1876 (aka Mata Hari): Histoires de Parfums

Some time in the last year, the Histoires de Parfums line, one of my favorites, reformulated several of their fragrances, which makes discussing them more than a little challenging now. Adding to the frustration, older and newer versions are often equally interesting, sometimes equally good, but for the most part entirely different perfumes. Reading about them online, one should always try to keep in mind the transition point and whether the fragrance at hand made the cut unchanged.

For my money, I'd start with Noir Patchouli (unchanged) and 1740 (also unchanged). Inspired by the Marquis de Sade, 1740 is unbelievably good. Though it seems slightly familiar at first sniff (as if it had been around for centuries), there's nothing remotely like it, not just in terms of smell but longevity, quality, and projection. At one time I believed Sonoma Scent Studio's Tabac Aurea to be very similar. They do have common motifs, but 1740 is darker and denser, and ultimately an entirely different beast. 1740 is a slightly woody tobacco and supple leather fragrance, one of the richest scents I own, and the best (i.e. most judicious) use of immortelle I've come across in a so-called masculine. Noir Patchouli is essentially a milked rose patchouli. No one ever mentions the rose--even the notes indicate only "floral bouquet"--but for me it's a fascinating update of fragrances like Aramis 900 and Aromatics Elixir, presided over by the feel of a unisex rose chypre.

1876 (Mata Hari) does list rose in its pyramid, but I smell less of it there than in Noir Patchouli. Regardless, I'd had my eye on 1876 for a long time. I'd received a sample pack from Histoires when I purchased 1740. All of the scents were nice--1969 being another standout--but 1876 attracted me most. The bottles are about 200 bucks: no more than the Chanel Exclusifs, but, at two ounces less, a lot more expensive than almost everything else. When an online merchant liquidated its old Histoires formulations, selling them dirt cheap, I bought a few, 1876 among them. The original version is a lot more openly fruity floral, with a weird off note I like very much, but it has nothing on the reformulation, which has some of the caustic, singed allure of Ava Luxe's now apparently discontinued Midnight Violet.

The notes of the newer 1876 vary depending where you look. I've seen: bergamot, orange, litchi, rose, iris, violet, caraway, cinnamon, carnation, vetiver, guaic wood, and sandalwood. But the notes listed on the bottle, surely the most reliable source, include cumin and white musks, and say nothing of violet. 1876 is a well blended fragrance, and picking out these individual elements isn't easy, but I do discern the carnation, the cinnamon, and a subtle interplay of orange and rose. Perhaps because of the carnation, 1876 reminds me of orientals like Opium and Cinnabar. Despite the orange and bergamot, it lacks the dense, dewy fruitiness of those classics.

It doesn't lack their forcefulness, and it won't be something anyone who dislikes that kind of bombast will find very appealing, I suspect. The charm of 1969's friendly succulence will not be lost on such a person, making that his go-to Histoires fragrance. Though I prefer 1876 and typically can't get enough bombast, I sometimes wish 1876 had the lasting power of 1740 and Noir Patchouli. For something named after showy, boastful Mata Hari, it starts whispering too soon, and I get impatient with it, wishing it would back up its initial come on. 1876 sticks around but becomes pretty mellow a little earlier than I'd like. You come over for a party and the only other person partying has brought out the bong and enjoyed it a lot more than makes for good company, zoning out there next to you.

I'm guessing that some of the fragrance's medicinal buzz is from the iris, but I could be wrong. This vaguely camphoric element places 1876 in a different arena than the orientals mentioned above, giving it heat, an ongoing frisson they lack. It's probably inevitable that this will start to resemble the candied sweetness of red hots on most people, given the cinnamon, but that isn't an entirely unwelcome development, contributing, along with the orange, just the faintest touch of the gourmand.

For those who don't know, Mata Hari was an exotic dancer of Dutch descent who pretended to be far more exotic, trading on a vogue for all things oriental by cultivating a fictitious past steeped in Asian culture and training. A contemporary of Isadora Duncan, she was known for her sequined costumes and a trademark routine which involved what seemed to amount to glorified striptease. Typically, her performances ended in rather ornate brassieres and jewel-dripping headdresses. She was a courtesan, mixing company with various military brass during the first world war. One of these men seems to have made her a spy in service of the Germans, though there's some debate about the veracity of that reputation. Some suspect she wasn't a spy at all; but a scapegoat. In any case, her sexual encounters made her privy to top secret information. Her name is synonymous with sexual intrigue and the term femme fatale. She was tried and executed by firing squad at the age of 41.

Floral but spicy, bold but soft, the sexy orient impostor 1876 manages to conjure associations which are perfectly in keeping with her mythos. Like Mata Hari herself (see above picture) it's a masculine disguised as a feminine.

A Dozen Roses: 12 More to File Under Rose

An entry on roses is some kind of folly, given that so many fragrances contain rose, even when not presided over by it. Where to begin? Where would it end? I would never propose an exhaustive list--at least at no time in the near future--but I do have personal favorites. Some of these I've already reviewed or mentioned (see the list at bottom). Others I've only recently discovered. Here, off the top off my head: a dozen roses...


Tocade (Rochas)/West Side (Bond No. 9)

These seem like companion pieces to me. Tocade is by Maurice Roucel. West Side is by Michel Almairac. Tocade is textbook Roucel, with a weird, trademark doughy quality which finds its way into a lot of what the perfumer does. West Side is boozier, deeper and darker. Tocade projects. West Side spreads out on the skin, lurking. It sometimes sneaks up on you when you least expect it. West Side seems like it will be outlasted by Tocade but ends up outrunning it. Both have a pronounced vanillic backbone, but West Side takes a little longer to bring itself out of the closet. When it does, West Side starts to resemble Tocade more clearly. Note: the booziness of West Side isn't the wine-drenched rococo of YSL Paris. Fans and detractors of West Side talk about cigarette ash and smoke, and I can understand why. West Side has that quality you get from a glass of port wine--the day after, when it smells like you feel. There's something slightly hungover about it. But Tocade can also be a tad too sugared, too tight lipped somehow. It needs to let its hair down. I like both at different times.

Noir Patchouli (Histoire de Parfums)

If ever there was a misnomer, this is it. Still, don't think you won't find patchouli here. You will. But more than anything, Noir is a study in rose and what it does with a strong dance partner. This is a beautiful rose: smooth, rich, intense. Noir? Not so much, though it isn't exactly light, either. What can a word like noir mean in perfumery at this point? It's like saying fine when someone asks you how you are. Fine can mean anything from okay to destitute. Fine means nothing and everything, as does noir. Like Blanc Violette, also by Histoire de Parfums, Noir has a woody come nutty underbelly I find pretty addictive. The longevity is great, the projection decent. This is beautiful stuff, a modern interpretation of classic rose chypres like Aromatics Elixir. It's worth the hefty price tag.

Beautiful (Estee Lauder)

I can never really determine the nose responsible for Beautiful. Some say Bernard Chant had a hand in it. I've heard other names as well. Beautiful gets slammed for its potency. To many it smells of dryer sheets. I smell tobacco and an impossibly honeyed, saturated rose. Yes, Beautiful is part of that eighties trend in forced perspective perfumery. Everything is huge, resulting in a big block of Godzilla rose, which hits you over the head with the force of a semi. I don't mind the blow, personally, as it puts my head in a pretty nice place. What's in this thing? Disregard the pyramid you find on osmoz.com. Beautiful smells nothing like the sum of its parts. When people complain of Estee Lauder fragrances, Beautiful seems to be the most oft-cited case in point. It makes statements (i.e. takes no prisoners). It commands attention and I suspect passes migraine through a room with the remorseless efficiency reserved for clouds of nerve gas. Here's the thing. I love these fragrances. There's something so powerful about them--not only literally but theoretically. Here's a perfume that can alter the emotional climate of a room.

Shocking (Schiaparelli)

I've only ever smelled the reformulation of Elsa Schiaparelli's famous fragrance. I'm told it pales in comparison to the original, though pale is probably an inept choice of word for something as bold as Shocking. As a matter of fact, Shocking relates very clearly to Beautiful, speaking in the same honeyed voice, albeit knocked down a few octaves. Shocking is the quintessential clove rose for me. I've yet to smell one I like better. What makes it for me is the tarragon, which gives an odd little herbal kick to the fragrance. The narcissus adds a camphoraceous edge, contrasting against the rose while complimenting the tarragon, which otherwise might have seemed more accidental than intentional. Again, some find this a bit strong. More for me, I guess. The original was composed by the legendary Jean Carles.

Incense Rose (Andy Tauer)

My favorite Andy Tauer fragrance, Incense Rose is a perfectly lovely mixture of frankincense and floral. It wears a lot more complicated than it sounds, and gives you a lot of time to count the ways.

Lipstick Rose (Editions de Parfums Frederic Malle)

My reaction to this stuff is purely irrational, because it has no desire to be anything like the best perfume in the world, and yet when I smell it I can't remember liking anything better. Every time I spray Lipstick Rose on I can't imagine wearing anything else ever again. It smells of waxy lipstick, true to its name, and a purely artifical rose, the kind of scent you find in cosmetics more than commercial fragrance. Lipstick Rose is about the only perfume in the Malle line which has a sense of humor about itself. That isn't to say any of them need a sense of humor, but the presence of Lipstick Rose in this line makes me think of Malle in much more generous terms. That a line with such high quality output has the confidence to put out something so richly cheap and cheerful says something about the wonderful breadth of its curatorial vision. Lipstick Rose makes the line seem less prissy, a little more uninhibited, like a private school girl who gets into Nina Simone and Britney Spears with equal fervor.

Nahema (Guerlain)

Guerlain's signature rose, Nahema is hard to find in the states. I found some at a discount store, amazingly enough. Nahema was inspired by a character Catherine Deneuve played on screen--or am I imagining this? After a while, it's hard to parse through the fact and fiction of an industry which cultivates as much secrecy and perpetuates as much outright bullshit as humanly possible in the selling and manufacturing of its product. Theoretically, I find very little relation between Deneuve--and any character she's played--and Nahema. The perfume is an odd bird for me in many ways. I shouldn't like it. There's something slightly artificial about it, I always think. A heightened fantasy of rose which is sweeter and fruitier than I might ordinarily like. There's a strangled, almost shrill peach nectar in there, brightening the rose in a way which seems half moonlight, half neon. But Nahema is extraordinary, so there's no use measuring it against typical expectations. I think what unsettles me about Nahema, and granted, it isn't easy to explain, is the sense that it never really merges with its wearer. It's a little more cat than dog that way. It remains a little aloof on the skin, as opposed to something like Beautiful, which creates a sense of depth and detail. Maybe Nahema resembles Deneuve more than I at first like to think.

Elixir (Penhaligons)

Why do people slam this so? I smelled this in a tiny Milano shop through a paper cone and wanted to have sex with the nearest inanimate object. I considered the cone, however briefly. I had trouble focusing on the SA, who was having trouble speaking my language. No matter. I hardly knew my language either anymore. Like a lot of Olivia Giacobetti's work, this fades quickly. It goes sheer, to put it charitably. But with the best of her stuff, you don't care, and I find myself not giving such a sh*t with Elixir. Cinammon red hots? Come on. Not to me. I smell a nuclear rose, molten hot, radiating off the skin in circular waves. I'm told it's an update of Blenheim Bouquet, though to me it's more like Blenheim Bouquet on acid. Didn't Turin give this something like one or two stars? Yes? Well, he doesn't like pear so much either.

Boudoir (Vivienne Westwood)

Another in a long line of much maligned. Abigail didn't like this one so much herself. I can't help it, I think it's swell. Supposedly it smells like a woman's bed after an evening of sweaty sex. Having no frame of reference, the connection fails me. I smell something vaguely related to Shocking, less the clove, nine times the honey. Picture Beautiful mixed with Miel De Bois. I smell sweet. You smell litter box. What's to be done? I'm no fan of the Westwood line of fragrances. Let it Rock is perfectly nice, but nothing I would spend my hard-earned money on. The others I've barely bothered with. Buodoir is an exception. Its absolutely an intense smell, and retro, but it really goes back no further than the eighties, which again is a problem for some but a solution for me. I wasn't forced to tease my bangs within an inch of their lives in high school, so a big-shouldered fragrance like this seems downright novel to me.

Boss No. 1 (Hugo Boss)

This is essenitally Shocking for men. Women should wear it too, naturally. It seems inconceivable that something like this would be considered masculine in 1985, the same year Beautiful came out. Then again, I'm always surprised when I look back to the masculines of the seventies and eighties and see how decidedly asexual they were/are. The man responsible is Pierre Wargnye, he behind Drakkar Noir and, more recently, Antidote. I like Antidote very much. I like it much better than a lot of other people seem to, and I see connections between the spices employed there and in Boss No. 1. Wargnye also did La Perla, which makes a lot of sense when you stand it beside No. 1. Osmoz lists this as an aromatic fougere. Well, okay. This is one case at least where the pyramid gives you a good idea what you're getting yourself into, so I'll leave it at that: jamsine, rose, honey, juniper, basil, artemisia, tobacco, cinammon, cedar, patchouli. Be forewarned. You better like patchouli.

Essence (Narciso Rodriguez)

Buy it for the bottle if you have trouble justifying the purchase for any other reason. I happen to like the book as much as its cover. Not everyone reads. Rose, violet, aldehyde. They call the violet iris; I suppose because it's more fashionable these days. I don't really care what they call it. I think this stuff smells great. If you're a guy looking for a dandy rose, this is a good place to go. The bottle will distort your face into the portrait of Dorian Grey.

Jil Sander Women III (Jil Sander)

This is very directly related to rose chypres like Aromatics Elixir and La Perla, but oh what a difference the addition of bay makes. Good luck finding it in the U.S.

Others filed under Like: Mille et Une Roses, Aramis 900, Alain Delon Iquitos, Paris, L'Artisan Voleur de Roses, Fresh Cannabis Rose, Knowing, Clinique Aromatics Elixir, Lancome Tresor