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

TWRT 5.15.09

This Week's Random Thoughts ~

I have officially managed to dive into my spring/summer scents. Every year I make this switch kicking and screaming because my heart belongs to heavy chypres and orientals that are best worn in cold weather. But once the weather turns hot and muggy I just have to change gears. And, for the first 6-8 weeks, I love it. I’ll start complaining about being tired of fresh-light-scents by mid-July for sure. By August I’ll be cravvvving woods and orientals but the weather will stay nearly tropical here until at least mid-September. One chypre I can wear this time of year is Y by YSL. Thank goodness for Y. Oh, and lest I forget, another nice chypre for summer is Ava Luxe Mousse de Chine.

This week has been all about osmanthus for me. I’ve rotated 3 osmanthus perfumes every single day – Ormonde Jayne Osmanthus, Keiko Mecheri Osmanthus and Parfum d’Empire Osmanthus Interdite (some days wearing all 3 at once for comparison). No, I don’t have Hermes Osmanthus Yunann (yet).

I answered the door for the UPS delivery guy (box of perfume of course!) and was wearing Annick Goutal Folavril. The UPS guy said “you smell so good, what is that?!” Like he really meant it – he just needed to know. So I told him the name, and got a blank stare. I said it was supposed to smell a bit like a tomato plant. He said “It doesn’t smell like that, but it smells really really good!”

The Office: The Michael/Holly angst is tearing at my heart strings. I want Holly back.

Luca Turin calls mimosa an “unsophisticated flower” in Perfumes: The Guide. I wonder what makes a flower sophisticated? Do flowers have good lineage, charm, grace and intellect that I’m unaware of?

I found out my HG mimosa scent, Parfums de Nicolaï Mimosaique, is discontinued. Thankfully I was able to order a few bottles directly from PdN boutique in Paris (pffew!).

For the first time in my life, I dropped a full bottle of perfume and it smashed to smithereens on the kitchen tile. It was good that I ended up liking the scent, because my kitchen and foyer ended up smelling like it for days. It was Penhaligon’s Violetta, which is a darn good violet solifore; a fresh, green and masculine leaning violet.

Beverage of the week: raspberry iced tea, with lemonade ice cubes and sprigs of fresh mint. Which reminds me; I used to love Snapple’s Mint iced tea, until I realized how many calories were in those bottles. I don’t believe Snapple ever produced a diet Mint tea, but I doubt I would have liked it. Oftentimes “diet” just doesn’t work for beverages other than soda. I need to figure out how to make my own version of Snapple’s Mint iced tea, perhaps using Splenda, which I like.

I received the sampler pack from Parfums MDCI on Monday. My package arrived within 7 business days and the samples are really huge – I’d guess 10-15 ml. I’m planning to spend time with each of them this weekend. I can’t underscore what a fantastic deal I think this is!

I’m looking forward to trying Washington Tremlett’s Clove Absolute, Tauer’s Une Rose Chypree, and Amouage Ubar – all of which are on their way to me (samples, not full bottles, I’m not that out of control).

I’m so impressed with Parfum d’Empire. I think they are my favorite line this week.

Luckyscent seems to be taking over the perfume world. They have added so many new lines lately. I’m glad the economy doesn’t seem to be impacting niche perfumes.

Either Rochas Tocade has been dreadfully reformulated or it’s always smelled like Pink Sugar and I didn’t realize it. I got a new bottle from the Parfum1 sale and thought it was horrible when I smelled it. Its verrrry sweet and like a cotton candy vanilla – all traces of rose are gone.

Sandwich of the week: Proscuitto with fresh mozzarella and fig jam. Mm, mm, good.

Cheap Thrills: Dunhill Desire for a Woman

It's a testament to Maurice Roucel's talent that his cheapest fragrances often smell as good as his high end niche reputation makers. K de Krizia is an amazing aldehyde floral, dirt cheap online. Nautica Voyage, a miraculous little sleeper of a scent, retails for as low as thirty-five dollars. Rochas Tocade (25 bucks) smells as fantastic, if not more so, than Guerlain L'Instant (60-70). Lalique Pour Homme (roughly $35) might just smell better than Bond No. 9 Riverside Drive (three times the price). Nothing compares to Iris Silver Mist, of course; then again, it's more an out-of-body experience than a perfume, and holding it up to mere mortals for comparison is like looking for a Paul Lynde "type" to play David Bowie in a high school musical. Wondrous oddities aside, Roucel's work remains remarkably consistent.

One key to that consistency is his trademark magnolia accord, which relates many of his scents to each other and smells so rich, creamy, and tangible you swear you could eat it or touch it or slather it all over yourself. Tocade is vanillic rose laid out on this signature base. L'Instant uses it not just as a foundation but as reason for being. You smell it everywhere in Roucel's ouevre, from Broadway Nite to 24, Faubourg. Tenacious sans bombast, it transitions from high to low, adapting itself to everything in between. What could be cheesier than something named Dunhill: Desire for a Woman? And yet, like almost everything else he's done, missteps and heavy hitters alike, Dunhill Desire too arranges itself around that familiar rubbery magnolia accord.

Lush, long lasting, and impressive, Desire has more going on in its top notes than the entire formulas of many a mainstream fragrance. I bought my 2.2 ounce bottle for 30 dollars--so it has more going on for less money, too. I'm not going to pretend I've wasted much time on Dunhill fragrances as a whole. There seem to be so many--for men, at least--the majority of which strike me as something my straight male friends would wear, lured by some aspirational fantasy associated with the name.

"Dunhill caters to the needs of the discerning man," says the company's ad copy, "from formal and casual menswear, to handcrafted leather goods through to fine men's jewelry" and so on, ad nauseum. Not pens and pencils but "writing instruments"; not watches but "timepieces". Jude Law is the spokesmodel and litters the website looking studiously urbane; suave, styled within an inch of his life, and bored out of his mind. "I'm sensitive, well dressed, and sometimes known to lean against the shelves in my library reading from a randomly selected, leather bound book," his sensitive expression says. Greys, tans, black, white. The menswear line is designed for "the modern gentleman and the maverick traveler."

I suppose a maverick travels in his own private plane, as opposed to lowly first class, and lives in a world drained of color. With their facile attempts at signaling a certain kind of cut-rate Ralph Lauren affluence, the few Dunhill masculines I've smelled depressed the hell out of me--as if to be a man means ipso facto to be magnificently tedious--and why be depressed, with so many wonderful things to smell out there? I've ignored Dunhill, and will probably continue to do so. Desire for a Woman seems to be an anomaly for the line: it smells like nothing else on the shelf, performs impressively, and like my favorite Roucels, manages somehow to suggest both impeccable taste and fun-loving, imperturbable trash.

I don't know exactly what's in it. I only know that I like it. It starts out intensely floral but very subtly evolves on the skin, arriving at a perfectly calibrated olfactory architecture of spiced amber, buttery warmth, and woods. From various sources online I've heard rose, freesia, caramel, sandalwood, and vanilla. There could be watermelon in it, for all I really know. Like everything else Roucel does, Desire smells edible without feeling particularly gourmand or foody. His fragrances share this precarious quality with the work of Sophia Grojsman.

Think of Desire as L'Instant Intense. I was always disappointed by L'Instant, and smelling Desire I now know why. L'Instant was far too timid; a miscalculation for which Roucel overcompensated, three years later, with Insolence, Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill to L'Instant's Masterpiece Theater. Desire situates itself somewhere in the middle of these extremes, a luxury it earned, most likely, by virtue of its market. Imagine the pressure applied at Guerlain, which has a real heritage to uphold, compared to the fairly straightforward, faux historical mass market imperatives of an outfit like Dunhill, whose incessant releases survive or perish according to a sink or swim mentality. Desire seems like Roucel having some fun, with a more relaxed attitude and a healthier sense of humor. The bottle is shimmery fuschia, just so you don't miss it, a delicious squeal of laughter compared to L'instant's pale whispery, watered down purplish pink.

Dunhill marketed Desire as the fragrance equivalent of the young woman in a pajama top designed to look like her boyfriend's, only in bright girly colors. Smells a little like his cologne, they said, but not to worry: strong enough for a man, but made for a woman, etc. Lo and behold, the reverse holds true. The perhaps unintentional effect of Desire's conglomerate of notes is a dreamy-sweet, curried pipe tobacco aroma, a mixture of powdered bubblegum and smoking room which makes the fragrance, in fact, a far superior masculine than any of the Dunhill males I've had the misfortune of smelling.

Staying Power: Fragrances That Last

Ever notice that the perfumes you spend the most money on often seem to be the least likely to persist on your skin, while the cheapos might outlast cockroaches in the event of a nuclear war? For the past several days, we at I Smell Therefore I Am have been spritzing Habanita, the weird, tarry vetiver of which has lingered so tenaciously that it got me reflecting on other equally virulent perfumes. What follows is a highly subjective list based on my own personal preferences and experiences (or lack thereof) in smell:

Estee Lauder Alliage

I lump this into the galbanum camp. Not every fragrance built around this note possesses tenacity (Chanel No. 19, anyone?) but many do. Galbanum can give a perfume quite a lot of kick; witness Sud Est by Romeo Gigli, Chamade, Diesel (the original), Givenchy Insense, Ralph Lauren's Safari, Trussardi Donna, and S.T. Dupont. All of these wear most of the day on my skin. Of the group, Aliage has the most longevity. It's a totally unlikely fragrance in many ways--so wrong it's right. It goes so far over the line that the line isn't an issue anymore.

Paris

Anything by Sophia Grojsman, really. Even Diamonds and Rubies by Elizabeth Taylor, and 360 Degrees for Perry Ellis. Even Coty Exclamation, which puts other, more expensive rose scents to shame. Grojsman's scents have a linear purity to them. They're dense, with a lot going on, but from beginning to end they remain pretty consistent. They're Russian novels, as opposed to beach reads. They have a certain reputation for excess which is fueled by their full bodied construction and near astral projection. But I get tired of all the caveats involved in the appreciation of Spellbound and Paris and Calyx and all the rest of Grojsman's oeuvre. Like Maurice Roucel (see below) she's a brilliant nose, with a baroque sensibility which will inevitably go in and out of fashion. Her perfumes, however, go the distance.

Tocade

And Iris Silver Mist, and Broadway Nite, and Gucci Envy (a member of the galbanum crew), Lolita Lempicka "L", 24 Faubourg, Insolence, Lalique pour Homme, and Missoni. The closest to Roucel in style is Grosjman. Both create fragrances which, whether gourmand or not, have the aromatic headiness of gourmet food, heavy on the butter and cream. This is one of the things which makes Roucel such a brilliant choice for ushering the Guerlain name into the near future. Like their classics, Roucel's compositions are practically edible, with a cake-like texture you can almost sink your teeth into. That said, Roucel isn't to everyone's taste. Personally, I find his perfumes so addictive and decadent that they literally set my teeth on edge.

Yatagan

Many of the old school leathers hang on for dear life. Cuir de Russie, Knize Ten, Rien by Etat Libre d'Orange, Hermes Bel Ami, and Tabac Blond, among them. They mix a petroleum noxiousness with a sweet, sometimes floral counterpoint. Knize Ten and Rien are a little more hard core. Certainly Yatagan. They also last the longest of the above on me.

Body Kouros

And most of Annick Menardo's body of work. Menardo's hallmark is a vanilla dry down, reflecting a penchant for the elaborately edible she shares with Roucel and Grojsman, whether it be the anisic note in Lolita au Masculin or the almond paste of Hypnotic Poison. Vanilla is certainly tasty, but by the time Menardo's constructions have reached their base notes, they've moved in various directions, more an artful tour of the pantry than a sit-down meal. Body Kouros is her strongest to me.