May 2008 Archives

I decided I'd give Cannabis Rose from Fresh a test drive just for giggles. I was certain I wouldn't like it, but thought, "Why the hell not? Branch out a little, try something new!" So I'm surprised (and more than a tad shocked) to say that I'm liking it . . . a lot.

Cannabis Rose is a rose perfume for people who don't care to smell like roses, which seems kind of deceptive when you stop to think about it, but it's brilliant marketing on the part of Fresh, nonetheless. Now they'll get all the rose wearers of the world to give it a curious sniff and maybe, hopefully, hook some sales as a result, whereas those same consumers would have completely walked on by if it had been titled what it really is -- "Earthy Resinous Green Thing With A Decidedly Lovely Flower Buried Inside It".

Chandler Burr gave Cannabis Rose a great review over at his Scent Notes blog for the New York Times: "In 2007, the perfumer Jérôme Epinette of Robertet, working under the creative direction of Fresh's Lev Glazman, mated rose to pot -- not pot smoke but the ultrarich, resiny scent of its dried leaves. The resulting perfume is insanely good, essentially perfect on every level: a darkly mesmerizing scent, technically excellent and beautifully structured. Glazman has taken rose, viscerally reinvented it and aimed it at the reptilian brain."

Bullseye!

And now here I sit -- a scaly lizard, sunning myself on a rock, wondering how it is that the world smells so damn delicious.

Japanese woman caught living in man's closet

This is bizarre, and fascinating, and weird and oddly wonderful:

"A homeless woman who sneaked into a man's house and lived undetected in his closet for a year was arrested in Japan after he became suspicious when food mysteriously began disappearing . . . The resident of the home installed security cameras that transmitted images to his mobile phone after becoming puzzled by food disappearing from his kitchen over the past several months. One of the cameras captured someone moving inside his home Thursday after he had left, and he called police believing it was a burglar . . . The woman told police she had no place to live and first sneaked into the man's house about a year ago when he left it unlocked. She had moved a mattress into the small closet space and even took showers, Itakura said, calling the woman 'neat and clean.'"

The woman's ability to be so respectful of the homeowner's space despite being an interloper (what? not a single cough? no snoring? no crumbs on the counter? no using the toilet in the middle of the night?) is surreal and almost admirable. It's impossible to think of a homeless American in the same circumstances -- you'd know within five seconds: "What is that horrible smell? Did someone piss on my bathroom rug? And where did the TV remote go?!!!"

She'd of been the ideal roommate if she'd of coughed up some rent money once in a while.

Lui by Mazzolari is yet another powdery sandalwood/patchouli kitten masquerading as a musky wild cat. The non-blonde insists that Lui is earthy with dark woods and a spicy depth, and a reviewer at Base Notes waxes on about how animalic and potent it is, but Lui could only be considered "earthy" or "animalic" if you're used to wearing perfumes that are predominantly violets or lily of the valley.

Lui opens up with a blast of Johnson & Johnson baby powder, then settles itself into heavily sweetened sandalwood and patchouli territory until it rides off into a light musk sunset crowned with plush, pink clouds. There's nothing particularly singular or interesting in the way it goes about its business, but it's nice enough for social gatherings and will probably get you some notice, provided you're hanging out with a group of ex-hippie mothers at a baby shower.

"Is that baby powder? And patchouli? You wouldn't, by chance, have a joint in your purse? I promise I won't tell!"

Lucky Scent breathlessly describes Lui as "complex and unguarded . . . raw and elegant . . . an uninhibited fragrance . . . and just a little on the edge" which is precisely how you'd need to describe this rather run-of-the-mill concoction in order to fool anybody into purchasing a bottle of it.

Allegedly for men, but the overall composition skews so sweet and powdery (despite its warm golden coloring) that it actually seems geared toward the female consumer, instead -- which is a smart move, if you're in the business of selling a lot of perfume.

I have to admit to being a bit perplexed by the fuss around Bulgari Black. I'd been hearing about it being a dark, almost rubbery fragrance -- urban, modern, even edgy. Bois de Jasmin raved about its rubber and smoke, stating that it's "one of the most sensual fragrances . . . thrilling, smouldering and daring" and a fragrance that reminded her of Marlene Dietrich; The Perfume Critic writes that it "starts out a little harsh rubbery (not in a bad way, though), and ends up with a nearly leathery vanilla-heavy base" and Robin at Now Smell This annoints it as "one of those masterpieces of weird" -- yet I find it difficult to understand how something that smells like black tea leaves mixed with vanilla sandalwood can be considered even slightly thrilling, rubbery, leathery or weird.

Maybe it's because Bulgari Black was released in 1998 and the world of niche perfumes has since caught up with and surpassed it in matters of weird and wonderful, but this smooth, sandalwood and black tea perfume is about as edgy as a cashmere sweater on a crisp October day in the Hamptons.

In other words, don't fall for the hype.

Bulgari Black is considered a unisex fragrance for a reason -- it's floral and vanillic enough to satisfy the uptown girls while including just enough sandalwood and oakmoss (not too much, mind you) to make the gaggle of metrosexual dandies slumming it at the local dive pub feel daring; however, If you're one of those people (like me) who honestly enjoys the smells of rubber, leather and smoke, you'll wonder what the hell everyone else is talking about.

For a real rubber, leather and/or smoke experience that will truly veer into the wilds of the weird, try Pascal Morabito Or Black, Olivier Durbano Black Tourmaline or Comme des Garcons Synthetic Series Tar. Bulgari Black smells like a prissy little poseur in comparison to all three.

Marlene Dietrich would not be amused.

The Financial Times featured today, on its front page, a huge photo of Sharon Stone in a sleeveless silk leopard skin dress standing at an AmFar podium in Cannes, her hair bleached out to a platinum blonde, her neck, wrists and fingers covered in coils of glittering diamonds.

Photos like this don't usually make the front page of The Financial Times, but Stone, having uttered one of the most stone-cold (if you'll pardon the pun) statements ever to have issued from a paid spokesperson's lips, has rocked the luxury goods world, and in particular, sent executives from Christian Dior's China headquarters rushing to the Chinese press to apologize profusely in a desperate attempt to ward off a damaging blow for Dior's fortunes in Asia.

"Christian Dior was yesterday scrambling to avoid a Chinese consumer backlash after the actress Sharon Stone, who is a model for the group (since 2005, representing their skin care line), suggested the Sichuan earthquake might have been retribution for Beijing's policies in Tibet."

Karma? Really? I mean, has the water in Hollywood gotten so bad that anyone and everyone who has ever sipped from its corrosive pipes now suffers from full-blown mental retardation? What's next? "Don't make the tooth fairy angry -- you won't like the tooth fairy when it's angry!"

Dior stores in China are already pulling down any photos of Sharon Stone they had hanging for promotional purposes, and clips of Stone's comments are some of the most watched, as well as most reviled, clips on China's version of YouTube, not to mention that Dior's China headquarters have been flooded with complaints since Ms. Stone's comments aired.

Of course, Stone has offered the usual non-apology apology -- "So sorry everyone over-reacted to my stupid statements. No one ever pays any attention to me, usually, so I just shoot off my mouth without ever thinking first. Sheesh. I hate being taken seriously. When will it stop?" Or something like that.

Meanwhile, executives for Gucci and Chanel are jumping up and down with glee -- "Did you hear about Dior? You know, the Sharon Stone thing and China? They are sooooo screwed. Hey, you wouldn't perhaps know of anyone else in the media I can forward this video clip to?"

Oh well, you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas . . .

UPDATE:

Since we're on the subject of beyond out of control celebrities who have zero concept of the reality in which everyone else lives, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie just purchased a $70,000,000.00 (that's seventy million dollars) estate in the south of France.

"The estate, located in a village called Brignol near the Aix-en-Provence, comes complete with a three-mile long driveway, a private lake, moat and for ultimate privacy, its own forest." Oh, and it comes with its own vineyard, too, natch.

Well, good thing they donated all those little pink houses to the people in New Orleans -- wait, what? They didn't actually donate the houses or pay for the construction themselves? I see -- it's an adopt-a-house program, where they want people like you and me to send in the money to help the poor people in New Orleans, because . . . because, well, all of Brad Pitt's and Angelina Jolie's money is tied up in real estate in the South of France, silly! Oh, and Malibu . . . and Santa Barbara . . . and Berlin . . . and England.

They're selling the home they have in New Orleans. I mean, really, who wants to live in that hellhole any longer?

Women may have Chanel No. 5, YSL Opium, Guerlain Jicky and Dior Diorella, but men have Clive Christian No. 1 For Men and that just about evens the score on all fronts. A classic in its genre? Check. Smooth and warm and disarmingly attractive? Check. Richly layered? Check. Stuffed with expensive ingredients? Double check.

Luca Turin dismisses Clive Christian No. 1 For Men as a "powdery floral" and "a touch boring" but maybe that's because he's only smelled it on himself and not on someone else. Delicate and potent at the same time, No. 1 For Men envelopes the skin like a top-shelf, retro-chic wrap job, presenting its wearer as the ultimate gift to the party while silencing any cheap swaggering chatter about how a "real man" is supposed to smell.

It has its own depth and solidity, but it complements what surrounds it. There's no foghorn, no trumpet blast, no desperate bids for attention -- just rock solid composition and a scent that will still be glowing long after the last drunk socialite has been fished from the pool.

One minor quibble: you have to be the type who can regularly date socialites to afford it, and its price has nearly doubled since just last year.

Boggy, peaty, smoky -- three things that aren't necessarily associated with a good perfume, but Fumidus by Profumum manages to accentuate the positive and turns the whole thing into the fragrant equivalent of a foggy romp across the peat marshes of Scotland.

If you like the sharp, bitter smell of single malt scotch mixed with some coal smoke and wet wool tweed, then you'll love Fumidus. People around you might wonder what the hell you're wearing, or maybe even why, but I half suspect that's the point behind the venture.

After a few hours, it loses its smoky, peat-bog qualities and settles down into the inevitable, masculine-fragrance musk for the rest of its duration -- acceptable, though too predictable; for how oddly strange and intriguingly different it started off, I expected more imagination out of the finale.

The Telegraph has printed a hilarious interview with Italian fashion designer Roberto Cavalli (he of the body-hugging, leopard print fame). The interview was conducted aboard Cavalli's iridescent purple 130 foot yacht (I kid you not) moored in Cannes for the duration of the Cannes Film Festival. Sharon Stone yaks on her cellphone in the background.

Roberto Cavalli: 'The English - oh my God!'

Cavalli is so entrenched within the fashion industry, and has made so much money for himself and his investors that he can pretty much say whatever he wants without ramification -- so he does!

Choice quotes: "(Madonna) is not nice with anyone: she doesn't know how to be nice." ; "Anyone is capable of doing minimalism. I won't, because it's horrible"; "If I have one desire left in life, it's finding a new fabric as versatile and wonderful as denim" and "Kate Moss's collection (for TopShop) was badly made, stupid and bland; you see things like that everywhere. You can't just buy things for the label - it's ridiculous."

Roberto Cavalli's purple yacht below:

Here's the development meeting for Serge Lutens' Clair de Musc as I imagine it:

Exec #1: "Our financials aren't what we were hoping for this quarter."
Exec #2: "The entire industry appears to be in slow growth mode at the moment, but did you see the numbers for Estee Lauder?"
Exec #1: *groans* "Don't talk to me about Estee Lauder! If we could only do a fraction of Estee Lauder's business, I'd be a very happy man."
Perfumer: "I know what we can do."
Exec #1 and #2: "What?!"
Perfumer: "It's simple, really. The people who buy our perfumes do so because they want to wear something that not everyone else is wearing -- because we have a reputation as an exclusive, luxury line of fragrances with a price point that separates the boutique consumer from the drugstore masses."
Exec #1: "Right? So?"
Exec #2: "Get to the point!"
Perfumer: "So why don't we make a perfume for our boutiques that smells exactly like some hugely popular fragrance you'd buy at a drugstore -- like something from Estee Lauder; perhaps, say, Pure White Linen. We could rope in a much broader customer base than what we have already, we won't have to test market it because we'll already know that millions of people will love it and the ingredient cost will be low -- but it'll have our name on it, we'll put it in a schmancy-fancy bottle, consumers will only be able to purchase it at high-end department stores and boutiques and we'll charge twice as much as what Estee Lauder charges for Pure White Linen. It'll be a hit and we'll make a fortune."
Exec #1: "YOU'RE A GENIUS!!!!"
Exec #2: "When can it be ready?"
Perfumer: "As luck would have it, I have something like this developed and on hold in the back. All we need to do is slap a name on it and we're done."
Exec #1: "But how will we market it?"
Exec #2: "We'll have to pretend it's something that it's not."
Exec #1: "Yes, like something daring, or completely contradictory."
Perfumer: "A musk that doesn't smell like a musk?"
Exec #1: *faints dead away*
Exec #2: "We really must see about getting you a raise . . . "

Marina from Perfume Smellin' Things went on a rapturous bender when she wrote about Clair de Musc, stating that "Clair de Musc is purity and light that is out of this world . . . cool and perfectly clear, like water from Galadriel's pitcher, running to feel The Mirror of Seeing."

Whatever the hell that means.

I never earned my merit badge in Medieval Renaissance Festival Geekdom, so my ability to translate is severely limited; however, if by "purity and light that is out of this world", Marina actually means that Clair de Musc smells like a near note-perfect replica of a much cheaper generation of perfumes that have taken their inspiration from none other than the lowly Johnson & Johnson's Baby Powder, then let's all drink from Galadriel's Pitcher and run onward to the Mirror of Seeing! . . . or, uh, something like that.

What I can tell you for certain is that, as of this writing, the very powdery and brightly pretty Clair de Musc is $120 for 1.7 ounces. Donna Karan's Cashmere Mist, which is also very powdery, brightly pretty and nearly identical in all respects to Clair de Musc, is $70.00 for 1.7 ounces.

I'm sure you can do the math.

Maddeningly difficult to procure in the U.S., Pascal Morabito's Or Black is a men's fragrance that makes other classic masculines by Guerlain, Caron, Chanel, YSL, etc. seem timid and near prim in comparison.

It starts off with a refreshing note that smells like a tanker truck full of diesel fuel crashed into a field of roses, then quickly pans to the resulting scene of rubber, new leather, gasoline, a smidgeon of asphalt and a big, sweaty truck driver cussing up a blue streak as he stomps his way across a couple acres of freshly flattened blooms, leaves and thorny stems.

It all sounds far more potent and overt than it actually is -- as if you're taking it in through binoculars a hundred yards away, so the odors are smoother, fainter, dispersed by the breezes necessary to reach where you stand.

I'd wear Or Black anywhere and everywhere; unfortunately, it's now available only as a limited edition release and I can't imagine why. It beats the ever-lovin' stuffin' out of Yatagan.

I read an article today mentioning that Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue Pour Homme won this year's FiFi award for best luxury male fragrance. Light Blue Pour Homme is a crisp green-apple and soap concoction which holds absolutely no appeal for me. Is this what the market has decided men should smell like? Green apples and soap?

It's a cruel world indeed where the square-jawed virility of Or Black is pushed aside for the fruity androgyny of Light Blue Pour Homme. I, for one, am weary of Tom Cruise. When can I get my Robert Mitchum back?

Jo Malone's Black Vetyver Café is like Thierry Mugler's Angel Men Pure Coffe, only without the steroid injections and the twenty-five pound sacks of sugar -- which means, actually, that it's not like Angel Men Pure Coffee at all.

Pardon my brain lapse.

While both fragrances feature the aroma of roasted coffee beans as their opening attraction, the vetyver root imbues BVC with a musky earthen tone at its base that forgoes the predictable avalanche of candies, syrups and sugars comprising much of its gourmand competitors. Black Vetyver Café fits neatly within the class of modern fragrance that comes across as near transparent, sitting close to the skin and subtly vibrating its frequency rather than blasting like a foghorn at everyone else in the room. You have to lean in a little closer to get the message.

Angel Men Pure Coffee, however -- pure sugar, pure foghorn. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Black Vetyver Café is a bit of burnt coffee, a whiff of sweet smoke and a split of dry wood that winds down into a light salt of the earth musk. Since BVC is a cologne rather than a parfum, the oils are somewhat diluted so the main body of the fragrance, already subtle, tends to make its exit sooner than appreciated (I would have liked the coffee and smoke to pal around for another hour or two) -- but for approximately $50.00 an ounce, that's not necessarily a deal breaker.

UPDATE:

A decent enough compromise between Black Vetyver Café and Angel Men Pure Coffee would be New Harlem by Bond No. 9 -- a potent blend of coffee, vanilla and patchouli that's sweeter and stronger than Black Vetyver Café but not as fully committed to the spotlight as Angel Men Pure Coffee.

Veronique Nichanian, menswear designer for Hermes, offers 10 sartorial suggestions for the twenty-first century man:

FOLLOW THE RULES: VÉRONIQUE NICHANIAN

Her rules are, of course, very snuffy and chi-chi when applied to real life -- need a leather jacket? how about an Hermès leather bomber? -- but my favorite was rule number five:

#5 -- "Age is not important. A man, no matter if he's 20 or 60, can wear a tee and jeans if he has the right body."

Yes, please don't bore us with your middle age spread. I guess that means I need to start hitting the gym more than five times a week . . . dammit!

For the rest of us, however, obvious designer logos can cover a multitude of sins:

Givenchy Insense is as pretty an incense fragrance as you're likely to find without straying entirely afield from the meditative purpose for which incense was developed.

Opening on more a sweet powder premise than warm amber, the musks make a demure appearance an hour or so into the script, whereupon the whole machine then gently starts to wind down to a nice enough, if rather unsurprising, conclusion of dusty cedar, light sage and faint powdery florals.

Patty over at Perfume Posse considers it masculine (and "not terribly entertaining") while I find it vaguely feminized, so I suppose that means it swings both ways for the right dance partner.

Luca Turin gave it high praise in The Guide, and I can see how someone who awarded the floral frankincense of L'Artisan's Timbuktu five stars (out of five) would also really like Givenchy Insense . . .

Absolutely inoffensive, and if I smelled this on a passing breeze, I might lift my head and look for its source, which, I suppose, is the point of the exercise to begin with, but I prefer the blacker smokes of Greyland.

UPDATE (05/26/09):

An anonymous reader decided to write in and tell me that this review for Givenchy Insense is "misleading" because it isn't incense -- though he/she made no effort to clarify what he/she defines as incense. Of course.

Just so we're clear, "incense" is a latin word meaning "to burn" -- it is not one specific material (the Frankincense tree is named after the word "incense" and not the other way around); in fact, incense materials vary from culture to culture, so what constitutes incense in the Middle East will be completely different from the incense used in a spiritual ceremony in Japan, or, say, a New Age gathering in Sedona, Arizona.

Wikipedia lists 44 different materials that are, and have been, used in incense rituals throughout the world: Agarwood, Cedar, Sandalwood, Cypress, Juniper, Cassia, Coriander, Harmala, Juniper, Nutmeg, Star anise, Vanilla, Bdellium, Benzoin, Copal, Frankincense, Myrrh, Labdanum, Dragon's blood, Storax, Galbanum, Elemi, Camphor, Sandarac, Guggul, Opoponax, Tolu balsam, Patchouli, Sage, Bay, Tea, Balsa, Vetiver, Orris, Calamus, Spikenard, Galangal, Couch Grass, Clove, Lavender, Saffron, Ambergris, Musk and Operculum.

Givenchy InSense is the kind of scent you would smell in a college girl's dorm room after she sets alight a stick/cone of what she would call "incense" -- a kind of pretty, floral sandalwood/white musk mix. Exactly the type of "incense" one would find in the racks at a natural foods store in the U.S. -- making it, in a sense (InSense), incense.

I delete anonymous comments as a general rule (anonymous commenters are the worst kind, often being rude and/or wrong -- in this case, he/she was both), but I felt that mainstream confusion regarding the "incense" definition was an important one to address.

Greyland by Montale is a very nice piece of work -- dry wood (with teak mellowing out the sharpness in the cedar), musky incense, some waxy rose.

The benzoin resin listed as an ingredient lends the fragrance a meditative, churchy feel, slowing the evaporation of the oils so that Greyland tarries on the skin, signaling the potential for spiritual depth among the copy machines, coffee breaks steeped in divine revelation, post-it notes scribbled with missives from the beyond.

Greyland is Matthew Williamson Warm Sand's older, wiser sister. It opens and finishes with a near tactile glow, its hint of floral more deeply resonant, the woods more present. Greyland works to slow time, calm the air, create an olfactory refuge from chaos.

Fans of rich, multi-layered incense fragrances will find much to love about it; however, if you're looking for an incense perfume that treads more light and powdery, try the tangy Andy Warhol Silver Factory by Bond No. 9, or the aforementioned Matthew Williamson Warm Sand.

I received my copy of the 2008 edition of Michael Edwards' Fragrances of the World, and it's a beautifully designed coffee-table book cleverly disguised as a fragrance resource/encyclopedia.

The book groups thousands of perfumes into separate olfactory categories (floral, soft floral, green, fruity, oriental, water, etc.) and then subdivides them within those categories while also designating gender (if appropriate), when the perfume was first produced and/or reintroduced, and whether or not it's a limited edition, but the main thrust of FOTW appears to be as a professional resource for helping overwhelmed fragrance department employees help customers find perfumes that are similar to ones they already like from among the tsunami of new releases and old classics.

For example, say someone likes 212 by Carolina Herrera -- then perhaps he/she might also like Ghost Summer Moon by Ghost or New York Fling by Bond No. 9; or maybe you've just met a fan of Versace's Metal Jeans Men who's looking to find something different, but not too different -- lessee, flip flip flip through the pages, a-ha! Cafe Men by Cofinluxe, PS Silver by Paul Sebastian, Cool Grey by Jacques Rothschild, and so on.

There's a complete index in the back of every fragrance listed according to producer, as well as in alphabetical order and separately according to gender. It's a tidy reference volume that's as beautiful as it is useful.

Below is a photo of the front cover:

More photos from the book can be found at my Flickr account.

My bottle of Comme des Garcons Luxe Series Patchouli arrived today. The packaging is stunning, which I should have expected from a high-concept luxury fashion and design firm out of Japan, but still . . . it was just a shiny red box until I opened it up, and then it bloomed:

Richly layered fragrance, elegantly minimalist bottle, stunning packaging.

I'll be posting some additional photos at my Flickr address.

Matthew Williamson's Warm Sand is one of four fragrances (Jasmine Sambac, Lotus, Incense and Warm Sand) created for his Matthew Williamson The Collection released earlier this year.

A light, smooth sandalwood is predominant, with a high note strategically placed far enough back that it doesn't overwhelm the composition. I originally thought it might be a very dry, sandy scrub pine for the delicate green twang it gave off, but the official note list includes Ginger Lily, which might also explain the waft of powdery-sweet tones within the sandalwood.

Of course, a flower! *smacks forehead*

My mind doesn't immediately leap to floral associations when presented with a title like Warm Sand. I think hot, I think dry, I think dying of thirst . . . but Ginger Lilies? Not especially.

To be frank, it smells just like an incense stick to me, something you'd smell burning in a college girl's dorm room on a quiet Tuesday night -- one of those exotic blends with a crazy name ("Essence of Purring Soul Tiger") that can only be found at a boutique New Age shop out of Sedona.

There's nothing groundbreaking or earthshaking about Warm Sand, but it's soft, pleasant and easy to wear, a genuine accomplishment on its own terms. It also has the added plus of being an incense fragrance that's light enough for consistent summer use.

Marketing materials stated it would see an international release, but Warm Sand has not yet made a U.S. appearance.

Andy Warhol Silver Factory is predicted to overtake Chinatown as Bond No. 9's best-selling fragrance, and it's easy to see why; it's got all the right mass-appeal elements while being just quirky enough to win accolades from the Jet Set.

Silver Factory opens with a brief tin-can twang, perhaps in homage to Warhol's Soup Can success, after which it veers smoothly into incense/patchouli territory, powder-puff clutched firmly in hand, seeming for all the world like Marie Antoinette slumming it with a bunch of starving artists in Brooklyn -- a little hippie-dippie, a lot of flower-power pretty.

The rich French chick is obviously picking up the check.

Warhol would have approved, if for nothing else than the terrific bottle design.

UPDATE:

I sent a bottle of Silver Factory to my sister, thinking that it might be right up her alley, and I was right! This is what she said:

"I do need to let you know that I did get the Bond No. 9, and I REALLY like it - it's that heavy musky scent that I like so much - and I have to remember to be light-handed with it. I spray it into the air and walk through it - I'm so pretentious!"

She had worn Jean Paul Gaultier for ten years straight. It was time for a change, and Silver Factory is a very nice change, indeed.

After the hell that was CdG Hinoki, I decided it might be nice to test out something unapologetically pretty, so I chose Bois de Paradis by Parfums DelRae, a warm and more traditionally floral fragrance without a whiff of sharp greenery or musty oakmoss for miles.

Bois de Paradis settles onto the skin with a bit of a rounded, amber quality, but soon finds its way onto center stage with a performance of powdery rose, the shyest of citrus peering out from the wings. There's some fresh, sugared berry in there, as well -- a bit of pulp, but so well-balanced that the spotlight stays fixed on the rose until the whole thing fades away in a breathy sigh of soft incense, cinnamon and blonde wood.

I would consider this a strictly feminine fragrance, as it's far too lovely in composition and intention to straddle the gender line with any conviction. That doesn't mean a man can't wear it, but he'd have to be quite finely featured and delicately attractive in order to successfully pull it off -- too many broad, sharp angles, too loud a laugh, and the result would be jarring.

Bois de Jasmin, a fragrance review website, describes Parfums DelRae's Bois de Paradis this way: "Smooth and luminous woods provide a backdrop against which the crimson rose petals fall, touched by the sparkling quality of hesperidic notes . . . While the composition starts out rich and opulent like crimson silk embroidered with gold thread, the end result touches the skin like the softest of cashmeres."

My own prose isn't quite so purple, but I'm sure you get the point.

The difference between fantasy and reality can be either a fine line or a vast, chasmic gulf -- in the case of Comme des Garcons Hinoki, it's the latter as you come to realize the disparity between the calm, nature-friendly images their marketing hacks deployed and how toxic the concoction actually turns out to smell.

At the Monocle website, this is what it says about Hinoki: "Produced for us by Comme des Garçons' perfumer, Antoine Maisondieu, Hinoki is a cedary, woody scent inspired by Japanese hot-spring baths and Scandinavian forests."

Uh-huh. That's a good one. I'm still giggling.

Here's the official scent-note list from LuckyScent.com: cypress, turpentine, camphor, cedar, thyme, pine, Georgian wood, frankincense, moss and vetiver . . . wait! Did I read that correctly? Turpentine? Camphor? Well that explains the burning sensation in my nasal passages.

CdG has often displayed a terrific sense of humor when it comes to scent creation -- their Synthetic Series is a sly wink and a poke in the ribs to the notion of traditional perfumery -- but Hinoki just smells like a big "F**k You!" to anyone who didn't grow up sniffing glue out behind the neighbor's garage.

A reviewer over at Perfume Posse went all up in a swoon when Hinoki was first released, describing it as "ultra-woody and with the tang of the turpentine and camphor buzzing through your nose like a mentholated bullet" -- as if that could, by any stretch of the imagination, be a good thing. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure I'd like a woodsy, Japanese hot-springs fragrance as much as the next guy, just not when it reeks like some juvenile delinquent kicked over a gallon of paint-thinner in the Zen garden.

The one good thing about Hinoki is that it vanishes off the skin in record time.

Maybe it was the hype -- the stream of overwrought fragrance reviewers slinging around words like disturbing, creepy and cruel -- but Yatagan by Caron turned out to be a bit of a bust, in my opinion.

Not that it isn't a decent enough men's cologne -- it is, but in that Gentlemen's Club way, where manliness is defined by taste in whiskeys and conversation about golf scores. Yatagan would fit right in among those wood paneled walls, the smoke of imported cigars and the latest round of merger speculation; it has a semi-rugged manner and a voice deep enough not to cause suspicion, but there's also something vaguely feminine about it, like the expletive-spouting football fanatic at the office who goes home every night to his closet full of feather boas and high-heeled pumps.

There are a number of women I've talked with who like and wear Yatagan, praising it as alluring and slightly animalic, and it's the "slightly" part preceding the "animalic" about which I'm most disappointed, for Yatagan (named after a curved, Turkish blade) is an expertly blended, perfectly composed fragrance, all tucked in and pressed, shoes shined and its mane of hair carefully combed. It lacks any of the truly rough edges necessary to be considered disturbing.

In all fairness, Yatagan gets points for not tilting the smell-o-wheel toward the citrus fruits, iris flowers and potpourri spices imbuing the majority of its allegedly masculine co-horts. I can appreciate a fragrance that doesn't attempt to smother me in hot-house gardens, grapefruit juice and sandalwood -- but it's more musky and smoky than dirty, sweaty or scary.

Wear it when the occasion calls for something classic, but you'd prefer not to smell like the CEO's wife or the rum section at your local liquor store.

Let's face it, Patchouli has suffered a bad rap. While used for centuries in the production of classic perfumes, recent decades of dreadlocked, white-suburban, American pot smokers dousing themselves liberally in the stuff in the delusion that it covered the reek of bong-water and cannabis resin (not to mention a lack of bathwater, soap and ambition) helped make patchouli the unfortunate punch-line of the fragrance industry. No self-respecting, high-end perfume could afford to embrace its earthy charms for fear of mass ridicule.

But not any more.

Having torqued out on soapy florals and candied-fruits, perfumers are now mining "The Patch" for new veins of inspiration, sprucing up its shabby reputation and burnishing its positive credentials in the process. Instead of just a cheap, pungent oil whose sole purpose is to disguise other, more unpleasant odors, patchouli is making a welcome reappearance as a distinctly noticeable base in mainstream fragrances, as well as playing its own starring role in numerous cult perfumes on offer from respected niche fragrance companies.

It may all be just a cynical nod to the retro-cool craze that's overtaking the rest of the fashion industry as I type this, but the old adage still holds true: what was once tired is now fresh again, especially for a generation of fragrance consumers blessedly free from the burden of patchouli's more unattractive tie-dye and dim-bulb hippie associations.

Comme des Garcons Luxe Series Patchouli is a prime example of this new starring-role patchouli -- at $190.00 an ounce, and boasting the incorporation of "the highest quality" Sumatran patchouli (and I suppose we'll just have to take their word for it), CdG Luxe Patchouli is warm, richly layered and exceptionally polished from front to finish.

Whereas Le Labo's terrific Patchouli 24 has a charred-wood quality that steers it in a darker, more unexpected direction, CdG Luxe Patchouli is nothing if not a smooth operator all the way through, definitely in the spotlight yet respectfully sharing the stage with a lush procession of incense, bourbon, dry wood, a touch of leather and a dash of salt.

CdG has always been a perfume-connoisseur's best kept secret, creating strange and often wonderful fragrances for a niche market hungry for more than spices and flowers. With the Luxe series, and especially so with their Luxe Patchouli, it appears that CdG is aiming for a spendier, more high-profile customer. I don't know if patchouli is what that spendier, more high-profile customer necessarily wants, but this particular number is certainly a worthy consideration -- a resonant parfum with a beautifully designed bottle that wouldn't look at all out of place on a table next to Chanel No. 5 and Robert Piguet Fracas.

The emerging wealthy of India and other parts of Asia might just snap this limited edition fragrance right up.

You can see more photos of CdG Luxe Patchouli at the following link: Photos: Comme des Garcons Luxe Patchouli

Louise is in town visiting for two days, so we carjacked a few hours from our ordinary duties and went on a joyride yesterday through the Neiman Marcus and Nordstrom fragrance departments in North Park Mall.

First off, for as much money as a successful fragrance can rake in for a fashion house, it seems odd that the fragrance counters at major department stores are mostly stuck off in a corner (Neiman Marcus, mostly, though the Jo Malone counter had prominent placement way up in the front of the cosmetics department, along with a small table of Chanel testers) or quite a ways in the back (Nordstrom), with the different designer lines all jumbled up willy-nilly so that you have no idea where to look if you want something specific.

"You got your Stella in my Armani!" -- "You got your Valentino in my Versace!" and so on.

We started off at the L'Artisan Parfumeur counter at Neimans, where I proceeded to snort through a good portion of their offerings as Louise stood by, wrinkling her nose at each one of them while issuing terse judgements: Fleur d'Oranger (nose wrinkle -- "Too light!"), L'Eau de Jatamansi (nose wrinkle -- "Ugh, horrible!"), Premier Figuier (nose wrinkle -- "I might spray this in my bathroom, but not on myself!"), Fou d'Absinthe (nose wrinkle -- "Meh!"), Dzongkha (nose wrinkle -- "No thanks!") and Ananas Fizz (which I thought was rather cute with its sparkly citrus character, also got the dreaded nose wrinkle -- "Too fruity!").

Obviously, L'Artisan wasn't hitting the spot, even though their Dzing! is one of my favorites, so I dragged her on over to Jo Malone. Lime Basil & Mandarin. The sales rep picked up a bottle and spritzed some fragrance on a paper strip. Spritz spritz. Grapefruit. Spritz spritz. White Jasmine & Mint. Lotus Blossom & Water Lily. Vintage Gardenia. Spritz spritz spritz spritz. Louise's eyes narrowed. Her nose wrinkled. We moved on.

A member of the Perfume of Life forums had suggested that Creed Spring Flower might work for Louise, so we headed to the Creed counter. "Do you have Spring Flower?" I asked. For some odd reason which I still can't fathom, the sales rep spritzed a paper strip with their Vetiver for Men and handed it over, perhaps assuming we were shopping for me. That brought out an immediate and near violent nose wrinkle from Louise. "No, your Spring Flower -- we're shopping for her," and I nudged the live-wire bundle of judgements standing next to me. Spritz spritz. Louise inhaled, her eyes snapped open. "Love it," she exclaimed, and snatched a bottle into her hands as if to prevent it from slipping away and running off behind the dreaded Jo Malone counter where it would then be lost to her forever amidst a sea of bland naturals.

I breathed a sigh of relief that the misson wouldn't turn out to be a total bust, after all. We wandered over to the Chanel counter. "Do you have any Cristalle?" I asked. "No," said the sales woman. "Cristalle was a limited edition and is now discontinued." I can only imagine the howls of despair across the globe that will greet that announcement. "Then how about No. 19?" Spritz spritz. Louise and I recoiled simultaneously from the paper smelling strip in front of us. "Oh," she said, and I knew what she meant. It smelled harsh and almost angry, as if it were pissed off that we had dared disturb its peaceful slumber. We thanked the rep and backed slowly away.

More counters, more little bottles of potion. D&G Light Blue. Spritz. Crisp, green apples and soap -- nose wrinkle. Versace Bright Crystal. Spritz. Fresh, clean and soapy with flowers, like a young girl in a pastel dress on a spring day -- nose wrinkle. "Do you have any Gucci Envy?" I asked, and the sales rep looked at me as if I'd just stepped off the moon. "That came out ten years ago!" she said, acting for all the world as if that meant something obvious when she was standing not twenty feet away from a shelf stocked full of Chanel No. 5. "So, do you have any?" I persisted. "No, it's been discontinued," she replied. Louise blanched. She loved Gucci Envy and used to wear it non-stop when it was first released. "Oh, okay. How about Gucci Rush?" The sales rep raised her eyebrows a little. "That's been discontinued, as well." I imagined more howls of protest around the globe, especially considering that both Chandler Burr and Luca Turin raved about Rush in their latest books. The rep whipped out a bottle of Gucci by Gucci. Spritz spritz. Perfectly nice, completely inoffensive, yet utterly forgettable -- nose wrinkle.

We then cruised through an Oznian poppy-field of Burberry The Beat (metallic fruity), Marc Jacobs Daisy (piña colada), Donna Karan Cashmere Mist (hyper sweet powder), Thierry Mugler Angel (oh crikey, but that stuff is a semi-truck of a perfume! it ran me over on its way out of the bottle!), Fendi Palazzo (decently unisex, with some warm spices, but a mite too aftershavey for a girly-girl like Louise), Miss Boucheron (flowers dunked in melon-liqueur). I thought maybe the classics? YSL Paris (drowning in roses), Estee Lauder Pure White Linen (powder puff grandma), Jean Patou Joy (rich and complex, but way too traditional), Emilio Pucci Vivara (green, but like a truckload of unripe fruit). Nose wrinkles, all. Hmmm, how about Bulgari?

The sales rep spritzed a strip of paper with the Bulgari Voile de Jasmin. We sniffed. Clean, a nice powdery floral with just enough of a fresh green tang to give it some balance. "I like it," Louise said. "I'll take it!" Great, so that's two successes -- Creed Spring Flower and Bulgari Voile de Jasmin. Anything further will just be an excess of riches, and besides, we were exhausted, our poor noses reaching the end of what they could physically endure. I'd practically shoved a bottle of Trish McEvoy #3 up my left nostril and could still barely smell a thing, though Louise said it might not have smelled like much of anything to begin with. It's quite possible she had a point.

But wait! Spritz spritz. A sales rep hands over a last strip of smelling paper with Valentino Rock-n-Rose. We both approach with caution, take hesitant sniffs. "Hmmmm, I like this," exclaims Louise. I'm deeply skeptical. "No," she says. "It's straight-forward pretty -- not overly complex or trying to be anything else but a cute floral that smells kind of young and fun." I sniff again. It doesn't blow me away, but it's not awful, either, and she's right, there's something almost blessedly uncomplicated about it -- no thick, dark layers of synthetic musks that are the perfume industry's new semaphore for 'Fuck me I'm horny!' "I hate the bottle," she says, rolling her eyes at the cheap, black-lace covered glass bulb squatting in front of us on the counter, looking for all the world like it belongs on a teenage goth-chick's bedside table, but she whips out her credit card and hands it to the cashier anyway. "But what the hell," she says, "I buy perfume for how it smells."

We both start giggling at that, remembering the big deal the L'Artisan Parfumeur sales rep had made when presenting a box of the Fleur d'Oranger. He was almost, like, Well, voila! as if he'd just pulled the most magnificent jewel out his hat, and yet it was just some cheap pine-wood box with a wax seal and maybe some ribbon tied around it. "What was that supposed to be?" Louise cracked as we'd walked away, "Funeral for a Fragrance?" We burst out laughing. "Right," I'd said, "because nothing says class like a bottle nailed into a pine box!"

Four hours later, our mission complete, we headed for the nearest restaurant with a bar, as at that point we'd both wanted nothing so much more than the smell of fresh gin mixed with tonic . . . and maybe a slice of lime.

After my Near Death by Timbuktu experience yesterday, I pulled a 180 and dug out my sample vial of Comme des Garcons Tar, one of the fragrances from the Japanese Label's inventive Synthetic Series.

But still, once bitten twice shy. I uncorked the vial, took a cautious sniff and was flooded with instant relief -- there were to be no powdery florals or simpering incense for me today, thank you very much!

Comme des Garcons Tar comes out of the bottle like oil-slicked, gasoline-soaked asphalt on a blazing summer day, any trace of roadside daisies wiped out aeons ago from the toxic mélange. I got a rush of slow traffic, two of the three lanes blocked off due to ongoing construction, the aromas of hot, fresh tar, melted rubber and diesel fumes wafting in through the open car window.

It could only be better if Cheap Trick were playing on the radio.

This is exactly the fragrance you wear to an ex-boyfriend's wedding, or to the In-Laws' house at Christmas. Dark, filthy gruel for the soul. If I still lived in Manhattan, this would be my daily go-to fragrance, cuz why fight the stench of the urban jungle when you can take it out for drinks and maybe get laid? Besides, there's nothing more pathetic than trying to smell like an ocean breeze or a bouquet of orange blossoms when you're tromping past a four foot high heap of garbage piled up by the curbside on Ninth Avenue.

Life's dirty. You have to pump your own gas. Deal with it.

Does to Chanel No. 5 what industrial-strength triple selective herbicide does to your unborn children. Too bad they don't sell this stuff by the gallon, though, as that first heady blast of oil and asphalt disappears in the rear view mirror far too quickly.

UPDATE:

Below is a commercial clip for one of the earlier Comme des Garcons fragrances:

I'd rank this high on my "I Expected So Much More!" list of fragrances, which, I suppose, isn't so much the fault of Timbuktu itself, but rather that I assumed it would possess a completely different character from the one it actually had the gall to exhibit.

L'artisan Parmufeur is the same company that turned out Dzing! -- the dizzyingly animalic fragrance that smells like a distant horse barn on a hot summer afternoon and which instigated nostalgic delight as I caught wafts of it drifting from my skin throughout the day I first wore it.

Dzing!, for me, was the definition of an unexpected pleasure. Timbuktu? Not so much.

It's not like it didn't come highly recommended: Bertrand Duchaufour is a highly sought-after contemporary perfumer, and Luca Turin gives his Timbuktu a five star review, calling it "woody smoky" and stating that it is "a tremendously melodious and affecting start of vetiver, sandalwood and incense . . . an odd, distinctly perceptible, but almost infrared shimmer of woody freshness." Bois de Jasmin praises it as a "perfect (study) in radiance and projection . . . experiencing the sillage of Timbuktu is akin to stepping into the pool of hot sunshine" and Robin at Now Smell This writes, "Timbuktu mostly smells like dirt, soft woods, old parchment and smoky incense. There is some sweetness from the myrrh, and perhaps the karo karounde, but it is more dry than sweet, and probably more masculine than feminine."

I couldn't disagree more.

As I sit here typing this, Timbuktu is glancing off my skin in a soft and surprisingly trite floral and incense accord, like sitting in a church on Christmas, surrounded by lit candles and heaps of poinsettias as the choir launches into the Hallelujah chorus from Handel's Messiah -- been there, done that, wake me when it's over.

Masterful composition or not, for a fragrance named after an ancient, hot, dusty, sand-filled, West African city that functions as a trading warehouse for rock-salt from Taoudenni, the fact that it opens so light, flowery and fresh is a bit of a letdown, not to mention the yawn-inducing, whisper-soft sandalwood/myrrh thing it tiptoes into later. I personally would consider this much more a feminine fragrance than something for a man, unless you're a hairdresser in London/New York/Paris/Houston who spends all day in a cloud of hairspray and chemical fumes -- then it's probably perfect.

Methinks this was aimed square at the Chanel No. 5 crowd (Fresh! Pretty!), and they dutifully ate it up like a pack of wild dogs on crack, so bravo!, I guess, my compliments to the chef, something like that. Now pardon me while I go wash it off.

I walked into the the BF's office and waved my arm in his general direction. Without even pausing at his keyboard, he stated emphatically that he never wanted to smell "that crap" on me again -- so, okay then.

UPDATE:

Boring, floral/incense odor scrubbed off, replaced with something much nicer. Mind now clear. Okay.

To be fair, should I smell Timbuktu on a woman, I'll likely consider it a perfectly lovely, inoffensive scent and I'll be grateful she isn't wearing something I can choke on from two blocks down, and then I won't give it another thought -- but "perfectly lovely" and "inoffensive" are just code for "unremarkable" and life's too short for that.

However, "perfectly lovely" and "inoffensive" can also be considered code for "good choice for office wear" . . . so one never knows. But please, guys? How about a little Frapin or Cereus, instead; hell, I'd even prefer Cartier Declaration to Timbuktu. At least Declaration is interesting.

Note: review was revised on 01/27/09

While Le Labo's Labdanum 18 is a big, bouncing, Golden Retriever puppy of a fragrance, rushing out of the bottle all wagging tail and sloppy kisses and with a personality so sunny and sweet you just want to throw your arms around it and breathe it in by the lungful, Patchouli 24 is dusky and smoldering at first contact, with a quiet char to its character that recalls embers burning low -- smokey, outdoor fires with a tarry, black-pitch undertone that subtly reveals a bit of a honied, amber glow once you've contemplated its nature for a while.

It's the difference between a wine-fueled afternoon picnic in the park and sitting sober under a summer night sky while a huge yellow moon drifts overhead.

A fondness for the bitterness of birch tar and the sharp freshness of styrax resin are a must. I know one woman who loves smoky, patchouli scents but just can't give Patchouli 24 the thumbs up, and I think it's the styrax/birch tar combo that's keeping her enthusiasm at bay. Personally, I love the almost acrid campfire smoke character these ingredients provide, blending with the patchouli to result in a smoky, incense fragrance that's a bit out of left field.

Patchouli 24 was created veteran perfumer Annick Menardo, who also created Bulgari Black, Yves Saint Laurent Body Kouros, Dior Hypnotic Poison, Boss Hugo Boss, Lolita Lempicka and more.

***This review was updated 09/03/08

This is a classic masculine fragrance from top to bottom, with broad shoulders, big biceps and the legs of a running back. Lucky Scent describes it as "soft-spoken" and "delicately spiced" but this stuff has been pounding at the gates since I put it on over three hours ago (and after my disastrous first impression of L'air du Desert Marocain, I've learned to tread lightly with new fragrances).

I'm sure it transforms into something much more civilized as the day wears on (and on), but once the brute has broken down your door, who cares if he's willing to share the remote?

Then again, I have to give it props for staying power.

Luca Turin stated in his guide that Invasion Barbare is "one of the top two or three fragrances in this genre on the face of the earth" -- and if by "this genre" he means "chiseled locomotives that charge straight on while happily flattening anything in their paths" then yes, I'd say Mr. Turin is absolutely correct.

Suitable for WWE champions, NFL players and Hedge Fund managers. If you weigh in at less than two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle (physically and/or psychologically), you might want to try something else.

UPDATE (05/18/09):

I've given Invasion Barbare a couple of test-drives since this review was written, and I like it a lot better than I did initially -- probably because I learned to go easy on it and give it plenty of room to breathe (which it needs).

It's dry, herbal and exceptionally well-crafted, with that serious hang-time I mentioned above. It smells like a billionaire's after-shave, if billionaires wear after-shave. They probably wear the blood of their defeated rivals for all I know, with a gallon of Essence du Cash mixed in.

I'm sure it smells terrific on them, too, but for all the rest of us, Invasion Barbare will have to do.

If you've ever wondered at some new line of fashion that doesn't fit whatsoever, a slightly off-kilter sensibility to a bag or a pair of shoes, perhaps a new fragrance has a scent that simply doesn't resonate with you -- well, maybe it's because the Western consumer is no longer driving the market.

Perfume makers pin their hopes on China:

"With sales in much of the rest of the world slowing or declining, the perfume industry, primarily based in Paris and New York, has high hopes for China . . . many in the business say they believe that the concept of perfume is so new that a lot of Chinese consumers are, in fact, not buying a perfume but rather the brand to which a bottle of perfume happens to be attached. 'China is about brand, brand, brand,' Alexandre de Chaudenay, Asia-Pacific managing director of the perfume licensee Beauté Prestige International, said . . . 'Everyone talks about how strong Chanel and Dior perfumes are in China,' Chaudenay said . . . 'Are those brands' perfumes selling well? I think so. Are the consumers coming back? We don't know.'"

First released in 1944, discontinued briefly and then rereleased in 1999, Bandit is a floral with teeth. Considered a classic chypre, with a sub-genre of leather-chypre, listed fragrance notes are: neroli, orange, ylang ylang, galbanum, jasmine, tuberose, rose, carnation, leather, vetiver, oakmoss, patchouli and musk.

Bandit parfum is tender, but tender like a slap from a lover followed at once by a rain of tearfully apologetic kisses, and it's pretty, but only in the way a deep cave of ice that leaps into focus under the unflinching probe of flashlights can be called "pretty" -- at first it dazzles, and you forget for a moment that you're surrounded by darkness.

Robin at Now Smell This writes that "Bandit is drinking and smoking and leather jackets, and running around at all hours getting into all sorts of mischief," while Marina at Perfume Smellin' Things states: "Bandit is a stunning scent, the one that works exceptionally well when one is dressed especially sharp and is in a mood to act rather aloof."

The BF remarked that he smelled its deep, musky character lingering in the room hours after I'd exited out the door, while my friend Louise said that she considers it one of the best masculine fragrances she's ever smelled, even though it was originally formulated for women.

***Note: I've been told the parfum is quite different from the Edp and Edt formulae -- the parfum is the only Bandit I've yet had the pleasure to encounter and it is indeed a full-bodied, long-lasting fragrance, displaying a range from flowers to earth to leather and salty musk.

Photo of the tiny Bandit parfum bottle below:

There was a summer camp I went to as a pre-teen and teenager, where I learned to ride horses, shoot arrows, swim, paddle a canoe, identify species of plants and bugs. There were campfires at night where we sang songs around the warmth and glow of the fire, there were instructional classes every day, reveille at six in the morning as we all struggled out of bed and gathered around the flagpole before breakfast to watch the American flag raised as we pledged allegiance, group dining in the big Mess Hall and games of softball, touch football and capture the flag, swimming competitions, canoe races across the surface of the cold dark lake.

But what I remember the most is the horseback riding -- how huge the horses were to me when I was young and still growing. Their rich, sweaty smell as I leaned into them to cup a hoof in one hand and use a small metal pick to clean out the dirt from around their horseshoes. The aroma of hay, leather saddles and bridles, manure, urine, the cedar shavings and straw that lined the floors of the stalls, the warmth of the horses' skin as I brushed them down, cleaned out their manes and tails, stroked their long faces, fed them sugar cubes from a brown paper bag.

Complex elements that all join together to form the recollected smell of a shaded horse barn on a hot summer day.

This is Dzing! Animal sweat. Hay. Leather. Horse urine. Sugar cubes. Cedar shavings. Barn wood. A field of grass baking in the sun. A hint of wildflowers in the breeze.

I always approach the BF when I first try a new fragrance, and his response is usually, "Oh, that smells just like Calvin Klein (fill-in-the-blank)" -- but not today. He sniffed, his eyes lit up. "That's masculine," he said. He took another sniff and smiled a little. "You dirty boy!"

***Note: Dzing! changes with time into a far different creature. Soft. Tame. With breath like warm vanilla sugar.

Photos of Dzing! below:

Crazy, knock your socks off, boozey glory, that's what this is.

I sprayed it on this morning and was struck gobsmackingly dizzy by a potent whiff of sweet whiskey/sugarcane rum that snatched me out of this dull, cold world and dumped me clean into my better, shimmering, ridiculously happy parallel universe where chandeliers are made of root beer tootsie-pops and . . . what? Jesus Christ, you need MORE than chandeliers made of root beer tootsie-pops?!

Cretins.

Just buy the damn stuff, because it smells all smoky/incense/sticky bun wonderful eight hours later, too.

UPDATE:

It's nice when you find a fragrance that's good enough to make you sit down and write an email complimenting the chef -- what's even nicer is when the chef posts your compliment on his website:

Ever since Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez published Perfumes: The Guide -- an arguably soon to be seminal examination of the modern fragrance industry, complete with over a thousand pithy perfume reviews, from newer releases such as Missoni by Missoni (5 stars: kaleidoscopic floral) and Marc Jacobs Men (1 star: sad fig) to classics such as Chanel No. 5 (5 stars: powdery floral) and Habit Rouge by Guerlain (5 stars: sweet dust) -- it's been a near revelation to watch some members of the online fragrance communities respond with revulsion, anger and disgust.

For an example of what I mean, go take a look at the book's customer reviews at Amazon. Go ahead, take your time, I'll wait . . .

Are you back? Funny, right? I mean, you'd think that some of them had never heard of art critics, restaurant critics, film critics, fashion critics, theater critics, wine critics, literary critics, architectural critics, automobile critics, hotel critics, music critics, the list goes on. If there's something out there to be done, then there's someone out there to critique it, and if you can't stand the heat, etc.

The harshest reviews of the book seem to come from people who feel somehow personally slandered or morally outraged because the book gave their favorite fragrance a thumbs down: "I picked up Perfumes: The Guide primarily to see how my current favorites, as well as several colognes I've had in the past, were evaluated. I was disappointed that the tart-tongued Turin hadn't anything whatsoever positive to say about any of the fourteen (Yeah -- 14) products I had in mind . . . This is a highly prejudiced "guide" that serves very little in the way of objectivity. Besides which, Turin's notes on several fragrances are nothing short of ultra-BITCHY, which made for unpleasant reading all around."

Oh well, sucks to be the one caught with your atrocious taste down around your ankles. Moving on . . .

When I was in college (that would be quite some time ago in the distant, foggy past), I read Rolling Stone magazine religiously for its film and music reviews. I've always loved reading criticism, as I find it fascinating how one thing can be seen, heard, touched, tasted and/or smelled in so many different ways. There was one RS issue from 1987 that contained a review of Kate Bush's 'Hounds of Love' and Olivia Newton John's 'Soul Kiss' -- the magazine's critics panned 'Hounds of Love' and praised 'Soul Kiss', events I didn't consider significant at that moment.

I mean, they were pop albums, right? And I had final exams to study for. But in the next month's issue, there were several letters to the editor that were composed mainly of howls of protest that Kate Bush should have gotten the thumbs-down while Olivia got the thumbs-up. "How could you?!" they wailed, seeming for all the world as if this was truly some matter of great importance and attention must be paid. "Kate Bush is a true artist! Olivia Newton John is a trash-pop waste of talent! What were you thinking? Are you out of your minds?!" The editor of the magazine responded (and I'm paraphrasing from memory):

"Look -- when we review music, we don't hold every artist to the exact same standards. Kate Bush offers herself up as a serious musician, someone who is attempting to create intellectual sonic-scapes imbued with psychologically resonant and socially complex meanings, so this is how we approached her latest album, which we believe failed at reaching her own lofty goals. Olivia Newton John operates under no such pretenses; instead, she produces straight-forward, entertaining pop music devoid of any meaning beyond that of having a good time singing along to it in your car. At this, we think she succeeded admirably, and so gave her the credit she deserved."

That little exchange has colored my view of criticism to this day. The higher the goal, the more detailed the scrutiny. Luca Turin gives Estee Lauder's 'Pleasures' a five star review. 'Pleasures' is a lovely, clean fragrance developed by a huge American conglomerate for an even huger American audience whose tastes at that time were direct and uncomplicated. It did exactly what it was created to do, was a terrific financial success while doing so, set the standard for pretty much any clean, fresh American floral that followed after, and Turin gave it its proper due. He then proceeds to slap Un Jardin Sur le Nil, formulated by famed contemporary perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena for the distinguished luxury fashion house Hermes, with only three stars and calls it "a curiously flat shapeless, pale-green affair that initially smells a bit like a new plastic tablecloth, then settles into a pleasant woody-fresh drydown."

Howls ensued. "How can Pleasures, an anonymous, squeaky-clean floral cooked up by the tanker-truck full by some monstrous American conglomerate, be rated higher than Un Jardin Sur le Nil, a serious fragrance for a serious luxury company created by the very serious Jean-Claude Ellena, an undisputed master in the field of perfumery? Is Turin insane?!!!" No, he isn't. He applied the appropriate standards to each fragrance -- Un Jardin Sur le Nil is nice enough, and maybe as nice as Pleasures in another context in another dimension, but it falls far short of artistry, which is what a critic usually expects from an artist, and what anyone in his/her right mind would expect from Hermes. Pleasures, however, succeeds brilliantly at exactly what it set out to do, which was to sell a fresh, clean, unobtrusive floral to the American mass market. Done, done and done. Ka-ching!

The vitriol now aimed at Turin and his writing partner Tania Sanchez is the same kind of vitriol aimed at the likes of, oh, say, Roger Ebert, only it's causing a stir in the fragrance industry because large-scale fragrance criticism, and any frank, behind the scenes discussion of fragrances, the industry and how perfume companies operate, is a relatively new beast. Chandler Burr wrote about the perfume industry's horror of transparency and professional criticism in his book, The Perfect Scent and offered some advice: It's here to stay. Get over it.

The film industry and fashion industry have long understood the necessity of transparency and the importance of embracing their critics, opening their doors to cameras and journalists, creating fashion documentaries and behind-the-scenes looks at how movies are made. None of this has destroyed either industry, and, in fact, has inspired a new legion of fans with near cult-like reverence for those who toil behind the curtains to create the magic. Fashion Designers are treated like rock stars, and movie directors are household names who earn millions in fees when their product is successful. In the perfume industry, however, the names of the chemists who painstakingly construct our favorite fragrances are kept off the boxes, and away from the press, and you can bet they don't get a cut of the proceeds.

Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez have created Step One towards a better understanding of the fragrance industry and those who work within it. They call it Perfumes: The Guide, while I call it Perfumes for Dummies -- a useful how-to, go-to manual that just might kick-start an interest in the artists behind the perfumes, the names behind the labels, the actual list of ingredients in the bottles and just why in the world this should all matter so much to so very many people (not to mention that a top fashion line can live or die on the sales of its fragrances alone).

If The Guide sparks interest in the inner-workings of the flagging fragrance industry, while also shining a much-deserved spotlight on boutique designer-fragrance companies that are presently creating truly gorgeous products that are criminally unavailable at your local Nordstrom, Saks or Neimans, then who cares if Turin gave your favorite perfume a thumbs-down and called it "stink oil in a cheap bottle" -- I still sit in front of the TV, mesmerized by old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns, yet Pauline Kael probably hated every single one of them.

Interview below with Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez:

I received my bottle of S-eX (pronounced Essex?) yesterday, so I tried it out this morning. Despite the rather blatant, cash-cow name, it's a very light fragrance that's more quietly intimate than swingingly provocative.

I'd read on numerous other sites about how it smells of sexy leather, salty bodily fluids, sweaty skin, yada yada yada -- I got none of that; rather, it opened on me crisp and bright, shiny, like I was shellacked in a tasteful citrus varnish. It then segued into a bantam-weight floral phase that was honestly quite pretty (though coolly dispassionate) and rather evocative of walking though a fresh spring garden where the buds are forming, the air is a pastel green, the grass is so new it barely gives off a whiff and any rosy-scented, heavy-hitting bloomers are way down the schedule.

The leather that soon makes its appearance has nothing to do with dominatrix fantasies or greasy biker bars and is, instead, the scent of a super-luxe handbag, clean and gracefully structured -- like a saddle-hued Hermes Birkin straight out of the box (platinum hardware included). Its more masculine equivalent might be a brand new, reissued, fuel-injected Triumph Bonneville parked in a dust-free, air-tight showroom, chrome gleaming, its plastic-wrapped tires having never contemplated the asphalt.

Either way, it's high quality, hand crafted, eminently desirable luxury with a tang of polished metal.

Then it moves into the alleged salty, skin, sweaty, bodily fluids phase, all to which I say, "pish posh!" I suppose if I squint my eyes real hard and crank my imagination into feverish overdrive, well then, yes, it smells like all sorts of carnal proclivities, but only in the way that a pop-diva's wig resembles real hair from the 50th row of the concert hall. It would take a genuine leap of faith to actually buy into the idea.

What it does do, however, is quite literally embody the definition of transparency in a fragrance. I think the reason that words like "warm" and "flesh" and "salt" and "sweat" are used so frequently when describing S-eX is because, by two-to-three hours into it, the fragrance itself has become nearly sheer, and what you're then smelling is really the saltwater evolution of your own skin, but heightened and corrected, as if you've been uploaded into Photoshop and tweaked -- some abstraction of a superior being accentuating your natural positives while glossing over any minor flaws.

It's pretty straight-forward from there on in, the usual sandalwood/musk/amber suspects rounding out the chamber ensemble, but they play together very nicely and about six hours later I have a light, golden note that's sitting so close to my skin we may as well be Siamese (surgical intervention unnecessary).

If you're looking for something knock-out, turn-heads, "Hello World!" potent, this aint it; but if you've been on the prowl for a unique, balanced, painstakingly formulated, high-concept fragrance that's surprisingly everyday-wearable for being so ridiculously niche, well . . . voila!

I received some hotly anticipated arrivals in the mail today.

S-eX by Shaping Room (aka S-Perfume)

Shaping Room is a niche fragrance company out of New York (they call themselves "the world's smallest fragrance house") that contracts stellar perfumers such as Christophe Laudamiel, who has created fragrances for the likes of Abercrombie & Fitch, Frederic Fekkai, Estee Lauder and Harvey Nichols. He co-created (along with Carlos Benaim, who additionally contributed work on Pure Poison and crafted the masculine version of Calvin Klein's Eternity) Ralph Lauren's Polo Blue for Men, which won the 2003 FIFI Award for Fragrance Star of the Year, as well as the Perfumers' Choice Award.

Christophe Laudamiel created S-eX for Shaping Room, and Luca Turin reviewed the fragrance for Perfumes: The Guide, dubbing it "space leather" and granting it five stars out of a possible five: ". . . S-ex is a leather fragrance in the grand manner of (Chanel's) Cuir de Russie: rich, smooth and suitably soft, only overlaid with a shiny plastic accord that obliterates the retro feel common to most leathers and turns it into the smell of a machine nobody has yet had the good fortune to strap himself into."

I look forward to hopping into the driver's seat and taking this souped-up, razzmatazz baby for a spin around the galaxy.

I also received this:

Discovery Set by Le Labo

Le Labo is another niche fragrance company based out of New York. Founded in 2006 by Fabrice Penot and Eddie Roschi (both formerly of Giorgio Armani fragrances), their passion is to produce daringly luxe, formulated-on-demand fragrances "far removed from the industrial and global forces that are driving boredom right down into the perfume bottles." Formulated-on-demand means they blend the formulae of essential oils with alcohol and water fresh for each order. It's rumored they "have little french elves with their black berets who work downstairs 24/7" -- but that can't be confirmed.

Le Labo started off with ten fragrances designed by superior talents in the world of perfumery. One of these, Patchouli 24 created by Annick Menardo (the number in the perfume's name refers to the specific number of ingredients in the formula), also received a five star review from Luca Turin who pronounced it "strange leather" and stated that it reminded him of the times he frequented a hot, airless storage room above the biology department while working summers at Moscow State University: " . . . the vanillic sweetness of the decaying old books had struck up a phenolic conversation with the harsh chemicals in the jars and the fragrant refrigerant oils in which pickled specimens swam blindly. The smell was at once beguiling, salubrious and toxic, and felt like a perfume composed for a fiercely intelligent librarian."

Of course, I had to find out for myself just what that means.

Le Labo allows the curious to sample its wares before splurging on an entire bottle, as there are few experiences less satisfying than plunking down good cash for something later discovered to be personally repellant. They call this sample pack their Discovery Set -- a box containing three 5ml glass vials of separate fragrances. I chose Patchouli 24 (natch), plus their Labdanum 18 and Vetiver 46.

So many combinations of molecules to sniff, too few days in a life . . .

Sometimes you hit if off badly when you're first introduced to someone -- not through any fault of your own or of the other party, it's just that the wrong foot is put forward, the handshake is cut off too early, you spill soup on your tie at lunch, etc. or whatever.

This was kind of my experience with L'Air de Desert Marocain. The very first time I tested it out, I applied too much and I felt like I was buried alive in a cedarwood coffin -- the smell was overwhelming, sharp, stabbing, awful. I never wanted to touch it again.

But then, several people whose opinion I respect said I might want to give it a second chance. They suggested that 1.) I don't put it near the face -- no neck or shoulders or chest; and 2.) I apply it sparingly -- very, very sparingly. Check, and check.

Test #2: the stabbing, suffocating cedar from my first attempt was replaced with a scent character that was drier and less harsh, and the other layers involved -- the vanilla, the flowers, the dusty incense -- broke through. It was an entirely different, and much more pleasant, experience than the first go-round, but while I could recognize that it was a well-crafted piece of work, it still didn't inspire me to purchase a bottle.

Fast forward to Test #3: this stuff is beautiful. It's moody and languid, woodsy and sweet, subtle and oh so dry, and I can't believe that it took me almost eight months to finally get around to appreciating such a fantastic piece of craftsmanship, but that's sometimes the way it goes -- like those paintings you have to stare at, and stare at, and stare at until finally they give up the goods and the hidden picture emerges.

Listen: if a soft cedarwood and amber fragrance with a dry vermouth backspin sounds like it might be your cup of tea, then by all means, take L'Air du Desert Marocain for a test drive. I think you'll be glad you did. I'm finally at the point myself where ordering a bottle of it sounds like a really good idea, and my one regret is the amount of time I've spent denying myself the option of reaching for it on a daily basis.

Now excuse me while I turn off my phone, curl up on the sofa and contemplate pure olfactory beauty. L'Air du Desert Marocain's olfactory beauty, silly -- not the sofa's.

***This review was revised on January 30th, 2009

UPDATE:

Some photos of the bottle below:

There are the classic French fragrances, like Chanel No. 5 or Guerlain's Mitsouko -- stately, proud, full of the poise of earthy spices, oily flowers and rare musks. They're fragrance institutions and stand tall like temples housing blood-stained altars to mythic goddesses. Worshippers prostrate themselves daily, and there will never be a lack of new converts to the religion. They are power, they are glory, they are the book of Genesis and everything else came after.

Then there are American fragrances, like Tommy Hilfiger's Tommy Girl and Estee Lauder's Pure White Linen -- fresh, clean and balanced. Sexy, but not overly so. More toned and pretty than worldly and sophisticated. They jog past you with a white smile and a sunny wave, trailing ambition and the optimism of youth in their light-floral, powdery wakes. They build their beach houses, mow their lawns, put everything in trusts for the next generation.

And then along comes a fragrance like Funny! by Moschino. Italian. Old world with a new attitude. Old house with a new perfume. She chooses to sparkle rather than demurely glow, to view coffee and cigarettes as lunch, to drink one too many glasses of wine and ask for dessert in the middle of the soup course. And though she knows the tonal loneliness of ancient cypress trees bending in the wind and the dark shade of dusty hillside vineyards ripening under the Tuscan sun, she moves through the day as if spiritually weightless, doing a zig and a zag like she's a beautiful girl on the back of a motorscooter, her arms flung around the most impossibly gorgeous boy, her hair streaming in the wind.

If she says "I love you" then she says it on impulse, and there's no expectation of anything in return -- just the radiant quality of sudden laughter at the table, shared childhood secrets, the vain protest as she pulls you to your feet to dance with her between the tables.

"Let's run away," she whispers in your ear, but you know she doesn't mean it and the next moment she's pulling away and rushing off to tell your fiancée the most hilarious story of how you crashed your first car into the local police station on your sixteenth birthday while drunk on your father's homemade sambuca.

But still, you're not sure you would have said no. How could you?

It's a partly cloudy day, the sun blazing out at intervals, and windy with the Texas humidity barreling back onto the scene after its blissful Autumn/Winter absence. So in honor of what I suppose is the return of the perpetual heat, I received three new fragrances in the mail -- well, three new fragrances to me. Le 3eme Homme by Caron, Declaration by Cartier and Timbuktu by L'Artisan Parfumeur.

I unboxed each one, set them on the counter in front of me, then reached for Le 3eme Homme (for whatever mystery reason that will forever remain buried in my subconscious) and sprayed it on.

I was immediately struck with its quickly crisp, bright sensation -- not sharp, like mown grass or a tree branch freshly stripped of its bark, but more like a citrus flower in the sun -- that seamlessly incorporated a bit of dry smoke for a result that was unapologetically pretty for something with the word "homme" in its title.

I walked into Brian's office and asked him what he thought. He buried his face in my neck and said, "Hmmm, citrus. Clean. You smell clean. Nice. Hmmmm, it reminds me of something . . . oh, I know. CK One! Not exactly CK One, but it's that fresh, clean scent that I remember CK One having, oh, 12 years ago."

And he's right. Le 3eme Homme has quite a lot in common with CK One -- its crisp, fresh character; its ability to be present without being overpowering; its light sillage; but it also differs from CK One in significant ways. Le 3eme Homme is more beautiful (if not ravishing) than sweet, more natural floral than flowery soap, and it has a shimmer of incense smoke across it that incites a tug of reverence, adding a layer of introspection, a haunting refrain of the blues, to what would otherwise be a straight-ahead dose of Greet the Day Happy.

It also doesn't last very long, which is an understandable consequence of its light touch. It's four hours later and I can barely smell it on my wrists save for just a smooth pull of sheer musk, whereas I was still grooving on the rich, whiskey sweet hues of New York over seven hours after I put it on.

It's an obviously expert fragrance concocted by an intelligent perfumer who knows his sh*t, and if I were to make one final comparison to CK One, I'd say that Le 3eme Homme is CK One's older, smarter brother who moved to Paris to finish his doctoral dissertation on the confluence of 18th century French Literature and 21st Century American Politics while ever refusing to don a beret.

Mon Dieu!

UPDATE:

When I returned from the coffee shop, Brian gave me a hug and said that he could still smell the Le 3eme Homme on me, but at about an 80% lower volume level. The remainder was smooth, polished wood with a slightly sweet, resinous tone. Completely unobtrusive, and noticeable at only intimate distances.