Fragrance Reviews by the_good_life

At first I was repulsed by it. Then I thought it brilliant for a moment. I have now settled for a detached "passable," and an intense personal dislike. I think Turin's description of OM as "a muted tourmaline-green chord from top note to drydown" hits the nail on the head. But contrary to Turin I do not find it particularly exciting or original. The top still exudes some freshness, but soon the perfume acquires a certain foggy denseness ("sultry" to Turin) which actually causes me something of a headache. "Black hemlock" evidently summarizes a number of floral components which smell distinctly "synthetic" to me, i.e. do not succesfully trigger associations with flowers, but rather remind me of generic cosmetic olfactants found in hairspray, creams, and countless perfumes. There is a dry, rasping note in there I find irritating and ultimately, the strong blending of notes, which obscures the individual character of oudh, vetiver or cedar, does not create a sum larger than its parts, but only precisely the above mentioned hazy green constant - rather boring, and to me, off-putting. As to its incense character, compared to C&S Frankincense & Myrrh, which I happen to be wearing on my other arm, Ormonde Man smells nastily unrefined and outright trashy, I am sorry to say. For "English green" I will remain partial to one of the old-time Fougères by Crown, Trumper, or Penhaligon's.

Impressively restrained. A pronounced, rooty -though not radical - green vetiver note at the center, surrounded by a conservative and very well executed bouquet of masuline gentility - cedar, perhaps sandal, refined sweetness of tonka, mossy diffusion. Where Villoresi's excellent Vetiver is all about panache, this one is all about low key style. Not exciting, indeed, but excellent. A great alternative for those who cannot stomach the tobacco in Guerlain's version.

I consider this one of the best designer scents of the post-Cool-Water era, really standing out from the sea of acquatic boredom and in-your-face artificiality. Burberry Brit has a very clear agenda and fulfills it brilliantly: to build a bridge between the classic British fragrance tradition and an appealing contemporary image, which is of course precisely what the Burberry brand is aiming at fashion-wise. What we get, then, is the citrus top and powdery rose-based florals reminiscent of Floris No. 89 and many other classics, with some modern oriental spice - ginger, nutmeg, cardamom - and a tonka sweetness imaginable only after the "sweetness fo men revolution" of the 1990s that gave us Le Male (1999), Pi (1999) or Jaipur (1997). What Anton Maisondieu has masterfully achieved is to seamless blend these concepts into a harmonious composition, in which all the parts alance each other out wonderfully. Admittedly, men who generally do not enjoy powdery sweet florals will not be enchanted by Burberry Brit, though this is a far more accessible and better constructed fragrance than the ones mentioned above - of which I personally only find Pi wearable, though much less interesting than Brit. Brit is a comfortable scent with a rich lineage, presenting itself in modern garb, yet avoiding the synthetic shrillness of so many of its contemporaries. An aristocat with the refined breeding of his ancestors, yet not beyond working for a living, and perfectly comfortable in the popular culture of the 21st century.

In many ways I concur with foetidus review, but my conclusions are quite different: I absolutely adore this sent for the quiet perfection it exudes, a polished quiet aura speaking of impeccable quality, understatement and just a hint of the unconventional - for, and here my perception is different from that of my highly respected fellow reviewer - I find there to be a pronounced saffron note that invests the trademark depth and beauty of Forester Milano's rose/floral notes with a wondeful twist distinctive of that magic yellow spice. This is a perfect fragrance to be comfortably enveloped in in a leisure context, but no less wonderful at the workplace, where it is quiet and reassuring. It would be no less suitable in the surroundings suggested by its name, if restrained elegance is the desired impression. A great success marred only by the rather high price.

I love tea. Black and green, Assam and Darjeeling, pure or (naturally!) flavored, straight and with sugar and milk. The tarry smoky notes of Lapsang Souchong are not for everybody - it's the Islay of teas - and much of the stuff on the market (which is mostly not genuine LS from the Wuyi mountains) is pretty awful. Which brings us to T42. A pretty awful perfume - for me. Smoke and honey, the combination simply turns my stomach and it basically ends there - if it only would, that is.

Here's one where I entirely concur with Turin/Sanchez. This is a disgusting mess on my skin, sour, thin and reeking of decomposing vegetables. An utter disappointment from a house I adore for Eau d'Hermes, Eau d'Orange Verte and Terre d'Hermes.

I appreciate the significance of this perfume, but I cannot wear it. I don't smell something that pleases me, I smell a museum. Yes, there are too many aldehydes, they almost tear open my sinuses. Yes, I get musty connotations of endearing old ladies who still wear the fashions of long forgotten seasons. Yes, I too get a sensation of heating up peanut oil in a wok - not rancid, but less than pleasant. There is no peach and a lot of dark unconciliatory moss. This review is based on a 7.5ml pure perfume from the 1980s or earlier.

This is not a fragrance to write home about. The type of gentleman this was intended for would consider that vulgar. He's one who expects this fragrance to serve a clearly defined purpose: smell unobtrusively decent, as an English gentleman should. Fresh citrus on top for a morning perk up, settled before the Georgian door of his home snaps shut behind him. Subtle rose and soft spices for the office. Quietly stated quality, no surprises. Like the crisp white Sea Island cotton shirt by Turnbull & Asser and the pinstripe suit by Anderson & Shepherd he's wearing. From a bygone era, but nice to have around.

Jaded as their view of ambers is, even Sanchez/Turin can't help but give Ambre Sultan 4 stars, despite putting it down as a scent for those who prefer "folk-naivité to the artfulness of Shalimar." Well, I'll take a good Berber tune anyday over Berlioz, so perhaps that explains why I find this to be most accomplishec Lutens/Sheldrake composition of the 20-odd I've tried, most of all because the tendency towards syrupy sweetness of ocassionally headache-inducing intensity is controlled here. Indeed, Ambre Sultan is a perfect perfume in that it achieves a wonderful interplay - harmony and tension - between bitter, dry, dark herbal yin and sweet, resinous, glowing yang, that adds up to much more than the sum of its parts. Ambre Sultan's quality lies precisely in taking things above 'merely' dressed up amber, it is a multidimensional scent, which becomes obvious by the multiple perceptions of it in the reviews - sweet, dry, dark, relaxing, stark, erotic... But for all its intricate twists and turns it also just simply smells wonderful and effortlessly perfect and that's what defines a true masterpiece. I find AS to be extremely powerful both in terms of longevity and sillage and prefer wearing the Eau Fraiche Parfumée, which in any other perfume line would qualify as an Eau de Parfum.

A fruity fougere this scent is literally mouthwatering. Yes, I get an utter "juicy fruit" effect from this, which lasts and lasts - usually I would hate that, but the citrus-anise-raspberry combination manages to avoid the juvenile stickiness of many similar designer concoctions. The base well done, but not overly exciting, the usual synthetic fare. I would never wear this with a suit or if I was aiming at coming across as "serious", to me it's a leisure fragrance for fun wearing, but I dare say it's a masterpiece in that category.

Another great one from C&S! The grapefruit is strong, fresh and nicely modulated by the rosemary. The civet note is the same as in C&S Cuba - unmistakeably present, but of a transparent dirtiness that is much easier to handle than your typical old-fashioned French dirtbomb. In no way fecal, it comes across as light, sensual body odor, rather than as "it's cruelly hot and I haven't washed myself in two weeks." The drydown is perhaps less interesting than Cuba's but it is just as good. The coriander holds things together until the oakmoss (CP still contains the genuine article) comes forth for an extremely pleasant finale, all the while the grapefruit marvelously keeps lingering on. In sum, this is a perfectly crafted gentlemen's summer fragrance that towers above the boredom and artificiality of most modern fresh colognes while competently modernizing the traditional male approach to citrus.

Not enough leather, not enough Spain, why not just honestly call it English Barbershop (Edwardian). Basically an old-fashioned cacaphony of sweet and spicy notes that's gone in half an hour. Either my sample is off or this is one I definitively do not need.

Evidently inspired by Creed's Green Irish Tweed, though it has neither the ingredient quality, complexity of composition or longevity. The Lord of the Mansion's illegitimate brother forced to grow up as simple-minded shepherder.

The citrus opening (lemon and lime?) is good, but a bit household-cleanerish. Very quickly FdV donns its GIT cloak, though it is more muted and herbal (tarragon?) than the sparkling clean green original. The lasting power ranges around two hours for me. For 20 Euros (Creed is 3.5 times as expensive) this is certainly a nice enough fragrance, but superfluous if you already own GIT and/or a nice green vetiver such as Dominguez Vetiver hombre or Creed's Original Vetiver.

The packaging is a bit gaudy, featuring the colorful 1570 painting The Alchemist's Workshop by Jan van der Straet (fittingly located at the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence), but I kind of like it. A nice contrast to the "designer cool" of so many niche lines.

Incensi’s brother lives in the forests, garbed in dry herbs. While his sibling loves old cloisters and churches he is rarely seen near towns or edifices. You may rarely spie him near a farmer's garden and he is said to spend time at the old healer woman's on the edge of the village, who is rumoured to be a witch. Yet, brothers they are, as even a stranger would easily recognize at a glance.

My Singapore patchouli oil has a certain licorice quality to it, but Villoresi's Patchouli is dark and bitter, it smells what a bitter infusion of medicinal herbs taste like, to the point of almost reminding one of damp wood beginning to mould. I could swear there is also immortelle in this, providing a salty-spiciness faintly reminiscent of Sables. Dry-bitter-salty woodiness. It’s intriguing in its sheer intensity, but I would not want to wear it as a perfume.

Sisley's Eau de Campagne after a raging brush fire. A citrus opening with interesting green herbal notes and a bit of soapiness soon turns into herbal-bitterness and then a woody, dry, scorched-macchia landscape. Related to Gigli Sud-Est and other hardcore herbals with no floral compensation. Interesting, but not a great wear.

Detergent people are always thinking of something new to consume, however pointless it may be. Say, cotton candy scented fabric softener. "Yeah, great idea, let’s make a sticky-sweet-synthetic-citrus-fresh fabric softener. But guess what, we'll test-market it as a niche fragrance." This was designed by one sick puppy of a nose. On the drydown it gets to smell like very hops-heavy beer spilled over a barroom floor the preceding night. Actually, that is nearly an improvement. One of the all-time lows of niche perfumery.

The British old school tie rendition of Goutal's Eau du Sud or Dior's Eau Sauvage. Strong citrus notes (including some slightly sulfurous grapefruit?), dirtied up by green herbs (basil, tarragon?) making it fresh-gentlemanly or fresh-musty, depending on your perspective. It gets a bit plasticky on me in the middle (same effect as with Trumper GFT - tarragon?), which is why I prefer Eau du Sud, but the price difference alone makes this one an interesting alternative to consider.

My plea for adding this to the pantheon of the great perfumes: few scents develop in a more brilliant and meaningful way. Piper Nigrum is a day in a mediterranean dream world. We begin in the morning, the coolness of the night still blankets the fields of wild herbs and refreshingly welcomes you at the open window of your Tuscan farmhouse. Mint and anise enliven you and prepare you for the day. A day, rich and full of nature and culture intertwined as only it is in these old, old lands. As you stroll through the streets, across the markets, you recall the merchants bringing the invaluable pepper and other spices, like nutmeg, from afar, creating powerful dynasties in the wake of their success, to which the beautiful palazzo you now admire bears witness. Beside it stands and old woman selling local herbs, fresh and dried oregano, and with the oriental odours it blends into something both invigorating and soothing, like sitting in the cool shade of ancient ochre walls on a warm day, watching life on the piazza, the plaza, in the mdinas of the Maghreb. The day passes quickly and you retire to your fireplace, burning spicy woods, with a libation of wine and warm bread, and now the pepper embraces you, with styrax and amber, like a silk and cashmere blanket, like the glow of the embers, power in the service of tranquility.

Piper nigrum is unique in the way that it suits my olfactory needs at every phase of the day in its own specific way. There may be other beautiful drydowns, but none can be more beautiful, pefectly timed or more tailor-made than this one. This will always be one of my most cherished scents.

Notes: hesperides, vetiver, lavender, artemisia, cedar, musk
Ligne St. Barth is a small cosmetics and wellness company located in the French Caribean, but well established at high end spas across the world. It was started and is still family-run by a German emigré to St. Bath and her husband, whose French family had been living there since the colonial era. Their "story" is the use of ancient prescriptions of the local Caribs, from whom the rare Roucou oil was also purchased. Judging by how crazy ebayers go over their sun tan lotions, body oils etc., they have managed to establish quite a reputation for their brand. While their perfumes are likely not fully natural, I was always intrigued to try them and I finally captured a bottle of "Ulysse" on the net. Ulysse is a unisex lavender fragrance and thus has a Provencal rather than a Caribean vibe. In fact, the closest association to me is with de Nicolai's Haute Provence lavender, though the notes are quite distinct (Provence featuring Myrtle, Rosemary, Oak Bark and Orange Branches). Still, both are relaxing, soft lavenders of very good quality and relatively low complexity. The orange is noticeable in de Nicolai's, while Ulysse's hesperides are subdued. The former is generally a bit brighter, but not quite as rich. The vetiver and artemisia seem to add a bit of spicy and creamy greenness, providing a touch of classical fougère (befitting this fern-green juice), and the basenotes add a gentle woody sweetness. This is, despite its moniker, not an (ad)ventuorous fragrance and those keen on a more manly variant would be better served by Creed's Royal Scottish Lavender. It is highly recommended to anyone who enjoys quality, simplicity and the varietiey offered in perfumery of that wonderful violet-blue plant.

This fragrance illustrates why people like Andy Tauer are so important. It's actually a pretty good composition, but the ingredient quality drags this down in the direction of mundane designer fragrances. There are unpleasant and clearly unintended off-notes here, metallic and oniony, layering this onto an Axe deodorant shouldn't be a problem. Mind you, it's still fair, and obviously reasonably popular, but to me it is mainly a terrible waste of potential. Spray this on your left and L'Air du Désert Marocain on your right arm. Study and learn what is wrong in the mainstream perfumery business. God only knows why Beam chose a no-name company like Kraft, known on the web only for a trashy discount fragrance named Caution, to head this prestige project. Then again, the target group seems to be the "pass the Courvoisier crowd" which prefers to focus on facades, rather than substance. The Empire-style bottle is magnificent, and makes Tauer's look cheap and amateurish. Content-wise, it's the reverse. 50ml of L'Air are $90, 75 ml of L'Edition Imperiale are $110. Guess which one is way overpriced?

This is not a patchouli fragrance. However, if you enjoy smelling like "Katenschinken" (a heavily smoked North German ham) it is just the right perfume for you. Since I dislike Lone Star Memories and Bulgari Black intensely it's no surprise I can't stomach this one either. The other notes in this are entirely irrelevant, if you don't have a huge love affair with excessively sooty smoky birch tar and, like foetidus, I can't stand the stuff except as an accent in more complex leather compositions, such as the far superior Knize Ten. Extremism for its own sake, recommended for leather-clad demons from the eighth circle of hell (where those dwell who do violence to others and themselves).

Notes: mandarin, bergamot, lemon;
tarragon, lavender, cypress;
light musk, cedar, moss;

under construction

This is an insanely good perfume. I have the original Crown version, not Anglia's, so I can't say whether their representation is faithful - but this wonderful scent is certainly worthy of living on. I find spraying this more satisfying than splashing: this gives the wonderful citrus top more sparkle. It is, indeed, one of the finest aromatic citrus openings I've ever had the pleasure to smell, and it has surprising lasting power. The basil lends Spiced Limes just the right amount of green dirt - I actually think there is also a small dose of civet in here - but there is also an interesting transparent note, reminscent of a wet gravel road, contributed by the vetiver. The spices are beautifully blended, the clove is prevented by the nutmeg and cinnamon sweetness from drifting into the kind of mustiness that compromises Park Royal. Serenely fresh and debonaire, with perfectly placed accents to keep it more interesting than many simply "nice" citruses, it is the perfect olfactory complement to the English gentlemens' outfit and one of the quiet masterpieces among the wonderful line of Crown scents.

An extraordinarily complex and brilliant composition. It's taken me about three months to decide whether I even like it or not. I do. This is an oriental of sorts, but the sweetness is restrained and sophisticated and entwined with resinous and herbal elements - there is the "Occident meets Orient" feeling here that I like about Nicole Farhi pour homme, only this is on a higher plane. Nothing about this perfume is loud. It opens without fanfare, like a true gentleman easing into the ballroom it elegantly takes its rightful place without verbose pronouncements. There's nobility here, and no need to firework the budget on a few dazzling topnotes. What there is, is a beautiful haze of blending notes, the citrus fruits, the green, spicy, foresty, floral and woody elements melt effortlessly into something quite unique - to my nose there is a milky coconut-like sensation at the intersection of all these aspects. There is richness without the heaviness the list of basenotes would suggest. As the long-time head of R&D for Haarman & Reimer, which then became Symrise, Egon Oelkers knows his materials and he certainly had fun with them here. Nearly on par with the oriental perfection of Ambre Sultan.

A drugstore-focused fragrance company that churns out a confusing number of lines, perfumes selling in the € 9-15 Euro range. I got my three bottles for a Euro each on ebay out of sheer curiosity, as Jean Claude Ellena did a lot of work for Varens. "Best of" is already discontinued (embarassing, considering the name) , which is a good thing for Diesel, because the top of this smells a whole lot like the juicy-fruity-citrus opening of Fuel for Life men (a good designer scent which gets an exaggerated e 4 star rating from Luca Turin). It peters out into a rather bland fabric softener kind of thing I don't want even close to my skin. Not really good except for the first five minutes, but you could spend a whole lot more money for this with a designer label slapped on.

Cedrat (citrus medica) is neither lime (citrus aurantiifolia or latifolia) nor your normal household lemon (citrus limon), but a thick-peeled variety best known in the form of candied lemon peel. The people of the Mediterranean use it in a variety of ways, liqueur de cedrat (from Corsika) not being the worst of them. Bois de Cedrat means wood of citron and that accurately describes this scent. Immensely refreshing, zesty citrus with a soft woody underbelly. The citrus is the star, of course, it's very natural (compare it to the artful fiction that is Terre d'Hermes) and, amazingly, lasts a while. Bois de Cedrat is a good compromise between Trumper's West Indian Lime, which is pure citrus and gone in a flash, and Monsieur Balmain, which is a fantastic - and very affordable - lemon beauty with a lot more going on in the drydown. There are of course many very nice citrus scents (classic sharp Eaux de Cologne like Guerlain Impériale or Farina, Guerlain's Eau des Fleurs de Cedrat, Eau d'Hadrien) and when you scour the markets of Southern France you will find local products on par with this at a fraction of the cost of a Creed. Buying this at full price is thus a luxury, but pleasure it will certainly give.

This Creed does nothing for me. The opening is very 1948 indeed - it smells like a postwar ramshackle barbershop - residues of spilled cologne, shaving cream, quinine, perm chemicals, dust - yuck. Thankfully it morphs into a soapy floral skinscent after a few minutes, with a touch of cedar and "grey stone" - not bad, but at this point it's already beginning its disappearing act, without any vetiver ever having come to the fore. Two years after this dreary affair came the bold and wonderfully technicolor Orange Spice. I'll stick with that for postwar Creeds, thank you.

There is only one word for this: Maggi. Maggi is a liquid spice hailing from Switzerland, the basis of which is concentrated lovage. Maggi is the beginning and epitome of industrial convenience food and its norm-spice flavor, of lowest common denominator taste levelling. Eau Noir is Maggi from the bottle, Maggi in the air, Maggi on my skin. Forget the complaints about celery salt in Sables or Sud-Est or Yatagan, this is ten times more intense, read: worse. I can only surmise this results from the weird interaction of the anise, sage, fennel, and caraway perversely amplifying an already hefty dose of immortelle. Someone please drive a wooden stake through the heart of this truly undying savoury flower. If this were the last perfume in the world I wouldn't wear it. No summer of lovage for me (and heck, a bottle of Maggi is only € 1,99).

If thou hast tired of lemon and of lyme
Know now Signoricci! No pledging burst
Which falters in a passing moments’ time,
Or dries down from the decent to the worst.

O no, it is an ever fixéd mark
Of taste on those who own rather than claim it.
Agrumes and flow'rs and musk build up an arc
So faultless, time is at a loss to maim it.

Outranking whate’er in its purview fell,
Torino-born designer’s Lord of scents,
It's glory merely aims to serve you well,
Providing substance always, ne’er pretense.

If this be error, which Turin forbid,
I ne'er inhaled, nor no man ever did.

This is a great perfume. It's as if Jean Kerleo had reengineered Bois du Portugal - to the point where what defines it invites comparisons with Patou pour homme rather than the popular Creed fragrance. The essence of the Creed lies in its Occam's razor-like reduction to a few brilliantly combined basics that make for a sharply contured, beautifully precise masculine smoky perfection. Despite clear similarities in actual smell to Portugal at some stages of New York's development its attitude is entirely different. Like Patou pour homme it indulges in the complexity of its construction and wealth of rich ingredients, shapeshifting between oriental and chypre, layering citrus upon powdery florality, spicy wood and animalics, even crossing gender lines. It achieves this, amazingly, within a more conservative frame of gentlemanly deportment than Patou (which has a far more daringly herbaceous opening and turns sweeter in its cinnamon-clove-jasmin heart) but that is just another indicator of the particular genius of this creation. I would not want to be without any of these three masterpieces, which are related, yet so very distinct. My only wish would be that Patricia de Nicolai do something called "San Francisco" next.

A Victorian body splash rather than a fragrance. But unquestionably the zingiest zestiest lime of them all - St. John's, e.g. pales before it, while Crown's Spiced Lime is far subtler and more of an actual fragrance. This beauty gets five stars for doing what it does perfectly, never mind construction or longevity in this case.

Creed's Royal English Leather will always remain the quintessential Anglo-aristocratic perfume for me. It's quality-cum-simplicity speaks of unquestioned confidence in one's own status, horse-drawn carriages and fox hunts, a world where everything is in and everyone knows his place. Enter Knize Ten, the fragrance of modernity's gentleman. There's the powdery-floral refinement of yore here, mirroring the ties and tails tailored at the number one men's fashion address in Vienna. But there's also the pumping motor of a Brescia Type 23, the syncopation of the Jazz tunes, the complexity of modernism, Ulysses, Picasso, Dada, quantum theory, the new chemistry and all this makes Knize Ten the modernist equivalent to the venerable Creed - brasher, louder, more complex. If REL exudes the clarity and calm of a classicist landscape, Knize is like a Braque unfolding the dazzling complexity of space and time on its olfactory canvas, yet creating aesthetic coherence in the process. What an irony to call this an "antiquated" scent. It's high modernism in perfection. One gentlemanly rule remains essential, though: apply with a light hand.

Dunhill London, like the other recent releases from this formerly reputable house, is crap. It's the same tired old cheap synthetic spiel, the ever-present calone and dihydromercenol used with no sense of inspiration whatsoever. An insult to London, to what dunhill used to be, to the English rose this supposedly embodies. It smells pretty much like your generic, 1.99 drugstore showergel. This is the kind of junk that has given "designer fragrances" the reputation they currently enjoy, at least in my book. My advice: stick with Burberry Brit. That's a designer fragrance which managed to capture the English spirit while modernizing it, turning a profit, surely, but without abandoning any and all standards of quality and originality. I will refrain from even mentioning the grand old English masculine rose fragrances in the same breath as this garbage.

To me this is a cross between a citrus-floral and a fruity gourmand. It does remind of Wrigley's Juicy fruit chewing gum, but there's also a strong note of prepackaged pina colada there, which is what others may be smelling as suntan lotion. I think the green-herbal, very slightly spicy element is nicely integrated, lurking beneath it all. It's not the kind of perfume I'm really into (this bottle came as a freebie), but I think it's pretty well made and conveys a sense of leisure in the sun, dressed in a nice white suit, panama hat and all.

Official PR pyramid: <br>Citrus, green notes, Provencal lavender, Italian clary sage, Brazilian rosewood.<br>Sicilian melon, Italian linden blossom, Turkish rose, cedarwood.<br>Italian iris, Moroccan coriander leaf, amber, tonka.<br>Alternative pyramid from parfyym.pri.ee:<br>bergamot, lemon, clary sage, pineapple.<br>Violet, Lilly of the Valley <br>Tonka, cedar, moss, musk. <br><br>Ketone, I mean, Kiton is a fair fragrance, but hardly worthy of the renowned name it bears, a name that stands for high end rather than middlebrow. It would do well enough as the olfactory backdrop to an off-the-rack suit and perhaps even lend the wearer some sophistication, but I doubt whether wearers of Kiton suits would not prefer a fine Creed over this standard designer fragrance. <br>Kiton Man is not fresh as in zesty cologne fresh. The top is fougery creamy green and the fragrance is quite powdery and floral in the middle, with some modern synthetic notes (Sicilian melon, haha) to keep it young. The divergent olfactory pyramids available (the first sourced from Michael Edwards) for Kiton Men suggest they are only window-dressing, the percentage of synthetics seems high to me indeed. I do not much enjoy the floral notes, finding the violet in GIT far preferable. Cedar, moss notes, musk and a little sweetness are identifiable in the base. This should be lightly applied, for me it has cloying/headache potential and it does remind a bit of hairspray. GIT is far better and, as pointed out elsewhere, Fahrenheit is much bolder, which, to me, leaves Kiton without much of a purpose.

The best release of 1934 – yes, it outshines the classic Caron pour un homme – and a monument of modern perfumery. Foetidus has said it all – nothing about this fragrance could be improved, not by the million new scent molecules developed in the last decades. And for all the progress in perfume technology, that Dunhill for men has been discontinued speaks volumes about how little such progress means in terms of the aesthetics of scent. Yes, tastes change, of course, but: would anybody consider taking Benny Goodman off the airwaves, just because Amy Winehouse is more popular these days? Yes, it’s about profits, of course, but we are talking here about a cultural treasure, a fascinating conception of masculinity that intelligently challenges its contemporary incarnations (FDR vs. W, Duke Ellington vs. 50 Cent), and an aesthetic triumph. The persistence of subtlety, the refinement of true luxury, which is never ostentatious, the harmony of perfect chords rather than the deafening blare of tin fanfares. Nostalgia for the 1930s is certainly inapposite, but those things that were indeed good about them are captured in this fragrance. It still satisfies today - immensely.

I wish Angélique Encens would stop at the beginning, when there's a perfect accord of vegetal angelica and (already) a noticeable presence of incense, with the bergamot providing a bit of freshness. However, as the drydown progresses it becomes headier and headier on my skin, reaching an almost headache-inducing intensity in the combined power of the florals and particularly the vanilla. At this point I come to agree with Caltha on the connotation of cheap perfume oil, which is a shame, knowing how fine a creation this is. But the overbearing vanilla inescapably conjures up olfactory images of $1.99 scented candles. The angelica and incense struggles to be heard in the background and they rebound somewhat, but ultimately I'll have to say that I could only wear this in deepest winter, in miniscule amounts. My 30% full apothecary bottle should thus last me well into the next century. This is a classic, "old-fashioned," perfume which needs to be tried on skin.

Boring? Just because there's Schoenberg or John Zorn, does that make Mozart or Benny Goodman boring? Perfume should not just be measured by our consumer society's hysterical demands for relentless innovation and ever greater excess (required apparently to pierce through its proportionally increasing jaded numbness), but by an appreciation of craft and beauty proud of linking up to traditions worthy of preservation. This is one of the handful of fragrances presented in 1998 that embodies quality and impeccable craftsmanship and the result is absolutely beautiful. Scentemental, foetidus and others have given excellent accounts that require no addition, merely a footnote: it's not all that close to Cologne Sologne, which is de Nicolai's take on the classic Eau de Cologne recipe (bergamot-citrus-neroli-rosemary-restrained wood). Here, it is indeed the perfect harmony of neroli and rose that stands at the center of attention, making this a neroli variant of Acqua di Parma (where the rose intertwines with agrumes). This is not a scent for hard partying or steamy sex, it is a proposition for gentlemen who can also appreciate the quieter subtleties of life. If you prefer a frail pinot noir to oak- drenched CabSauv, this might be a scent for you.

Citrus-herbacity plus clove (and vetiver?), together with the floral heart, make for a very soapy smell, whch befits the athletic associations of the name Racquets. A quality soap, what the boys shower with after a lawn tennis match at an exclusive club. But soap nonetheless, which is not among my favorites fragrance styles. In these early stages Racquets reminds me of Beene's Bowling Green, a coniferous chypre with a stronger citrus opening, but a similar herbaceous soapy freshness. However, the more pronounced clove in Racquets already announces what is to come. That is what makes this one interesting and somewhat unusual: sporty freshness being blended with spicy oriental components of cedar, moss, amber and frankincense. I would not have payed retail for this, but it is a good one, especially for the inbetween weather of April or October.

A gift from a very kind basenoter. I was expecting something along the lines of a classical Eau de Cologne, considering the notes given, which I love, regardless of how conventional they may seem these days. However, to my nose the dominant note in this is "hairspray" or "generic deodorant." It smells somewhat feminine, in a cosmetic kind of way, and not at all like an expensive perfume. Is it an overly sweet lime note, or just an unfortunate hodgepodge that covers any distinct neroli, bergamot or other citrus beauty after two nanoseconds?
Blind I would have judged this a $10 drugstore scent, cheap synthetics and nothing beyond that. They offer this to guests at the Savoy? Remind me to book at the Stafford.

I must be doing something wrong here. To me this smells like the Axe of 1959 - horribly synthetic, cheap, loud and obnoxiously lasting. I've tried it a couple of times, but when my son, who got it as a gift, fumigated the bathroom with it, my opinion-forming process was abruptly completed. Perhaps the dry spice combo is at fault, for I have a huge problem with a certain style of barbershop clove, it badly irritates my throat and literally makes me gag (e.g. in Park Royal & Leonard pour homme and to an extent in Curzon), though I quite enjoy a number of barbershoppy Trumpers and the likes of Vetiver hombre etc. pp. That alone does not explain, why this comes across to me as vile AND cheap (I quite appeciate the quality of Curzon or Leonard, despite not enjoying them). In view of the overwhelming support of this it's a personal idiosyncracy, perhaps. But seriously, folks, Tabarome it ain't.

Attempting to blatantly rip off Mugler Cologne, the Creeds messed up and wound up with a similar but superior fragrance. A wonderful citrussy opening turns into a soapy-fresh barbershop middle and a somewhat familiar sandalwood-amber-musk base. The Vetiver is there, but not as prominent as in Etro's, Villoresi's or Malle's offerings. It might not be worth the higher price to you if you enjoy Mugler, which is really quite nice, and I personally like Dominguez' Vetiver Hombre even better, but contrary to Original Santal and a number of other modern Creeds, I did fall for this one. And one can never have enough good vetivers, with global warming and all that...

It's not surprising the views of this fragrance are so disparate. I was never a big fan of it, because I found it rather too conventional in an 80s kind of way. Even now, I prefer what I would dare call the more audaciously direct and more radically minimalist approach of Bois du Portugal, that precision laser of a perfume. But when I recently wore 3rd Man and systematically studied its development I had to conclude that, while working within a conventional frame, the execution is indeed masterful and the quality impeccable, as has been sufficiently and expertly described in preceding reviews. So it really depends on what you expect from this fragrance. Come winter I shall be wearing it more frequently when desiring to feel comfortable and refined, rather than wishing to intimidate.

A citrus burst, tastefully constructed coconut (quite an achievement and just what I expected from Creed), mellow white musk is what I predominantly get from VIW. It's pleasant, very topical (vacation, cocktail bars, Caribean parties) and slightly on the feminine side. A winner, but too expensive at full retail.

Bay Rhum harks from a strange and distant land . Faded Hemingway photos, San Juan Hill, forgotten rituals of masculine virility. A terpene, medicinal harshness far removed from what the contemporary incarnation of the beau would think of labeling as "fragrance." All-purpose lotion, a very 19th-century concept, diametrically opposed to the notion of hi-tech eye-wrinkle cream for men over 40 (one for the left, one for the right eye). Disinfects minor injuries, kills bugs, polishes boots, will do if whisky is not to be had. Don't forget your bottle when you go out roughin' it with Mark Twain.
Quite honestly I prefer Royall Spice.

I think Indie-Guy has it pretty much nailed. This is an excellent Eau de Cologne and it manages to be different from other Vetivers in a godd way. To me Creed Original Vetiver, Mugler Cologne and Dominguez Vetiver hombre share a certain barbershop-freshness, which I immensely enjoy. Guerlain, on the other hand, nauseates me due to its vulgar tobacco note (a minority view, I am aware). Then there's Etro's harshly woody take or Villoresi's brilliant uncompromising savage vetiver and also the richness and powder of Vetiver Oriental. This one just does its own thing. It's light, but persistent, it has both a green sting and a milky gentleness to it. Drench yourself in it and it will be softly wafting into your nose all day and make you feel good. To me it's far superior to the designer blandness of either Bulgari ph or Paul Smith Story - what an irony that a CdG fragrance not only smells far more interesting, but actually much more "natural" than these standard offerings. Five stars indeed.

It's muggy and cloudy outside and that is not a good setting for a dry chypre such as Curzon. So I might just have to eat my words after retrying this on a cold autumn day. For what it's worth: no sweetness to talk of here for me, in fact, the citrus and lavender top is disappointingly muted and the florals also never really make a convincing appearance on stage. Everything is happening behind a musty curtain of arid herbacity dominated by what seems to me to be clove, flanked by mossy notes. Too conventional by contemporary standards, but then it dates from 1882, so one should concede it probably became so conventional by being consistently plagiarized. What's worse is that it never achieves a proper balance on my skin, which makes it mediocre for me, though I appreciate it's objective quality.

Notes:
Bergamot, Neroli
Lavender, Clove
Sandalwood, Amber, Vanilla
Reformulated in 1975

A splendid lavender it is. All that easy to wear it is not. If I may quote the venerable de Charlus:"Poetic, quaint, fresh, prim, confectional, medicinal, old fashioned, somewhat delightful if somewhat staid."
If you want a fresh, spring-time, 'joie de Provence' lavender, de Nicolai's Haute Provence (nomen est omen) will be a good choice. If you want straightforward natural lavender, why not try the pristine lavender water from the good monks on Caldey Island, whose prices, I may add, are also more in the Christian spirit of sharing than Creed’s Royal Bill? RSL, despite its reformulation, does have a distinctly Victorian air about it, which is owed to the noticeable clove. It adds warmth and spiciness, but also makes for that certain stuffy-medicinal feel (not anywhere near the degree of Crown’s Park Royal, mind you). This, however, passes after a half an hour or so, as the clove recedes and the classical base note triad comes forth. The amber is first and adds a slightly animal/BO note, finally a very gentlemanly sandalwood-vanilla combination, interacting quite beautifully with the lavender, smoothens out matters significantly. The fresh opening and the classy drydown are the best parts of this fragrance, while the middle, which I would speculate was somewhat clipped in the reformulation, recalls memories, fond or possibly less so, of days long long past.

To quote the Dead Kennedys: "Chemical Warfare, Chemical Warfare, Chemical Warfare, Warfare, Warfare." Blasphemy? Let me explain myself: I think CdG is an avantgarde fashion house that makes a point of stressing the 'artificiality' of their fragrances. In upper echelon perfumery synthetics are generally employed to make a fragrance appear more natural. I should think CdG would have a gas using natural ingedients to produce a synthetic smelling perfume (but I guess economy dictates they use synthetics to that end after all). Now, I am a great lover of incense, and regarding perfumes Incensi by Villoresi and Valentino's Vendetta pour homme are among my two favorites, both give an incredibly authentic, i.e. very natural smelling rendition of incense. With Jaisalmer,IMHO, the synthetics scream in your face. It's an Indian spice market allright, but, like a 'ship in bottle,' it's a 'spicemarket in test tube,' assembled with pride and a sense of irony. Which is fine by me, except I really don't much like ISO-E-Super, somehow it just massively irritates me. But please don't let this opinion by a minority of one spoil your enjoyment of this fine fragrance. In fact, my bottle is up for swap :-).

Top: Anise, Bergamot, Lavender, Lemon, Rasperry, Tarragon
Middle: Clove, Cinnamon, Heliotrope, Jasmine, Muguet, Rose
Base: Amber, Benzoin, Cedar, Musk, Tonka Bean, Vanilla
Rare and highly sought, Background commands three-digit prices on ebay Germany. Being a great fan of the equally rare Man Pure I was intrigued by this. The mini I was able to acquire for a few Euros, though it might of course be somewhat off, has put my interest to rest. Background is one of those "Nivea" fragrances - it reminds me of the generic smell of drugstore hand creams. There is a spark of that in Nino Cerruti, but that perfume goes elsewhere. It's very pronounced in Casran and also in Ronaldo Esper's Graphite. The effect seems to come about through the combination of fruity/citrus and herbal notes. Majoram/Basil and Tangerine/Bergamot in Graphite; Bergamot/Lemon and Juniper/Galbanum in Cerruti; Bergamot/Lemon/Rasperry and Tarragon here. Aided by the middle notes of heliotrope and rose in particular that add to the handcream feel, as well as vanilla or tonka and certain balsamic basenotes The sum total inevitably conjures up images of well-groomed, somewhat conservatively dressed women of 45+ age, as I encountered them during childhood, who used Nivea, Atrix, Creme 21 or whatever brands were popular in the 70s. No masculinity in this for me. Well, don't let my personal hang up spoil your pleasure in any of these fragrances. I just needed to point this out.

Azahar is Spanish for orange blossom and it's easy to see the word is derived from the Arabic, like so many names for beautiful things in Spanish (azzahár in Andalusian Arabaic meaning the same, stemming from the Arabic "zahr" for flowers). What indeed could one associate more closely with Southern Spain, its breathtaking landscapes, endless beaches, pueblos blancas, its rich Arabic heritage and gitano folklore, than the scent of the Azahar, wafting through the nocturnal streets of Cadiz, Cordoba, Granada or Jerez.
Were the folks at Myrurgia up to the challenge of capturing these romantic visions which already enchanted Washington Irving, as he walked the Alhambra in awe? Well, they did a good job, but, national shame, the French can do it better.
Castorpollux has got it quite right. Azahar begins with very zesty orange citrus, refreshing, pleasant and natural smelling. It quickly settles into a soft neroli, which is not too powerful, as it is blended with soft floral notes, making for a slightly sweet general impression. Some might consider it a tad feminine but I would place it squarely in unisex territory. The general impression is of an orangey Eau de Cologne, the official designation being EdT Fraiche. It doesn't last longer than Eau d'Orange Vert, though. Which brings us to the French. D'Orsay's Etiquette Bleue is closer to what you smell walking through Cadiz at night as the orange trees scent the old cobbled streets - more neroli, and of the finest quality at that. So is the exquisite but little known Extra Vieille EdC by the house Berdoues in Toulouse. In terms of citrussy orange I prefer the inimitable Hermes Eau d'Orange Verte. I do like Azahar better than the concentrée version, however, which is too musty for my taste. All in all, Azahar does hold its own and it is recommended when seeking a pleasant mixture of zesty and sweet orange with a subtle floral complement different from all the other products mentioned. The bottle is beautiful and the fragrance affordable, especially through English channels (look to the right). I do however think that Puig/Myrurgia owe it to their Spanish heritage to go forward and create the perfect neroli cologne, whatever the cost. Of course, they may have done so, but I will not be able to try "1916" before I get to Spain.

Very much the Sandalwood complement to Dominguez' Vetiver hombre. Both are masterful blends in which actual sandalwood or vetiver are not dominant, both are incredibly clean and fresh (as castopollux points out for Sandalo), both exude an incredibly refined, understated elegance and masculinity. While Vetiver hombre is a perfect fragrance in my book, this gets only four stars because I am a little disappointed in the top notes, the "watery" aspect of which comes across as somewhat too synthetic to me. The drydown, soft clean wood wrapped in silky transparent floral notes, is utterly addictive. It is, however, more of a cedary than a sandalwood note, in my opinion, or rather: we are dealing with (very well employed and high quality) synthetics. I truly love this fragrance, but it is on a different plane than Villoresi's divine Sandalo, which will give you an appreciation of what true Mysore sandalwood blended with rosewood smells like (LV Sandalo is my holy grail for a good reason). Nonetheless, Myrurgia's concoction is an excellent designer scent that leaves many better known brands in the dust. It is one of the few fragrances I paid full retail for - with no regrets - which says a lot about how much I like it. I have said it before and will say it again, that perfume afficionados are missing some very fine fragrances if they fail to seek out the Adolfo Dominguez line, difficult as it may be to find it beyond the borders of Spain.

Portos (btw: is there also a fragrance called Athos?)is the statistical average of all those 1980s leathery chypres made manifest. All the usual suspects are assembled, from artemisia through geranium and patchouli to the leather, labdanum, castoreum etc. base. This summation, while decent, lacks the distinctiveness that would save it from being a somewhat dated archetype of 1980s men's fragrances. Neither is there the white floral boldness of Maxim's, or the intriguing rose of Leonard, Trussardi or Van Cleef. The construction is unrefined when compared to the true ancestor of them all, Knize Ten. And while Portos is too aridly herbaceous, yet it falls short of the radicalism of the closely related Yatagan, which, while not to everybody's taste (including mine) must be acknowledged as grandiose in its bold and uncompromising stance regarding just such arid herbacity (notice that I am inverting de Charlus/Naed Nitram's judgment of these two). Portos is the average, the mean, as I stated at the outset, and I can't help but subscribe to the popular pejorative connotation of those arithmetically neutral terms when applied to this fragrance.

An amazing scent. I fully agree with CoL that this one sticks out of the mass of designer blah in a very very good way.I tried it at Heathrow and it was the only perfume to leave a lasting impression. Luckily aquired some on ebay.uk (I believe it is not available in Germany) The notes given are tea tree, lime, armoise, white pepper, birch leaf, snow bark, white musk and fresh patchouli. Snow bark I suppose is the white bark of the snow gum, a relative of eucalyptus. This together with the other cool, bitter ingredients blends with spice and musk into what I would call a Northern Oriental (well, Farhi, of Algerian ethnicity, lives in London, so that makes sense, no?). It has a piney- foresty coolness (A Scandinavian winter wood indeed) as well as a gently sweet orientalness, as in Envy, Jaipur or Jivago 7 elements, though without any heavy vanilla or tonka. The combination is unique, exciting, and smells very classy and masculine. Highly recommended.

A sweet wisp of a fragrance. Honey, restained smoky-woodiness and iris. The conceptual kinship with dior homme is most evident, a light powerdery iris-based fragrance which is, of course, not at all "males only" but actually consciously unisex with a feminine edge. On me this is a skin scent which is pleasant, hardly noticeable and somewhat unoriginal. Good quality, but ridiculously overpriced considering its thinness and lack of innovation. I would prefer Lutens' Vetiver Oriental anyday, which is more complex and interesting, less sweet, longer lasting and requires a much smaller application to work its magic. But then Dior is not a house I get along with very well fragrance-wise.

As the preceding reviews make clear, this is a well-made fragrance, which does not rock the boat and will please any man looking for an all-purpose scent in a lighter style. That said, it is somewhat of a sleeper and far superior to the many watery and cheap smelling designer frags out there. Very much in tune with the casual "Cape Cod weekend" chic of the (Italian) Brooksfield label, this the perfect complement to a relaxed yachting-style or country-house outfit. A pleasant green top, which reminds me a bit of Esper's Millesimé, subtly spicy, tart and just a tad smoky (like black cardamom)in the middle, with the distinct apple note supplying freshness, it ranks above average in quality. Add the nicely designed bottle and the decent price and you have an excellent product worth seeking out.

A sweet, oriental leather, not of the birch tar variety. Do not expect a dirty, challenging, cowboy leather, but a regal potion oozing nobility, crawling into every crevice of a throne room like some rich, dark golden, olfactory honey, forming a shimmering luxuriant aura around its wearer. Bend your knee indeed. A gentle, rather than zesty, fruity top, creamy beige-rolls-royce interior leather, and the oriental caramel sweetness of a fantasy Taj Mahal-India. Indeed, the year of its creation, 1780, saw the second Mysore war of the British in India. Strange coincidences.
This opulent yet absolutely lucent fragrance smells of pre-democratic, pre-capitalist Old Europe (in the nice part of town, that is). I’m not surprised it was created just at the time when democracy and capitalism started taking off seriously (it was reformulated in 1805). Mr. Creed must have known he was creating a fragrant preserve of the old order. While I’m with Tom Paine politically, the winner in the aesthetics department is the ancien regime, or rather, the English constitutional monarchy. Royal English Leather deserves six stars for having aged so very gracefully, for its abundant but not overwrought luxuriousness, for being a monument to the idea that quality may transcend epochs and their fashions.

On a personal note: this was my first Creed, and smelling it caused an olfactory epiphany that assured my abiding interest in this house .

I daresay, the only person this fusty concoction would befit is Sir Humphrey Fitzroy-Jones, who has not risen from his chair at the Garrick Club since April 4, 1911.

Smells like watermelons bobbing in the sea,
Looks like MI dressed in sailorgarb to me
You might find this heady potion
Smelling like your favorite ocean
But beside the pleasant salt
I just find too many faults
No these synthy modern Creeds
They just do not shake my reeds
From Erolfa I'll retire
Royal English takes me higher

Epicéa gives me an outdoors-indoors feeling: in the middle of a winter forest, but not walking throught it. Rather sitting in a log cabin made from pine trees, with a hot pine-wood fire burning in the fireside, spreading a warm, spicy resinous smell that drives out the cold, which you know is out there. And I suppose the top note is having just squeezed some lemon into my Earl Grey. A fragrance for winter or to wear while watching Dr. Zhivago.

I instantly liked and can#T add too much to what has been so competently said. So I'll furnish some facts:
Did you know there was a male and a female version of Eau de Patou?
Eau de Patou pour homme from 1976 is listed in the H&R Duftatlas from 1989 with these notes:
Top:Lemon, Lime (Bergamot, Mandarin, Basil, Aldehyde)
Middle:Jasmin, Patchouli (Iris, Clove, Fruit note, Cedarwood)
Base:Moss, Musk (Amber, Civet, Labdanum)

The presently discussed female version contains (according to parfyym.pri.ee):
Top: Sicilian Citrus, Guinea orange
Middle: Tunesian orange blossom, pepper, honeysuckle, Ylan Ylang, nasturtium
Base:Musk, Moss, Amber Civet

The midnote florals somehwat remind me of Dukes of Pall Mall Cotswold, though that has quite a different citrus top.

I do find Eau de Patou rather feminine in the middle courtesy of the pronounced Ylan Ylang notes. I like Ylan Ylang, thankfully and there is nothing suffocatingly heavy here, of course.

Those florals create a certain (hand)creamy sensation which I also get in Casran (no good), Sander Background, Esper Graphite (soso). Here it's quite pleasant, though I can't help seeing a well-groomed attractive woman in a pastel spring or summer outfit before me when smelling this. As foetidus says, it gets less feminine as it dries down. Wonderful, but I really would like to try the men's.

First of all, it is a shame this house was closed by Clive Christian, though he was probably merely reacting to lack of interest. "Rule Britannia" perfumes are not for "Cool Britannia" times perhaps.
I adore Sandringham and I love Quinine and Town&Country, as well as Maréchale. As for Imperial, I wish I could have the top without the bottom. This is surely the most refreshing, natural and powerful lemon in fragrance history. Just the right thing to kick the sleep out of the eyes of Sir Humphrey Caton-Jones, MP, before a day of parliamentary debate or help a dapper Lieutenant Colonel keep fresh at 45 degree Calcutta heat. What follows then, however, is a very powdery and somewhat musty (rather than musky) drydown which irritates like invectives from the opposition bench or nasty mosquitos. Like a shirt collar that's too tight or an out-of-tune brassband you want it to stop, but it won't. Such a shame. Thumbs up for the lemon, thumbs down for the rest, makes a neutral.

One of a trio of Capuccis packed in trapezoidal ceramic bottles: Corps Fou, Sang Royal, and this 'beauty.' They date from some time in the 1980s and represent the Hades to R de Capucci's Olympus Mons. Summer day? A sweet powdery citrus of almost nauseating quality, this smells of shabby old prostitute rather than a gentleman in white. Well, I’ll settle for “tacky drugstore frag”. Come to think of it, this is a travesty of Capucci pour homme, an extremely well made floral citrus. Jour d'Été is “Divine” (as in John Waters, not Yvonne Mouchel) impersonating Faye Dunaway.

Notes:
Bergamot, Lemon, Petitgrain, Clary sage, Green note
Jasmine, Mandarin, Clove, Rose, Aldehyde
Patchouli, Moss, Leather, Amber, Vetiver, Musk, Tonka
Unquestionably the greatest Capucci contribution to perfumery and indeed one of the best chypres ever produced. In fact, I believe this is one of the best perfumes ever produced. The quality, the mastery of the assemblage, the charmingly smooth, yet intellectual texture – this is the chypre complement to Eau d’Hermes, no less. Shake your heads in disbelief but this one is on par with creations by Roudnitska, Daltroff, and the Guerlains. A fantasy citrus according to the H&R genealogy (which I find a bit misleading), fresh chypre in other categorizations. More complex, less citric than Capucci pour home, a chypre but not identifiably “80s.” There is no herbal Artemisia bludgeon here, but a cleaner, straighter greenness in the top notes, more in the direction of Bowling Green, but infinitely more sophisticated – and the floral middle notes come on quite early. Gentle, slightly dark rose, smooth aldehydes, the sublime use of jasmine add up to an incredibly suave, classy feel. Brilliant! The base is softened by Tonka and amber, but nothing is here is remotely powdery. The “macho” components are very subtly employed, making this much less dated, or dateable, than your Portos, Ho Hang, Yatagan, etc. Soft, suede-like leather, low key, nothing either birch-tarry (as in Cuir de Russie or Lonestar) or lushly sweet (as in Royal English Leather. Mossy notes are dominant in the base, there is some dry patchouli and just a hint of Tonka sweetness, all this melting together into sheer delight. All in all, R stays very “clean,” as hirch-duckfinder correctly notes, but do not confuse this with the limp, synthetic, fabric-softener “clean” of the ‘90s and ‘00s, it is infinitely superior. I should add that R is much finer on skin than on a test strip – it is one to be tested live. Regrettably I do not know the perfumer. A big name, an unsung hero, a one hit wonder? Whichever, “R” is a perfectly balanced display of subtle masculinity, seamless from top through base, refined as an Italian silk suit. Speaking of which, this is far superior as a suave suit scent to Kiton Men, which, while decent, smells like ineptly thrown together synthetics in direct comparison with R. The difference in quality between the two rose notes is an object lesson in the art of perfumery. In fact R degrades a whole lot of better known gentleman’s fragrances to the status of pimply faced kids. Can you understand now, why after trying this I was obsessed with getting my hands/nose on every other available Capucci? I found them all and none matched this, not even the glorious Punjab. I will go out on a limb and say: no one with the remotest interest in fragrances can afford to ignore this. I speak in earnest. This is the sleeper of sleepers. Or, as Squire duckfinder has patiently proclaimed for some time and much more succinctly than myself: "Wear 'R' de Capucci!"

Notes: English Lavender, Sicilian citrus, rosemary, verbena, Bulgarian rose, jasmine
vetiver, Mysore sandalwood, ylang ylang, cedar, amber, white musk
“Tradition” rarely represents the seamless historical continuity that invests ideas, objects, or practices with authority or cultural cachet. How many times have you stood in a supposedly medieval church that was really bombed to rubble in WWII and then rebuilt as a “medieval church” ? The famed Nuremberg Christkindl market is a Nazi invention in its current form (they also gothicized many Romanesque or Renaissance buildings because gothic was considered to be “Aryan.”) I do not know how many tourists take the Houses of Parliament to be medieval buildings rather than neo-gothic reconstructions actually of more recent date than the White House.
What am I driving at here? The fact, of course, that many fragrance houses use their supposedly venerable age and an unbroken tradition reaching back to some quasi-mythical founder as a means of increasing their prestige, turning cultural capital into brand power, higher prices and a marketable story. 4711 and Carthusia give us romantic fairytales about monks. Creed is the most blatant example, perhaps, of a constant insistence on traditionality, coupled with virtually absolute silence on any significant details of the house’s actual history. Who ever learns, that the Creed’s were couturiers first and only incidentally perfumers (these crafts being closely related, of course, since perfume served to scent accessoires, not skin, until the end of the 19th century). Acqua di Parma is another case of history looming large, though they have not chosen the seamless tradition spiel for their narrative, but the “phoenix risen from the ashes” model. A prestigious cologne, though hardly old, the (supposedly, hopefully) all-natural AdP was created in 1916, when synthetics-based perfumery was already in full flush and the market had shifted from its restricted aristocratic and haute-bourgeoisie clientel towards mass production for an increasingly broadening white collar consumer class. It is just about the time that 4711 (as which it was reinvented 1881 after Farina Gegenüber achieved prohibition, having lobbied for the introduction of the trademark system, of the use of its name by plagiarizers such as the Mühlens family), an industrially produced cheap cologne became a household name that would obliterate the original artisanal product (Farina Gegenüber) in the public consciousness. AdP was a late but successful newcomer, and like Creed, it played on its popularity among the new aristocracy during its halcyon days in the 1930s-1950s: Hollywood stars. Then, as tastes changed, it was out, living a twilight existence, only to be rejuvenated in the course of the new craving for old style luxury that began in the yuppie 80s and became full-blown during the New Economy, whose progenitors, like the robber barons of the 1880s craved the emblems of old money once they retired to their patrician estates. The Italian rejuvenators, old hands in the luxury business, refashioned AdP into a prestigious “must have” in the right circles, expanded the line massively (they have very mediocre fragrances now, too) and sold out for what was probably a 10000% percent profit. Good for them, though it pains me to see, that a fine product such as AdP is now another “preciousss” in the slimy grasping hands of Bernard Gollum Arnault of LVMH, the Woolworth’s of the rich and famous. LVMH squares the circle by mass marketing exclusivity, by making the rare universally available, by marketing tinsel (such as Vuitton luggage) as “haut gamme” to anyone who is willing to fork out surplus cash for a label that signifies old world prestige (for readers of Germany, here are Luca Turin’s thought on this: http://snipurl.com/1ci7o.) A sure sign of the success of LVMH marketing machine is the wild popularity of AdP products on ebay, where it is always the subject of bidding wars, while at the same time so ubiquitously present that I must wonder how many of these bottles are Eastern European fakes. Either that, or many people who buy this as a form of prepackaged good taste find out they don’t really like it (perhaps because they actually lack good taste). So the question is, I suppose, can you enjoy a great cologne knowing that thousands who wear it do so, not because they appreciate it, but because it is a life-style ‘choice’ dictated by fashion rags like GQ? Well, I do. AdP Colonia is a nice departure from classic French (and the one German) colognes that emphasize hesperides and herbs, only rounded off with a touch of rose, musk or tonka. Here, the rose is far stronger, really defining the fragrance (with some help from the subtle but persistent ylang ylang) after the initial, incredibly refreshing lemon- blast, itself cleverly prolonged by the use of verbena. The woody base is more fortified as well, giving this excellent longevity, especially for a cologne. This hovers close to your skin all day, providing the finishing touch of sophistication that makes you feel so genteel. Acqua di Parma is a marvellous, refined, unique product, not because, but inspite of the hype created around it by its execrable owners. It bears its fate with the poise and imperturbability of a true gentleman.

Notes:
Lime, Bergamot, Orange, Neroli, Lavender, Rosemary;
Jasmin ,Rose, Neroli;
Patchouli, Sandalwood, Amber, Musk.
Nice. The top note citrus here is not lemon, but lime, which makes a considerable difference, as you know if you like Caipirinhas - or the various traditional English lime colognes. The lime note is sharper, brighter, zestier than lemon, as well as lighter and makes for a nice citrus sparkle. The other top notes are typical Eau de Cologne ingredients, so, not surprisingly, this bears a resemblance to Guerlain's Impérial, du Coq or Farina Gegenüber. It is sweeter though, and florally so, through the midnote presence of neroli, rose, and jasmine in particular. Of those I know, Coq comes closest, in fact, as it also contains jasmine, but it has a stronger herbal counterweight, while Genova fuses the jasmine, rose and neroli into a soft floral impression, reminiscent of the recently acquired Azahar by Adolfo Dominguez. As always with EdCs do not expect too much from the basenotes, they are at best very subtle. Compared to the better known EdC in the neighbourhood, Acqua di Parma, this is softer, lighter and a good deal more feminine. Parma’s lemon entwined with rose is almost assertive in contrast. Thus, if you find Parma too floral or short lasting, Genova is a definitive nono. Personally I clearly prefer Aqua di Parma, as the lemon is deeper and the smooth rose darker (relatively speaking), longer lasting, simply with more oomph to it. For hesperides I’ll choose Farina or Guerlain, for florals Asprey or, better even, Dukes of Pall Mall Cotswold, which delivers white blossoms in a manlier fashion. Genova is a well-made scent, an Italian spring day in a bottle, but due to its floral sweetness it will not become a huge favorite of mine. Nonetheless, fans of classic Colognes are obliged to try it and draw their own conclusions.

Experience has shown
That I am not prone
To enjoy a perfume
Full of hedione

Though I really did try
I am sorry, dear Gai,
But 'ere wearing Mattiolo
I would rather go solo.

Executive summary: Go! Away!

Rant:
I happen to be wearing Go! (2007) on my right arm, with Acqua di Genova (1853) on the left and the comparison would turn Pollyanna herself into a cultural pessimist. Not only does it seem that perfumers today are forced to create a new fragrance in three months, they also seem to be kept in dungeons so as to prevent them from making sensory experiences such as smelling an orange or a bouquet of flowers. This is synthetic garbage, subcategory nauseating fruity-sweetness, which you've smelled a thousand times before under a thousand different names. Little boxes made of tick tacky, to quote Pete Seeger.

Same experience here as MonkeyManMatt. What others describe as decaying flower presented itself to me clearly as "cat pee," identical to a classic faulty note in red wines caused by excessive geraniol due to mishandling. Either there is an interpretive split on this note or the mini I tried was also a off, which is quite likely. Either way, as there is no more fresh Ténéré to be had, a blind buy would seem quite risky. This did smell quite promising, from what I could tell beyond feeling like Felix the Cat had given me some golden shower.

Reveived a bunch of samples of this from an Italian specialist in discontinueds where I bought my Balenciaga Portos and a few other gems.
Evidently, Charro never made the grade, remained a local phenomenon or was quickly forgotten, which perhaps says something about the level of quality the perfume industry had achieved in 1989. For while this is in many ways a typical 80's scent (but so is Portos) it is an excellent composition with quality ingredients. Spicy, I particularly like the shimmers of pepper, subtly floral, just enough sweetness, soapy-clean feel from the carnation and coriander. Clearly a child of its time, but not as dated smelling as a whole lot of other 80s stinkers. And without wanting to bore you with the "laudatio temporis actis" rants of an old fogey, this forgotten beauty does have more class, creativity and costly ingredients than at least 20 designer releases from 2006 combined (thinking YSL homme here, not Terre d'Hermes or Varvatos Vintage, which are winners IMO)

L'Eau d'Hadrien is guilty by association, a tragic victim of the contextual nature of scent perception. That overpowering, bitter cedrat and lemon oil scent has become so typical of "natural oil"-embellished household cleaners, detergents, furniture polishes and what have you, that the first whiff alone is enough to remind me of duties around the house I am little enamored of. Just what I need in a luxury fragrance. If we should ever be able to afford a cleaning lady, she'll be getting this for Christmas.

The most meditative fragrance I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Perhaps as close to a holy grail as I will ever come, and this quite literally: warm, comforting, tempering, fortifying, Sandalo is virtually a pocket-size religion. The spiritual dimension and ritualistic importance of several key ingredients support this bold claim. I find the sandalwood to be an immediate presence here and the oils grouped around it serve to emphasize its calmly uplifting woody sweetness rather than the harsher, pungent aspects equally latent in this mysterious Mysore wonder. You will find very different sandalwoods, but none better than Villoresi's intellectual and emotional masterpiece.

While I understand that market dynamics seem to demand constant expansion these days, even of traditional fragrance firms, it is sometimes just better to keep doing what you have done well for a hundred years and stick with that. And if you're going to branch out, to do it right. Colonia by Aqua di Parma is such a classic, it truly stands tall among traditional Italian colognes and those of the other great perfume nations. Whoever controls this company now seems to know little of the responsibility that should come with bearing such a rich heritage, or so would be my conclusion from trying a number of the more recent offerings from this house: the inept mutilation that is Colonia Assoluta (the Germans have that wonderful word "Verschlimmbesserung," meaning "improving for the worse"); the gruesome cheap-scent-candle vanilla-almond Mandorlo di Sicilia; the insipid Arancia; and now the utterly superfluous Fico di Amalfi. For the perfume world needs an inferor version of Diptyque's Phylosikos with a citrus top as much as Italian democracy needs people like Silvio Berlusconi.
Really, all the folks at AdP need to do now is reformulate the original Colonia with cheap synthetics and another great name will have been run into the ground by the barbarity of brainless profit maximization.

"Are you wearing Mandorlo di Sicilia or did you just spill cream soda all over yourself?"
Better keep talking & moving while wearing this or people will mistake you for a giant vanilla-scented candle. Those always smell cheap and artificial. So does this.

A pale preraffaelite rose blooming in cold moonlight upon mine own grave.

To wit: the English rose is a many facetted thing. And where Penhaligon's Hammam Bouquet represents to perfection its Victorian incarnation, imperial, orientalist and full of brimming but only indirectly acknowledged sexuality (see my review) No. 88 is a different creature altogether, as its vapors entwine John Donne's darkest moments, Burne-Jones canvasses, My Last Duchess, Aubrey Beardsley, Joy Division and the album cover of Depeche Mode's 1990 Violator. Not surprising then that I would be instantly captivated. This is the kind of scent which I have no desire to rationally understand and only feel I can adequately describe in the given associative manner.

Considering this was dirt cheap, it's a great alternative to classy, read: expensive (or discontinued), citrus-wood traditionals. The wood component sticks out a bit strongly for me to give this 5 stars, plus it isn't really innovative. In sum though, for me it's another winner by this house, joining Vetiver Hombre, Agua Fresca, and U Hombre. These guys know what they're doing, they're way too restricted to the Spanish market for their own good and I want them all.

Everything has been said and the opinions remain as incompatible as the components of this fragrance do to the nose of this wearer. I tried to like this and do in fact love both grapefruit and licorice, as well as ginger and smokey components, but they just never come together in harmony here. Yes, if this were a memoir, I would welcome jarring fragments of the remembered self revealing it to be but a construction of a coherent identity. But in this fall/winter perfume I sought solace and resolved tension to take me through the dark nights of the year, soothing, strengthening. It hasn't happened yet.

One of my absolute favorites and to me the measure of all dry wood scents. How I adore it for lacking any soapiness and florality. It has the perfect balance, power, beauty and precision of a damascene steel blade. It can appeare pungent at first, due to its smokiness, the scent of finest aromatic woods smoldering in a fireplace, which reenforces the lavender top notes. But this never gets cloying or bogs you down in any way. BdP is often c