Perfume Pen Pals: Annick Goutal Myrrhe Ardente

Katie,

Tonight I cracked open my new bottle of Annick Goutal Myrrhe Ardente, and at first I was delighted by the root beer accord. But the perfume soon turned sort of sweet and then just stayed there, smelling simultaneously spicy and sweet and smoky, not at all unpleasant during any particular moment but a little much over the course of an entire evening.

And it's definitely lasted the entire evening. It's like hearing a song you enjoy played twenty times in a row, at an uncomfortable volume. By the end, not only are you unsure about your feelings for the song, you're also grumpy.

Wearing Myrrhe Ardente reminds me of a teenage prank I once played. I was having pizza with a friend and there was a rather loud jukebox in the corner, in which customers were dropping in their coins, choosing their favorite Journey songs, and sitting down and waiting for them to come up.



My friend and I, rapscallions both, ended our evening in the pizza parlor by trading several dollars for change, discretely dropping it all into the jukebox and playing "Happy Birthday." Not once but many, many times: 1st selection, G-56, "Happy Birthday"; 2nd selection, G-56, "Happy Birthday"; 3rd selection, G-56, "Happy Birthday", over and over and over again.

What's more painful than listening to Journey? We were all about to find out. Except "we" didn't include us, because my friend and I slipped out before our selections started and watched through the windows from outside.

The first "Happy Birthday," a generic '50s-style group sing-a-long that was plenty loud enough to hear from the street, was met with wide smiles and people curiously turning and looking around the restaurant for the evening's honoree. Maybe it was a secret "Happy Birthday," we imagined them thinking, for a shy little girl or boy. Or maybe it was a mistake. Oh well, we'll get back to Journey in a minute.

Except after two annoying verses, with the celebrant's name appearing as "la-la's", as in "happy birthday to la-la...", it started all over again. Two more verses, two more la-la's, and an increasingly irritated pizza parlor.

By the third or fourth version, fathers were standing up, hands on hips, looking like they wanted to club somebody over the head with their pizza pans. And by the fifth go-round, several people had gathered in front of the jukebox and from the street it appeared as if they were somehow trying to convince it to stop, to please just stop playing.

Around that time, a couple of families walked out and spotted our hysteria over the monumentally stupid scene we had created, and so we made a hasty departure and missed the ending.

And right now, I'm convinced Myrrhe Ardente is my punishment at last. Because it just won't stop, it keeps singing "happy birthday to la-la" over and over again, and I want to gather up all the angry dads in my neighborhood and find somebody to club with our pizza pans. Except it's 2 a.m. and they're all asleep. And they can't smell it anyway. It's only me. Me and Myrrhe Ardente, all unrelentingly heavy and sweet and by now more painful than listening to Journey.

Dan

Revisit Dan Rolleri's initial high hopes for Myrrhe Ardente here.

Gucci Rush

...wearing it is like being attacked by The Blob.



Gucci Rush falls into the “learn to love” category for me. And the way I've been stuck on “learn,” I don't know if I'll ever get to “love”. Rush is an amyl nitrite disco freakout, with lactic peach and powder and patchouli all crowding the dance floor.

I attended enough disco “tea dances” as a too-young-to-legally-be-there teen in DC with my friend Stephen Miller to be quite familiar with the eye-watering smell of poppers. They were typically snorted en masse at the crescendo of Sylvester's “You Make Me Feel Mighty Real” by ripped and sweaty gay men chasing that snootful of euphoria. A sinus-clearing odor of fruity chlorine and sweaty socks would settle over the smoke machine haze, leaving no mystery as to the origins of amyl nitrite's nickname, “Locker Room."



“Rush” is another nickname for poppers, and in creating Gucci Rush, perfumer Michel Almairac left aside the sweaty socks but held onto something of the bleachy fruit. It's fruit in a sinister funhouse mirror: the milky peach morphing into ammonia pineapple, old banana, and back to that peach.

Jasmine and patchouli phase in at some point to give Rush a passing family resemblance to other “good or gross?” fumes like Christian Dior Hypnotic Poison and Thierry Mugler Alien.

You can clearly see my struggle with Rush in the video review, as I try to get my head around the fact that it's sort of disgusting, but also possesses a streak of mellow sensuality. Mellow, that is, until it starts getting louder and louder and LOUDER -- when finally, we're all dancing to Sylvester.

Rush is available from Sephora.com and Amazon.com starting at $40 for 1 oz

Sniffapalooza Spring Fling 2010 Debriefing, Part 3

I'm crazy about you, Pug Burger

LOCATION OF OPERATION: NEW YORK CITY

PRIMARY MISSION: To attend Sniffapalooza Spring Fling 2010 and address key representatives of the fumiverse.

[Flibbertigibbet that I am, I managed to post two installments of my adventures at last April's Sniffapalooza in a timely fashion, and then neglected to write up my concluding reports. The ding-dong of my dum-dum chimes rang when I received the recent email about the upcoming Fall Sniffapalooza in October. Indulge me while I share my now-olden days gossip.]

Sat Apr 10 -- Primary Mission, cont’d

Lunch: 140 fume-o-philiacs pile into Opia’s banquet hall and hunker down over their salads and Bergdorf’s goodie bags. I’m riding a zippy little adrenalin kick as I’m gearing up to give my “Fumies Are the New Foodies” talk. I’m so glad to be the second speaker out of eleven -- but I still have visions of going over about as well as Annie Hall trying to be a chanteuse:



In the run-up to this weekend, Avery Gilbert (the sensory psychologist and a previous Sniffa event speaker) had advised me to keep my speech snappy and peppy. (What he'd really said was, “Try to wear nice shoes, okay, and don't pick at your underwear when you're at the microphone. This isn't blogging”. But I employed creative extrapolation to arrive at "snappy and peppy." Very helpful -- thanks, Avery.)

I'd decided to focus on insights gleaned from my bailiwick in the fumiverse's Wild West: YouTube.

As an early YouTube homesteader (Rancho Perfumo), I'd survived the hazing from tribes of feral teens and the oily “welcome wagon” comprised of foot and belly-button...uh..."enthusiasts." My lonely “Katie Puckrik Smells” flag flapped in the prairie winds, surrounded by bustling settlements of makeup tutorials and nail art how-tos.

But I was strong in the belief of “if you build it, they will come”, and gradually perfume lovers trickled into my channel, both the newly passionate as well as the fumecore faithful. And now I had a in-box of entertaining hate mail to show for my efforts. Speech-wise, it doesn't get any snappier than that.

Karen Dubin introduces me as “YouTube superstar Katie Puckrik” (jeez, I need to get a bigger flag for Rancho Perfumo), and I launch into my talk. I'm relieved that the crowd is engaged and ready to chuckle along. I conclude by reading out highlights from my most fervent naysayers, ending with my favorite semi-endorsement ever:

“I don’t really understand all of your jokes, but they seem really witty.”

I settle back at my table in time for dessert, and the speakers continue to truck along. Esteemed fragrance writer Chandler Burr takes the opportunity to jump the queue when a couple of speakers miss their entrance.

Chandler smells skeptical

I'd already had a chance to buttonhole Chandler that morning at Bergdorf's, when he was kind enough to submit to a quickie interview (which I promise to write up before the next Sniffapalooza blows past me like tumbleweed on the perfume prairie. He had some interesting things to say about deciding some of his perfume reviews were ultimately wrong, which I found disarmingly honest. And to which I could relate.)

During that conversation, Chandler mentioned chafing at fragrance fans' habit of breaking down a scent into notes in order to discuss it. (Fine talk for someone whose New York Times column is called “Scent Notes”!) He argued that the author of the scent composes not to highlight individual raw materials, but to build towards a finished work, which must then be viewed in its entirety.

Okay, smell bully! How about: people will get off on something any which way they choose, even if it's the “wrong” way? (There's that archive of messages from my foot and bellybutton pervs to support this statement. Apparently, I have more to offer than just my fragrance insights.) But I did appreciate Chandler's point that enthusiasts shouldn't get too caught up in the trees to miss out on the entire forest.

I'd mused to him, "I guess it's like saying to someone you're crazy about, 'I love your ribcage and the way your nervous system is configured', instead of what's really going on, which is you're filled with an unanalyzable craving for their whole being."

Chandler had brightened up at that, responding, "Oh, that's an interesting analogy, comparing [perfume appreciation] to humans. I've only made comparisons to architecture."

Which is what he does in his lunchtime talk. Which he begins by announcing in a querulous tone that he has a bone to pick with all of us. Cool! Midtown fume throwdown!

Chandler challenges the crowd to consider the "entire building" when trying new fragrances, and not the individual glass bricks, see-through concrete walls and flying buttresses. (You can tell I'm paraphrasing here, because that would be one stupid building.) He implores us to set aside our misguided scent notes approach and embrace his holistic review of perfumes.

The group listens respectfully, then resumes their eager comparative analysis of scent notes for the rest of the afternoon. And for the rest of their lives, probably. Because to employ another analogy, I might order the fancy Pug Burger at The Hungry Cat because I'm in the mood for a burger, but my inclination to enjoy it is enhanced when the waiter lists the ingredients: a Niman Ranch natural beef patty topped with melted blue cheese, thick-cut pork belly smoked on-site, and farmers' market avocado and red onion on a rustic sourdough bun smeared with housemade aioli.

And when I'm served that building of a burger, my taste buds identify and thrill to each one of its “notes”...until finally, I ravish it like someone I'm crazy about.

Coming up: Misadventure with Keiko Mecheri in the Takashimaya flower department.

Click for my Sniffapalooza Sping Fling 2010 Debriefing Part 1 and Part 2.

Pug Burger photo from food blog Exile Kiss

Fumes in the News: Trashy Perfume

A new perfume has just been launched at an exclusive location in New Jersey, hailed by those in attendance as “soapy, slightly citrus-scented” with “a pleasant, showery smell.” Guests at the event carped about the setting, however, calling it “a real dump.”

The Middlesex County Landfill, to be exact. The Star-Ledger reported yesterday that the East Brunswick dump is the site of the latest in cutting-edge olfactory technology: flatbed trucks loaded with vats of industrial-strength perfume, sprayed pesticide-style over the garbage and rat corpses.

Bigger than six football fields, the landfill is one of the largest active dumps in the country, with 1,000 tons of rubbish arriving daily. All that garbage means a non-stop fiesta of fetidness for nearby residents, who have complained about the stench for the last five years.

A sprinkling of baking powder wasn't going to cut it, so Richard Fitamant, executive director of the Middlesex County Utilities Authority, brought in the big guns: glorified body spray to freshen up the 200 square acres of rotting crud.

"It’s not offensive and it’s not overpowering. It’s a light scent.” Fitamant said. "It’s a neutralizing agent. The spray attaches to the odorous particles in the air and drops them down."

But drops them where? Landfill neighbor Alicia Edwards says all she smells is "garbage," no deodorizer.

"I understand it’s there, but please," she said. "(The landfill operators) should come and sit and have a barbecue with me. Then they’ll know what its really like. It’s a shame."

Fumies, what garbage dump perfume might we smell at Ms. Edwards' barbecue? I vote for one of those aggressively sudsy ones from the Clean line. Warm Cotton, perhaps.

Photo: Patti Sapone/The Star-Ledger

Perfume Pen Pals: Annick Goutal Encens Flamboyant and Myrrhe Ardente

Dan,

I'm very much enjoying wearing Annick Goutal Encens Flamboyant today in the 90 degree heat, and it's still going strong after a hindquarters-shredding Pilates class. In fact, it was a very nice smell to sweat in: clarifying and mountain-fresh during my hour of teeth-gritted voluntary torture.

Katie

Katie,

Here's something sort of amazing: around the exact moment you were writing the words "Encens Flamboyant," I was taking advantage of a steal of a deal on Beauty Encounter for another Goutal l'Orientaliste -- Myrrhe Ardente, the perfume you called “mushroom-flavored root beer”.

The thing is, I was a little intrigued because I like vegetal fragrances and I like root beer, even though I can't imagine those two things blending well (this contributes to the weirdness, right?).

Dan

Dan,

I don't know if you remember, but over a year ago I burbled this about Myrrhe Ardente:

“It is so WEIRD! It's sort of moist and dank and milkshakey and mushroomy. I kind of love it and want to vomit at the same time!”

I've just applied a dab of Myrrhe Ardente to refamiliarize myself with it, and I think you might like it. The root beer/mushroom also reads as sweet smoke, and I know that's your flavor of funk. Hmm! I'm liking this more than I remembered.

I just found this review of Myrrhe Ardente on Makeup Alley by Amy Kelley and I think she's right on the button (mushroom):

“Myrrhe Ardente smells like the inside of a box that's been used to store sheets of Papier d'Armenie and black jellybeans. I'm not sure which ingredient resembles licorice since I don't see anice listed anywhere as a note, but this isn't the screechy anice of Aimez Moi or Anisia Bella. It's just enough to give the smooth myrrh and benzoin a bit of a cola-ish bite. Frankly, it's one of the best skin scents I've tried in a long time, and I like it even more than the somewhat similar (and similarly priced) Bois d'Armenie.”

Katie

Katie,

Amy Kelley is good. And to the point. She says what she smells without any silly hoo-ha (yours truly). Her description of Encens et Bubblegum ("it's like someone dumped a packet of Grape Kool-Aid into a bottle of Sacrebleu") seems so spot-on, I believe it might be true.



But Tania Sanchez doesn't like Myrrhe Ardente, and says Serge Lutens La Myrrhe is still king of the castle. Apparently, I beg to differ, as I wrote this about La Myrrhe in my notes a while back:

"Smells like an ungodly combination of Chanel No. 5 and some heavy Neil Morris scent. I don't like it at all."

Of course, that was nearly a year ago and so I don't remember it. Plus, I'm much more mature now. Back then, me reviewing the wonderfully sophisticated Serge Lutens line was like a child reviewing caviar. Cute but not worth consideration.

Dan

Dan,

Right now I smell really good -- an unintentional combination of Bruno Acampora Musc and Encens Flamboyant.

Katie

Katie,

And back to Encens Flamboyant, I think you should write a "Top Fragrances To Sweat In" column. It's an interesting angle and, at least for me, the results are often surprising. Certain heavy perfumes do seem predictably oppressive during exercise, while others fuse to the sweat and somehow manage to form a whole that's greater than its parts.

And some simple, discrete perfumes are fine, giving off a pleasant little waft of pretty, producing a kind of yin and yang, flowers and toil (the name of my new band, by the way).

Others just smell annoying, they ridicule you, they say, "you think you're some athletic tough guy and yet you're wearing perfume, and everyone can smell it, and they're all laughing at you, they're saying 'look at the tough guy running around in his pretty carnation perfume! I bet his mother still does his laundry.'"

And it's not fair, KP, because I do my own laundry. I've always done my own laundry!

Dan

Over to you guys: top fragrances to sweat in?