Naomi Goodsir: Cuir Velours

When I first smelled Cuir Velours and Bois d'Ascese, the debut duo of fragrances by Julien Rasquinet for Naomi Goodsir, Bois d'Ascese was the clear front runner. It seemed a no brainer (wood, smoke, fifty shades of burnt). Cuir Velours was lovely enough, but I seemed to have forgotten it the next day. When I sprayed on some Bois d'Ascese, and wore it out of Scent Bar in LA, it faded a lot more quickly than I can tolerate in a smoke fragrance, and I sort of forgot the line altogether.

Until last month, when I was back in LA, frequenting Scent Bar a lot more than I have any business to. I'd long since decided that Bois was a tamer, less interesting sibling to Essence of John Galliano, the (now discontinued?) room spray by Diptyque. Galliano is my go-to woodsmoke scent. I spray it on clothes; typically, on a scarf, in the winter. It reminds me of homecoming bonfires in high school, where no matter where you stood the smoke made a bee line for you. Galliano is a holy grail for me and it hasn't been improved upon yet. I have something like six ounces and doubt I'll run out any time soon. I see no reason to cheat on it.

Somehow, now that Bois had receded from view, I was able to smell Cuir Velours more clearly, and after several trips to Scent Bar I was hooked. I kept going back to it, re evaluating. It was my final purchase, and once again I'm struck by how a good perfume can take a while to permeate your attention. It's as if you have to catch up with it, or get it somewhere on its own, before you can truly appreciate it. This is one of the reasons I don't write so much about new releases. Almost every fragrance seems route to me upon first sniff. It takes a long time, living with one, to see it on its own terms, a long time to recognize its distinct appeal.

Part of my problem with Cuir Velours at first (it seems like such a non problem now) was the fact that it didn't really smell like a leather to me at all, neither soft nor hard. I couldn't really see the connection. Now I smell it and wonder what the hell I was thinking. These are all good signs in a fragrance for me - that initial disappointment, followed by a shift of perception and a percussive revelation. Cuir Velours is a different kind of leather, and I think I must have mistaken it for all those wan suede things that have pepper sprayed the market over the last several years, scents which seem to be apologizing for leather's offenses even while capitalizing on its mystique.

Velours bears some relation to Daim Blond, the Serge Lutens suede that, for a change, gets it right, adding a startling peachy note to shake up a tired format. Cuir Velours sits somewhere between leather and suede, and while it feels more refined than your average leather (usually a turn off for me), it's saved, or maybe energized, by the judicious use of immortelle. Though I know it's a take no prisoners note within a composition, I've always felt that you can never be too liberal with immortelle. Too much has never been quite enough for me, which makes my appreciation of its subtle application in Cuir Velours at the very least...confusing. Like Daim Blond's radiant peach note, immortelle adds something beyond articulation and infinitely appealing to Cuir Velours basic structure.

Cuir Velours (aside from immortelle, notes listed are rum, labdanum, and incense) has a reputation already for being a variant of Skin Scent. I don't get that. On me, it radiates off the skin for hours, quietly but persistently. It smells, now, of leather, but its own peculiar version of leather. Like most good fragrances, Cuir Velours caused a recalibration in my thinking about what a leather is or can be. It's rich and, truly, velvety, with just the right touch of boozy - clean but compelling.

My experience with it makes me wonder how often this happens with other people - the vague interest which turns to strong, committed affection.

Multiple Rouge by Humiecki and Graef

There's really nothing else like Multiple Rouge, which has made it difficult to write about. My favorite of the offbeat Humiecki and Graef line, it's somehow simultaneously weirder than it sounds, and tamer. There's no denying it's a big bowl of fruity berries, a sort of study in various succulent hues of red. There's no getting around the immortelle, which, like patchouli, is going to be a deal breaker for some. But somehow, these two, encouraged by a dash of coriander, play nice. Multiple Rouge is similar to the fruitchouli, but something else altogether, thanks to the immortelle and a salted caramel effect.

The berries have a darker quality than, say, the explosive brightness of a fragrance like Byredo Pulp, but Pulp is a useful comparison. Like Multiple Rouge, Pulp is an oversized fantasy take on fruit. Still, for all its outlandish strangeness, Multiple Rouge is a far mellower wear. Moodier, too. Pineapple and peach complicate things, arranging the scent into interesting tensions. This is tart but seasoned pineapple, and a stewed peach. Together they seem to conjure something like apple, if not in the shape of anything you'd want to eat.

There's a savory feel to Multiple Rouge unlike anything I've smelled in a berried fragrance. While it isn't gourmand in any conventional way, it nevertheless feels foody. There's something aquatic going on as well. So: berry, salt, apple, peach, pineapple, ozonic, immortelle. See what I mean?

People talk about Multiple Rouge's sense of playfulness. Beyond words, it's a study in absurdity, fragrance as delighted squeal. Just as many seem to feel the joke's on them, and fail to see the humor. Did I mention the booziness? Those apples and berries are on their way to some kind of special, simmering brew, the kind you find in a Crock-pot around the holidays, spiked to get you through Uncle Ed's second wind; dash of grenadine, dash of cognac.

I appreciate Multiple Rouge's unusualness, but wear it seriously. It's one of my favorite immortelle scents, along with Fougere Bengale, Sables, Eau Noire, and 1740.

Top photo: Bert Stern
Middle: Norman Parkinson
Bottom: Irving Penn

Histoires de Parfums' 1740 Marquis de Sade: Dulling the Whip

As excited as I was to smell one of the latest Histoires fragrances, Editions Rare Petroleum, recent sniffs from the rest of the line's testers were a serious disappointment. I like most of the fragrances, but I liked none more than 1740. Discovering that many of them seemed to have been ever so slightly tweaked was shock enough, given such a relatively young brand. Changes in 1740 have left it, for me, a ghost of its former self, and I feel that absence the most acutely and personally.

As with most subtle tweaking, the smallest alteration can wrought a most profound transformation, and while 1740 is there in basic structure it feels gutted somehow. I doubt anyone associated with the line will confirm this, no more than anyone at Lauder would fess up to the renovation of Private Collection, but I detected the difference instantly and was heartsick about it.

I have an older bottle, and sprayed some on this morning. I went out for a walk through the state forest, up hills, down around creeks, past a massive hornet's nest dangling by a thin vine from a tree branch. I perspired from the heat and exertion but the scent stayed with me, and even now I can smell it wafting up from my skin, creating some future narrative of memory around the experience of the woods. I don't know of any other scent that endures with the potency of 1740.

For me, aside from Tauer's Lonestar Memories and Vero Kern's Onda, no other fragrance I own has built up a wider series of stories over time, intertwining with my own day to day life. As with Lonestar Memories, which conjures back trips to LA and Massachusetts and the momentous things I went through while at those places, 1740 reads like a roadmap of my recent past, detailing all the emotional peaks and valleys. The latest version of the fragrance barely made it out of the store and down the street on my skin with anything resembling its previous tenacity. It's hard to imagine it surviving past the first serious incline in the forest.

The notes list davana sensualis, patchouli, coriander, cardamom, cedar, elemi, labdanum, and leather. What I've always smelled is something sitting between the honeyed savory of immortelle, tobacco, and tawny port, a fantastically sensual arrangement of notes which on their own would be too much to stomach but in this particular combination take me right to the point of excess and hover there. This latest version airs everything out to something approaching sheer. The basic qualities are still present but they feel shrill and excessive without the heart of the fragrance there to cohere them. Once rather rich, the perfume now feels merely loud, and only for a short time.

1740 is - was - one of my favorite fragrances. It's a day long event and I've reserved it for times I know I'll be able to stick with it and remain in a reflective frame of mind. I'll be hoarding it even more selectively now, and it frustrates me that I'll never be sure which version people are talking about.

Etat Libre D'Orange: Like This

The best moments of Like This happen right up front, for about the first ten minutes. That isn't to say the base is without merit. The Etat line has some sort of trademark dry down. I recognize it here, but don't ask me to describe it. I can't. It leads me to believe I'd know one of their fragrances at twenty paces, and right away, Like This registered like the return of a nostalgic scent. I like that base, whatever it is, but by the time Like This hits its stride I've lost interest in it. By dry down, I've moved on altogether.

It pains me to say this, because there aren't many Etat Libre D'Orange fragrances I don't care for. I love the line. I defend its sensibility against detractors who find it tasteless or tedious. I wish half the people making perfume had Etat's visionary sense of humor. I would sweep the floors of their workspace just to be around that kind of energy and intelligence. But Etat has its mis-steps for me; namely, Don't Get Me Wrong Baby, I Don't Swallow, and Fat Electrician. The fact that Like This comes fast on he footsteps of Electrician really means nothing to me. I guess I could see doom in the lack of thrill I find in these. I could read it as a trend. But I feel pretty confident in a line which has given me so much pleasure: Charogne, Rien, Jasmine and Cigarettes, et al. And I respect the misses of a creative process as much as I adore the hits.

I think I would feel the way I do about Like This whether it had been curated by Tilda Swinton or not, yet I have to acknowledge that it feels like a rather odd match. Maybe I'll come around. I'm always changing my mind about things. My hopes were high. What could be better than Tilda and Etat putting their heads together? I won't answer that question, because I could spend a lot of time going down the list. I've read that Tilda approached Etat, having smelled the line's Rossy de Palma and Tom of Finland fragrances. The story goes that Tilda helped develop Like This. I have no idea anymore how involved people become in their fragrances. I guess it must vary. Some phone it in; others shake the beaker. I have a hard time picturing an actress, socialite, or musician designing clothes. While they can draft up something clever in the best case scenario, what can they ultimately know about drape and seam?

Like This is alleged to have Pumpkin. I don't smell it. I do smell the ginger. I can't tell you how excited I was to hear that immortelle would be in the fragrance. And yet I'm hard pressed to identify it. The fragrance bears an uncanny resemblance to Tibetan Mountain Temple by Pacifica. Tibetan Mountain Temple is about the same size, and cheaper. I prefer it. The irony is that it also happens to smell more like something I would associate with Tilda Swinton. Regardless, I look forward to the company's next release.

More on Histoires de Parfums: Tubereuse L'Animale

Abigail and I often think along the same lines. We split L'Animale over a month ago, and though I loved it instantly, and we've talked about it some since, I kept forgetting to write about it. This week I started thinking about it again. I wore it two days ago. All morning, I reminded myself to sign on so that I might put it into words. It's hard to put into words, as Abigail (aka Birthday Girl today) said. It's beyond words in certain ways for me. I read a review of L'Animale and the other two in the trio of HDP's tuberose-themed fragrances on Grain de Musc where Denyse seemed able to put all three into words (is there anything this fantastic writer can't put into words), and Abigail's done a decent job too, so what's my problem?

I think part of what stymies me lately when it comes to writing about perfume is that in a lot of ways I don't always feel so wordy about fragrance. It's not something which prompts me to immediately start looking for a vocabulary in my head. I value that part of smell which falls beyond words and the intellect, and I like to spend some time gestating with the fragrance. More often than not, after this gestation period I'm further beyond words, and the scent has entered some psychic space of mood and memory. What leads me to blog is wanting to communicate about fragrance in general. I like talking about it. I like hearing what other people have to say. I like our giveaways because people come out of the woodwork and this can feel like something close to a conversation. But I don't often like narrowing any fragrance down. And the posts I do best are free-associational.

Along those lines, I considered discussing some of my favorite green scents. By green I mean the color of the juice, not the category. Some fragrances make perfect sense in green: like Yendi, which is a cut grass aldehyde. Others should be green and aren't, like Givenchy III or Jean-Louis Scherrer. Stick with me here. Others make sense in an unusual way. Think of Eau Noire by Dior, which isn't "green" in theory but feels so right, so apt, when you smell it and look at it simultaneously. The color registers emotionally. Are so many scents amber and clear because we expect them to be, and imagine something must have gone wrong if they aren't? I suspect green feels so right to me in the context of Eau Noire partly because a green fragrance is unusual to a point approaching decadent--and Eau Noire has some pretty decadent pleasures: rich, almost savory but sweet too, like sex on skin.

L'Animale has immortelle in it, as does Eau Noire. The color of the fragrance is greener still. It seems even weirder in the case of L'Animale because the Histoires perfumes, though there aren't a ton of them, are all pretty predictably hued. When my bottle of L'Animale arrived it was thrilling to see that shade of emerald, not brilliant but swampy green, through the bottle. It was almost like a warning. The most shocking thing was how little like tuberose the thing smells. Tuberose you say? Oh really? It totally caught me off guard, which is a fantastic way to experience a perfume.

Unlike Abigail (and a lot of other bloggers, judging by the sometime hostility toward the line), I've been very impressed and smitten with Histoires de Parfums overall. Some could have better longevity, but this is a constant issue for me. My favorites are Noir Patchouli (hold up, also green!) and 1740 de Sade. De Sade is a good comparison, one I made the moment I smelled L'Animale. In fact, L'Animale seems like a more androgynous version of 1740. Both focus on immortelle. 1740 is intense, the same way Angel Liqueur and Malle's Une Rose are, with the near-syrupy density of a tawny port someone's been storing in a dark cask for decades.

Denyse from Grainde Musc smells the tuberose eventually. I never do. I might not be looking too hard. I don't ever smell the tuberose in Vierges et Toreros by Etat Libre D'Orange, either. I smell wet dog and rubber (don't assume I don't love this smell). L'Animale feels like a sweaty scent. Something your body would make of a more delicate perfume after a night out dancing in a tropical climate. It seems old--not vintage necessarily, not the way people mean "vintage fragrance". More like something stored in a crypt, some special elixir with dangerous properties meant for the right hands.

Another thing I thought of when I saw and smelled L'Animale was a trip I took to Barcelona once. You couldn't get Absinthe anywhere else but, I think, I don't know, like, Prague or something? Someone will correct me if I'm wrong. You can get Absinthe all over now, but it doesn't have wormwood, which is what I was told made it outlawed. Only a few places in the maze of old town Barcelona served Absinthe at the time. We spent an entire evening looking for it, searching with the kind of manic zeal I usually reserve for the perfume counter. When we found it, and drank it, and were in some head space I hadn't entered before and haven't since, and couldn't really put into words (here we go again), I looked at the green residue in my glass and thought how perfect the color was for the sensation of the liquor. L'Animale has the same kind of vaguely clandestine mystery about it, and I can picture someone pouring it into the bottle over a cube of sugared immortelle laced with who knows what.

Histoires de Parfums: Tubereuse 3 L'Animale

After a few days of writing reviews for fragrances I found disappointing I decided to highlight one that I adore. I love the idea of Histoires de Parfums, and, as a line they’ve received some nice praise from the Turin/Sanchez camp but so far I haven’t been blown away by any HdP fragrances. Sure, I’ve liked a few, but none have been “oh my goodness I must have a bottle” love. I am quite curious to try the other 2 Tubereuse fragrances as well as Moulin Rouge, though.

But like any curious scent junkie I never give up on a line just because I so far haven’t fallen for one of their offerings, because case in point: Tubereuse L’Animale (TL’A) is full bottle love. Well, I should say “half bottle” love because Brian and I split one. I’ve put off writing about TL’A for quite some time because it’s an unusual scent and I wasn’t sure I could put words to it. After mulling it over, I can tell you that it reminds me of a few different perfumes in style. To give you a point of reference, but by no means am I suggesting TL’A smells similar to these perfumes, I find there to be a similar vibe with: Bond No. 9 Chinatown, Annick Goutal Sables, Bond No. 9 Success is a Job in New York and also Bond No. 9 Lexington Avenue. With these comparisons, you could generalize and call TL’A a floral oriental with gourmand leanings. Not edible gourmand leanings, but that sort of Chinatown/Sables gourmandishness. There’s a lot of depth and character in TL’A, and I imagine it could smell different on each individual, so if any of these ramblings intrigue you I encourage you to try it for yourself.

Tubereuse 3 L’Animale is listed as a floral leather with notes of kumquat, bergamot, neroli, plum, herbs, dry grasses, hay, jasmine, tuberose, blond tobacco, immortelle, woods and labdanum. I haven’t a clue what kumquat smells like but TL’A does have a fruity start that reminds me of figs. Really figgy figs – overripe figs that you must put on your cereal tomorrow morning otherwise they’ll go bad. Other notes that are prominent for me are the herbs, dry grasses, tobacco and immortelle. Obviously TL’A reminds me a little of Annick Goutal Sables because of the immortelle note. Sables is all about immortelle and TL’A sings an anthem to Immortelle Nation, too. If you don’t already know Sables or immortelle specifically it smells a bit like maple syrup. An herbal sort of maple syrup mixed with some myrrh. There is so much going on in TL’A that the word cornucopia often pops into my head when I’m wearing it. I don’t detect tuberose specifically here, but there is a strong floral element binding the composition together. It just isn’t a floral that I find identifiable or nature-specific.

As I mentioned, Brian and I split a bottle of Tubereuse L’Animale. In his first note to me after receiving his bottle he remarked that he loved the fact that the juice was green – swamp green, he said. I love that too, that the color of the jus is swampy, makes it seem like a magical elixir from the bayou. To me, TL’A is a fabulous swampy cornucopia – voodoo juice - and that’s actually meant as high praise.

Carolina Herrera: CH Man

I'm glad I gave this one a chance, because when I first smelled it my nose was probably exhausted, and it barely made an impression. It seemed to be one of those dread skin scents, the kind that whisper across your skin like the sound of a leaky faucet somewhere in the building. I'd been at the mall for an hour probably, shocked I could spend more than thirty minutes there. I was smelling perfume at the Russian kiosk, which is located smack dab in the middle of the place. I hadn't visited in a while and there was catching up to do: Michael Kors Very Hollywood, Shiseido Zen for Men, Queen Latifah, Marc Jacobs Lola, Cacharel Scarlett. They'd just received a shipment, too, so I was hanging around to see what might have come in.

Among the new arrivals was CH Men, and my first impression, based on the packaging, was that someone had put some time and thought into the thing. The bottle is one of those that make people who love fragrance happy: a big block of glass, half of which is covered in embossed leather. CHCHCHCHCHCHCH. It feels great running under your fingers. A metal CH pendant has been attached to a deep red grosgrain ribbon and knocks against the leather like a little drum. Still, after CH Women, whose bottle was tricked out in the same bells and whistles, I wasn't expecting much. Too bad, I thought, after spraying CH Men. What a shame the cologne doesn't carry the same weight as the overall first impression.

The sales assistant assured me that something was there, but I couldn't smell much of anything on my wrist. At first I was reminded of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's Zombi, with its dirt, rose, and violet notes. That was pretty thrilling. Would a mainstream masculine really make something that smelled of moist, flowered soil? Who could say. It was certainly gone before I could. Weirdly, as I looked at other things, I kept getting faint whiffs of that first spritz, convincing me that maybe I just couldn't hear CH through all the cacophonous Friday night noise and the bombastic tuberose of Very Hollywood. I bought some and brought it home. Just in case.

I'm glad I did. CH does indeed smell like damp earth and flowers, with some spice and stewed fruits thrown in. The notes are listed as mandarin, bergamot, grapefruit peel, saffron, nutmeg, jasmine, violet, wood, ambergris, vanilla, moss, burnt sugar and leather. I smell none of the first three, nor vanilla and ambergris. The impression of soil must be created by the saffron and violet, I've decided. Jack Black Signature for Men has a heftier dose of saffron and smells only vaguely similar. There the saffron is coerced by cedar into traveling in a very different direction. I smell date, too, but nothing in the literature for CH confirms this.

CH Men is the best mainstream masculine I've smelled in eons. It isn't a skin scent after all, though it doesn't exactly scream its way through a room. I wouldn't call it subtle, but I'm not going to accuse it of grandstanding either. I find it pretty addictive. There isn't a marine accord to be found. There's no patchouli, clean or otherwise. No cardamom. The leather is somewhere in the background, complimenting the violet and saffron in ways which bring to mind Serge Lutens. CH Men, unlike its feminine counterpart, isn't aiming to be all things to all people. It's wonderfully idiosyncratic, and this too places it in the company of niche lines like Lutens, Etat Libre d'Orange, Diptyque, and Parfum D'Empire, among others. Any one of these might have produced CH Men. It's more likely than Carolina Herrera. Then again, I'm a big fan of Herrera for men, and once I study it, I see a link between that fragrance's use of immortelle and the employment of saffron in CH. Like Herrera, CH has good longevity. It smells nothing like anything in the department store, which is, alas, probably why you won't find any there, short of a Russian kiosk.

Sonoma Scent Studio Tabac Aurea

A while back, Abigail raved about this little wonder, and I made a mental note to check it out. I don't know what's going on with Sonoma's website--the till is down, so you can look, essentially, but you can't touch--and some of you are going to be frustrated after reading this review, because I have high praise for the fragrance, but look at the bright side: you can't possibly know how truly wonderful Tabac Aurea is, and what you're missing, until you get your hands on it, and even then the exact nature of its powerful appeal will elude you.

For Abigail, Tabac recalls vintage fragrances--their complexity, attention to detail through depth and drama, the rich, dovetailing stories they tell. Her presiding image for the fragrance was Bette Davis. Funny how things work, because I'm picturing Robert Mitchum, whose sharp-angled cheekbones are trying to make something feminine out of what is clearly butch-saturated stock. Clearly, Tabac Aurea is unisex, gender-friendly, but in a sea of bland, interchangeable, unimaginative masculines, I'm apt to claim it as one for the boys. Then too, Tabac recalls some of my favorites: Histoires de Parfums 1740, Parfum d'Empire Fougere Bengale, Annick Goutal Sables. In all of these, immortelle plays a big role, and though there's no indication that Tabac Aurea even contains immortelle, the argument could be made that I simply love the kind of fragrance Tabac resembles.

That isn't giving what I'd include in my list of the top ten masculines of the last decade much credit, now is it? And yes, Tabac is that good. It's certainly the best tobacco fragrance I've ever smelled, but it's more than that, possessing the kind of magic words fail. Looking at the facts alone--persistence, projection, quality of materials--it blows Sables off the table. Sables is gorgeous, if you have something on hand to apply thirty minutes later, to console you once it has vanished. Tabac Aurea lasts all day on my skin, has the kind of diffusion that makes my presence beg questions from those I come into contact with (what...is that? Are you...is that...cologne? Where did you get that? What is that called? Will you have sex with me? Would you mind doing it right here? Let's get married--just for the next ten minutes? Actually, can I just have that smell, so we can have sex alone?) and it is abundantly clear, from the moment you first smell it, that Tabac's creator refined and refined again in her effort to achieve such a careful, unlikely balance.

While it falls within the olfactory range of 1740 and Fougere Bengale, Tabac distinguishes itself enough that it's worth having all three--if, like me, you're that obsessively inclined, and worried about redundancy. Tabac speaks to those fragrances the way one smoky-voiced singer speaks to another, through tone and texture, but the music and personality are unique. The vetiver in Tabac imbues it with qualities neither 1740 nor Bengale possess, moving it farther away from the insular combustion immortelle gives the former, the sense that 1740 has a lot on its mind, is troubled and needs some time to think about it. 1740 harbors things, relishing its drama. To 1740, Tabac says, Hey, lighten up; it might never happen.

Which isn't to say Tabac is happy-go-lucky; just that it doesn't brood. Like Fougere Bengale, which uses lavender in a similar way, as if to clear its head, Tabac loosens up with vetiver. Unlike Bengale, which comes on like the most intoxicating (or, okay, I'll give some of you this: nauseating) spice cabinet this side of reality, Tabac has a persistent but subtle tangy aspect, a barely there fruit accord which operates similarly to the cassis bud in Iris Bleu Gris, subverting what might otherwise be an austere, stand-offish disposition. Tabac is foody, but more savory than sweet. It has woodsy undertones to it. Clove, tonka, labdanum, leather. Need I say more? If you're into this sort of thing, I'm guessing not.

I've resorted to comparison in an effort to convey an inexplciable mystery. Shame on me. Stupid, I know--but to do otherwise I would need a vocabulary which hasn't been invented yet. I love this stuff.

More Best of Summer : Brian's Picks

Recently, I discovered that I don't really care about light scents at any time of the year. I prefer heavier fragrances not just in the Winter, when they're said to make sense by serving as something approaching a comfortable blanket, but in the Spring, when they start mingling with the fresh, open air. The biggest surprise for me has been how much I like the power scents in the Summer. I think I might like them most of all at this time of year. It isn't just that citrus scents are so fleeting, though that's part of it. They hit the heat and poof, they're gone. Citrus scents and eau de colognes, however long they last, turn sour on sweating skin, as if trying to hide some basic facts of nature. Summer in the south isn't clean and composed. It's sultry and animalic, and the fragrances which make the most sense on my skin are the ones heat and sweat can only be complimented by, as opposed to struggled against.

1. Habanita (Molinard): Try it on in the Summer. The powder isn't there. It's as if someone blew off a coat of dust Habanita was submerged under, and now you can smell the basic structure underneath, more of those tobacco nuances, the weird peachy top notes, the push and pull of vetiver and vanilla. Infamously, the EDT lasts all day in the winter. It lasts just as well this time of year, and smells like sex warmed over.

2. Fougere Bengale (Parfum d'Empire): I only bought this last month, but I imagine the tangy, herbal thrust of the lavender gives it an interesting Summer dissonance it would be too well behaved to let show in the Winter. Immortelle and spices run like a strong current underneath, pulling you along.

3. Moschino de Moschino: This is indeed, as Tania Sanchez says, joss stick. However it distinguishes itself from many lesser orientals and even some of the superior classics by its weird, smoked florals.

4. Bandit (Piguet): There is no wrong time of year for Bandit. It spans the calendar, covering the bases. Grassier this season than last, to be sure, this green leather seems like a saddle left out in a field of chamomile. I never get that in the winter, when it seems like something you've snuggled into a pocket to keep warm.

5. Karma (Lush): Orange incense. People love it or hate it. In the winter, I...lurv it? In the summer, pure love for Karma. The heat activates subtleties that the cold leaves dormant, merely strident.

6. Daim Blond (Serge Lutens): I was so disappointed when I bought it last summer that I put it away and had only smelled it periodically ever since. Lately I pull it out and it makes perfect sense. The peachy cured leather smell lights up the skin. The heat makes it moodier, less the cheerful happy-go-lucky it is in the winter and fall, more unpredictable. It has issues, suddenly. I can relate.

7. Encre Noire (Lalique): Someone will have to convince me this isn't the best possible summer fragrance on a guy's skin, bar none. It smells virile without resorting to that chest thumping feeling you get from cruder peers. It's both fresh and filthy, inviting and repelling. Vetiver doesn't get much better.

8. Miss Balmain: A sister to Aramis for Men (born in a man's body), closely related to Aromatics Elixir, Cabochard, and Azuree (also great this time of year). This stuff is twenty bucks a bottle and based on the vintage bottle I own smells just as good presently as it ever did. It seems to grow warmer and thicker on the skin as it wears. Wonderful dry down, leather in deep floral hues.

9. Arpege (Lanvin): Especially the most recent reformulation. It smells of aldehydes, forals, and vetiver and sticks with you for the long haul.

10. Broadway Nite (Bond No. 9): the heady, almost waxy impressions of this fragrance are strong enough to get the point across, whatever the point is.

Annick Goutal Sables: A Review

The story goes that Annick Goutal created Sables for her husband, cellist Alain Meunier, as a way of capturing olfactory memories of summer days together in Corsica. Sables was created for a man, and is labeled as a men’s scent, but it is so easily unisex.

I find Sables to be the most unique of all the Annick Goutal fragrances. The scent focuses on immortelle flower, which is oftentimes an overpowering scent, and has been described as smelling like maple syrup. Maple syrup isn’t exactly what I smell in Sables; I’d describe it as a bittersweet herbal aroma blended with a smidgen of maple syrup. The reason I enjoy Sables so much, is that while there is, indeed, a syrupy sweetness, it still maintains a woody dryness overall. There aren’t very many fragrances that I can think of that are truly sweet yet dry. Other perfumes with a similar immortelle flower note are Serge Lutens El Attarine, L by Lolita Lempicka and Frederic Malle’s Musc Ravageur. I don’t think immortelle flower is among the listed notes in Musc Ravageur, but there’s a similar spicy vanillic-ambery quality that reminds me a bit of Sables.

Sables was created in 1985 and in many ways seems like the precursor to gourmand fragrances arriving a decade later. Annick Goutal created Sables based upon memories of Corsica, an island in the Mediterranean in between France and Italy. There is an obvious dry sandy quality to Sables that immediately makes me think of sand dunes and warm sun-kissed beaches. The sandy, gritty quality mixes beautifully with notes of sandalwood and pepper to perfectly temper the sweetness of immortelle flower. I’m finding Sables to be a particularly lovely fragrance for cold weather. And, very important to me, Sables has strong projection and excellent longevity.

Longevity: Excellent
Sillage: Strong, 2 spritz
Rating: 4 Stars

She Said, He Said: behind the scenes memos between your I Smell Therefore I Am editorial staff

Hey Brian,

...disappointing perfume day. I bought a bunch of perfumes from parfum1.com - they have amazingly good deals. I bought everything unsniffed, but for the price, no biggie.

1. Habanita - gagging from the powder - I thought I would love this - but the baby powder is too much - I can't get through it to the tobacco or leather.

2. Casmir by Chopard - Josh said it smelled like a street hooker (i seriously hope he doesn't know this from first hand experience). It is wayyyy too sweet.

3. Balmain Ambre Gris - very sweet - I might end up liking it - smells so differently on Rob. Maybe the chemistry thing is true after all, I always thought it was a farce. I like the bottle.

I also got Madness by Chopard - haven't tried it yet.

I was so excited about Habanita. The reviews were glowing. Sometimes I wonder if perfume-addicts smell the perfume too closely. If I didn't know what Habanita was 'supposed' to smell like - I wouldn't get it at all. It's only because I read the reviews and know the list of notes that I didn't scrub it off after 5 minutes. The bloody stuff doesn't scrub off either - I can still smell it!!! I'll happily wear Bandit and Tabac Blond and skip Habanita if I want to smell leather/tobacco.

I have no tolerance for sweet 'fumes lately. I wonder if I'm changing? I'm obsessed with vetiver, balsam, sandalwood and patchouli.

Purchased Chanel No 19 from ebay today. Anxiously awaiting Chanel Bois de Iles - should arrive tomorrow or next day.

I really like the Balmain Ambre Gris bottle. I'm looking at it right now. The top is making me think of a microphone. I love the cube-shaped bottle and label. I really like simple bottles - like FM, SL, Jo Malone, Teo Cabanel, Miller Harris, Hermes, and Chanel.

x
A


Hey Abigail,

I just decanted Habanita for you yesterday, and doing so I thought, I wonder if I should even do this, I bet she won't like the powder. Still, it was on your list. I'm holding off on the Cuir de Russie since you don't know if you ordered it or not, but I'd love to smell the bois when you get it.

The Balmain sounds right up my alley. I typically love their stuff, bar none.

Casmir I have too. I bought it as a gift and re-acquired it several years on. I don't wear it and rarely sniff it. It smells like suntan oil to me, which can be nice, when you're sunning, and your sunblock is scentless.

Turin wrote an article recently which commented on how many perfumers are heavy smokers. Lots, he concluded.

Cuir de Russie came from Chanel today and arrived in pristine condition. They wrapped the shit out of that thing. No samples, disappointingly. I had visions of them trying to make it up to me. I'm interested now in Coromandel and Respire.

X
Brian


Hi Brian,

You know, I actually thought the whole "it doesn't work with MY chemistry" thing was just a way for people to say they didn't like it, politely. The difference between Balmain Ambre Gris on Rob's arm vs. mine was astounding. The woods and ambergris/salt was apparent on him and not at all on me. If it smells on you like it does on Rob I'm sure you'll like it (and it's $24.95 for 100 ML!!)

So I'm working from home today and as yet unshowered. I still reek of Habanita and Casmir!! Both of these deserve recognition for their lasting power - Mon Dieux!

Parfum1 sent a free bottle of Worth by Je Reviens. I've never heard of it but am scared to try it. The juice is NEON BLUE.

I'm oddly obsessed with the Balmain Ambre Gris bottle. I want to keep it in front of me and use it as a paperweight.

I also ordered Ivoire for next to nothing. It hasn't arrived yet.

x
A


Oh Abigail,

It saddens me that you aren't enthused with Habanita, but I'm holding out hope that it'll grow on you, like Bandit. I took the Habanita decant out of the package I sent you and sprayed it on myself in the early morning. It lasted all day. I'd forgotten how persistent it is.

Here's the thing: Yes, there's something very powdery about it, but I think that's just the edt, and it eventually goes away. Recently I smelled the EDP and it doesn't have that powdery density--at all. When I first sprayed the EDP I thought they'd completely reformulated the fragrance. I'm sure they tweaked something (they always do) but many edp's are slightly different, and Habanita's ends up in roughly the same place as its edt concentration.

When Turin called Habanita "vetiver vanilla" I couldn't understand what he was getting at--until I smelled the EDP, where the vetiver is pronounced from the beginning. The EDP has that lemongrass tang to it, and feels much lighter going on, almost transparent, and yet into the heart and the dry down it has reached the same points as the edt. After discerning the vetiver in the EDP I can now smell it in the edt, and I enjoy it much better. I'm sickened though. I looked on perfume1 and see that it sells at half what I paid for it elsewhere.

I think part of the problem with fragrances like Habanita whose reputations precede them is the fact that by the time you get hold of them you've built up an unconsciously specific idea of what they must smell like, and you're inevitably disappointed. Usually, some sort of adjustment period follows, where you grow to appreciate the scent on its own terms or--not.

I purchased Ambre Gris online yesterday. What does gris mean, anyway? It's like Bois and Tabac and Cuir: all over the place in perfume nomenclature. I suppose I could look it up, but you can only open so many windows on the computer screen, and mine are all occupied with perfume blogs and discount vendors.

On the way to work this morning I thought, I don't even LIKE Amber. Then I started to think how a bad review can make you just as interested in a perfume as one which praises it. Somehow, the things you said about Ambre Gris made it sound super appealing to me. Elsewhere I saw burnt sugar and caramel, some earthiness, etc. I hope I like it. The bottle alone seems have-worthy.

I'll expect to know what you think of Ivoire, naturally.


Brian


Hey Brian,

Balmain Ivoire arrived today. My first reaction was: Dial & Dove soap! Now it's settled in and it's really nice. It IS mostly soapy but when I smell closely there's a lot more going on - sort of a spicy green with a hint of soap. I like it. There's something comforting and parental about it. The smell makes me feel like I'm being taken care of and everything is going to be all right... ;-) what is that sortof dark, medicinal, metallic smell? And I'm not being negative, I like this smell...(oh, but this bottle, so ugly! looks like it came off a drugstore counter from 1976!)

re: Gris ~ I assumed Ambre Gris was just the French word for ambergris. You know what ambergris is...that's why I was expecting Ambre Gris to smell salty - which it DID on Rob's arm and not mine.

I totally agree about fragrances whose reputations precede them. Unfortunately there are so many of these. I could make a really long list of perfumes that are classics and receive rave reviews that I'm smelled and wondered "what's the big deal?" I definitely think I oversprayed Habanita the other night. I tend to spray quite a bit when I'm smelling a scent for the first time. With Habanita, this really wasn't a good thing to do.

Bois = Wood
Tabac = Tobacco
Cuir = Leather

'Bois' seems everywhere. Now that I'm thinking about SL Bois de Violette - the name accurately describes the fragrance. I expected more violet - but the name roughly translates to 'wood violet' - so that's why it smells to me of a pile of cedarwood with one tiny violet plunked in the middle.

On my left arm is Ivoire and on my right arm is Caron Parfum Sacre. The jury is still out on Parfum Sacre, I don't know what to make of it yet. One thing I really like to do is AVOID reading reviews and the list of notes as much as possible. This way, when I smell something, it isn't influenced by whatever has already been said. I like to lessen the power of suggestion as much as possible.

Did you see the comment I received a few days ago about Immortal Flower on the Balmain Ambre Gris review? I thought that was an interesting and helpful note. I didn't know the story of Annick Goutal Sables nor the story of Immortelle. You know, of course, Annick Goutal Sables is on the list now...

I love amber. Teo Cabanel Alahine is very ambery to me and it's one of my favorites. Amber needs to be relatively dry, not sweet, and then I love it. I've been waiting for Serge Lutens to make a nice dry amber for years.... Serge? Are you reading?! Because his last few launches...mostly cinnamon and veering toward gourmand....haven't impressed me....

- A xo


Dear Abigail,

Yeah, I figured out the bois and tabac and the cuir (though it took a while to bring myself to pronounce it correctly out loud), but gris seemed contradictory. How can ambre be gris then Iris too? It seems to mean gray, from what I can find online, which makes perfect sense for the latter, which is totally gray to the point of glittery. But it makes little sense when tagged onto amber. So go figure. I'm sure some kind benevolent soul out there will write to let us know.

There is something medicinal about Ivoire, now that you mention it. I bet it's the galbanum, which probably gives it that weird, menthol glow. I really love Ivoire. It does smell parental, too. I kind of like the bottle. Compared to the new Van Cleef bottle it's downright high class. The bottle seems like a drugstore version of Chanel's packaging but I love it. It's down to earth.

I love immortelle. I didn't realize you'd never smelled Sables. Something else I'll have to send you. I wonder if you'd care for it. The overall effect is burnt sugar sweet. Immortelle is to Sables what aldehydes are to No. 5, like someone had a little left in the bottle and thought, well, I might as well put it in, otherwise it'll go to waste. Immortelle is in Coriolan by Guerlain and in Diesel Fuel for Life, though to me it's more difficult to detect in both of those. Boucheron's Initial uses it too.

I've seen that Ayala Moriel has a perfume based around immortelle, called Immortelle l'Amour. The notes are: Vanilla, Rooibos tea, Wheat absolute, Broom, Sweet orange, and Cinnamon. What the hell is broom? Basenotes lists four or five fragrances using it as a note. Perhaps there is a broom absolute? To my uninformed mind, it's like saying "hair from the seat cushion my dog Alfie sat on yesterday." But who am I?

x
Brian

Balmain Ambre Gris: A Review

Balmain Ambre Gris recently launched in March 2008. The nose behind the fragrance is Guillaume Flavigny. The notes are described as: myrrh, cinnamon, pink pepper, immortal flower, benzoin, tuberose and ambergris.

I know, I know…Balmain must have been required by law to include pink pepper since it’s the trendy note of 2007-08. I was amused by “immortal flower” since I’ve never heard of it before and it sounds imaginary to me. A quick google search didn’t shed any light on immortal flower so I’m guessing it’s a fantasy note.

The perfume itself is very sweet. It’s described by Balmain as a “woodsy-animalic-oriental” and with the mention of ambergris I was not expecting something so über-sweet. When I read the list of notes I anticipated something along the lines of Hermes Eau des Merveilles. Ambre Gris doesn’t bear any resemblance to Eau des Merveilles to me. I definitely smell a rubbery tuberose in Ambre Gris along with soft spices like cinnamon & myrrh. I would categorize Ambre Gris as closer to a gourmand rather than a woodsy-oriental. There might be some woody notes in there but you really have to go sniffing for them. Overall, what I smell is a “sweet, rubbery, chocolately tuberose with soft spices.” This is not so say Ambre Gris isn’t a nice fragrance. Even though it’s sweet, it has its merits. I think I was merely put off by Balmain’s description of the fragrance, which just isn’t accurate to me. If I had been prepared for what I smelled I might have liked it more.

It strikes me as the sort of fragrance that someone who likes Lolita Lempicka (though not fruity like LL), Trouble by Boucheron or Dior’s Hypnotic Poison might like. I think Balmain Ambre Gris is nice, especially if you are expecting a sweet floral-gourmand and not a “woodsy-animalic-oriental.”

The bottle is charming in person – I’d call it handsome. I worried the top might look like a golf ball or perhaps Epcot center but sitting atop the classy cube-shaped bottle it simply works.

I just bought Balmain Ambre Gris for $24.95 from www.parfum1.com. At this price, I’m perfectly happy with the fragrance and I’ll surely give it a go during the cooler months.
Lasting power: Excellent ~ 5-6 hours.
Sillage: Medium ~ if you’re a heavy spritzer others will smell it.
PS: I sprayed this on my friend and it smells much more woodsy on him. It still smells entirely sweet on me but I can smell the woodsy quality along with salt on him. Huh....