Thierry Mugler Womanity

Clear out your sock drawer. Womanity's moving in.

A couple of years back, Allure Magazine ran a funny "Beauty and the Beat" column where Barneys creative director Simon Doonan did a blind sniff test of celebrity perfumes -- and attempted to guess the famous faces behind the juice. Struggling to match a star to what each scent was "saying", Simon attributed Derek Jeter's Driven Black to Rihanna: "very sensitive and girlie". And he was sure that Kanye West was the spokesmodel for Paris Hilton's Fairy Dust: "this is a very fashion-obsessed male with a certain flamboyance." Hardy har har -- except that I'm having the same difficulty with Thierry Mugler Womanity. Okay, it's called "Womanity", the bottle is filled with pink liquid, and it has a female face on the cap. But Holy Hilary Swank, Batman: dude looks like a lady! Except it is a lady. That smells like a dude. I'm talking sports cologne. For the most part, Womanity wears like a loud, thickly sweet sports spray. My favorite bit is the beginning: it starts off searingly fresh and fascinatingly vegetal, like sliced and salted bell peppers dressed in a squeeze of grapefruit. Pucker up, Missus! Then the fig lets rip, and there's an odd, yet not unappealing, tension between the salty freshness and the increasing sweetness. But just when you're starting to enjoy hanging with this hip new crowd, the door slams open and in trudge the same old kids from high school: Amber, Musk and Woods. Here's where Womanity loses its lilt and the whole composition sags. It becomes common. But like the country mouse who's relieved to see his old friends in a strange new environment, tenderfoot fume-lovers might relish Womanity's familiar drugstore sign-off. I will say that the pewter-look Dungeons & Dragons packaging, with its cuffed cap chained to the Yellow Submarine lady, is impressively elaborate and luxurious. Womanity's sure to be a hit with the bottle collectors.

Womanity is available from FragranceNet.com, Amazon.com, FragranceX.com and Thierry Mugler.com, starting at $28 for 10 ml

Histoires de Parfums 1826 and 1725

I'm finishing up my amble through the Histoires de Parfums series with two of my favorites from the line, 1826 and 1725.

1826, the “French empress” one, is a woody floral musk with a bit of anise. It's simultaneously crisp and warm, leaning a bit towards Sarah Jessica Parker Lovely, but drier, trimmed of Lovely's “musk fat”. The listed notes attest to the presence of strong characters like violet, ginger, patchouli and incense, but from where my nose is standing, they've reigned in their usual showboating in favor of subtle ensemble work. 1826 is soft, soft, soft -- and very pretty indeed.

1725, the “Casanova” one, is clear, aromatic, slightly sweet -- fresh but full. The stats say “amber fern”. Thing is, I'm just not sure what fern actually smells like. In Donna Hathaway's fern post on Perfume Smellin' Things, she describes it as a gentle green note, ranging from “fresh and cooling” to an autumnal “hay-like sweetness”.

Based on that description, I'd say 1725 works the full fern range. It starts out light and lilting with the help of lemony citrus, and gets drier and more powdery as it moseys along. I can't pick out the listed lavender and licorice, which suits me right down to the tip of my curly-fern tail. Lavender and licorice are shrug-inducing smells for me, fume-wise. (This position 100% guaranteed only until my mind is blown by some as-yet-undiscovered lavender and licorice elixir.)

But what does resonate is almond, which lingers and lingers until all the other ingredients have yawned and drifted away from the party. 1725 ends up soft and powdery, a refined version of Prada Amber Pour Homme.

The poop sheet stamps 1725 a “fougère”, once again hammering home the realization that I would fail a pop quiz on the definition of fougère. Yeah, yeah, I get that “fougère” is literally French for “fern” -- what's the problem here, Puckrik?

But I'm hornswoggled when Luca Turin calls YSL Kouros, with its baboon-butt incense, a “fougère”. And when Davidoff Cool Water, with its synthetic aqueous melon, is also classified as a Frenchified fern. Dammit, people! All of these things are not like the others. Can I please get my fougère served with a side of rhyme and/or reason?

Momentary clarity is found over at Smellyblog, where Ayala Moriel's article: “Fougère, Coumarin and the Bittersweetness of Green”, states that fougère “is simply a name for a complex blend of an aromatic, herbal nature.”

All right, then. Hornswoggling halted until further notice.

This just in: Perfume Pen Pal Dan Rolleri emailed me with his take on 1725. The subject line reads: “1725 Report (useless)”.

I'm wearing 1725 again, and I'm surprised you like it. I don't remember you having any kind words for anise/licorice fragrances. Though I take that back because you like Lolita Lempicka, right? This is richer and more complex than that and I like it a lot. But then I like every anise scent I try.

They're like black v-neck sweaters: I have more than I can ever wear and yet I wear them all the time. Which means I have a lot. And if I bought 1725, which I might, I wouldn't stick it near Eno, I'd carefully place it among my five or six other anise perfumes that all smell sort of the same. And I'd love it because there's nothing like a good woody anise. Except another good woody anise. I've gone so vertical on anise, I can almost see China. Where it looks like it might rain. Maybe I'll wear my v-neck sweater.

Overall, I find the Histoires de Parfums collection satisfyingly ambitious, even when their scents don't hit the mark for me. And the ones I love, I REALLY love: 1725, 1826, Tubéreuse 1, and especially, Ambre 114.

Catch up on the Histoires de Parfums line here, here, here and here.

Image by Ksenia Plotnikova

L'Artisan Parfumeur Nuit de Tubereuse Giveaway!

"Gurgle...snort...splutter...aaaAAAAHHH...WHEEEEEEEEE! [heavy panting]"

These are the sounds involuntarily produced by the Smell Devil who lives deep within, upon hearing the news of L'Artisan Parfumeur's generous contribution to my Summer Fragrance Giveaway: a 100ml bottle of Nuit de Tubéreuse.

The Smell Devil is my fragrance id, the one who seized control of my credit card the other week at Barney's in order to satisfy its immediate demand for NdT. You'll be relieved to know that my Smell Devil is not eligible to enter the Summer Fragrance Giveaway, but you, my friends in human form, are.

All you have to do to enter is to click, watch, and post under this video. Note that the total number of entries allowed is now SEVEN.

Good luck to you and your Smell Devils.

Perfume Pen Pals: Histoires de Parfums Vert Pivoine

Dan,

Just got in from seeing a great fuzzy-wuzzy boy-girl triple bill at the Hollywood Bowl: The Swell Season, She & Him, and The Bird & The Bee.

Zooey Deschanel has a really lovely voice! Kind of a cross between a rockabilly-twinged throbber (ie Patsy Cline, Neko Case) and a more naïve Doris Day. Her singing was more impressive live than on She & Him's albums. Less impressive was Zooey's onstage charisma, weirdly, since she's an actress and all. You'd think she'd have that part down, but she just didn't have that "front man" authority.

Katie

Katie,

I've noticed the same thing about Zooey D. She comes off like a shy teenager when she's singing, not at all how she appears otherwise. She won't get any tips from her new husband, the Death Cab for Cutie guy, who's the opposite of charismatic. (I need an antonym dictionary.)

I wore Vert Pivoine this morning. It's understated and agreeable, though I wish it were a little less agreeable. Did you ever see Zooey Deschanel's (500) Days of Summer? It was fantastic: on its surface an ordinary romantic comedy, but it wasn't quite romantic or funny, it didn't hit all the obvious notes, it left money on the table and ended up being more genuine because of it. And yet still incredibly stylish. It was both warm and cool, a real trick.

By toning down the showy aspects of its flowery top-notes, Vert Pivoine almost succeeds in the same way. But there isn't enough substance to fill in the gaps. It's merely understated as opposed to understated and surprisingly moving, more Zooey Deschanel pleasantly singing at the Hollywood Bowl than Zooey Deschanel pleasantly breaking Joseph Gordon-Levitt's heart.

Vert Pivoine smelled great during my run, by the way. It's interesting to smell which fragrances do well during exercise and which generate headaches. I smelled like a subtle extension of the city's summer gardens, most of which don't actually exist in my neighborhood, which makes Vert Pivoine even more worthwhile. Dan

Dan, I'm intrigued to see how much you're enjoying Vert Pivoine. Plowing through all 16 HdPs more or less at once, I crashed into total PRF (Perfume Review Fatigue). Here's all I managed to cough up for Vert Pivoine: “Peony and an old-fashioned lipstick smell.” Now I can add, "Perfect for workouts". Katie

Katie, Surely you've already recognized this, but the genius of Perfumes: The A-Z Guide isn't merely the clever writing, but the fact that Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez have anything to say about most of those perfumes. People gripe that the two of them don't take every single stupid perfume seriously, but I have a hard time taking many of the good ones seriously. It's overwhelming at times. And I'm just a guy with a little perfume cabinet. Can you imagine LT's perfume cabinet? I'm not surprised Vert Pivoine didn't bear review fruit. It's pretty but plain. If it were a girl, she would attend a boarding school in the Northeast, wear Brooks Brothers and J. Crew, innately know the difference between a salad fork and a dessert fork, and eventually marry a young man who works in finance. You can't criticize her without automatically criticizing thousands of girls just like her. And yet I like it/her. What's not to like? Dan

Fumies, what would you nominate for a hard-to-dislike fragrance?

Summer Fragrance Giveaway!

After posting my 6 Summer Fragrance Picks video, my fume-tubers' comments zeroed in on what seems to be this year's hot weather holy grail. No, niche bunnies, it is not L'Artisan Parfumeur Nuit de Tubéreuse. It's Estée Lauder Bronze Goddess! BarrysDaughter put it this way:

"Bronze Goddess is like rocking horse poo -- can't find it anywhere apart from eBay for silly money, and I have heard so many people saying it is the perfect summer fragrance."

Well in that case, I'm extra excited to announce my Summer Fragrance Giveaway, complete with that aforementioned bottle of rocking horse poo. Here are the hot weather-friendly fragrances on offer: Estée Lauder Bronze Goddess body lotion Christian Dior Homme Sport eau de toilette Fresh Sugar Lychee eau de parfum Fresh Sugar Lychee Eau de Parfum Rollerball Guerlain Homme eau de toilette Ulrich Lang Anvers 2 eau de toilette STOP PRESS!! L'Artisan Parfumeur have kindly made available a 100ml bottle of Nuit de Tubéreuse for this giveaway!! This event has officially gone from irresistible to unmissable! Exclamation point! To find out more about each fragrance, including the official ingredients list, click on its name. Everything you need to know to win one is in the video, so click, watch, and enter here.

Good luck, my little sawdust sausages!

6 Summer Fragrances for You, 10 Summer Fragrances for Me

I know, I know, it sounds unfair and uneven, but I promise I'll make it up to you -- with a shhhhhhhhh...giveaway. (Details coming soon.) In the video, I discuss the following six fragrances -- both mainstream and niche -- worth considering when you're wilting in the heat: Estée Lauder Bronze Goddess Christian Dior Homme Sport Fresh Sugar Lychee Guerlain Homme Ulrich Lang Anvers 2 L'Artisan Parfumeur Nuit de Tubéreuse And now for the ten perfumes I've been wearing these days. The change of seasons is the perfect excuse for a change of one's habits: the clothes you wear, the food you eat, the man you're married to...whoopsie, how did that get in there? I meant to say: the perfume you mist into every nook of your crannies. Except that sometimes, you don't need an excuse for change, because you're perfectly pleased with things the way they are. It would be hard to justify chucking my incense roses, furry ambers, and freckly husband just because the Los Angeles sunshine has become a weapon of organ-desiccating hyperthermia. So in the same way a snappy haircut and a couple of cool new shirts freshens up the husb, my current high-rotation fumes incorporate the same basic elements, but in a slightly different arrangement. Here's why I'm smelling wunderbar this summer: M. Micallef Rose Aoud -- the sheerest rose and oud ever, girly-fied with as much fruit as you'll ever find me wearing voluntarily. Guerlain Habit Rouge -- a buoyant puff of citrus and floral leather. Amouage Homage Attar -- I love it in the face-melting heat of summer for the same reason I do in winter's bastard chill: because it's perfect. Homage is incense rose, herbal leather, and joy to all who smell it. Bruno Acampora Musc -- it's the musk of spooning naps and sun-kissed skin. L'Artisan Parfumeur Nuit de Tubéreuse -- it's fruity! it's spicy! It's sort of tuberose, sort of incense! The name suggests something very “Jungle Gardenia”, all bombastic sexiness and groin sweat. Instead, NdT is positively sprightly: fresh and green, sweetly woody and “hi neighbor” friendly. biehl parfumkunstwerke mb03 -- a see-thru summer-weight incense from Mark Buxton. Wearing it is cooling, and it seems to purify the smoggy air around me. People of the Labyrinths A*Maze -- rose, oud, saffron -- and plenty of it. I don't care! Can you tell? Montale Aoud Damascus -- metallic rose, leathery oud, and incense. It has a sharpness that cuts through the mugginess. Prada Myrrhe -- fresh pine-y and resinous, crisp and slightly soapy. Myrrh is "the other white meat”: a change from my omnipresent frankincense. L'Artisan Parfumeur Côte d'Amour -- all right, here's my one true concession to the eyeball-mummifying heat of the desert summer. Côte d'Amour is mineral chalkiness and soft-focus beach flowers. It provides quiet delight without sucking oxygen out of the atmosphere. Please enjoy the Top Ten Summer Fragrances lists from these fine bloggers: Bois de Jasmin Grain de Musc Now Smell This Perfume Posse Perfume Smellin' Things Fumies, how can we tell it's summer by smelling you? What are you wearing?

Perfume Pen Pals: Histoires de Parfums Ambre 114, Patchouli Noir and 1826

Katie,

Last night, I put on Histoires de Parfums Ambre 114, perhaps not the best choice as I would be attending a silent film festival and sitting in a crowded theater for hours. A crowded silent theater, which makes a difference because people can smell better when there's no noise. (That's only my theory but, you watch, it'll be widely accepted before long.)

Thank goodness there was a live orchestra to provide aural texture for my perfume (and also the films), and it was obvious the music complemented me because the entire audience appeared delighted.

But it wasn't Ambre 114 everyone was smelling, it was Ambre 114 and HdP Noir Patchouli, the result of a mistake back at home. I use these tiny little sprayers for my tiny little vials because I don't like to pour perfume on my wrists, let alone all over the floor, the desk, the sofa, wherever I happen to be applying. (I have the dexterity of a rhino. You should see me with chopsticks. Ever see a rhino with chopsticks? Same thing.)

I'm always careful to rotate my tiny little sprayers and then wash them all out. Except when I'm not, when I just leave them lying around, filled with who knows what. (If you're eating light, they're also great for applying salad dressing.)

So last night, my Ambre 114 sprayer was filled with Noir Patchouli and my first two sprays smelled suspiciously like I had smelled earlier in the day, but then my next two sprays smelled like amber, and at the end of what was a confusing few seconds for me, I smelled great! Very, very great! The earthy patchouli notes still came through but now they were layered with sweet, warm amber.

I realize proclaiming amber works well with patchouli in 2010 is like pairing chocolate with peanut butter and then boasting that your sudden weight gain is the result of a delicious new discovery, but I don't normally venture into layering, so please permit me to celebrate this one happy accident.





I kept smelling myself throughout the evening, assuming the experiment would eventually fall apart, that one or the other perfume would take charge while I sat by helplessly, watching a sad old film, listening to sad old music, and trying not to shed any tears at the image of sad old me, sitting in a movie theater, smelling myself, while everyone else was having a grand old time. But that didn't happen, KP! Because I smelled great and the whole audience agreed, I'm certain of it.

A side note (and, let's face it, everything I write is a side note, it's not like I'm breaking any news from Afghanistan): this morning I noticed that Histoires de Parfums 1826 features both amber and patchouli and so I assumed it would smell the same as I did last night, but I was wrong.

1826 is sweeter and more subdued than Ambre Patchouli (Noir Ambre?) and while it's really quite lovely, its sweetness seems as much vanilla as amber and its patchouli is a background player, maybe even a stagehand, to 1826's softer fruity side.

Nonetheless, I like it, it's a good, sweet perfume that has just enough spice to keep things interesting. It smells like summer. Uh-oh, it is summer. That's bad news for my budget. Wait, do I have a budget? Because you can't have bad news for something that doesn't exist. My budget is the dialogue of my silent movie. And my perfume is the orchestra. Thank goodness for the orchestra.

Dan

Histoires de Parfums Tubereuse 2 Virginale and Tubereuse 3 Animale

Tubéreuse 2 is the the “Virginal” one out of Histoires de Parfums tuberose trio. Here the tuberose presents with its full frou frou entourage that one might expect in a tuberose perfume. Hoo-boy, those jasminey florals are right here, right now, and right cloying. Must...open...window...*thud*.

[Narrator steps over Katie's lifeless body to finish review: “If you adore jasmine at its shrillest, and insist that tuberose be accompanied by a niff of pink bubblegum, then Tubéreuse 2 is for you.”]

Hi everyone -- Katie, here. I popped back to life half an hour after applying Tubéreuse 2. It's now a lot prettier and not as screechy. But it still makes my teeth ache. (Ooh, and an hour later still, it's a sweet candy white floral/patchouli that reminds me a bit of Bulgari Jasmin Noir eau de parfum, which is one I have a soft spot for.)

Okay, so T2 is a sprightly teen tuberose, if you have the time and the patience to get through some difficult stretches. Which might make T2 a metaphor for living with a teenager.

My Perfume Pen Pal Dan had a Goldilocks moment with Tubéreuse 2:

Tubéreuse 2 smells nice, though kind of exactly like a tuberose perfume. I complain when tuberose smells like tuberose, I complain when tuberose doesn't smell like tuberose. It seems like tuberose can't win with me.

After living, dying, and living again through Tubéreuse 2, I'm fully limbered up for Tubéreuse 3, and good thing, too: this one's subtitled “Animal”. Tubéreuse 3 is a heavy oriental: spices, smoke, tobacco -- truly a vintage-style melange. It's not like Perfume Pete off the street could snag a snort and bellow, “Get a load of that tuberose, babe!”.

(Perfume Pete might know the homeless man who wandered into the Scent Bar the last time I was there. After making a few polite enquiries -- “'Pêche' means 'peach', right?” -- he helped himself to a spritz of Bruno Acampora Jasmin and yelped, outraged, “It smells like a dead dog!”)

Tubéreuse 3 is an opera house perfume. Or at least, the olden days opera house of my mind, candlelit and red-velvet swagged, filled with czars and duchesses. Elderly duchesses, who wear diapers under their crinolines. And mink stoles that have soured slightly with age and proximity to neck sweat. Jeez, I think I'm going to have to fumigate my imaginary opera house.

T3 has a kinship with Molinard Habinata, but instead of being pleasingly powdery-spicy, it's mushy and bothersome. And expired-smelling. T3 is just not my cup of fur.

Tuberose-wise, it's Tubéreuse 1 Capricieuse out of this particular flower bunch for me.

Read more Histoires de Parfums reviews here, here, and here.

Portrait of Russian theatre lady from Please Obey.com

Histoires de Parfums Tubereuse 1 Capricieuse

Histoires de Parfums' website informs us that “the mythical tuberose flower is a symbol of desire and dangerous pleasures”. Um, wrong. That would be the mythical vanilla bean cupcake from Red Velvet Cupcakery. But HdP have a trilogy of tuberose perfumes to plug, so I'll let it slide.

Everyone “knows” what tuberose smells like: it's a big badonkadonk floral that's cloying if not sent to the same Dominique Ropion Finishing School that Carnal Flower graduated from. Well gosh, maybe the cloying part isn't the tuberose after all, but all the Fracas-style doilies and knick-knacks crowding out the composition. That's what I'm starting to think after wearing Tubéreuse 1, capriciously subtitled Capricious.

Tubéreuse 1 doesn't really register as a floral at first. It goes on iris-dry, cloth-y, a little rubbery. It's rubbery in the way that real flowers can be, with all of their “non-pretty” nuances that they sneak into their olfactory output. T1 sweetens slightly, and there's a wonderful thick quality that has the weight of incense, without actually being woody. It's more floral as it develops, but stays at a calm, suntan oil kind of hum.

The listed ingredients include groovy stuff like saffron, ylang-ylang and suede, but like all of the Histoires, T1 is a well-integrated composition where individual notes are not brought to your attention. It's not a straggly parade where you can pick out the baton twirlers, fez-wearing shriners on mini mopeds, and suede. T1 doesn't scream “suede”, but I'm enjoying the excuse of looking for it as I sniff deeply of myself. I love Tubéreuse 1!

Excited about T1, I solicited my Perfume Pen Pal Dan Rolleri for his appraisal:

Okay, I sprayed on some Tubéreuse 1 and it's weird. Not bad weird, or maybe even good weird, just weird, like nothing I've ever quite smelled before. It was a little piercing at first, like an urgent knock at the door, the kind that's annoying because you're about to take a nap or watch a movie and somebody suddenly wants something. Now!

I don't know what Tubéreuse 1's piercing top-note wanted because I didn't answer the door, and instead peaked through the keyhole for a few minutes and waited for it to go away. Which it did. And then a whole lot of suede showed up, which reminded me of one of those leathery Etat Libres. And yet there was also a floral aspect, not quite as big and heady as your typical tuberose but strong enough to cause a flowery friction with the suede, the combination of which made it more agreeable than, say, Rien, but also more surprising, like a small bunch of flowers popping out of an old briefcase.

I'm always annoyed when bloggers write that they appreciate certain fragrances but they don't like them, as if all these perfumes are like Brian Eno records, but Tubéreuse 1 sort of is. I appreciate its weirdness but if I owned a full bottle, I might as well stick it right next to my copy of Another Green World.

Okay Dan -- one gal's groovy tuberose may indeed be another man's ambient noodlings. But as it happens, Another Green World is one of my favorite wistful, borderline disturbing, yet ultimately uplifting albums. And you might say the same about Tubéreuse 1.

Portrait subject: Brian Eno

Gwen Stefani Harajuku Lovers Sunshine Cuties Winners!

Boy, those Sunshine Cuties sure are the popular kids at Perfume High -- almost 1,600 of you want to be in their gang! And what a fine-smelling crew you all would be, except that I only have three sets of the Harajuku Lovers Sunshine Cuties collection to give away. The winners were randomly chosen using the futuristic computer magic of Random.org (overseen by Rodrigo the Perfume Dog to verify absolute random-osity). So which of you are going to be hanging dolly-style with G, Love, Baby, Lil' Angel and Music? The winners are: SaraSidd littlemiss1133 LimePink111 Congratulations to the winners! Thanks to Coty for supplying the fragrances. And the rest of you are still my Sunshine...Moonshine...Anytime Cuties. To prove it, I'm busy lining up my next fabbu event: a Thierry Mugler Womanity perfume and body products giveaway -- coming up SOON! The fine print: Winners, please private message me on my YouTube channel with your name and mailing address. If I don't hear from you by Thursday, July 22, 2010, your prize will go to a lucky stand-by winner. Check out my original review of the Sunshine Cuties collection here.

Chanel No. 19

...the leathery iris lets them know who’s boss.

One million years B.C., I was a young pop singer in London determined to give Madonna a run for her rah-rah skirt. I performed in dive bars and gay clubs all over town, singing to backing tracks in my glow-in-the-dark Trick-or-Treat dress while furiously lassoing eight inflatable Dalmatians over my raspberry Krazy-Kolored head. A couple of times, I played in the cafeteria at St Martins College of Art -- at lunchtime -- which sounds a bit Spinal Tap-billed-beneath-the-puppet-show, until you learn that the Sex Pistols made their debut in this very same venue some years earlier. Okay, at least the Sex Pistols got to play at night, but the advantage for me (aside from all the tater-tots I could eat -- try getting that on your rider, Johnny Rotten!) was that I met some talented student photographers who asked me to be their model. It was a good deal: they worked their chops, and I snagged some shots. I remember one of the women in particular, because she was the first person I ever met who wore Chanel No. 19. Caroline was about 20, an English maiden-type whose silky blonde hair created a dramatic contrast against her art-school black turtleneck. I was impressed by her manner: she had an easy way with me, a near-stranger, and was confident with both directing me and managing her complicated-looking equipment. At one point, Caroline decided she wanted to do some portraits of me wearing black against a black background, so that my face and hands would be highlighted in the gloom. Since the only clothes I had with me were a pink metallic Vivienne Westwood goddess bustier and mini-crini that made me look like Aphrodite crossed with a go-go dancer, she lent me her black turtleneck. As I slipped the wool sweater over my head, I was enveloped in a powdery cloud of Chanel No. 19. She had to tell me what it was, and mentioned it was the only perfume she ever wore. I had no reference point for the smell, which was completely new to me. It was pretty, but not at all sweet. It was youthful but not childish. No. 19 seemed to share Caroline's easy, unfussy beauty, as well as her cool restraint. I was thrilled with the finished portraits, which revealed an arch self-possession I didn't know I had. And maybe I didn't have it. Studying the photos now, it occurs to me that the poise Caroline captured had nothing to do with me at all, and everything to do with Chanel No. 19. Photo by Caroline Hughes

Histoires de Parfums 1740 and 1804

Histoires de Parfums add a little frisson to their “date” perfumes by tying them in with colorful historical figures. You know, the way Fairy Dust is tied in with Paris Hilton, or Harajuku Lovers is linked to Lil' Angel. (Wait...what? You mean Paris Hilton isn't real?)

Anyway, 1740 features Marquis de Sade as the spokesmodel, which perhaps sets up more elaborate expectations than the actual fragrance can fulfill, good as it is. 1740 has a masculine whiskey-and-tobacco swagger. There's a lot of dry leather and a hint of woody maple syrup.

Wearing it, I'm reminded me of the time husb J and I were hiking on San Jacinto Peak. I kept remarking that certain evergreens we passed smelled like pancakes and maple syrup. Trying to figure out how this could be so, I stood with my nose right up against one of the trees.

“Oh, you mean those trees,” J said, as if he knew all about it. “They taste good, too. Go ahead, lick it!”

With an immediate “understanding” that we were in some kind of Willy Wonka forest, I obediently licked the dry bark. (Hmm, maybe this is turning into a Marquis de Sade scenario after all.)

J couldn't believe how hilariously dumb and trusting I was. I maintain to this day that I wasn't being dumb and trusting -- it's just that I never miss a chance to indulge my sweet tooth.

(J also never lets me forget the time we were hiking in Big Sur, and upon spying an adorable cluster of does and fawns at the side of the trail, my comment was, “Are they real?” Okay, maybe that was dumb. But it least it wasn't trusting.)


Where were we? Oh yes, 1740. Dry, leathery, with a distant drop of maple. Better than licking tree bark, to be sure. But at 1740's extreme drydown, the immortelle morphs from maple into a “does this really count as perfume?” waft of curry.

Sometimes, that curry note is great, because it lends a sexy “sweaty guy” vibe to a perfume. But sometimes, it just smells like curry, which only makes me think I spilled something on myself while whipping up aloo gobi for eight. 1740's immortelle tick-tocks between those two not-so-extremes, and so I hover between enjoying it and wanting to clean my stove.

But I might be too fussy with my whining about extreme drydowns. If I were more like Perfume Pen Pal Dan, a fragrance would never live beyond young adulthood on my skin before I was showering and applying something new that had just arrived in the mail.

Speaking of showering and applying something new, it's time for 1804. Uh...pineapple? Not what I expect when the PR bumf mentions “George Sand”. Once I begrudgingly accept that pineapple is what will be guffing off my skin for the foreseeable future, I kind of relax and go along for the ride.

1804 surprises me be by getting less, not more, obnoxious as it goes along, and assumes some of the creamy peach candy lilt of another recent sweetie-fume discovery of mine, Nez à Nez Bouche Baie.

Dan also tried 1804 and found it:

...an aggressively lovely combination of white flowers, amber and patchouli. I smell like a sexy hippie lady vacationing in Hawaii.

Hmm, wasn't George Sand a cross-dresser? Maybe HdP's branding shtick has some validity after all! Dan's the biggest cross-smeller I know.

Fumies, what are your preferred "cross-smelling" choices?

Coming up: still more Histoires de Parfums.
Read Histoires de Parfums Part 1 here.

Image: Marquis de Sade by Kate O'Brien

Histoires de Parfums 1969, Ambre 114, Patchouli Noir and 1876

The first I knew of the Histoires de Parfums line was via my perfume pen pal Dan Rolleri. Dan's got an insatiable jones for novelty when it comes to fragrances, and I can barely keep up with the abundant decants he regularly sends Pony Express from Rolleri Ranch in San Francisco all the way down to Puckrik Towers here in Los Angeles.

A whole year ago I was fielding his raves about Histoires de Parfums 1969:

“1969 is Tom Ford Noir de Noir, if Noir de Noir weren't created for clowns. (As it's alleged to have been.)

It's rose and fruit and patchouli and amber and chocolate and coffee, but somehow it doesn't possess the anvil-heaviness of Noir de Noir. It's Noir de Noir for adults. Sexy adults. (As opposed to clownish adults.)”

Dan sent me a decant, but I couldn't get on board the love train -- or even the clown car. To me, 1969 was a fruity floral propped up with large plank of ambery wood -- kind of a more refined Marc Jacobs Lola.

Not inspired by 1969, I lost interest in tracking down the rest of the line. Fortunately, the dedicated storytellers at HdP tracked me down, sending me samples of the whole 16-perfume collection, which is directed by Gérald Ghislain.

Impulsively (my MO is “impulsively”, hence my hallway painted an eyeball-searing neon turquoise. Oh, and that ill-advised first marriage.), I sat down the other day and plowed through all 16 fragrances. (Okay, I exaggerate -- it took two days, but one day sounded more convincingly impulsive.)

Binging on the entire Histoires de Parfums line was like opening a box of See's Assorted Chocolates and methodically taking one bite out of every single bon-bon. Everything I smelled fascinated me, either because it was gorgeous, or odd, or appalling. And also because whether I like them or not, all of the HdPs are full-figured, deliberate compositions. No taking a generic base and adding pink peppercorns here, eye of newt there, and calling it a collection. No sirree bobtail cats. Each of these eau de parfums could easily justify an entire post, but not now –- I'm binging, see?

Either through dumb luck or wondrous perfume destiny, the first one I stumble onto ends up being my favorite: Ambre 114. (Okay, I cop to trying to build drama where none exists. The fact is, I saw “Ambre” on the vial and grabbed it, because amber and I go back a long way. Notches on my bedpost include Tom Ford Private Blend Amber Absolute, Serge Lutens Ambre Sultan, Tann-Rokka Aki, Le Labo Labdanum 18, Antica Farmacista Ambra, L'Orientaliste Ambre, Parfumerie Generale L'Oiseau de Nuit, and Parfumerie Generale L'Ombre Fauve. I like stuff with amber, k?)

Ambre 114 is gorgeousness with a capital G-O-R-G-E. This powdery amber is both milky and nutty -- sort of a cross between PG L'Ombre Fauve's fur and Creed Angelique Encens' spicy powder. How I love this! There's some nice vegetal tobacco leaf/aromatic kind of thing in here. I'm guessing that thing must be the listed patchouli. Did I say I love this? I love this. Wear Ambre 114 and you will be transformed into the softest kitten that ever mewed to be petted.

Patchouli Noir is patchouli and menthol and vinyl tarpaulin. It's weird and I kind of like it –- as a smell. Like, if I unexpectedly wandered into a cloud of this odor while exploring an abandoned house, I'd announce to the assembled ghosts, “Hey, what a great smell!” But I don't need more of a commitment to Patchouli Noir than that. Speaking of commitment, this dude has serious tenacity.

Mata Hari is HdP's muse for 1876, a spicy rose floral combo at first, until it bleeds all over itself and congeals into a dense mushball of animal and ashes. It calls to mind a burnt-to-cinders version of Nasomatto China White. Pretty interesting, but I keep catching a niff of cinnamon, which forces me to withdraw my support for 1876's cause.

I mean, I love the smell of cinnamon: in my coffee, on my toast, in my Moroccan pigeon b'stila. But in perfume, overt cinnamon bugs me -- it smells too foody and obvious. Still, I'm intrigued by 1876's dank stank. It's not an easy lay, like Ambre 114. Once I finish leaving teethmarks in all of HdP's other bon-bons, I'm coming back to 1876 to learn to love it.

Fumies - which fragrances have you learned to love -- successfully?

More Histoires de Parfum reviews here, here, here, here, here and here.

Image: Greta Garbo in Mata Hari

Perfume Pen Pals: Davidoff Cool Water vs. Creed Green Irish Tweed

Dan,

I've been getting constant messages on my YouTube channel from a fellow who keeps asking me slightly differently worded variations on the same question: "What cologne do women find the sexiest?"

I told him that's like asking "What is women's favorite food?", but he won't be satisfied. Here's the latest from him:

"Would you prefer Cool Water or Green Irish Tweed?"

I don't f*#king know! Tell me, Dan. Which would I prefer? Cool Water is a Calone-stuffed thing that is perceived as a dated cliche, and Green Irish Tweed is a well-made but conservative thing that smells like a posher Cool Water. Help.

Katie

Katie,

“Cool Water versus Green Irish Tweed” is a constant source of discussion on Basenotes. They were both (allegedly) created by Pierre Bourdon (Creed keeps its perfumers' names a secret -- yet another lame-ass thing about Creed) and I guess they smell similarly. I sampled them fifteen years apart so I can't say. But I remember I liked neither.

Yes, Cool Water is dated and cliched, except guys who wear stuff like that never understand those concepts. It's one of those '80s crap ozone scents that smells like some 24-year-old former frat dick who used to date-rape, and now he's making $35,000 a year working as a low-level media planner at a second-rate ad agency. And thinking about how great his life was three years ago.

Green Irish Tweed is for the same guy, ten years on, married and desperate and now making $70,000 a year at the same second-rate agency, but he's topped out career-wise, plus he has to work weekends. Which is fine because there's so much tension at home, he can't bear to be there. Oh, and he's thinking about how great his life was ten years ago.

There. Send that to your correspondent. And tell him to find his soul.

Wow, where did this sudden hostility come from? You know I'm only joking. I love everyone.

Dan