Old Spice Cologne "Original" (Procter & Gamble, 1993 — 2008 Vintage)

In 1990, Procter & Gamble acquired Old Spice to the tune of $300 million, and immediately made changes to its products. At first, they seemed undecided on which changes they wanted to make—things like the stopper color, the exact contours of the new racing yacht insignia, the moniker of "original" versus "classic"—but they eventually settled on a look that wasn't drastically different from what Shulton had been using for 53 years. After 1992, the stopper went from white back to grey, and the milk glass bottles remained in production. Old Spice was still very much Old Spice. 

With that said, I notice some key changes which clearly signal P&G's efforts to downgrade the product. First, the bottles. Shulton's bottles were creamy glass that was of the creamy color; P&G's are clear glass that are given a somewhat shoddy coating of creamy finish on the outer layer. There are vertical streaks visible on the neck of my 1993 bottle, pictured above, evidence that the finish didn't dry as evenly as it should have. Of course, this isn't really a big deal, per say, as glass is glass, and fragrance is always better in glass than plastic. But that little cost-cutting thing is noticeable, which is a shame. 

Second, the fragrance is given an industry designator: "Original." Lest you be confused by the myriad other Old Spice fragrances crowding the shelves, P&G felt it necessary to announce that they were making the "original" fragrance by printing "original" everywhere. Why they felt this was necessary is anyone's guess, but mine is that they wanted to assure customers that the new ownership hadn't changed anything. I find this type of marketing to reek of insecurity, and wonder what the conversations were like in closed-door meetings. "Hey, we really need to lean into the idea that what we're selling is the real deal." "Yes, you're right, but how do we do that after we've changed the graphic on the bottle?" "I got it! Let's call it 'Original' and print that word everywhere. Shulton never felt the need to do that, and nobody questioned their products, so we should totally change the packaging in this obvious way!" 

Lastly, P&G reformulated Old Spice into something very close to what is in bottles today. The early nineties formula is nearly identical to the current formula, except it's a touch spicier on top and a slight bit louder in concentration, projecting further and for an hour or two longer. The citrus and kitchen spice opening accord has a bit of fizzy texture that the current stuff simply lacks (although when atomized, the current formula is pretty darn close). Nineties Old Spice is the progenitor to the plastic bottle stuff on shelves today, and for better or worse, it smells 90% similar to what you're buying in 2025. This is P&G's take on the fragrance, where the vanilla is scaled back, the carnation and clovey spices are butched up, and the powder kicks in early. It's good, and it's recognizably Old Spice, but it's markedly different from the musky vanilla of the 1950s and '60s. Old Spice lost a lot of its sweetness, and gained a more pronounced floral facade. 

Like Brut, Old Spice has been through countless variations and reformulations over the decades, so it's difficult to say when the packaging shown here changed to something else. I know the racing yacht eventually got more colorful, and on the box it got even bolder than what's on my 1993 box. And of course, there are vintages of the plastic bottle, starting with the "sideways text" version and ending with the fugly patch graphic. 

I'm sure there's some Old Spice fanatic out there somewhere who will find this article and write me with something like, "How can you spew such ignominious garble?" My answer: I'm pretty good at it, actually. 

I Have "Excess" XS

One Scent; Three Versions

I've had a bottle of French-manufacture Paco Rabanne XS, considered "vintage" at this point, for many years now, and am finally down to the last ten milliliters or so. This prompted me to seek out a new bottle, but I'm painfully aware that XS has been reformulated and reissued over the years, and it took a bit of reading to discern which version I needed.

There seems to be three iterations of XS: the original, made in France, with a straw-colored liquid. Then there's a 2018 reissue in squat, heavy glass (very heavy) with purplish-grey liquid. But there's also an interim formula, released sometime in the 2000s and in the same bottle as the original, but with a light grey liquid. I decided to buy the 2018 reissue, based on reviews. Off to eBay I went.

Foreverlux had a listing for the 2018 version, so I ordered it. Unfortunately, Foreverlux goofed, and sent me the interim formula. I say "unfortunately" because this version is reputedly not as good as the 2018 version, with many complaining it's too weak and has off notes. Without sweating it, I returned to eBay and re-ordered the fragrance, and this time received the correct one, pictured above in the center. 

How do these compare? The original is the guidepost, of course. XS from 1993 is a crisp aromatic fougère in the Platinum Égoïste style of metallic geranium over mint, juniper berry, coriander, lavender, oakmoss, cedar, and sandalwood. XS is so close to the Chanel that I'm convinced they're mods of each other that simply found different brands for release. 

The interim version in the tall bottle (pictured to the right) smells very similar, but isn't as plush or round. There's a bit of screechy citrus in the opening accord that isn't in the original, and the heart is thinner, sharper, and more watery. Still smells like XS, still quite good, but the gunpowdery heart isn't as convincing, and it's a bit weaker. This is disappointing because this version came on the heels of the original, and shouldn't be so weak.

The 2018 version is also notably weaker than the original, but here the rough edges of its predecessor are polished and improved significantly. The aromatics enjoy better balance, the freshness feels more immediate and rounded, and the drydown is simply a weaker version of the original. I think it's a shame that they tinkered with it, but at least it smells right. If you're after this fragrance, go for the 2018 version.

The thing to remember with XS is that it was released in the 1990s, which was the decade for stylistic departures from what men used to wear. This type of metallic-fresh fragrance, exemplified by XS, PE, and Silver Mountain Water, was intended to say, "This isn't your dad's Old Spice." Forget the powdery cotton ball colognes of yesteryear. The nineties man smelled sharp and clean, like detergent soap on steroids. 

My Brief Thoughts on Club de Nuit Bling

So Armaf has a new one dropping right now, and the internet is buzzing.

Weirdly, the brand has opted to shroud the fragrance’s pyramid in mystery, listing only a few notes and fantasy accords: “stardust,” “velvet woods,” “flower prism.” Supposedly there’s some citrus and vanilla in the mix as well. The Fragrantica write-up by Sandra Raičević Petrović hints at green notes like geranium and lavender, but her information appears to be secondhand.

My first thought was, maybe this is a Green Valley clone. I have this fantasy that Armaf will finally cut the crap and craft a worthy copy of Creed’s fabled 1999 masterpiece, but the two percent of me that dares to hope is violently oppressed by the ninety-eight percent that knows it’ll never happen. Green Valley is the ultimate modern green scent, and it would be pure genius if Armaf cloned it. Unfortunately, they’ve long abandoned the Y2K, late-nineties throwback vibe in favor of milking the post-Aventus cash cow, endlessly cloning Bourdon’s pineapple formula. I own one of Armaf’s better-known Aventus clones, and while I admire it and wear it now and then, I still think Aventus—and anything that smells like Club de Nuit Intense Man—just isn’t my thing.

What’s annoying about the Bling rollout is how people online are pulling random theories out of thin air. For some reason, a bunch of guys on Fragrantica and Reddit are convinced Bling is a clone of Chanel’s Allure Homme Edition Blanche. “It’s got citrus, vanilla, and woods, so it must be Allure Homme Blanche.” To which I say—what? Why? Where did that even come from? Because it has citrus, vanilla, and “velvet woods,” that automatically narrows it down to an Allure Homme flanker? There are no Armaf clones of Allure Homme or its flankers, for that matter. Honestly, none of this makes sense. If you haven’t smelled the fragrance, nobody’s telling you the real notes, and bottles aren’t even in circulation yet, how do you just declare it a clone of something? Where did that comparison even start?

This is a wait-and-see situation. There are maybe two or three guys online who have smelled it and posted ridiculously brief “first impression” reviews on YouTube, almost as if they’ve signed NDAs. They all suggest it smells like Club de Nuit Intense Man with a big mango accord and a pinch of herbal aromatics layered over the usual smoky pineapple, bergamot, and ashy woods. If that’s true—and that’s a big if—then Club de Nuit Bling isn’t worth the wait. I’m still sitting quietly in the background with my fingers crossed that, against all odds, Bling turns out to be a creamy-green nineties golf fragrance disguised as metrosexual fluff.

Hope springs eternal.

Côte d'Azur (Féraud)

Released in 1988, Côte d'Azur by Avon/Féraud smells of salt and peaches (interesting combo) in the top accord, which rapidly resolves into a tuberose and muguet heart, with that salty essence lingering in the periphery well into the base. 

I agree with Derek (Varanis Ridari) that this smells like it could easily be the feminine version of Mario Valentino's Ocean Rain (1990), which was Edmond Roudnitska's final farewell. Valentino's scent is a very Roudnitska-esque arrangement of overripe, banana-like fruits, salty brine, and dry sandy tones over a pared-down chypre base. Féraud's is simpler on top (not quite as avant-garde) and smells perhaps 60% similar, but winds up in a different neighborhood at the ten minutes mark: Creed's Fleurissimo.

I'm talking vintage Fleurissimo, 2005 and older. For the rest of its considerable duration, Côte d'Azur is a dead-ringer for the Creed, and nearly the same quality. The biggest difference is the lack of real ambergris, which is abundant in the vintage formula of this particular Creed, but that salinated accord isn't half-bad. If you remember Fleurissimo as it was pre-Kering (and pre-Aventus) but can't swing the cost of a vintage bottle on eBay, try Avon's ghostwritten late eighties Féraud. Heck, it might've been done by the same perfumer. Who knows?

From Pyrgos Using "GoDaddy Airo" and an Explanation of Benefits

This is the "soft opening" of my blog relocation: frompyrgos.com (link here)

Not all of the content has been uploaded yet. Still working through 13 years of posts and gradually transferring them over in alphabetical order. So bear with me, and if the attenuated amount of content bothers your OCD or something, I won't take it personally if you'd rather wait until 2026 to stop back. 

Someone asked me recently why I chose GoDaddy Airo as my hosting service, and told me there were better options. No argument there -- for blogging, there are far better options. It might seem like a strange choice, and it is, in some ways. GoDaddy's blog hosting is clumsy at best. The options for how to set up and organize content and a "blogroll" are severely limited. The best option was to do the scattered menu approach of just having brands alphabetically listed out, with "All Posts" at the top for those who are just looking to read the latest review. It works better on desktop than mobile site because the mobile lets you click on a brand but doesn't automatically take you down to the posts, forcing the user to scroll to the bottom of the screen to read what they clicked on. Pretty stupid, but apparently it's the best they can do. In regards to the writing, they only offer a grey font (a little on the light side for my liking, but again, no choice), but otherwise the posts themselves look fine. You also have the option to use a vertical brand list on each article page, which may or may not be easier to navigate on both desktop and mobile. You be the judge.

There is a method to my madness, however. While far from ideal for blogging, GoDaddy Airo's main strength is commercial online product sales, and they offer a slew of services for those who want to sell from their site. While not currently a commercial site, I plan on dabbling with making a perfume in the future, which may or may not be something I want to sell (will have to see how that all goes, of course), so by the end of 2026 or early 2027, that will potentially be a thing. For that, GoDaddy will deliver the goods, should I go in that direction. And with the number of formulas I have, there's a good chance that at least one will be worthy of small batch production and distribution. My plan is to formulate something that will smell of ballpark Creed-like quality (maybe 75% there) and sell it for Davidoff prices (sub $100). When I see what the chems are priced at, it's amazing to me the markup on these niche frags. It's also amazing to me that people have given up on the middle class buyer who just wants something that smells of 1970s Brut quality for under $300, and can't find it because it doesn't exist. 

So I essentially went into this looking for a fragrance blog site that could double as a merchant site. There were competitors to GoDaddy that offer similar things, but Airo's ease of use and beginner-friendly merchant options (sort of) were fine for my needs. I've read a lot of criticisms of the user-friendliness of this host, but thus far have only had simple and straightforward experiences. I'm not thrilled with the limitations for site building, but I have a fairly low-tier plan and don't expect much more than what's on offer, so I guess I shouldn't complain. Feedback is always welcome, of course, and you'll be able to find me on Fragrantica if you need to reach out and have a convo about anything fragrance related: My fragrantica page (link here).

Also, please bear with me in regards to the number of new posts here. I will continue to post for the remainder of the year, but you'll probably notice a decrease in the frequency of postings, all of which will be due to the transition. Don't panic. Once I'm fully up and running in the new location, things will get "back to normal," as my grandmother would say. See you there!

A Big Announcement

Starting in 2026, From Pyrgos will move to a dot-com address, and will no longer be updated here on Blogger. On January 1st of next year I will officially redirect all traffic from this address to the new one. The new site is already up, and you're welcome to go there now and enjoy the new layout, but it will take me a few months to get all the content transferred and updated. 

Some brands will see new (shorter) reviews that have been rewritten to better reflect my current opinions. There will be tweaks to the existing site with possible new pages added, so if you're already there, bear in mind that things will likely change. The new domain was created out of a perhaps irrational fear of mine that one day Blogger will be no more. It occurred to me that Blogger is an outdated platform that gives serious Y2K vibes, and it's entirely possible that in the next five years or so Google will retire it. If that happens, I want to be securely relocated where I have total control. 

There will be an update to this before Christmas, so stay tuned. Fear not, dear readers -- From Pyrgos will continue onward, here for the next 4 months, and there for the rest of its existence. Websites are curious things, with their own mortality (Old Spice Collectibles recently died) and I'm well aware of how attached people get to their good reads. My hope is to keep providing good reads for years to come. For now, content will continue to be published here. I expect to be done with the content transfer and site design by Thanksgiving, but that might be ambitious. 

Is Dunhill Fresh Creed's Green Valley on the Cheap?

Green Valley is my favorite fragrance. It’s the most beautiful scent I’ve ever smelled, and nothing else has truly come close. Creed’s Original Vetiver is in the same neighborhood and gave me a similar sense of awe, but Green Valley went further: richer, lusher, denser, more expansive, more complex, and unforgettable.

Since Creed discontinued it back in 2010, cruelly in my opinion, I’ve been searching for something comparable. Nothing really measures up. Paul Smith Man is maybe halfway there if you squint, but it’s still a stretch. Dior Fahrenheit (the original, not the flankers) also shares some grassy-floral, green qualities, but its defining petrol-violet “barrel” accord dominates too strongly for real comparison. I’ve read Dua Brand’s Vert Instinct is the closest clone, but it’s pricey, and I don’t trust Dua. They don’t seem like true perfumers, and I’m not comfortable buying from a company that outsources its wares.

Recently, though, I pulled out my bottle of Dunhill Fresh. This one’s odd. Released twenty years ago by Maurice Roucel, the name suggests citrus brightness, soapiness, maybe aquatic freshness. Instead, it opens with a muted violet accord reminiscent of Fahrenheit, only blurred, as if Roucel draped a foggy green filter over it. And here’s the twist: it reminds me of Green Valley. At first, I thought it was just the Fahrenheit overlap, but when I went back to my empty Green Valley bottle and sniffed the atomizer, I noticed something uncanny. The residue, oils clinging to the glass, gives off a rich violet and tea-like aroma that matches the heart of Dunhill Fresh almost exactly. It feels as if Roucel captured that hidden aspect of Green Valley but left out its grassy-bright overture, likely because Dunhill wasn’t paying Creed’s budget for natural materials and there was no realistic way for him to replicate them. Since he's a true genius, Roucel didn't even try. 

Dunhill Fresh doesn’t smell like Green Valley -- let’s be clear about that. What it does smell like is the semi-evaporated dregs of Green Valley. There’s something in its structure that carries a mysterious resemblance. In the far drydown, ten hours later, when I smell where I sprayed, a familiar fruity cadence emerges, followed by a soft grassy lilt. It’s faint, a ghost of an accord, but it brings the comparison into focus. At that point Dunhill actually does echo the Creed.

It’s a tricky comparison because Green Valley has often been likened to other Creeds, especially Green Irish Tweed and Silver Mountain Water. Back in 2011, when I was still wearing my bottle of GV, I understood the SMW comparison but never the GIT one. To this day, I can’t see the resemblance. GV and GIT are worlds apart. With SMW, the link is clearer: GV carries an accord of blackcurrant and warm citrus, just as SMW blends currant with mandarin orange. But in GV that accord is just one thread in a much larger tapestry, while SMW remains leaner and far simpler.

Dunhill Fresh is also lean and simple, though it handles its plush accords sparingly, which is rare in perfumery. Somehow Roucel bottled the soul of Green Valley, but the soul alone isn’t enough. To understand what GV truly was, you need the bitter wildflowers rising through fields of tall grass, the gingery-bright shimmer breaking through a misty morning of sunlight in liquid form. Roucel couldn’t capture that, and perhaps no one could. Yet one has to wonder if he wasn’t the shadow hand behind GV itself, since to this day no perfumer has ever been officially credited for its creation.

Violetas Francesas Cologne, Adult Formula (Affa Corp.)

The blurb on the box for this stuff claims it's made from the "oils of violets," which is, of course, complete bullcrap, as no such material exists, not even "imported from France." My real question though is for the Latin communities of Southern Florida and Miami: What's with all the violets? 

For some inexplicable reason, violets are a Cuban and East-Coast Latin American thing. I own both Agustín Reyes's Royal Violets and now also Violetas Francesas's cologne by the Affa Corporation, located in Miami, and both are manna for violet lovers. Judging from the way the boxes are printed, only the former sells internationally, while the latter appears limited to the Americas (much shorter, non-IFRA compliant ingredients list). "AFFA" stands for the Alfonso Family, which immigrated from Cuba in 1974 so Fermín Alfonso could create his violet cologne for babies. This story closely matches Agustín Reyes's. Of the two fragrances, I prefer Violetas Francesas. Royal Violets is very good, and I've used a fair bit of it, but it takes the gasoline approach to the petit purple flowers, and a little goes a long way. Affa Corp.'s formula is sweeter and a bit candied, only slightly gassy, and ends on a more pleasant powdery accord, reminiscent of baby powder. The company asserts that its own "Baby Formula" cologne (which bears the disturbing image of an infant girl wearing a brassiere) is even simpler and shorter-lived, while the "Adult Formula" above is the longest-lasting, and I get maybe thirty minutes of soft powder from it with generous application, so I can't argue. That's all I expect from a cheap cologne. 

What does Violetas Francesas remind me most of? This is going to bug you, but it's the truth, and heck, I own and wear a bottle, so I should know -- Creed's Love in Black. It's like they took the opening accord of LiB, watered it down tenfold, called it a cologne. Virtually identical violet materials, and it makes me question my life choices.

Green Energy (Givenchy)

I first learned about this fragrance in 2008, the year I became interested in perfumes, and had wanted to buy a bottle ever since, but somehow never got around to it until now. It was discontinued even then, and eBay prices were exorbitant, but they’ve since come back down to a respectable twenty dollars an ounce or so. This must have been a duty-free, airports-only release, as most bottles are the smaller 50 ml size. I grabbed one, half-expecting it to be semi-spoiled and underwhelming, but it turned out to be brand new and unsprayed, with an unprimed atomizer. I totally lucked out. A perfectly fresh bottle of a 25-year-old unisex Givenchy that I never see in brick and mortar shops. 

Many reviewers describe the fragrance as a “disappointing” green, lacking in true green notes and leaning instead on fruity and floral hues. Green fragrances generally fall into two categories: bitter-vegetal or sweet-floral (sometimes fruity-floral), and the consensus here points to the latter. Indeed, Green Energy -- aka the portmanteau “Greenergy” -- opens like a synthetic spin on Green Irish Tweed, with a lush accord of basil, cardamom, mandarin orange, lavender, Iris pallida, violet leaf, spearmint, and dihydromyrcenol, accented by traces of natural galbanum for sweetness. It smells surprisingly crisp and rich for the style, and promises great things. Also, the smoothness of the blend is somewhat reminiscent of the also-discontinued and now impossible to find Xeryus (1986). At this stage of the fragrance, it is without argument utterly and entirely "green" in smell. 

Within three hours, most of these green notes have stepped back, bridged by an unusual French marigold accord -- uniquely resinous-green and bittersweet, with spicy and ambery nuances. This is where I find Green Energy most interesting. Alberto Morillas and Ilias Ermenidis built a fairly simple base of synthetic sandalwood, cardamom seed, and coriander, with faint traces of basil and vanilla for herbal sweetness. To my nose, the coriander dominates. It reminds me somewhat of Paul Smith, but the fragrance as a whole also recalls Pino Silvestre Green Generation Him, itself distantly related to GIT by way of a more herbal take on the lavender/orange blossom of Eternity for Men. For this type of green fragrance, the dihydromyrcenol, violet leaf, and iris accord is everywhere.

I get a full workday out of Green Energy, and its base of “cool” spices is simple yet distinctive enough to satisfy my yen for abstract greens. Paul Smith is simpler and more cardamom-forward, with more vegetal, grassy-green facets in the top and middle, while Bowling Green and the original Pino Silvestre aim for a more rustic herbal take. Green Energy, like many of these, is entirely unisex, though women tend to opt for even more overtly floral or fruity compositions instead, which is kind of a shame. I’m happy to nurse my 1.7 oz bottle while it lasts; the supply will likely dry up, and prices could again soar into the upper ozone, but I’ll probably reach for the other scents I’ve mentioned before the Givenchy when I want a true green-out.

Grass (Lush)

Fifteen years ago, I found an Adidas fragrance called Sport Field, released in 1994. It was so fresh, green, and grassy that the only thing I could compare it to was Green Valley by Creed, not because they smelled alike, but because both leaned fully into the scent of cut grass. After 2014, I stopped looking for anything similar. Most perfumes aim for balanced, layered accords, and that kind of raw simplicity is rare.

Then I discovered Grass by Lush, which is a UK-based firm founded in 1995 by Mark Constantine and Liz Weir. Lush made a pretty penny on Grass as a shower gel back in the late 2000s and early 2010s, but the product line has slipped in and out of availability over the years. To my knowledge, the only thing Lush still makes today is the Grass perfume, reviewed here and launched in 2020. Well, it was actually relaunched, with the original formula issued in 2018, but I never tried that one. Constantine is the primary perfumer for Lush's scents, and you have to know what his schtick is: crude, mostly natural and "vegan" fragrances, soaps, and cosmetics. When you buy into Lush, you're not buying into Keira Knightley covered in pink veils with rounded bottles and some overlapping letter Cs. You're buying into Kate Moss with powder. Jean Rollin movies. Bottles of Slivovitz and cigarette stubs. This is Bohemian Chic to the nth power. 

Grass perfume contains natural New Caledonian sandalwood oil, bergamot oil, and neroli oil, with violet ionone and coumarin for that familiar hay-like effect in the base. The violet is a little petrol-like. And the whole affair just smells like Sport Field, if it were made with the highest quality materials possible. A niche version of Sport Field, to put it bluntly. There are no fruit notes, so that's one difference, and it's more like a field of uncut hay rather than grass (although the first five minutes are pretty green), but, hell, it smells great and lasts forever. Recommended for earthy green lovers everywhere. 

Grey Flannel Without Oakmoss and Treemoss

I’d heard Grey Flannel had been stripped of all moss, a topic fragcomm was buzzing about as far back as 2015. I’m well stocked in Geoffrey Beene’s 1975 chypre, with French Fragrances, late-2000s EA, and Jacqueline Cochran formulas. In brief: FF is the mossiest, smooth, and powdery-green with muted florals; EA is sharper and only slightly harsher, with more hyacinth and gardenia but otherwise 98% like FF; JC is the smoothest and woodiest, with the largest violet–sandalwood accord, resembling Green Irish Tweed if Bourdon had skipped dihydromyrcenol in favor of galbanum and alpha ionone.

Curious how this legend smells post-IFRA and without natural moss, I bought a new bottle. Surprisingly, it’s not much different -- less plush, but barely so. It opens with bitter greens, like snapped green beans and old lemon rinds, then sweetens as a coumarinic cloud of violet leaf wraps around me. Vegetal, hay-sweet, and dry, yet evocative of cold humidity under a scraggly April rain-soaked bush, Grey Flannel remains the most distinctive green masculine I own. No wonder I wore it exclusively for a year. A landmark fragrance, it pioneered a crisp, fresh, green style that defined the eighties and nineties.

I recommend Grey Flannel in all its vintages, but with a note of caution on vintage hunting. If you want a smooth, woody violet akin to a more natural Green Irish Tweed, seek the Jacqueline Cochran or, better yet, the first Epocha version. For a rich, green, mossy take, go for Sanofi or early French Fragrances. To boost brightness, find early Elizabeth Arden bottles, and for the most direct violet leaf, the latest EA versions (sans moss) deliver well. Grey Flannel turns fifty this year, and I hope it lasts another fifty.