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.
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.
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.
Click for my Sniffapalooza Sping Fling 2010 Debriefing Part 1 and Part 2.
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.
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 deal on Beauty Encounter for another Goutal l'Orientaliste -- Myrrhe Ardente, the perfume you called “mushroom-flavored root beer”.
Calling all sorcerers and sorceresses! Don't have time to concoct your own hoodoo brews? No problem! Through the generosity of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's mojo mixologist Beth Barrial, I have FOUR sets of BPAL perfume oils to give away, worth over $200 apiece.
Each set contains at least EIGHT5ml bottles of BPAL oils, along with some other extra goodies.
WHO CAN ENTER:
To enter, you must be a subscriber to my YouTube channel, Katie Puckrik Smells. If your Blogger screen name is different from your YouTube name, please state this in your entry comment. For instance, my Blogger name is Katie Puckrik, so I'd put: "My YouTube name is KatiePuckrikSmells." This is important, because the only way I can verify the winners is through their YouTube accounts.
HOW TO ENTER:
Enter by commenting under this post only. Any entries on my YouTube channel won't count. One entry per person, please.
ENTRY DEADLINE:
Giveaway closes Saturday September 4, 2010, midnight EST. Winners will be chosen by a random drawing, and announced on this blog on Monday September 6, 2010. Only one prize per winner.
NOTES FOR THE WINNERS:
Winners, please private message me on my YouTube channel with your
mailing address. If I don't hear from you within ONE week, your prize will go to a randomly-chosen alternate winner.
Reasonable care will be taken in the packaging and mailing of your prize, but if the contents are lost, damaged, or held up by Customs, I sincerely apologize in advance that I cannot replace it.
Customs policies vary from country to country. You may be subject to import duties and taxes, which are enforced once a shipment reaches your country. Charges for customs clearance must be paid by you. Unfortunately, I have no control over these charges.
Beth Barrial is the coolest nerd you've ever met. The dragon-red dreadlocked proprietress of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab draws on a lifetime of reading -- history, mythology, gothic horror, pagan naughtiness -- to inspire her 600+ perfumes.
This teachers' daughter propelled herself all the way from her favorite childhood stories into a narrative straight out of her beloved graphic novels: the steampunk alchemist who captivates kingdoms with her evocative scents. In Beth's case, these “kingdoms” range from flocks of librarians to drag queens -- and anyone else who relishes the power of fantasy to enhance their lives. Lady B is a storyteller in smells, and a master peddler of fantasy.
I visited Beth at Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's “Full Moon Open House” a few days after Halloween, 2009. The Full Moon event is a monthly open house held at BPAL's North Hollywood headquarters*, where her happily obsessed fans can experience in person the myriad elixirs described on Beth's poetically Byzantine website. The atmosphere at the open house is simultaneously festive and focused -- it's part sniff-and-tell, part shopping frenzy, and all party.
Even though most of the Full Moon revelers have never met, they already have a strong connection through their involvement on the BPAL website. The site is a virtual illuminated manuscript of Beth's own dark diversions (witness Carnaval Diabolique, her non-linear tale with perfumes as characters), her collaborations with graphic novelist Neil Gaiman and artist Molly Crabapple, among others, and her allegorical approach to crafting scents that summon ancient demons and angels.
Beth is also pretty handy with summoning the affection of BPAL-istas who delight to the creative churnings of her prolific mind. Having already sworn allegiance to her through the power of her synaesthetic storytelling, Beth's followers are clearly dazzled to meet her in person. And no wonder: she's smart, charismatic and accessible -- and just as in thrall to perfume's power to transport as they are.
*Note: Future Full Moon open houses will be held at Dark Delicacies in Burbank, CA.
Juliette Has a Gun Midnight Oud brings out my full “monkey, Neanderthal, man” perfume hoarding...uh...binging...uh...collecting tendencies. As long as the Perfume Wizards keep delighting the populace with incremental variations on my favorite perfume themes (rose + stuff and incense + stuff), I'm going to justify acquiring these variations as “supporting advancements in evolutionary science”.
Since you asked, yes, I do already own People of the Labyrinths A*Maze (jammy saffron rose oud), which I've been wearing a lot this blessedly cool LA summer, as well as Montale White Aoud (powdery saffron rose oud). And even minus any saffron, my Amouage Homage Attar surpasses “man” and ascends to...what? E.T.? George Clooney?
E.T.T.: Extra-Terrestrially Tasty
So -- back on planet Earth, it would seem that when it comes to rose ouds, I'm fully evolved. Yes, yes I am. Yes I...NO I'M NOT! Who slipped Juliette Has a Gun Midnight Oud into the “rose + stuff” pile when I wasn't looking?
Quick oud sidebar: this resin is a fragrantly fungal byproduct of the agarwood tree, and adds a complex savoriness to any composition. When asked, “animal, vegetable, or mineral?” oud will eagerly shout out, “All three!”, because depending on its origin and how it's produced, the odor ranges from leathery to earthy to oceanic. Not to mention cheesy, oily, and Band-Aid-y.
In Midnight Oud, the oud smells leathery. Like brand-new leather, along with saffron and crisp, bright rose. Even with the rose, Midnight Oud isn't particularly “floral”. It's the kind of rose that's more fruit and wine than actual flower. A fruit and wine rose in a box, because there's an appealing sweet cardboard dryness to this perfume.
Midnight Oud's main players are supported by geranium, a “crisp rose” shape-shifter if ever there was, and a woody-amber accord that pipes up in the drydown. It's the drydown that's the letdown. The warm woody amber seems so...expected, so...so.
It's the same problem I have with the otherwise mind-meltingly beautiful By Kilian Rose Oud. The rose-oud tango in both perfumes starts out simultaneously deluxe and kinky, and then trails out in a hum of okayness. Don't launch me into outer space and then tell me you've run out of rocket fuel, mister!
But this is really just a woody amber quibble, because I'm a sucker for Midnight Oud's sophisticated boho stroll. This saffron-tanged leather rose is a triumph of evolutionary science!
Incidentally, Midnight Oud is a limited edition because originally, Juliette Has a Gun director Romano Ricci had only intended to create five fragrances for the line. The distributor tells me that Ricci didn't want Midnight Oud to be his final fragrance (after Citizen Queen, Lady Vengeance, Miss Charming and Calamity J), so he dubbed it a "limited edition". There will be another limited edition fragrance coming out this holiday season called Not a Perfume.
Those self-imposed rules seem a tad arbitrary, but Ro knows best, I suppose.
Midnight Oud is available from Amazon.com, at $135 for 100ml
Top photo: Joni Mitchell and Cher at a party on the Queen Mary held by Paul and Linda McCartney, 1975
I'm wearing this new Bleu de Chanel, the latest men's fragrance from Chanel's lower tier of cheap, gross colognes. Chanel declares it was created for "the man who defies convention", which is such banal way of selling a cologne, I immediately knew it would smell conventional. Like something for a man so conventional, wearing Bleu would be the least conventional thing about him. That's conventional!
All I know is, when it comes to the inexpensive lines, Hermès kicks Chanel's butt. Bleu smells like Allure Homme Sport. Or Platinum Egoïste. Or the hundred other crappy non-Chanel sporty things for "the man who defies convention," typically by grabbing dinner at TGI Friday's before checking out the new Matt Damon flick. (And he calls it a "flick," that's how unconventional he is.)
It's one of those metallic citruses I smell all over town. And whenever I do, I imagine the wearers are tourists because I don't want to feel badly about my town and if I can't keep it from smelling like sleazy marketing reps, then I'm going to pretend all the sleazy marketing reps are here on vacation from Houston. It's my version of visualization and it helps me relax.
I got my sample of Bleu in the new Vanity Fair, which features the 2010 International Best-Dressed List. The honored females were asked to name their favorite fragrance (the question was not asked of the men, presumably because they defy convention and thus it's assumed they're all wearing Bleu), and most of the answers were disappointingly conventional: Fresh Pear Cassis (Helena Bonham Carter), Jo Malone Grapefruit (Nora Ephron), Calvin Klein Beauty (Diane Kruger), Annick Goutal Eau d'Hadrien (Tatiana Santo Domingo), Stella McCartney Stella Sheer (Cindi Leive...I don't know who she is either).
Only Wendi Murdoch, bless her, named a challenging perfume: Boudicca Wode. Although the rest of her life doesn't exactly defy convention, having hooked up with the evil Rupert Murdoch, a thousand years and a zillion dollars her senior. Still, I bet she smells good and if Rupert makes her walk two steps behind him, it's his loss.
Okay, I'm going out and pretending I'm from Houston.
Dan
Dan,
I'm with you on this. Bleu blows.
Katie
Businessman from Byran Bonn Rupert and Wendy Murdoch at the 2008 Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Gala
I haven't smelled Dark Rose but knowing Czech & Speake, I bet it smells like a dark basement. Or maybe a dark sewing room. With the windows closed for three years. And the roses are dark because they're dead. Because no one watered them. Because they're dead, too. Everyone and everything smells dead in C&S perfumes.
Okay, I just looked up Dark Rose on Basenotes and the first line of the first review says, "Think funeral home."
I agree! Like the Musk to Musk commenter, I love having strong opinions on perfumes I haven't smelled. First, they're almost as valid as my opinions on ones I have smelled.
Plus, it reminds me of a funny scene in Whit Stillman's Metropolitan, in which Audrey is arguing with Tom about the novels of Jane Austen, and Tom finally admits to never having read them. But he says he's read much about them (enough to argue), that he prefers reading literary criticism to actual novels because then he gets not only the critic's ideas but the author's, and in a conveniently condensed manner.
In keeping with this, I've never smelled Dark Rose and I probably never will (god willing), but I say Dark Rose smells like a funeral home. An English funeral home, with musty antique furniture and carpets that still carry the stench of the previous funeral director's fat old incontinent cat. And dead flowers. And dead people. Take a hike, Dark Rose!
See, if you sound sufficiently opinionated and you throw in some specific details, you don't even need to sample the stuff.
Dan
Dan,
Every time I've taken a sniff of Dark Rose at the Scent Bar, I've spontaneously emitted a pleased and surprised "Hmm!" I do like it. You need to pop on your sample so that we can have a focus group.
Katie
Katie,
Okay, I'm currently wearing Dark Rose, and it's definitely of the same stripe as Montale's softer ouds, Red Aoud specifically. Which means it smells like the paste used in Happy Hall Nursery School in 1970. (I can't speak for what they use today.) It's actually kind of nice. As ouds go.
Dark Rose softens nicely. It's definitely not for me, but it turns somehow sweeter and powdery. I think it's my favorite Czech & Speake. Which is like saying "Touch Me" is my favorite Doors song.
Which it is, but still....
Dan
Dan,
I'm wearing Dark Rose, and I have no earthly idea what kind of Shangri-La paste you kids were snorfing back at the Happy Hall Nursery School. Dark Rose leans in the direction of Agent Provocateur's saffron rose, without being as high-pitched as AP.
I can't smell any of the advertised oud, at least not the way oud is presented in Montale, Le Labo and By Kilian. Something about the patchouli and busyness in Dark Rose puts me in mind of Clinique Aromatics Elixir.
Dark Rose is “perfumey” and a bit soapy. I'm pinning responsibility for the soapiness on the white musk. As it lingers, it starts to resemble the drydown of Creed Fleurs de Bulgare, with its powderiness.
My conclusion on this matter is that Dark Rose is a theatrical, feminine perfume with a vintage flair.
I remember at the time sniffing the A*maze spot on my wrist, and thinking it was too dense and muddled and painful and what-in-tarnation? I never revisited it until just now, and boy, do I have a different tune to trill.
This whole time that I've been banging on about finding a deep, dark rose, A*Maze has been patiently waiting for me me to wake up and smell the flowers.
I'm George Clooney with his latest favorite girl he's ever loved -- all over again.
Katie
Katie,
You falling in love with A*maze after all this time, after enduring your many rose trials, is like some chick movie in which the gorgeous lead actress suddenly realizes she's in love with her geeky best friend. Still, I'm dubious.
Yeah, maybe A*Maze isn't the geeky best friend, it's Clooney's cute cocktail waitress that you'll eventually leave for the next cute cocktail waitress. And the geeky best friend will be some cheap-ass designer rose you haven't even considered trying yet.
This movie's just beginning.
Dan
A year later...
Dan,
I officially re-like A*Maze. It's certainly different to a Montale rose -- more fruity, less dry.
Katie
Katie,
I do remember comparing A*Maze favorably to the Montales. Looking back at my perfume notes, which, not surprisingly, are mostly unreliable, I wrote: "dense fruity saffron rose, oud is subtle but perfume is still heavy, a good winter rose."
Whenever I name a season in my notes, it's usually a different season than the one in which I'm writing and thus it serves as a rationale for not buying the perfume right away. I have all these little tricks I play on myself to keep me from going hog-wild and ending up dead in Scent Bar's back alley.
In this case, me calling A*Maze a "winter rose" probably kept me from buying it and I subsequently forgot about it. Until you reminded me, though thankfully in the summertime, so I'm off the hook. I'm so easily manipulated, even by me.
Do you own A*Maze? Because you've been discovering it, abandoning it, and re-discovering it for a long time. Maybe it's time you make an honest perfume out of it. Or maybe you already have. You two are the Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton of perfume. Which I guess makes all your other roses Eddie Fisher. What a sordid mess.
Dan
Dan,
Yes! I own A*Maze.
Katie
Katie,
I'll admit it, there are times when you go on about certain perfumes, and I'm dubious. I sometimes confess that I'm dubious, but usually I stay quiet because I know I'm a crazy perfume person too, and we crazy perfume people need leeway to engage in hyperbole, to howl over a new best scent in the world every week.
But today I'm wearing A*Maze, something over which you howled months and months ago, and I smell good.
The oud is subtle, and the rest is lovely and smooth. It's a good, dense, slightly fruity saffron rose, and while I wouldn't think I'd like something like that, I do. I do like it. And right after I announced I was finished with oud. And years after I announced I was finished with rose.
I'm not to be trusted, KP. You're much more trustworthy than I am. Though I still reserve the right to occasionally be dubious when you engage in hyperbole.
Dan
Dan,
Well, this is all very gratifying to hear. The funny thing is, after your tussles with various ouds (Le Labo Oud 27 being your main opponent in the ring), I was all set to tell you not to even bother trying A*Maze, which I was sure you'd find "gross". So I was very surprised by your findings.
I mean, I'd figured you'd go for the general idea of A*Maze, given that you're pleasantly disposed towards Tom Ford Noir de Noir, with its chocolate-dipped rose and saffron dusted with oud.
But the oud is much more present in A*maze, and your beloved chocolate is not, so I wasn't sure you'd have enough friendly faces to make you feel comfortable around the rose and oud. At least the oud isn't “band-aid oud” here -- it's more lemon floor wax. Or at least, something's lemon floor wax in there.
I'm mesmerized by A*Maze's conflicting sensory triggers: its jammy rose starts to make my mouth water, and then the lemon floor wax dries up the drool. And then the drool-to-dry cycle repeats. I'm a regular Möbius strip of saliva.
A*Maze has an odd, herbal side, and I'm wondering if that's to do with henna, one of the listed notes. While experimenting with everything from Miss Clairol to food coloring as a teenage hair hopper, henna was one of the well-trod stations of the follicular cross.
I remember the smell as muddy, vegetal and bitter. Ayala Moriel at Smelly Blog writes that henna has “nothing 'pretty' about it, but it adds substance and depth and a certain powdery-woody-floralcy”. As the Clairol Girl would say, "I don't understand it, but I love it!"
There's also a honey cast to A*Maze, an animalic floral niff that marries the saffron/rose/floor wax to the skin in a salty, sensual way. I've got the parfum version of A*Maze, and though it comes out swinging, it suddenly quiets down dramatically after about a half hour.
I'm in thrall to A*Maze's oddness. Every time I open my perfume cabinet I see it, and when I see it, I have to sniff it, and when I sniff it, I have to wear it. Boy, A*Maze really pushes me around!
And Dan, I do appreciate the leeway to engage in hyperbole. But in my defense, I do give long, hard consideration to a perfume before actually pulling the trigger for my own bottle. So by the time something like A*maze makes it past the velvet rope into my collection, I've already formed a relationship with it. Unlike some crazy perfume people I know, with their pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey buying sprees....
Katie
Fumies, any recent "pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey" purchases?
There's nothing like that pounding summer sun to turn your usual fragrant self into a moist blob of overripeness. Mmmm...attractive. Might be time to hit the shower and douse yourself, Bronson-style, with your favorite summer scent.
The winners were randomly chosen using the space-age computer wizardry of Random.org (overseen by Rodrigo the Perfume Dog to verify absolute random-osity).
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 Sunday, August 15, 2010, your prize will go to a lucky stand-by (randomly chosen) winner.
Check out my review of these sunshiney Summer Fragrances here.
Read Tania Sanchez's 5-star review of Breath of God by B Never Too Busy to Be Beautiful, and then put some on. Please??? I sent it to you over a year ago. I'm dying to hear someone else talk about that one.
Breath of God scares the heck out of me (just like God used to do). If it's truly the breath of God, then I say God ought to lay off the cough syrup.
Dan
Dan
Breath of God is the bottom of my dance tote bag, Autumn 1978: brand-new leather ballet slippers, maybe worn once, mixed with leaves I picked up off the ground, and a handful of Wint-O-Green Lifesavers that fell out of the roll my mom gave me.
Katie
Katie,
Wow, leather, canvas, leaves and Lifesavers. I get all of that. You're good.
But if I don't try very hard, like squinting at a painting to make it blurry, I'm reminded of having the flu, Vicks VapoRub smeared on my chest and my mom forcing me to swallow down tablespoons of brown medicine that's been sitting in the closet since the Eisenhower administration.
But it changes, it moves, it's a shifty little thing. I had a friend over on Saturday smelling my various perfumes, and she kept going back to Breath of God. She was fascinated by it. I still haven't dared wear it out of the house, but maybe this week.
Dan
Dan,
...and the one time I wore the brand-new ballet slippers, I had rubbed Ben-Gay on my feet. That's Breath of God.
Katie
Dan,
For some reason that last part, though it says 9.33 p.m., landed in my inbox at 4.33 a.m. And reading about someone rubbing Ben-Gay on her feet at 4.33 a.m. can put me in a very dark place. Thank goodness I wasn't awake for it. Does Ben-Gay do anything? I think it's one of those turn-of-the-20th-century medicines that managed to slip past modern science and double-blind studies, and now we just assume it works because it smells like it's working.
That's Breath of God: it smells like it's working.
Dan
Dan,
I sent it 30 seconds after my first Breath of God impression (it was supposed to be read as a continuation). It's when I realized the Wint-O-Green Lifesavers were really a menthol bomb. And you realized that, too, because you got the Vicks VapoRub. Ben-Gay, Tiger Balm – they all work on sore muscles by increasing blood circulation. And by summoning tingle elves.
After all is said and done, interacting with Breath of God is like your description of squinting at a painting to make it blurry – too much work to force disparate elements to coalesce. It's high-maintenance and a little annoying. But 10 hours in, you're smiling.
Katie
Katie,
Having once lived with a biologist for three years, I can spot a non-scientific explanation a mile away. I don't know that applying a lotion to the skin can possibly impact blood circulation. I suspect most of these products are just packed with menthol, which heats the skin's surface and gives the illusion of relief. Though I guess when it comes to pain, illusion is just as good as reality. And tingle elves.
One thing I will say about Breath of God is that it smells better on than it does out of the bottle. Out of the bottle, it smells like something Doc Holiday kept on the shelf to numb up patients' gums before he'd yank out their teeth.
Dan
UPDATE: All of your favorite B Never Too Busy to Be Beautiful perfumes, including Breath of God, are now rebranded as Gorilla Perfume and available at Lush.
Watch this video. It isn't what you think it's going to be:
Katie
Katie,
Wow. I now know Lana Indiana. That's real America there. Her stories are grim but told without much gravity. There's a hard little plastic shell around Lana. I just want to hold her and have a good cry. And buy her a few better perfumes. She's, what, 54 years old? She should dump the cotton candy body spray.
And the (thankfully unseen) husband. When a dude is neatly lining his shelves with dozens of boxes of Irish Spring, you know that's not the worst of it. Can you imagine what happens when Lana misplaces one of his records? I think you can.
Have you watched Lana's other videos? In this one, forward to 3.48 and go from hot rollers to cancer death and back again in about 30 seconds. And at 6.05, we're all having a colonoscopy with Lana:
I want to date Lana. Is that weird?
Dan
Viva Lana Indiana! She's got a million bon mots, like: "I'd rather be alive and old than dead and young." Watch more here.
The problem with my duplicate scents is the better versions usually come second (or third or fourth). So I enjoyed At The Beach, but I bought Fire Island because it was better, very nearly a real perfume. And now you've got me loving Neroli 36, which is better than both of them. I'm putting a few things up on eBay next week. Just to cleanse my soul.
Dan
Dan,
I so know what you mean about when "they" finally get something right, and needing to own the latest best version of the same perfume (and in my case, lip gloss/shoes/Le Sportsacs). By the time you buy your tenth iteration, your collection looks like a version of the origin of mankind: monkey, Neanderthal, human.
Katie
Katie
I wish I had come up with the monkey, Neanderthal, man analogy. I can never fully enjoy your cleverness because I have cleverness-envy.
Someone's selling Carnal Flower on Basenotes for $94. I'm tempted, but I need to get off the monkey, Neanderthal, man train, and tell myself I'm fine being a Neanderthal for now.
Dan
Dan,
Speaking of cleverness-envy –- or perhaps of being a Neanderthal, I very much like this review of Jessica Simpson Fancy I saw on Makeup Alley:
"A word of caution. If you wear this around me, I will scissor kick you to the back of the head. Smells like a vanilla cupcake douche."
Katie
Katie,
Now that's a great review. There should be a category of perfumes that inspire scissor-kicks. I'd put lots of cheap men's cologne in there before anything that smells like a vanilla cupcake douche.
I'm wearing my sample of Carnal Flower, and it smells more like Fracas than I suspected it would. Tuberose is tuberose is tuberose, and while I bet Carnal Flower would be a step up in wearability, my $94 can be better spent elsewhere. Having said that, I'll probably buy it around four this afternoon.
Dan
Dan,
Hmmm...think you might have to buy that Carnal Flower -- what a splendid deal!
Katie
Katie,
Using your evolutionary perfume scale, I'm officially a man today, at least in the world of tuberose, which admittedly isn't much of an achievement. I purchased Carnal Flower for cheap and the seller even dropped the shipping charges.
Dan
Dan,
Mazel tov! As a joke, I was going to finish my last email with, "Did you buy the Carnal Flower yet? It's 4:30pm." But you take a joke and make it your life.
Isn't Carnal Flower too 60s society lady for you, or do you like it now?
Katie
Katie,
I like Carnal Flower very much because I like tuberose very much. But I think I went a little heavy on the application (three sprays), because it's been several hours and I still smell awfully carnal.
Dan
Dan,
See? What did I say about Carnal Flower? "Monster sillage". That sister scissor-kicks you to the back of the head.
Katie
Katie,
I do see where you're coming from. Especially after a good long time with this Carnal Flower. If biehl parfumkunstwerke mb01 smells like I shagged a woman wearing Fracas, Carnal Flower smells like I shagged a room full of women wearing Fracas. At the Waikiki Beach Marriott.
Armrests down, tray tables up, seat belts buckled, please. We're traveling to a distant land: the Mediterranean of my mind. It's just a little bit south of the windmills of my mind. (If you get to the boxing ring where angry squirrels battle my internal tantrums, you've gone too far. Please stay safe when you venture into my unruly brain.)
This journey is but one of 17 on a perfume bloggers' tour of a mythical Mediterranean, sponsored by Ines from All I Am - A Redhead and Elena from Perfume Shrine. So slip on your comfy walking stilettos, and let's go!
My in-depth research (Googling a world map) has revealed that if you want to be all technical about it, the Mediterranean Sea flows all the way from Morocco to Syria, lapping past a whole bunch of other countries that don't seem to have too much in common -- other than fantastic food. And a ton of ancient history, of course.
So while I've been fortunate enough to spend time in Morocco, Spain, France, Italy, and Israel, I'm going to narrow things down for my Mediterranean musings. I'm pinning the donkey tail on...Greece! The following perfumes slingshot me right in there:
Tom Ford Private Collection Neroli Portofino. This is the billionaire version of the old classic 4711 cologne, which I've always associated with Mad Men-era jet set travel. Neroli Portofino is the smell of airplane moist towelettes of the gods. It's “just” sweet neroli, tart citrus, distant woods, some laid-back amber warmth, but it is shockingly glamorous. Wear it and you wouldn't dream of traveling in sloppy sweats -- or those overgrown toddler clothes seen on the middle-aged American male (baggy long shorts roomy enough for diapers; chunky white sneakers that look like baby booties).
Annick Goutal Eau Du Sud. The smell of hot sunshine and herbs. When I first discovered Eau du Sud, I'd already had history with Chanel Cristalle and Diors Diorella and Eau Sauvage. I felt right at home with Eau de Sud's mossiness, and loved the combination of fresh grapefruit and orange with the vaguely sweaty, lived-in aspect that materializes at the drydown. (Eau Sauvage does “lived-in”, too -- only more on the leathery side.) Eau du Sud's aromatic basil starts to blur the line between smelling and eating.
Eau d'Italie Sienne l'Hiver. Speaking of blurring the smelling/eating line, you could practically spray Sienne l'Hiver on your pita bread. Olives! It smells like olives. And earthy, truffley, mushroomy savoriness. Is eating all you're going to do while you're in Greece? What about filthy sex in strange places? C'mon! What's a holiday for?
Etro Sandalo. The ferry from Athens to Naxos is filled with exhaust fumes which permeate your tiny, sweltering cabin. Shutting the door that won't lock doesn't guarantee privacy. But it does guarantee that you can't see anything, because there are no lights. Maybe you'd better leave the door open a crack for air? And whatever you're doing in the dark there, you'd better make it fast.
Etro Sandalo kicks off with the sharp note of gasoline. It's sort of ugly, until a milky sourness rises up to harmonize with it. Together, the petrol and the sourness soften into creaminess. Before you know it, the initial discomfort has passed, and Sandalo has ripened into a sexy, warm-skin sandalwood. Awkward to begin with, it really gets there in the end.
Miller Harris Fleurs de Sel. A snootful of salty sea air and remnants of last night's bonfire on the beach. It's simultaneously green/aromatic and charred/leathery. The opening sharpness of the vetiver gradually gives way to faint iris and rose struggling to thrive in the dryness. Fleurs de Sel is evocative and delicate -- qualities not normally associated with masculine accords.
Yves Saint Laurent Kouros. Evocative, yes; delicate, hells to the no. Its barnyard powderiness vibrates between incense and soap. In your luxury Cretan hotel room, generations of maids have doggedly applied daily scrubbing bubbles to bathroom tiles permeated by the ghosts of guests past. But the smell of shaving cream, unguents, and personal emissions will never fade. And neither will Kouros. This fragrance is a memory of life fully lived, with the promise of further adventures in foreign lands.
Fumies -- which fragrances speak Greek to you?
For more Mediterranean pleasures of the senses, jet on over to these aromatic bloggers:
All I Am - A RedheadA Rose Beyond the ThamesBonkers About PerfumeEiderdown PressI Smell Therefore I AmIlluminated PerfumeNotes From the LedgeOlfactafamaPerfume in ProgressPerfume ShrineScent HiveSmellyblogHortus ConclususThe Non BlondeUnder the CupolaWaft by Carol
