Yves Saint Laurent Kouros

...louche and aspirationally "foreign".


A few months ago, I was invited by the UK edition of Cosmopolitan magazine to be a judge for their first-ever fragrance awards. The contenders were a grab bag of recent mainstream releases of varying distinction, along with an eclectic mix of favorites in the men and women’s “classic” categories.

It was entertaining and educational to plow through evaluations of 50+ bottles of perfume. There’s nothing an inveterate “checker” like me relishes more than comparing and contrasting, making notes and assigning ratings.

During the process, I enjoyed getting to know some previously unsnorted men’s scents, like Donna Karan Fuel for Men (intensely desiccated fruit and ashy leather) and Lalique White Pour Homme (bergamot and peppery cedar wood on a cushion of amber).

But there was one masculine offering that completely blew my fume fuse box: Kouros by Yves Saint Laurent. On my low-to-high, one-to-ten chart, Kouros was an instant “10”, and my favorite fragrance in the entire selection. Right out of the matte white ceramic bottle -- a futuristic Greek column circa Shatner-era Star Trek -- this 1981 warhorse stood and delivered.

This eau de toilette is a fiercely billowy incense, with camphoraceous notes and more than a soupçon of raunch. It shoots out of the canon with a salvo of spices -- clove gives it an emphatic snap. Then almost immediately, it envelops you in an animalic, powdery cloud.

Kouros fills the air like steam from a gushing hot water tap in a fancy old European hotel bathroom. An unfamiliar bathroom fogged with ghosts of all the other guests who’ve used it before you. And here’s where Kouros really starts to throb -- with vigor and borderline TMI.

The powdery cloud becomes mossy, physical -- some say brutishly masculine. On my skin, Kouros pulses with humanity. The composition of spicy florals, citrus, resins and musk smells distinctly lived-in, but still elegant. The vibration between civet, honey and florals (carnation and geranium are listed) evokes the smell of a sudsed-up inner thigh. Ooh, missus!

And Kouros does strike me as specifically “European”. It’s louche and aspirationally “foreign”. Or at the very least, not “American”: factory-sealed, sanitized for your sterile pleasure.

The genie in this bottle is muscular and scenery chewing. Many who’ve tried Kouros -- particularly younger guys accustomed to today’s ozonic, sweet, or fruity colognes -- find its ripeness repulsive. It doesn’t smell literally of sweat, or piss, or...um...”night soil”, but there is truly something of the essence of a human being inside every bottle of Kouros.

People who are yakked out by Kouros are putting too much on. It’s like the color red: wear it head to toe and you’ll look like a walking wiener. (Wear too much Kouros, and you’ll smell like one.) But wear just a dash, and it will add life to your whole gig.

Go easy on the trigger finger, though, because a little Kouros will live on your skin forever. Even with my modest application, I could still smell it eight hours later -- musky but oxymoronically fresh!

With Kouros, perfumer Pierre Bourdon created a remarkable tug of war between good hygiene and bad behavior. It’s a lion and a lamb: a slight bitterness, a pervading sweetness. It’s dirty, but also soapy. Kouros plays tricks on my head -- and takes my body on an enjoyably rough ride.

Photo: Brando by Avedon