And thank you for your thoughtful post above: We lot can use a bit of reason, that's certainly no secret! I do know what you mean concerning the now semi-defunct Wasser-zed "Chant d'Aromes," which, in its day, was a spectacularly well orchestrated and smooth scent, a very organic one, very much in the way Rube describes Jicky: There was a brilliant seamlessness to it; a very nature-based, human sort of comp. If you study the add pages that have appeared over the years of its existence, they are fascinating: Each examining the allure of different types of women: The British, the French, the Italian, even the American: My favourite was undoubtedly the French, which appeared most often, showing two women and one man, all elegantly clothed, crouched "a meme"
as it would be said, on the rough cobble stones on the Quais of the Seine, at twilight: They are all smoking, and the man, looking every bit the resilient stud, is in the process of lighting his cigarette, with his crisp white shirt suggestively tie-less, a message
, when considered in its time frame. The Quais of the Seine, in the area where this photo was taken, which would have been on the right bank near what was then the Gare d'Orsay, now the Museum of the same name, had a certain reputation at the time, and still do, as an hunting ground for renegade sex: Not quite as salacious as that of the Bois de Boulogne, but this choice of venue could be lost on no one who might know Paris, and know it well. In the late '60's, when the photo was taken, this area, and notably the dark lapidary underpasses of the bridges, were areas where people would meet at dusk to engage in the new "Free Love," as then it was called: Nowadays, it is more of an haunt specifically reserved for libidinous gay men. This area, all the way to the tip of the Ile de la Cite, not far off to the right of the photo, was a "hang out" for the newly liberated youth of the era: Of course, looking at the photo now, the players look a bit like our parents, though when considered in its contextual history, these people were "jeunes
,' --youth-- and the whole vibe is decidedly daring. The British equivalent, shows a dewy English Rose cavorting with a gaggle of sweaty rugby players. The Italian: A young "Mama" with her husband and children. There just doesn't seem to be room in the world anymore for scents like "Chant d'Aromes," which translates as "Soft Symphony of Scents" (a "Chant" is a complicated word in French: Not at all equivalent to the english, as it is used specifically, for example, to define the song of birds, as well as many other different "songs," notably the soulful Gregorian, and not at all in the context of a "Chant" the way we would use it in English, which could potential imply something repetitive and menacing. In the French word "Chant" there is contained an element of "Soft," or "Faint," that is absent in English.) I would recommend that you try to procure a sealed bottle of the extract, which came in a lovely footed urn, encased in a grass green silk moire covered box lined in rose petal pink flock, with the flacon elegantly dressed in an olive green silk velvet ribbon. I have smelled the current EDT that is still produced, and it merely "suggests" Chant d'Aromes: It is nothing but an hazy, grainy, choppy rememberance of it, a bit like the curret EDT of "Apres l'Ondee." Anyone who remembers "Apres l'Ondee" in its extract strength will know exactly what I imply here when handed the modern EDT, which is nothing at all, just an echo. Indeed, though, "Chant d'Aromes" is a perfect example of what a truly "sexy" scent would embody: It is my theory that no major house will condone a scent such as this as it is just too subtle for our modern noses to process: I do think all of our capacities to smell are now severely impaired by the pollution and other noxious things that float about in the air we breathe to which we have become so accustomed we are not even aware. Chant d'Aromes and Ombre Rose (the original by Francoise Caron for JCB) are both the same kind of snuggly, reassuring scents that speak directly to my own theory of men, and what will "push their buttons." I believe I have already mentioned somewhere on this thread, or elsewhere, that all of male-kind secretly seek only to reconnect with babyhood, when they were so delicately and affectionately looked after by their first "love object;" their mothers. The perfect, ever shining example of this being Shalimar, which, to me, interestingly, functions beautifully in all of its incarnations, including the current "cut all costs on the juice, spend all the money on the add campaign and the bottle" one. I even quite love "Parfum Initial." I know I have said this before, but I do firmly believe that the earth has never known a perfume more attractive, more effective
, than Shalimar: Not even Mr. Water himself, stamp on it as he will with his red socks, seems to be able to kill this masterpiece, which is, you all must admit, somewhat of a miracle, since all of the other classics, including Jicky, are slowly being destroyed, in order that all of we fans of them become enraptured with "Cuir Beluga," or "Angelique Noire." I have bottles of all of these in my office, and use them as air freshener: Even used in this way, they are all still somehow offensive to me. Just yesterday I blasted my environs with "Cuir Beluga," then trembled to think a molecule of it should get on my clothes: These, the fragrances that embody the Brave New World of Guerlain, are so tenacious and indelible that just the slightest dusting will permanently adhere to fabric, and no amount of washing or dry cleaning will remove them. Isn't it fascinating how we can spray through an entire 120ml refill bottle of a "Classic" Guerlain EDT, and still not get an hint of sillage 20 minutes later, yet be quite literally impaled to the death with mere molecules of these "Modern" Wasser-Waters
? I have a pair of unlined Hermes driving gloves in brown calf I have had since the mid 80's: I wear them constantly, as they are fingerless and snap snugly at the wrist: They are, for intents and purposes, the perfect pair of gloves, as the wearer may text with them, the finger pads being exposed. I had the mishap of wearing them for three straight days during an outdoor music festival last year in Holland, and they had taken on quite a stench of smoke because of this. I did everything to get it out. Finally, I misted them ever so lightly with "Cuir Beluga," (having previously SOAKED them in Mouchoir de Monsieur several times over to no effect what so ever) and they now smell so distinctly of this strange bitter sweet scent that I almost can no longer wear them: I have since had them cleaned by a leather expert twice, to no avail: They seem now permanently stained. My latest attempt to "de-Wasserize" them? A light dusting of "Habanita" vintage EDT: Of course, this worked. Only now, my hands smell yet again of smoke! It's been a circus for me to save these gloves. They are now at Hermes, where they are being "reconditioned." We'll see what that gives! Rube's video above is hysterically funny: I have been to parties like that with different music, skinnier men, prettier girls and more clothes: I have also been on those tables, girating my pelvis wildly in what is called by one of my best friends "that strange interpretive dance that only you can do." The scene in the video, that looks to me like.....Miami? a culture that is foreign to me.....If you watch it, afterward, in the menu of other videos that may be examined embedded underneath, there is a sing-song British cartoon that is hysterical, which has for central theme: "Hairy Bollocks, Willy, Titties, Bum, Hairy Arse Crack, Poo Poo, Cum."
You all have to watch it: It should be our "Right of Passage," to:SEX AND THE SILLAGE