mean the smell of watery putrefaction, of something that's not exactly putrid, but not clean, either. The smell of an incomplete attempt at cleaning, of nascent bacterial colonies mixed with water and traces of soap, on rubber or foam.

Doesn't sound very pleasant, does it? It's not.

This is a remarkable scent, beautiful and unique. The only other fragrance I've sampled that attempts to recreate the smell of salt is Sel de Vetiver (which I do like), but this nails it so much more convincingly. It really does make me feel as if I'm at the seaside, surrounded by herbs and flowers. And in case you're wondering, the salty and medicinal notes keep the flowers from getting too flowery, making this a definite unisex fragrance in my book.

I can't say much else to add to flathorn's excellent review--I agree with every word, except that I crave this scent, not just in the winter, but all year long. That "fresh, salty bewitching air" is habit-forming, and I've come to find that I need a regular fix. I hope more people try this under-appreciated beauty and buy it so that it stays in production.

This is a difficult one for me to warm up to. Sometimes I think it has a refined, old world, gentlemanly charm, and at other times I think it smells like a ghastly baby powder on steroids. Perhaps that undecidability is a sign of aesthetic greatness, but for me, personally, it's difficult to imagine a setting or situation where I would eagerly want to be wearing this. Maybe that will change when I turn eighty and ask my young nurse to spray it on me as she changes my diaper.

EDT also has poor longevity.

This starts off with the zestiest lime note imaginable, joined mere seconds later by something that smells a lot like menthol. Yes, as in Vick's VapoRub. I love it! I wish the top notes would last forever.

In due course, as one might expect, the menthol calms down and the accord begins to smell like muscat candy. This phase is also quite nice as long as the citrus is able to maintain its hold. It's only when the candy note begins to take over in the final stages of the dry down that I begin to lose interest. Smelling like candy might be nice when you're eight years old, but that train, I'm afraid, left the station a long time ago.

I still love this fragrance, though, for its creativity, uniqueness, and infectious sense of fun. I think everybody should try it at least once.

Full disclosure: I'm a certifiable vetiver fanatic, so it kind of goes without saying that I'm going to be all over this discreet beast. I love the raw, uncompromising nature of this fragrance, its single-minded devotion to the great god of vetiver. Yes, it's as dry as a bone in the desert, and yes, it's brutal, but as marco points out, it has poor sillage and longevity, which is why I call it "discreet." It's like a shocking little secret that only those who draw near will have any inkling of.

It doesn't rank among my favorite vetivers of all time simply because I think vetiver projects more strongly with adjutant notes, like citrus, that set it in relief (and with me, it's all about PROJECTING that vetiver), and also because of the poor longevity, but it still gets a thumbs up for its admirable aesthetic discipline and, frankly, just for being a vetiver.

I'd love to see a version of this with better projection called "Vetiver Sauvage" or something like that. I'd be the first in line to buy it.

When this first goes on it smells like soft, exquisite, freshly-tanned leather. I find it quite intoxicating. As it dries down it takes on a fruitier character, although I can't quite identify the fruits other than to say it's a mix of berries, though they never turn sweet, exactly.

Vibert mentioned a "vinegary" phase in his review. I pick up a note of balsamic vinegar on certain occasions when I wear this, though not always. I can't say I find it a particularly pleasant note (although I love balsamic vinegar on salad) and it's the only mark against this fragrance in my book. Who wants to smell like vinegar? Fortunately, I only detect it intermittently.

Not for everyone, but definitely worth trying.

As others have noted, this is a remarkably accurate rendering of Lapsang suochong tea. Unfortunately for me, Lapsang suochong (along with Vietnamese lotus tea, which tastes like postage stamp glue) is one of the rare tea varieties that I don't care for that much. I'm still waiting for the perfect recreation of a great Earl Gray (please PM me if you know of one!).

It takes a couple of hours for the lapsang to settle down enough for this to become enjoyable to my nose. The base is quite nice, a bit like Burberry London for men but richer, smokier, and less synthetic. If I could just get the base I'd probably buy a bottle of this, but at this point I don't think it's worth enduring the opening for. This is one of those fragrances, though, that I can imagine myself changing my opinion about over the course of a few years.

Three hundred dollars to smell like incense and pot? I could do it for twenty.

Nice scent, but probably best suited for former hippies who are now rich and part of the establishment (or other bourgeois bohemians).

The spray was broken on the tester bottle so I had to dab a little of this on my skin. The overwhelming celery note on top was immediately repulsive, but it was already on my skin so I decided to wait and see what happened. The celery went away eventually, to be replaced by a sweet, honeyed amber. Not bad, but nothing distinguished enough to be worth waiting all that time for the godawful celery to go away.

I don't know what it is with me and the compositions of Bertrand Duchaufour. On the one hand I fully recognize the creativity and craftsmanship of his work, yet on the other I don't think I've smelled a single fragrance of his that I can honestly say I love. Like, yes, but not love.

I got a decant of this and, over the past year or so, have worn it perhaps a half dozen times. I hardly ever feel the desire to so. The reason, I've come to conclude, is the lychee note. I occasionally eat lychee fruit, but it's one of the last things I want to smell like. This is a consistent pattern with me and B.D.--he always throws something in there, one note, that drags the whole thing down for me.

There seems to be a consensus that this smells like bell pepper, and I agree. There's something quite unusual about a person smelling like a bell pepper, and I dare say there may be days when I'm in the mood for just that--how often do you run into someone who smells like a big, ripe vegetable? On the right skin, it just might work. Even then, though, I'd want it to last longer than this. This fragrance does have a "sweet spot" when the waxy ripeness of the bell pepper fades and turns into something sweeter (though I never get any chocolate) and is quite nice for about an hour. Then it's gone.

I love vetiver, and though I agree with foetidus that the vetiver note is not very prominent here, I love this fragrance anyway. The tonka is extremely well integrated, making this the rare gourmand that never becomes cloying.

The Hermèsscence line gets a lot of criticism from many quarters for being "weak" or watered-down, but I feel these scents have tremendous radiance (which is hard to notice when you're the one wearing them). The base notes (especially the white musk) are also surprisingly tenacious considering the subtlety of the top and heart notes.

Luca Turin compares this unfavorably with the licorice-rich Yohji Homme, which he considers better and more intense. They *are* similar and they are both extremely beautiful, but for me they serve different purposes: YH is bolder and more in your face, better suited for cooler weather and nights out. VT is subtler, sweeter, a little more elegant, a little more edible, and better when the weather is warm. It can be worn in the office but also in the boudoir, when you want to lure your partner in with sweet hazelnuts and tonka instead of blaring out your intentions with licorice from across the room.

Thus, I have room in my wardrobe for both. Also, Yohji Homme has been discontinued, so after it disappears from eBay, this is the closest you're going to get.

Balls-to-the-wall musk in a bed of cumin and flowers. Does it actually smell like groin? I don't think so. I think people are letting their imaginations get the better of them. Any man whose testicles smell this good should be awarded the Legion of Honor. It doesn't smell like armpit, either. What it does smell like is musk, of very high quality, and lots of it. I like to spray it on when I walk out the door with just a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and bed head. Magnificent stuff.

This reminds me of Bach's Art of the Fugue in its baroque darkness and complexity. I get a lot of iris, tonka, cedar, and vetiver (in that order) after the vaguely fruity opening, although the iris and tonka seems to exchange places in terms of dominance depending on the day.

Like the Art of the Fugue, this isn't for everyone. It isn't even for me all the time, but it's a unique and worthwhile addition to my wardrobe; I can't imagine getting bored of a fragrance this enigmatic.

A nice jasmine fougère with hints of spice. I loved it at first but then, after a while, my love started to fade. The vanilla-amber-moss-tonka in the base began to cloy. Still, it's an interesting and well-made fragrance, and I'm giving it a thumbs-up in the hope that the magic will one day return, perhaps when the weather gets colder or I'm in the right frame of mind. Maybe we need to go to therapy to sort out our differences and give this relationship a second chance.

There's clearly a formidable intelligence at work behind this stuff. Unfortunately, it's at work in the service of evil. This odor is like a well-managed concentration camp.

The first few seconds seemed like a fairly innocuous floral and cilantro composition, and my first thought was, "What's the big deal?" It didn't take long, however, for that cilantro to turn toxic and metallic. Not only did it smell awful, it made everything I smelled after it that day smell awful. I found myself growing anxious and even a bit depressed. My dreams that night were dark, troubled dreams.

If this actually smelled like the semen depicted on the bottle it would smell raunchy, but at least it would smell like Life. This smells like Death. If someone sat next to me on the subway wearing this and I didn't know what it was, I would assume they were terminally ill and, whether I could manage to do it subtly or not, would quickly try to move away. If that's the effect you want to have on others, and assuming you can stand it yourself, then by all means wear this thing.

Innovation in the art of perfumery is certainly welcome, but there's a not insignificant difference between innovation and facile provocation. Incorporating unpleasant elements into a composition while retaining beauty and interest is one thing, but offensiveness for its own sake is another. The only thing I appreciate about this atrocious olfactory experiment is that, by crossing that line, it has clarified my own sense of where the line resides. Feral, animalic, even fecal notes can be made to work in perfumery, but anything suggestive of illness and/or toxicity makes aesthetic contemplation difficult as the instinct for self-preservation kicks in. Any perfume that asks me to suspend that (rather essential) instinct in order for me to get its "point" is asking far too much--especially if I'm paying for the privilege.

I generally try to allow a wide berth for differences in taste, but in the case of SM (the initials are telling), I have trouble imagining that anybody would wear it except as an act of willful perversity or to make some kind of pretentious statement--one that will fall on deaf ears, as its intended recipients will be too busy inching away and wondering why the wearer isn't in a hospice yet.

The citrus here is light, but there's also something penetrating about it, like the steam that rises from a pair of trousers right as you run the iron over them. I find it a captivating effect.

This is a great fragrance for really hot weather, when anything heavier would wind up smelling like boiled-down perfume goo. I wouldn't see much point in wearing it when it's cooler, but it's something I reach for quite often in the summer months.

It puzzles me to no end that Luca Turin considers this a masterpiece. I smell a cheap, synthetic, fruity aquatic that distinguishes itself from its peers solely by virtue of a melon note so obnoxious that it upends the entire composition. I've forced myself to wear it several times to see if maybe time would reveal its putative charms, but no doing. THIS is supposed to be one of the top ten masculines on the market? More proof, as if any were needed, that listening to perfume "experts" is a waste of time. Our subjective perceptions of smell are so variable, and so individual, that other people's opinions are irrelevant. Just sample everything and buy what you like.

The first night I wore this my girlfriend practically devoured me.

Thumbs, er, UP!

I wish I could love this, I really do. I love the notes on paper, the idea behind it, the fact that it's based on the Wusulan perfume ritual of Mali--well, who knows if that's really true, but hey, they get points for weaving an intriguing narrative, and people pay good money just for stories, you know!

The problem is a single offending agent that ruins the whole composition for me, and which I assume must be the karo karounde because it smells like nothing else I've ever smelled before. Unfortunately, it's also the very heart of the composition. It's a shame, because I can faintly imagine what the fragrance might be like without it, and I think I would love that fragrance.

The naysayers can nay, the poohpoohers can pooh, but this is already a classic, and there's nothing anybody can say or do.

I can't improve upon Strollyourlobster's description of this scent, so I won't even try.

This was once my signature scent; not any longer, but I still wear it about as often as anything else in my wardrobe. It's simple, original, and beautiful. If you want baroque gymnastics or Ye Olde Perfume, look elsewhere. Within its own minimalist aesthetic, however, TdH is perfection.

It's paper! It's leather! It's Dzing!!

The opening is boozy and leathery as all hell, but it soon mellows down into something sweeter and more playful. I generally don't like sweet but somehow this manages to pull it off, partly because it's offset by that (literally) animalic barnyard note.

I smell both the leather and the paper that people talk about, but what's odd is that they are ONE AND THE SAME SMELL, which smells like paper or leather depending on what you happen to want it to smell like at that moment, kind of like an olfactory Rorschach test. How Olivia Giacobetti manages to achieve this effect I don't know, but it's brilliant and only adds to the mystery of this already uncanny and sublime masterpiece: A saddled unicorn in a second-hand bookshop.

Wordbird says he wouldn't wear this to church. No worries I say, I'm prepared to found a Church of Dzing!

Did I mention I don't generally even like perfumes like this?

Like the playwright after which it is named (unless, of course, it's named after the city in Wisconsin), Racine strikes a balance between neo-classicism and demonic energy. Literary critic and scholar George Steiner writes, "The art of Racine is that of calculated tension. All manner of images spring to mind: the tension between the inherent repose of marble and the swiftness of depicted motion in Greek sculpture, the flying buttress, the in-pent power of a steel spring [...] A controlling poise is maintained between the cool severity of the technique and the passionate drive of the material."

He was writing about the playwright, of course, but these lines, by happy coincidence, apply to the perfume as well: this is a straightforward and classical composition of citrus and vetiver, but the citrus is brightly hesperidic while the vetiver is untamed and raw. The two battle it out for dominance with, to my nose, no clear winner except in the last gasps of the dry down, when the earth triumphs over its sun-kissed fruits.

A wonderful fragrance to which I often turn when I'm having trouble deciding and want something that I absolutely KNOW smells good. Its only weakness is mediocre longevity.

EDIT: "Racine" also means "root" in French. I prefer to believe that the fragrance was named after the playwright, so I will conveniently ignore this possible fact to the contrary.

As others have said before, a more austere and vetiver-rich version of Gucci Envy for Men. I personally like the raw green dry down (although it doesn't last very long, as others have noted).

I haven't been able to confirm this, but this appears to have been discontinued, though there may still be a few bottles floating around in random L'Occitane outlets.

A heady one, this. It reminds me a little of Chanel Pour Monsieur Concentrée (which it predates by two years), in both good ways and bad. Good in that they both project a certain middle-aged authority, bad in that there's something a little sickly sweet about both of them. BdP is definitely the better of the two: spicier, more interesting, better ingredients. I can't take a full application on skin of this, but a light misting and one spray onto my undershirt gives me a great deal of pleasure for the rest of the day. A little more spice and a little less sweet would have made this a clear thumbs-up for me. Definitely best suited for cooler weather.

A lot of reviewers have said this reminds them of Thanksgiving and Christmas and I can see why: It's fruity, spicy, and a touch leathery with a hint of tea. It's too sweet for my taste (or at least, it turned out to be right after I went and bought a bottle), but I can see how it could be a kind of a comfort scent for some people. I can also see how it could be the kind of scent that a girl in her early twenties would want to cuddle up next to, and that, ladies and gentlemen, isn't a bad thing at all.

Moderate projection, poor longevity.

Not the kind of fragrance anybody is going to swoon over, but very nice nonetheless. Ormonde Jayne's compositions are unfailingly classy, but I'm not sure how I feel about the Iso E Super that seems to occupy the base of all of them. Sometimes I think it's a wonderful smell, and other times I feel as if this weird synthetic thing has taken over my entire aura. Kind of like "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," if that makes any sense.

Citrus - pink pepper - woods. You can't get much more straightforward than that. I'm torn between this and Ormonde Man. This is frankly a little more boring, but Man sometimes seems overcomposed, even bordering on loud. I'm not sure which one I could see myself happier with over the long haul, but I have a feeling I'll wind up buying one of them one of these days--probably the one whose sampler runs out first.

Hmm, Basenotes lists this as a feminine. I'm not sure what I would make of a feminine called "Invasion Barbare." Would that be something to spritz on as your hamlet is about to be pillaged, or something that Amazons wear?

Fortunately, however, this is actually marketed as a masculine (although I consider it a completely unisex fragrance). Formerly known as SB1, it was composed by Stéphanie Bakouche as part of the inaugural lineup for Parfums MDCI. Bakouche is a student of Jean Kerléo and graduate of the French perfume school ISIPCA.

Turin & Sanchez's PERFUMES: THE GUIDE (and, presumably, Michael Edwards's FRAGRANCES OF THE WORLD) classifies this as a "spicy woody," but I have to confess I don't smell any wood at all. Perhaps I'm anosmic to the putatively woody aromachemical in the formulation.

What Invasion Barbare reminds me of more than anything is Francis Kurkdjian's Le Mâle--in other words, it smells like a powdery lavender. As it so happens, Kurkdjian also composed the three feminine fragrances in the Parfums MDCI line. I don't know whether this is merely a coincidence, or Bakouche was paying homage to her MDCI colleague, or what, but it is rather curious.

There are differences however; where Le Mâle smells wildly synthetic and has supernatural longevity to prove it, IB flaunts its cash from first moment to last. The ingredients are of an intoxicatingly high quality, with what seem to be a high proportion of naturals. And yes, it is spicy--at least, spicier than Le Mâle, although my nose can't pick out exactly what those spices might be. There's also a very subtle, musky undertow to the base notes that I can't quite identify--it drifts in and out of consciousness in a most seductive way, and is actually my favorite aspect of this fragrance.

In a nutshell, this is a better, subtler, more complex, and more expensive (!) Le Mâle. I own it and enjoy wearing it during evenings out (it's a bit too powdery to make it as an office scent). Although I like it well enough as it is, I just wish I could smell the wood that everybody talks about, since it would make an already intriguing composition that much more interesting. Oh well, maybe the people around me get to enjoy that aspect at least.

EDIT: The notes, according to the Parfums MDCI website:

"Here we have an 'oriental fern', spicy and aromatic, with a captivating blend of headnotes of grapefruit, bergamot, violet leaves, white thyme, cardamom, lavender and ginger.

A warm heart of cedarwood, bourbon vanilla and musc creates a precious and definitely masculine base which here too contribute to a well-balanced construction, true to the demands of the brand: elegant, precious, masculine and extremely sophisticated."

I think most fragrance lovers spend their lives in search of "The One"--more than just a signature scent, The One represents the distillation of your soul, or at least of what you want your soul to be. It may take decades and hundreds of fragrances sampled to find it or, by some stroke of luck, you may stumble upon it fairly early in your quest. Signature scents come and go over the years, but The One stays with you like the intricate pattern of your retina--only an act of violence could alter it. As with everything else in life, you may tire of The One from overuse, but brief respites allow its pleasures to blossom again, undiminished.

For me, Bois d'Orage is "The One." I do not claim that it is the greatest fragrance ever concocted, that it is for everyone, that it is suitable for all occasions, or that it represents some sort of revolution in the art of perfumery. Those are fine ambitions, but perfectly irrelevant when it comes to the highly personal decision of what one wants to smell like. All I can say is that I love to smell it, and wear it, more than any other single fragrance I own or have ever tried. I read somewhere that Pierre Bourdon and Frederic Malle set out with this work to create the ultimate masculine fragrance, and I do believe they have succeeded. It was apparently Bourdon's last composition before retiring, and what a swan song it is! Bois d'Orage is everything I have ever wanted a masculine fragrance to be: resolutely earthy yet at the same time ethereal, assertive without being aggressive, classical in its proportions yet with a vibrant, modernist edge, brutal in some respects yet tender in others, intellectual, sensual, mysterious, the opposite of "fresh," and finally, uncompromising in the quality of its ingredients.

The PR for Bois d'Orage likens it to the music of Wagner. I both agree and disagree: like Wagner, it is infused with drama and chromatic harmonies; unlike Wagner, this composition is concise, not undergoing much complex development over time. I wouldn't go so far as to call it an olfactory haiku (to borrow Jean-Claude Ellena's description of his own mature style), but more like a classical sonata form--that's where the classicism comes in. That and the fact that it reminds me of so many classical masculine woods and chypres of the past, while at the same time being quite unlike any of them. The story behind the original name is that Frederic Malle was in New York, "drenched in trial number 34 C," meeting a female American friend for lunch. When she embraced him in greeting, she exclaimed: "Ooh, very French Lover!" which suggests, to me at least, that the lady in question also detected these olfactory resonances of a past age, that some kind of mythical archetype had been evoked.

I bought the 50 ml bottle and then, barely a week later, as if steeling myself against the apocalypse, hoarding so that I would never for a moment be without it, couldn't resist buying 100 ml more.

Note: This review is for the reissue. I haven't smelled the original.

This is quite possibly my favorite vetiver of all (and I'm an admitted vetiver fanatic). The opening is brilliant and citrusy without drowning out the vetiver, as many citrus openings do. As JaimeB has noted, the coriander leaves are what really give the middle its character, along with the waxy aldehydes. The base is just pure vetiver and sandalwood goodness, warm and rich with the slightest hint of cedar, like the wooden cabinet in which the gods keep their ambrosia. No wonder this was Hubert de Givenchy's own signature scent. Elegance and character seamlessly combined.

P.S. This fragrance is similar to another excellent vetiver, Miller Harris's Vetiver Bourbon (2005), which I'm sure must have been influenced by memories of the Givenchy. I love both but the Miller Harris is three times the price, so I'm sticking with this as long as the reissue is around.

I don't think I can join the bandwagon on this one. Just too powdery for my taste. I think the idea of a gamey musk combined with soft and sweet is pretty inspired in a way, but it's also flirting with disaster, and I'm not sure this one actually stopped short of the precipice, at least on my skin. Neutral rating for the quality ingredients and the recognition that this might work on some people (especially women).

This doesn't smell like Kyoto, or of Japanese incense, at all. What it DOES smell like is Precious Chandan incense from the Indian firm Hem. If you can't make it to Barney's to sample this, just go to your local Indian grocery, head shop, or street incense vendor and buy some Precious Chandan. To my nose, at least, they smell so alike that the nose (Now Smell This attributes it to Bertrand Duchaufour) must have either filched the idea or been heavily "inspired" by it.

This is a pleasant, rigidly linear fragrance with excellent longevity and moderate sillage. I don't like it as much as I once did--it seems kind of treacly to me now--but I still like it enough to hold on to my bottle. It is definitely better suited for cool weather.

I love my vetiver raw, but this wasn't quite as unrestrained as I had imagined from the reviews here. The opening starts off with a sharp and boozy blast of bitter woods and berries, but that quickly fades; what remains is softened by what is, to my nose at least, a very prominent jasmine note. Not at all the savage beast I was expecting, rather a tame and highly pleasant composition, more "Firebird" than "Rite of Spring." I don't know, maybe my nose is so habituated to vetiver that I've become desensitized, but I've definitely smelled more aggressive vetivers than this.

Repulsive yet intriguing, like a car accident. I wouldn't wear this on its own, but it might work layered with another citrus to tame that 500-pound gorilla of a basil note.

EDIT: I gave this a second chance and my feelings have taken a complete 90-degree turn from neutral to positive. The opening lime-basil accord is fresh, brilliant, distinctive, and absolutely perfect for warm weather. Yes, it does smell vaguely like some kind of Thai salad, but Thai salad smells delicious, making this a sort of gourmand fragrance, though one quite different from the usual chocolate and vanilla suspects. It softens and warms considerably during the dry down, where the high quality ingredients get to reveal themselves fully. Surprisingly good longevity, moderate sillage.

I am reminded yet again that one truly needs to live with a fragrance for a while to appreciate its quality (or lack thereof).