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
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