Dark Cherry & Amber (Banana Republic): An Unused Claude Dir Mod for Creed's Carmina?

When I was in high school, one of my so-called friends regularly invited me and a few others for rides in his 1980 Cadillac de Ville. He wasn't so much a friend as he was an experience: he wore the original Aramis, chain-smoked Marlboro Reds, chewed Wrigley’s Winterfresh gum, and when he wasn’t drinking cheap beer, he clung to Cherry Coke like it was an endangered elixir. Occasionally, he’d offer me a can. I almost always declined. Cherry Coke, for all its cultish charm, never resonated with me—its cherry flavor felt like a rumor, faint and unconvincing. It wasn’t just the soda. Cherries, whether eaten, scented, or artificially flavored, have always felt elusive to me, like an ephemeral note in a song I couldn’t quite catch. Even into adulthood, cherries remain little more than a passing suggestion, an essence that flits and fades before it takes root. This curious shortfall in my sensory lexicon is particularly relevant when it comes to Dark Cherry & Amber.

Cherry, as a perfumery note, has long been one I approach with caution. Tom Ford’s indulgent maraschino cherry fragrance, which I reviewed in January, was an exception, registering with clarity and punch. Joop! Homme, for all its brash artificiality, blares its cherry note with unapologetic gusto. Beyond those two, my encounters with cherry scents have been sparse. Enter Dark Cherry & Amber, a fragrance whispered about in perfumery circles as a hidden gem, praised for its quality at a modest price. For years, I’d spotted it at Burlington Coat Factory, an unassuming presence on the discount shelves. But then came Creed’s Carmina in 2023, and Dark Cherry & Amber seemed to vanish overnight, its elusive reputation only growing. The buzz around Carmina suggested it was an upscale reimagining of Claude Dir’s 2019 composition for Banana Republic. That theory gained traction when Derek (aka Varanis Ridari) likened the two with the assertiveness of a Brooklyn chess hustler. After I read his theory, finding a bottle of Dark Cherry & Amber became an obsession. Fifteen months later, my search finally bore fruit today, at a Burlington in Orange, Connecticut.

Of course, I have a problem: I’ve never smelled Carmina, so I can’t confirm the comparison. Still, there are clues. A user on Fragrantica, “ayshee_x,” described Carmina shortly after its release: 

“Smells kind of nostalgic, like cherry lip gloss and plastic but also floral and musky. There are better cherry perfumes out there that are cheaper. Banana Republic Dark Cherry & Amber is a great alternative and a fraction of the cost.” 

At twenty dollars, Dark Cherry & Amber certainly wins on price. But what about the scent? It opens with a juicy, lifelike cherry note that eschews the romanticized maraschino of Tom Ford for something startlingly natural. It’s as if someone bit into a ripe Bing cherry and waved it under my nose—your everyday table cherry, unvarnished and unadorned. While this might sound uninspired, Dir leans into its simplicity, rendering it strikingly authentic for the first hour. There’s a dusky, sweet-tart fruitiness to the note, accompanied by a faintly soapy “off” quality that mirrors the idiosyncrasies of an actual cherry. It’s an impressive feat for a fragrance at this price point, the Tea Rose of cherry perfumes.

After that first hour, the cherry begins to retreat, making way for a smooth, luminous amber. On paper, the amber reads as floral—cherry blossom, perhaps—while on skin it veers toward a warmth reminiscent of praline, though it never fully commits to gourmand territory. Beneath this lies a subtle woodiness, like a watercolor wash of sweet blossoms and watery cedar. The effect is delicate, almost ethereal, and I can’t help but wonder how many high-end niche houses passed on this gem before Banana Republic picked it up. At its core, Dark Cherry & Amber doesn’t pretend to be lavish. It doesn’t aim for the baroque richness of ultra-luxury niche brands. Instead, it offers something far more elusive: clarity. A lucidity that reminds me of my old Cherry Coke dilemma. Just as I struggled to taste the fruit in the soda, I find the cherry here to be restrained, a gentle presence rather than a cloying shout. I sense its tartness, its juiciness, but it often lingers at the edge of perception, never overwhelming. And that’s precisely why it works. Had the cherry screamed for attention, it might have felt cheap, like a budget air freshener cherry. Instead, it whispers, and in that quiet confidence lies its charm.

Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum (Prada)

The Luna Rossa Ocean line is intriguing, particularly because the concepts behind these fragrances are often misunderstood—sometimes wildly so. To put it simply, people expect these to be bog-standard aquatics because "Ocean" is in their name. There's also a forest-for-the-trees element, where folks mistakenly think that the artistry of perfume rests solely in note pyramids, while altogether missing that disparate notes like saffron and oak can be tied together to create a pastiche of something cool and salty, like the sea. While I won’t delve into those broader misconceptions here, Ocean Le Parfum serves as a prime example of how a fragrance can reveal people's “olfactory conditioning.” This so-called “Red Moon” fragrance is an aquatic—a profoundly good one—but much of the general public overlooks this because it doesn’t conform to aquatic tropes.

Many perceive it as a spicy-woody amber scent, full of cinnamon, saffron, and modern oriental flourishes. And yes, those elements are present, especially saffron, which is prominent. But the real magic is not in each note, but in how they all coalesce: they merge into a sparkly synthetic ambergris. The mystery perfumer combined materials like Amber XTreme (IFF) and Safranal (Givaudan), forming a silvery mineralic amber accord that creates its own little glittering in the nose, so to speak. The result captures the essence of summer beach air, cushioned with a warm freshness that’s far removed from the lavender and fruity notes typical of designer aquatics. This isn’t the romanticized scent of seawater or “blue” accords dominated by Calone and Melonal. Instead, it’s the sensory experience of being in and around the ocean. There's hot pepper for animalism, and a woody-amber sand. The concept is “Ocean,” but the execution captures how your body feels and responds to it, rather than directly mimicking marine notes, and that is what you pay for here. This fragrance is from the Ocean Rain school of aquatics, not Acqua di Giò.

It's also an exceptionally thoughtful birthday gift from two members of my family, and I cherish it even more because of that. With designer lines now priced alongside niche competitors, acquiring 100 ml of Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum would’ve been out of reach without their generosity. For me, this fragrance still leans “aquatic” in spirit, despite what others may say. And to those who insist it’s merely a spicy oriental, the YouTubers who write it off as not meeting their expectations because it isn't a member of the blue-bottle brigade, I say, just enjoy it. This is a truly unique creation. If you’ve never traveled or experienced the ocean, this scent will transport you there. Don’t let the red packaging mislead you—this is a 21st century ambergris dream.

Face à Face pour Femme (Façonnable)

I've often wondered what a feminine counterpart to Geoffrey Beene's Grey Flannel might smell like. The closest match in my admittedly modest collection is Silences by Jacomo. Grey Flannel is a dry citrus chypre, with a bittersweet violet note at its core. This violet is surrounded by a hazy bouquet of indistinct florals, where only lilac and orris stand out clearly. Over time, these blossoms take on a greener, more powdery character, ultimately giving way to a base of oakmoss and woods that is as dry and bitter as everything that came before. Silences mirrors this structure but allows its florals to shine more distinctly through its orris haze, offering a subtly warmer, rosy undertone. Yet, even with this warmth, it remains strikingly cool and aloof compared to the approachable feminine fragrances of its era. Neither fragrance conveys lighthearted cheer. 

Designer brand Façonnable launched Face à Face pour Femme and Face à Face pour Homme in 1996. While never particularly expensive, they were a step above bargain-bin pricing at the time. Slightly pricier than offerings from Jacomo or Beene, some of the cost likely went toward packaging—Façonnable favored embossed tins over standard cardboard boxes. Setting aside the presentation, the fragrances themselves are solidly middle-tier: competent and occasionally engaging but neither groundbreaking nor especially memorable, with materials falling a notch or two below those of Chanel or Dior. Face à Face pour Femme bears a surprising resemblance to Grey Flannel, reimagined with subtle adjustments for a more feminine appeal. Unlike the Beene classic, it omits citrus entirely, opening instead with coriander, which lingers through the top and early heart notes. This gives way to a crisp yet dry-green medley of rose, muguet, and jasmine. The green notes are stemmy, grassy, bitter, and powdery, while the floral tones remain dry, faintly sweet, slightly bitter, and heavily powdery. There’s little warmth or cheer here—this is a fragrance with a reserved, almost austere demeanor.

The sweeter, slightly brighter floral tones in Face à Face pour Femme evoke comparisons to both Grey Flannel and Silences. This is undeniably a "fresh" fragrance, but it’s a 1990s kind of fresh, so if you’re under 35, consider this fair warning. Don’t expect airy peonies, aquatic accents, or the sugary burst of green apple and white musk typical of more modern compositions. Instead, Face à Face pour Femme tempers its floral character with a smooth greenness reminiscent of tea, much like vintage Grey Flannel. Around the three-hour mark, its vaguely floral, slightly dry, and chalky personality—likely due to inexpensive galbanum notes—settles into a powdery green accord. Here, grasses, oakmoss, and a recurring green tea nuance intertwine subtly. I enjoy this fragrance, but its particular style feels like a hall of mirrors, inviting nostalgia lovers to lose themselves in endless panels of Moss-in-Snow jade. It’s a 29-year-old scent that feels like fragrances twice its age. Still, it's a charming throwback, and good fun.

Chameleon (Zoologist)

This one is kind of neat. It opens with sweet, tropical fruity-floral notes that smell like some sort of cheap skin lotion, then a waxy coconut oil dribbles in and freshens it up in a strange but satisfying way. There's a bit of sea salt, a bouquet of white and yellow florals (sort of a Frankenjasmine hybrid with ylang and frangipani involved), and a massive dose of silky-smooth Cashmeran to cover it in clean fuzz. I also like the holographic rainbow trim on the bottle's label, and for once the concentration of a Zoologist is adequately proportioned to lend the wear experience a pleasant and balanced feel.

The perfume industry has a term for the pigeonholing of a scent as fine fragrance: "skin note," which everyone understands to mean the human element that smells compatible with natural human skin and pheromones, and in Chameleon there is an intentional skin note that smells a little oily and salty, like fresh sweat but on a soap-scrubbed epidermis. There's also a Safranal note that lends a spicy-metallic edge to the sweetness and prevents it from being too overbearing. It's almost like they were going for an exotic suntan lotion here, or a spa oil that a masseuse would rub into your muscles on an island getaway somewhere in the Pacific. Things get a touch drier and smokier in the base when the patchouli takes over, about five hours in, but it doesn't dramatically alter the bright trajectory of the scent. This stuff is all casual fun.

Oddly I don't get much mango from Chameleon, despite all the copy claiming it's in there, nor do I have any bearing on other clear fruits in Daniel Pescio's fragrance. But make no mistake -- this is a sweet 'n sour tropical vacation sort of scent, one of those oddball "fresh" frags from the middle of the 1990s that came in a segmented bottle with blue-green juice and weirdly-shaped cap, before the 2000s wave of new perfumery tech liberated the market from gummy and overly sweet zombie brand fare. I'm not sold on Zoologist fragrances, but Chameleon is interesting, wearable, and, well, smells good. 

Maritime Journey (Tommy Bahama)

The original Maritime from 2016 is Tommy Bahama’s answer to Abercrombie’s Fierce, while Journey (2019) serves as their take on Polo Ultra Blue. In fact, I suspect it may be an unused mod for the Ralph Lauren scent that Tommy Bahama repurposed to meet their brief. Had it been crafted on a Ralph Lauren budget, it might have achieved a closer likeness, but Tommy Bahama has always occupied the lower shelf in the fragrance aisle. As a result, Maritime Journey comes across as a bit rough around the edges, scratchier and cheaper (it makes me sneeze), yet serviceable at just ten dollars an ounce.

Unlike Ultra Blue, Maritime Journey features a prominent green apple note and lacks the herbal undertone. Otherwise, it’s a fruitier spin on the familiar sea salt and woods accord that has dominated aquatics since the early 1990s. Here, the Calone molecule is restrained, adding a faint blush of peachy warmth to a grey-blue profile. While it teeters close to the realm of shower gel freshness, it maintains just enough balance between sweetness and saltiness to feel adequately refined. It’s light, non-offensive, and versatile, a competent choice for men seeking value in their cologne. However, with so many similar options already on the market, Ultra Blue remains the superior pick for but a few more dollars. Maritime Journey’s only standout feature is its pronounced saltiness, which borders on excessive, even for an aquatic enthusiast like me, but otherwise, it’s not worth going out of your way for a bottle.

Interestingly, this stuff also evokes shades of the original Cool Water (1988). Its sharp Granny Smith apple note has the same tart, low-pH quality, and when paired with sea spray and faint floral-cedar nuances, it carries a hint of that late-80s vibe. The synthetic saltiness nudges it into the 21st century, but you’d be better off spending your $23 on Cool Water. For a softer, less saline alternative, Nautica Voyage would suffice. Fragrances like this are akin to grey-blue paint chips on a Benjamin Moore sample page: pleasant enough, but somewhat boring and ultimately forgettable.

Rhinoceros (Zoologist)

Gentleman’s Club fragrances ruled the 1980s, but Cool Water toppled their dominance, and Acqua di Gio sealed their fate. By the late 1990s, few dared to replicate the style, leaving woody tobaccos and patchoulis to linger as relics of a bygone era. As the new millennium began, these notes found refuge in the niche perfumery world, and eventually led to Prin Lomros’s 2020 reissue of Rhinoceros.

The more I wear Zoologist fragrances, the more their mission crystallizes: resurrect the classic, complex masculines of the past and transform them into animal-themed haute parfumerie at $100 an ounce. If you’re a devotee of vintage greats like the original Davidoff (1984), Bogart’s Furyo (1988), or Vermeil for Men (1995), Rhinoceros will feel like liquid Xanadu. Lomros has packed the composition with leather, incense, chocolatey patchouli, cypriol, oakmoss, and oud, with each note discernible yet blended into a saturnine olfactory sienna. To Western noses, it reads unmistakably “masculine.”

I used to wear fragrances like this daily, and truthfully, they are wonderful. It’s hard to fault the seamless accords of whiskey, rum, Connecticut shade, and oak. Even the slightly skanky oud is palatable. Yet, as much as I admire its artistry, Rhinoceros feels like a time capsule. Imagining it worn in 2025, when the world and its men have moved on, is a stretch. I applaud Zoologist for boldly releasing something so unapologetically “1987,” but I caution any young buck against believing this will captivate today’s woman. Times have changed, even as the memory of this style endures.

Gold (Commodity)

Donna Ramanauskas, the creative force behind Gold and several other Commodity fragrances, has a style that's unmistakably her own. It’s light and energetic, fresh yet palpable, with an edge that flirts with challenging notes like inedible vanilla and sharp cypress. These two elements dominate Gold, resulting in a fragrance that, while not particularly daring, carries an air of sophistication. The interplay of crisp woods and soapy vanilla feels polished, even if it doesn’t venture far from the designer amber path.

Oriental and amber fragrances rarely hold my attention. They often grow monotonous and lean into a cloying femininity that I tire of quickly. Gold, however, sidesteps these pitfalls by weaving in nuanced layers. Its vanillic amber is softened with a touch of benzoin and an almost otherworldly synthetic sandalwood. This sandalwood doesn’t aim for authenticity but instead provides just enough weight to prevent the composition from floating into oblivion. Iso E Super hums in the background, its woody vibration threading through the drydown, where transparent wisps of vanilla and white musk add a cool, breezy texture. If you’re torn between smelling clean or cozy, Gold offers a compromise, though one that leaves me wishing for a fragrance that's a bit more natural-smelling and daring.

Vanilla reigns supreme in Gold, but this is a hyper-modern interpretation, stripped of imperfections. It’s a flawlessly smooth, almost digital note, devoid of spice, warmth, or romance. Some might find solace in its unerring refinement, but I long for a richer balance, something earthy, like the clove-heavy nostalgia of Old Spice, something alive. Gold is a masterclass in technical precision but lacks the soul to make it truly memorable. I expect a perfume to move me on an emotional and intellectual level, especially if it's named after what I must fork over to own a bottle. Gold leaves me cold. 

Sandflowers (Montale)

Here’s the thing about Sandflowers: I wanted a "true" aquatic, something that evokes the cold, briny wave of the ocean crashing on icy boulders and the gritty, coarse texture of New England sand, ground fine by centuries of waves and worn shells. Frigid, salty, with spray drifting in the air, it should carry heady notes of iodine and seaweed, but nothing of the typical funk of low tide, except perhaps the most delicate hint. And that is exactly how Sandflowers smells. No sweetness. No flowers. Salt water. Period. End of story.

What accounts for this fragrance's precision? How did Pierre Montale, known for his dense rose/oud blends and heavy, sweet musks, manage to craft something so seemingly out of character? By what act of grace did an anonymous perfumer in a Parisian lab offer up this peculiar tribute to a Connecticut beach in December? For me, it’s a hauntingly beautiful composition, the ideal aquatic for trips to Maine, where even miles inland, the air carries the cool, clean scent of the Atlantic, filtered through pine needles and campfire smoke. Sandflowers is as ethereal as that, a light, salty draft on crisp, winter air. And contrary to the consensus of many reviewers, I don’t detect anything sandy in it. For sand, one would be better off with Mario Valentino’s Ocean Rain.

Sandflowers smells salty, like skin after a day on the open ocean. But it needn’t be the frigid Atlantic of Maine. In 2004, I rented a speedboat with friends to explore the grottos of Capri, where we glided over gentle green waves in ninety-five-degree heat. The water was oddly salty, even by oceanic standards, its spray drying on my skin in a layer of salt that flaked off in the sun. By the end of that day, I smelled exactly like Sandflowers. Montale has put great care into this fragrance; aside from a fleeting, almost antiseptic alcoholic top note (mated to cinnamyl alcohol) that evokes the smell of a razor sterilizer, the composition is a resounding success, and a dream for aquatic lovers. Excellent work.

The Trump Anomaly: How Olivier Creed Accidentally Harnessed the Unfortunate Power of "Orange Man Bad"

"Donald, this smells familiar."

This weekend I was on Reddit. I know, I know. What was I thinking? There was a thread on Creed titled "Creed company's origin? How are they getting away with a fake story" -- and I had to pitch in my two cents. I know, I know, I know. What was I thinking? It's not bad enough that Reddit is populated with ignorant trolls that ceaselessly babble about stuff they know nothing about; they occasionally venture into interesting territory, and turf up just enough nonsense to lure the likes of me right on in. And boy, was I in. 

The gist of the thread was that Olivier and Erwin Creed are liars who have conned the world, ala Gabe Oppenheim's The Ghost Perfumer. Nothing new there, folks. I've already hashed and rehashed my opinion on that. But just to choke it up again, and I'll be as succinct as possible here, it's not all that bizarre for Creed to do that. Did they stretch the truth on multiple occasions? Did they exaggerate their pedigree to make their brand more appealing? Did they "con" the world with dubious claims about royal appointments and a three hundred year legacy? Maybe. Sure, maybe they did. 

But let's be honest here, people. We know what the Creeds were doing. It all made sense. They have an old family that does date back several generations, and their forefathers were in the fashion biz. They were in the "riding habits" biz. Eighteenth century leather makers like the Creeds were in a sophisticated business, one which entailed the production of leather goods, but which also required such goods to be palatable to the public, and in the 1700s, that meant making the leather smell like something other than disgusting raw animal hide. Gee, I wonder what would make dead skin smell good?

Aside from that, James Henry Creed and all the Creed tailors of that bygone era were busy making saddles and boots and gloves and jackets, and probably also made saddle soap, powders to condition and scent the gloves, little olfactory trinkets to scent the boots and jackets and get rid of the nasty. Every high-end leather maker since the dawn of time has done that. Every tailor dealing in "sports" equipment dating back to Caesar has done it. Can we stop pretending we don't know this?

This gets me back to the Reddit thread. On this thread were numerous young men who were all about pretending they don't know everything I've just said. It was all about how the Creeds are liars, con men, they have "no evidence" of perfuming anything prior to 1970, how do they get away with the lies, the lying liars that lie? 

One guy commented: 

"If you want a company with REAL history just go with Guerlain."

Another guy said,

"They claim to have made fragrances for the likes of Winston Churchill and such, but there is no proof. Compare that to Guerlain who has an extremely well documented history. Creed = lies lol." 

 And yet another said:

"My take is Creed is probably 50 or so years old and the rest is marketing to convince you that bottle of perfume that cost $10 to produce is worth $500."

This was followed by a response from another user:

"Not true. There are actual receipts etc from the 1800s for tailored goods and royal warrants. The original store in Paris has the actual warrant from Napoleon framed in the store. There is history to the Creed brand but not just for making perfumes. Doesn't matter if they embellish things a little, every company does for marketing reasons."

This prompted a response from the other guy:

"Can you provide a link to a verifiable document? Up until as recently as 2 years ago no documents could be verified anywhere. There seems to be a long history of no documentation, including a total absence of warrants. If they have proof in their shop it seems reasonable the rumor would have ended."

This led to me saying:

"My friend, you clearly don't know what you're talking about. You want to see Creed's royal warrant? Just look at any one of their Private Collection boxes. Their warrant with royal signature is printed on the back of every one of them. I get it's fun to criticize Creed. But you've just embarrassed yourself.

This got a windy response that ended with the sentence:

"If you have something objective to add, let's see it." 

I posted this photo: 

 

It has the royal warrant clearly displayed. The guy had claimed that he owns Private Collection fragrances and that none of his boxes have the warrant on them, but when I posted this picture he shut up right quick and I haven't heard from him again. Conversation over, as it should be. (Pretty clear the only lie on the line was the one about owning Private Collection Creeds, as evidenced by how easy it was to shut this guy down.)

This got me thinking about how people grapple with what I call the Creed Conundrum. I’ve written about this before: there’s something about Creed that seems to cloud rational thought. Call it Creed Derangement Syndrome: an obsessive need to heckle the brand, accusing it of fabricating its entire history. The prevailing narrative? Olivier Creed conjured the whole legacy out of thin air, hired modern perfumers to craft the scents, and let the truth be collateral damage. And if I don’t buy into that outrage, well, then clearly, I must be a gullible fool, a perfect mark for this suave charlatan and his so-called phony empire. How could I be so naive? What’s wrong with me?

This is the same dynamic I see with Donald Trump. For example, he steps up to a microphone in front of a crowd and says something like, "I love Mexicans and Mexico, they’re wonderful people. But they’re not sending us their best. The people crossing the border are drug dealers and rapists." Okay, it’s a bit uncomfortable, I’ll admit. The phrase "I love Mexicans" is meant to soften the impact, but I have to carefully unpack what Trump is actually saying: he believes that many illegal border crossers are young men with bad intentions, no viable way to earn a living in the U.S., and likely to engage in more criminal behavior while here. Laken Riley’s family would probably agree with him on the issues of drug dealers, killers, and rapists.

I then sit back in my chair, and think, "Well, he didn't say that very well. And he's not as clear as he could be. He's trying to say that Mexico and Mexicans are generally likable -- lovable, even. He likes them. But the border problem is the worst of Mexico mixed in with some of the others, and it's those baddies that we need to focus on, because if we're just letting them into the country, no questions asked, we've got trouble."

Then I turn on the news. 

The chyron: . . . TRUMP SAYS MEXICANS ARE DRUG DEALERS AND RAPISTS . . . 

And I sigh. That's not what Trump said. It's on tape. I know what he said. Why are you gaslighting me on what he said? It's the border. We've been having issues down there for decades. They've been getting much worse in the last twenty years. He's addressing that. He's making his case. I don't particularly like how clumsily he's making it, but he's making it, and I get it. Why are you pretending you don't get it, mainstream news people? 

Trump addresses the Charlottesville fiasco with the Confederate statues, and says that in the debate about whether the historical aspect of those statues should be preserved, there are "Very fine people on both sides." The mainstream media and the Democrat party interpret that as, "Donald Trump says white supremacists are very fine people." 

Again, not what he said. 

In 2024, much of these gaslighting messaging tactics have been debunked on X, Elon Musk's platform after his Twitter buyout, and the majority of Americans now have a revised opinion on exactly what Donald Trump stands for, which explains how a majority of voters put him back in office, including about 50% of hispanic voters (mostly men). Now, whether or not that was a good thing is up for very deep debate, and there is a strong case to be made that Trump should not serve another term, and should perhaps serve jail time instead. That case is convoluted, hard to understand, impossible to identify with. I don't get it. Neither do 75 million Americans. But, there is another 75 million who do get it, and to them it's very real. I can live with that. I can work with that. I can respect it.

I bring this up because the same thing happens with Olivier Creed. Olivier does an interview and says to Le Figaro in 2013, "When I entered with my creations exclusively in a provincial perfume store like Le Soleil d'Or, in Lille, in 1963, it was a real challenge against the big brands." Gabe Oppenheim translates this to: "Perfumery was a brand new business for us, so I chose to soft-launch it in the sticks." 

That's not what Olivier said.

He clearly said that he positioned himself in a provincial commercial setting because he was up against the likes of Chanel and Dior. He's stating that when you take your perfumes from the land of bespoke and into the designer market, you have an uphill battle on your hands. What Olivier is implicitly saying is that when your perfumes have to speak for themselves because you don't have a rich financial backer to foot the bill, and your own money is at stake, wealthy as you may already be, it's still a major uphill battle. For comparison, look at how Pierre Montale made out. He was also a "perfumer to the royals" in the Middle East. Despite that, he still needed a rich financier to fund his launch of the Montale brand. Without that, and despite all of his private clientele, he wouldn't have gotten his own perfume business off the ground. 

Olivier has honesty on his side there, the same sort of honesty that Donald Trump kinda-sorta has when he kinda-sorta just is himself and says exactly what he thinks, at least in the moment he thinks it. But here's the thing about Olivier Creed, the thing that Trump doesn't have: he's got mystery on his side. Yes, there are things about Olivier and the Creed dynasty that are not known to the public. He has kept it that way for a reason. Mystery about him and his family gives him cover. 

This cover creates a vacuum of information and knowledge, which gets filled with speculation. But like with Trump, the speculation is touted as fact. "Creed's perfume business only dates back to the seventies." "Creed lies about the perfume part, but the tailoring business was real." "There is no verifiable proof that Creed created perfumes prior to 1970." All of these ideas swirl around in the bleakness that Creed's mystery has cast on the yearning public, those fragrance-obsessed guys who spend all of their time seeking out and buying the most obscure niche crap they can find. 

The claim that the perfumery end of the Creed family business started with Olivier is tempting to believe. There are a slew of factual arrows that point in that direction, and many are mentioned in Oppenheim's book. Indeed, Creed did show up at Le Soleil d'Or in nineteen sixty-something with a couple of perfumes that had no clear provenance, and he was, by his own account, looking to sell. He claimed to be a perfumer. He continued to offer perfumes to the shop, and as Oppenheim's book elucidates, those perfumes actually moved units. Oppenheim acted like the number of perfumes that sold was meager, but I was impressed by it. Twelve-hundred bottles sold in 1970? That's a hundred sold every month. That's about three bottles per day. For a small family brand with no designer clout, that's amazing. 

My problem with all of this is that it doesn't track. Just as the slings and arrows fired at Donald Trump fail to land, the same degree of skepticism thrown at Olivier Creed misses the mark and hits something else entirely. Oppenheim fails to deliver the goods on my questions about where Olivier got the "Creed Water" formula of real ambergris and musk from, or how he came up with his impressive list of briefs for the Grey Cap lineup. You can say a guy pulled briefs out of his butt, conned a few perfumers into making them, and touted them as heirlooms . . . but he pulled this off with Fleurissimo, Orange Spice, Épicea, Baie de Genièvre, Bois de Cèdrat, Citrus Bigarade, Sélection Verte, Bayrhum Vétiver, Herbe Marine, Ambre Cannelle, Angélique Encens, Aubépine Acacia, Bois de Santal, Santal Impérial, Chèvrefeuille, Animalis Pimenta, Bois de Rhodes, Cyprès-Musc, Ylang Jonquilles, Royal Scottish Lavender, Cuir Imperial, Verveine Narcisse, Vétiver, Fleur de Thé Rose Bulgare, Irisia, "Vintage" Tabaróme, Royal English Leather, and Zeste Mandarine Pamplemousse?

Sorry, Gabe, but no. 

There is a huge chunk of information missing here. Most of these perfumes aren't color-by-numbers pieces; they are weirdly sophisticated and speak to the sort of Old Money wealth that only aristocratic Europeans enjoy. You can't fake that. You, Mister Oppenheim, have failed to shed light on most of this.

The skeptics sling everything they can at this, and miss every time. The word they like to use that gives away their bad aim? 

"Proof."

They want "proof" that Creed is responsible for creating perfumes prior to 1963. What they ought to be asking for is "proof" of who is responsible for the lion's share of perfumes that predate Green Irish Tweed, and fundamentally question whether the perfumers who have laid claim to some of them, like Pierre Bourdon did with Fleurs de Bulgarie, were acting on brand-new from-thin-air briefs, or adapting archaic, time-worn formulas that needed overhauls to be brought to commercial market. Almost nobody is asking about that.

The narrative that Olivier Creed simply waltzed into labs and stole formulas is more entertaining, even though it doesn't really make sense when you consider the scope of the lineup mentioned above.

If I had a leather riding goods and tailoring firm in the 1700s, my focus would be on the functional accoutrements to leather. This was a time when perfume barely existed. I would create products like saddle soap and homespun perfumes designed to make the hide smell tolerable. The formulas I developed would be proprietary to my leather goods firm. If they proved successful in their duties over the course of a century, I might parlay one or two of them into actual fine fragrance at some point in the nineteenth century. 

These perfumes would be little stocking stuffers offered to faithful clients in tiny bottles of an ounce or less. They might even gain some steam in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, when the leather goods end of things has closed shop, and the tailoring has picked up. By the middle of the twentieth century, I might have some period-specific pieces on offer like Orange Spice and Fleurissimo. These might migrate from the 1950s to the 1960s, into the hands of a young Olivier Creed, who might eventually decide to "amp up" the perfume piece and make it everything. 

None of this is hard to believe. None of it requires proof.

Orange Spice, by the way, is an example of a perfume that I think adds to the Creed mystery. Pierre Bourdon is not the nose behind it, despite its resemblance to Kouros. If he were, the formula would have been mentioned in Oppenheim's book, and it wasn't. (Varanis Ridari has the scoop there.) I smelled the comparison to Kouros in my bottle, but I also smelled a strong comparison to another fragrance from the 1950s called Max Factor Signature for Men. Same musky orange and wood notes. Slight hint of ambergris and nitromusk in the base. The two fragrances clearly hail, at least in spirit, from the same era. That goes a ways in backing up Creed's claim that Orange Spice is from 1950. 

That might sound trite, but the truth is less glamorous than the narrative we've been spoonfed by the skepticcs. Again, anything is possible, but if Creed faked the provenance of Orange Spice, well then, man, did he nail it. Total bullseye. He managed to get a perfumer to make up something that smells quite literally like some obscure fragrance from the 1950s, which happens to also be in my collection. 

The Reddit user is right to say that Guerlain has real history to prove they made perfumes. Creed isn't Guerlain. Guerlain is a behemoth of nineteenth and early twentieth century perfume; Creed is a footnote. When Pierre-François Pascal Guerlain was gunning for a spot in the Eau de Cologne Hall of Fame, Creed was merely doing private little ditties for wealthy clientele. Privately-commissioned fragrance. This is what Olivier Creed and his son, Erwin, have claimed their family dealt in for hundreds of years.

There would be zero proof of any privately-commissioned perfumes. They would not come in mass-produced bottles. They would probably be delivered in little apothecary bottles. And they would not have advertising or a paper trail of any kind, beyond whatever perishable receipts of the tax year might require. 

None of this is hard to believe. None of it requires proof.

These formulas, probably a bit hackneyed and unscientific, unsophisticated even, would eventually need to be made in earnest by trained perfumers, if they were to survive at all. Cue the 1970s. Cue Olivier's quest to hire professionals on the low-down and make things properly. Suddenly Fleurissimo exists in a mass-produced flacon with a label and anyone with money can buy it.

None of this is hard to believe. And the proof is in the perfumes.

Why must we go all Trump Derangement Syndrome on Creed every single time the subject of their historical bonafides comes up? Must we keep pretending that Creed's claims about making perfume are preposterous? The part about making the perfumes, I mean. If you want to poke holes in all the claims about serving perfume to royals, have at it. But making the perfumes. Really? We can't believe that some Creed sometime before 1963 came up with a few perfumes? Even if they were purely functional perfumes used to soak leather hides and give them a signature smell? Scented gloves for ladies? Scented habits for riding? The stuff that people actually used back then, as opposed to the luxury stuff of today that people don't need to use? 

Is it the fake tan thing? If Olivier's tan was real, and not orange, would he be more credible? Or still in the doghouse like Trump? Has Olivier, in being a successful businessman with a knack for exaggerating his accomplishments, harnessed the unfortunate power of "Orange Man Bad?" 

The moral of this article is the following: Stop expecting proof of things that never required proof prior to you coming along and demanding it. If a family made bespoke perfumes for wealthy Europeans dating back hundreds of years, those Europeans would have had titles and nobility. That's how Europeans with money rolled back then. If you had money, it was likely inherited. And it was disposable, and even then, it was used for frivolities like fancy riding habits with citrus and floral scents. Such personal bespoke projects would not survive in any way to yield "proof" of their existence centuries later. They would simply melt into the annals of time. If this is what the Creed family did, then the only proof they need is the warrant printed on the box. Read it, and shut up already. 

Replica Sailing Day (Maison Margiela)

Briny aquatics thrive when they embrace their salt-soaked nature without being softened by fruit or generic crowd-pleasing notes. Maison Margiela’s Sailing Day, launched in 2017, attempts an intriguing balance but falls oddly short. It’s loaded with the essentials: sea salt, seaweed, minerals, aldehydes, and Amboxide, yet lurking beneath the surface is an unexpected sweetness, a soapiness verging on dish detergent. Ajax in my high-end fragrance? Who authorized this?

The scent opens with a sharp burst of frosty aldehydes, anchored by an intense saline note reminiscent of opening a jar of Himalayan pink salt and inhaling deeply. Yet somehow, this bracing saltiness is layered with a bubble bath-like sweetness, as if Sailing Day were more suited to a toy yacht in a soapy tub. A faint trail of white florals and a timid hint of pineapple-citrus runs through it all, but nothing takes center stage. Ultimately, Sailing Day is a steady, linear composition, smelling good but landing somewhere between commonplace and, well, “meh.”

I view aquatics like this one as the go-to for people who are still unaware of their options. Having sniffed my way through a hundred or more variants in the aquatic genre, I know what truly shines in this category. Yet for many, Sailing Day may simply register as an inoffensive “luxury” spin on a “fresh” and “sexy” locker room scent. And perhaps that’s all Maison Margiela aimed to achieve. For the less discerning, it does the job well enough, and in that spirit, I give it a reluctant nod of approval. (Get Sel Marin instead.)

Obsession for Men -- Oops! I Mean, Musk Deer (Zoologist)

This 2020 creation from Zoologist, crafted by Pascal Gaurin, senior perfumer at IFF, immediately transported me back to the 1990s. Now, for those of you who’ve been following my writing for some time, I’m aware that my frequent nostalgic musings about this era might be a bit much. But I stand by it: the 1980s and 1990s were a golden age of cultural innovation, and I often find myself yearning for the heady days when fashion, music, and fragrance had a particular magic. One standout from that time was Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men, a balsamic oriental fragrance rich with resins and spices that exuded a "grown-up" sophistication without veering into stuffy territory. Though the fragrance has been reworked over the years, its essence remains intact, albeit a few notes lighter than I remember. (For this reason, I haven't purchased a new bottle.) 

Obsession wasn’t merely a fragrance; it was an olfactory phenomenon, a marketing blitz that was impossible to ignore. From every magazine cover to every television ad, Kate Moss, scantily clad, if at all, stared provocatively back at me, stirring up all the hormonal chaos of a teenage boy. The scent, an "adult" oriental, was paired with imagery of waifish women caught between raw sensuality and a hint of rebellion. It was an audacious marketing strategy, but undeniably effective, selling a dream of dangerous allure. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Obsession was just a little bit aspirational, like even those who wore it might have done better with something just a touch more refined. But there was no such version until now.

Pascal Gaurin answered the likely implicit call of creative director Victor Wong to reimagine Obsession, and the result is Musk Deer, a fragrance that takes the foundations of Klein’s iconic oriental and elevates them with the finest materials available. Gaurin, having crafted eleven fragrances for Calvin Klein, clearly knows Obsession inside and out. He has, in essence, "Creedified" it, giving us a scent that is both familiar and refreshingly new. Musk Deer is a stunning, crisp oriental that channels the rich amber and animalic-floral notes of the original, while introducing a new complexity through layers of cedar, labdanum, patchouli, and a delicate touch of natural Laos oud. At the heart of this composition is a luminous Sambac jasmine absolute, which infuses the fragrance with a velvety, almost intoxicating sensuality. It's a cheap-in-a-fun-way smell done with an unlimited budget. 

Among the entire Zoologist collection, this fragrance feels the most wearable to me. In fact, it’s the one I’m seriously considering purchasing. Obsession has always held a special place in my heart, and I’ve long hoped for something that could take its core concept and refine it. With Musk Deer, I’ve finally found that dream realized. Much like the original Obsession, this fragrance evokes a strangely alluring fantasy: a vision of youthful, ethereal women existing in a quiet, almost surreal world of sterile, colorless advertisements, where the only thing that matters is how good they smell. Spray on Musk Deer, and it’s the 1990s once again. Only this time, I’m ready for the ride.