Revisiting the 1980s Fragrance Not for the Kids: One Man Show (Jacques Bogart)

Keep out of Reach of Children

There's something militant about One Man Show, Roger Pellégrino's 1980 creation for the middle-shelf brand of Jacques Bogart. The battleship grey box. The olive green glass bottle, with even greener fluid inside. The way the brand's signature "b" glistens in brass like the cockade on a Russian soldier's cap. It all spells "Not for Children," as if Bogart execs wanted to convey a sense of inherent danger to anyone unprepared for what happens if you carelessly depress the atomizer. 

I used to dislike this fragrance, but time has a way of wrestling men into submission, and after many recent developments in the fragrance world, I find myself face-down on the mat. Back when I had things like Kouros and Krizia Uomo to turn to, One Man Show was a pointless exercise in olfactory crass that lacked the compositional genius of the former or the material focus of the latter. If I wanted an animalic fougére fix, the animalis (civet, tonkin musk) of vintage Kouros was impossible to beat. For rich woods, look no further than the photorealistic cedar base of Krizia Uomo. Back in 2012, I wrote: "The calibration was inspired but simple, of equal parts pine and oakmoss, styrax and castoreum, incense and geranium, all tuned to a high-pitched shrill. It smells weirdly majestic . . . " And I agree with me—it certainly did smell weirdly majestic, but also intense, raw, rugged, and a bit scary, like the problem-drinking teacher who grips your arm a little too tightly after breaking up a schoolyard disturbance. One Man Show wasn't for the young'uns. 

Today, Kouros is neutered and all but discontinued, Krizia Uomo is a dinosaur, and where can a guy go for a classic, early 1980s animalic punch in the nose? Come back, One Man Show, all is forgiven. I purchased a 100 milliliter bottle on eBay last month for $14.88, and I received it in a box stamped with an October, 2016 batch code—or maybe a 2006 batch code, since these codes tend to repeat every ten years. It came with a little dried-out and empty tube of aftershave balm, and from what I've heard they're always dried out, so naturally one must figure there's an obsessive-compulsive thief out there sitting on a vat of stolen One Man Show aftershave balm. The box warns: HIGHLY CONCENTRATED, and the bottle's black plastic atomizer sticks out from its cowl like the barrel of a gun. The text, "Jacques Bogart Paris" is printed in black, as if stamped, "Fit to Serve." 

With some trepidation, I sprayed One Man Show for the first time in 14 years. I was hit with a bright burst of aldehydic greens, followed by a grassy accord of what mainly smells like basil, artemisia, galbanum, and a particularly harsh bergamot note that recalls the skanky citruses of past classics like Moustache and Aramis, except here it competes with all those grassier tones. There's also a hint of civetone, but there's an even stronger hint of castoreum, which foretells what is to come. The first ten minutes smells the most like Krizia Uomo, minus the obvious lavender and fougére elements, but as the castoreum note steps forward, this changes. The focus here isn't on cedar, although there is some cedar tucked away somewhere. No, this fragrance is about the musks. Animalis, castoreum, a surprisingly restrained wink of textural civetone, all blaring together in that familiar New Wave masculine "powerhouse" way that only something from 1980 can manage. 

It's impossible to spray this stuff on and not immediately think of Phoebe Cates in a leotard. Fragrances like this were designed to bring out the inner animal in a man. It makes sense that the person who brought us Macassar and Gem would channel all the lusty stink of post-disco machismo into something as brutish and raw as Bogart's second masculine release. I've read from cognoscenti that current iterations of this formula neglect the animalics and naturals, but if so, my nose must be unaware of it, because this 9 (or 19) year-old bottle smells plenty old-school, natural, animalic, and mossy to me. There's no moss listed on the box, but if you know what it smells like, you know it's in there. Maybe they just, eh, forgot to alert the IFRA of its presence. 

Does this stuff scratch the itch left behind by those other lost masterpieces? Kind of. Look, the further out we get from the 1980s, the more this sort of thing dazzles, even when it's as crudely done as it is here. Pellégrino perfected the animalic citrus accord in his later and much more refined Versace L'Homme (984), and if you squint with that one, you can sort of see the resemblance to One Man Show. I can settle for this fragrance when I want the animalic snarl that I used to get from Kouros, and it'll work in a pinch when I wish I had the piney-green ambiance of Krizia Uomo. But the rough edges of this monstrosity are such that wearing it will be an exercise in cringe-inducing caution. Don't want to get hurt, and certainly don't want to hurt others. 

I work with a few people born in the 2000s, and spending more than 30 seconds around something this virile and overtly sexual might traumatize them. Lock the bottle in a safe, and memorize the combination. Little Johnny's not old enough to shoot yet. 

Shuhrah pour Homme (Rasasi)

While Rasasi and many of its UAE contemporaries are often known in Western fragrance circles for inspired-by takes on popular designer and niche scents, they occasionally put out something that feels more original (even when it really isn't, as rose/oud combos are anything but). In 2015, Rasasi did exactly that with Shuhrah pour Homme. The name “Shuhrah” refers to fame or renown in Islamic culture and is also used as a feminine name, which already gives the concept a slightly playful angle. The idea seems to be about status and attention, a scent for being noticed, whether you want to be or not. I happen to think that YouTube frag-bros and Reddit dipshits fuel most of the Arabian perfume craze here in the USA, so naming a perfume "Woman for Man" is culture-coded for us more than anyone in the Middle East. See my review of Tom Ford's Oud Wood for how I really feel. 

Shuhrah opens with a sharp, stemmy-green blast paired with a watery, soapy floral effect. Fragrantica, Parfumo, and Basenotes call this “tomato leaf” and “freesia,” but that framing doesn’t really hold up. Tomato leaf is unmistakable, but there is no literal tomato leaf note here, just a green, crushed-stem impression likely built from materials like cis-2-hexenol, Stemone, and other related aroma chemicals that mimic that bitter vegetal snap. The floral side reads more like a clean white floral accord than any specific flower, lifted by airy materials such as helional and Florol that give it a slightly aquatic, soapy brightness. It’s brisk, a little sharp, and honestly a bit divisive in those opening minutes.

Then it settles into what the fragrance is really about: rose. A big, dense, slightly honeyed Taif-style rose takes over and becomes the backbone of the entire composition. It’s rich, full-bodied, and carries a faint soapiness that feels more like budget construction than intent, which makes sense given the price point. Around the 90-minute mark, a smoky, ashy nuance starts creeping in, likely from something like cypriol (nagarmotha), which dries out the florals and adds a burnt, slightly tobacco-like edge. From there on, it’s a steady rose-and-smoke pairing, with the rose clearly in control while the smoke just adds atmosphere. It performs well and projects strongly, easily lasting most of the day. Whether that works for you depends on your taste for loud rose fragrances: if you like them, it’s an easy win at the price; if you don’t, it won’t change your mind, and more polished rose options exist from houses like Mancera and Montale.

Drakkar Bleu (Guy Laroche)

Sebastian Jara's review of this fragrance is what prompted me to buy a bottle, as his resentful dislike of Drakkar Bleu borders on hilarious. He goes on a tangent about how people diss him for liking old-school fragrances, like the original Drakkar and famous flanker Drakkar Noir, and then said this new "blue" flanker of Drakkar (or Drakkar Noir?—can a flanker be flanked?) smelled way too basic, unoriginal, synthetic, and juvenile for him. If he were talking about any other fragrance, I might've just finished his video and forgotten about it. It's not like it's the only thing Mr. Jara has openly disliked. 

But smelling Drakkar Bleu, released in 2025 and formulated by anonymous, I immediately pick up on a boomerang effect of Guy Laroche copying something that copied Drakkar Noir. This makes sense, because the something that copied their flagship masculine embellished its New Wave fougère structure in a way that was, for lack of a better phrase, simply genius. Combe Incorporated, makers of Aqua Velva products, released a humble little plastic-bottle aftershave in 1994 called Aqua Velva Ice Sport—Drakkar Noir in hard candy blue raspberry flavor. I still think about it today, 32 years after its initial release (it was discontinued for a brief while, then brought back). That silly little $3 aftershave smells better than some of my $40+ perfumes. It stands to reason that the dihydromyrcenol and menthol accords of faux lavender and mint would work wonders when combined and carefully balanced with the fruity esters of banana, pineapple, and cherry.

Drakkar Bleu opens with a blast of spiced menthol and pineapple juice, which is rapidly joined by a fairly restrained ethyl-maltol sugar rush that threatens to turn the whole affair into another dismal designer cotton candy for Gen-Zombies. Fortunately, this stage remains restrained, almost to a fault, and I'm able to discern that the perfumer behind Drakkar Bleu wanted to copy Ice Sport, but not be obvious about it. As it all dries down, it reveals an abstract raspberry haloed in a wonderfully malted lavender so big that it's actually scarily easy to miss, as it looms over the entire fragrance evolution like a big blue eye-in-the-sky. The Drakkar Noir idea that became the Aqua Velva Ice Sport idea has now come full circle as a fully fleshed-out modern fougère in eau de parfum concentration, and ironically Drakkar Bleu dials back the sweetness by reducing the fruit candy to a background hum. I actually like this stuff, and I really didn't expect to. 

Ignore the YouTube reviewers who, in true NPC fashion, all blather about "mint mint mint" and "apple with patchouli." It's a fool's errand to try to discern spearmint or peppermint here. It's just sweetened menthol, and it's all the better for it. There's hardly any apple, and the patchouli is merely a lithe dose of Akigalawood. These people just imitate each other; if one person says "mint," then everyone feels safe saying it in their video. None of them have any clue what's really going on with this fragrance, and I doubt they're familiar with Aqua Velva Ice Sport. All I can say is, if you're stepping into the Drakkar arena, know your barbershop frags. I expect Bleu will be discontinued by the end of 2027, by which point prices will skyrocket to Drakkar Essence levels. 

Givenchy Gentleman (Givenchy)

Released in EDT concentration in 1974, Givenchy Gentleman was almost anachronistic at that point in time, when modern aromatic fougères were at long last threatening to usurp the reign of bitter-mossy midcentury chypres. Technical marvels like Paco Rabanne pour Homme, Grey Flannel, and Blue Stratos had begun to poke holes in the stuffy citrus-leathers of the 1950s and '60s, and so another olfactory brown study might have seemed passé. Hard to know what saved Gentleman from the fate of, say, Lancôme Balafre, or the original Drakkar, but I have a theory: maybe it was the patchouli. 

After all, patchouli was decidedly in with both the hippie and glitterati of the era, and if there's one thing Gentleman has in spades, it's patchouli. I've read a few dozen reviews of this fragrance, and everyone waxes poetic about its nuances, mentioning things like vetiver, and tarragon, and Russian leather, blah, blah. Perhaps those notes are there, but patchouli, with its myriad facets, is a magical material, capable of replicating an entire accord of subtle seasons. A quality patchouli oil will read as minty, cedar-like, chocolatey, leathery, grassy, and floral before it even begins to dry down, and the patchouli in Gentleman shows it all before you put the bottle away after spraying.

It’s essentially a citrus-herbal chypre, with a soft hint of bergamot and a tart, green note like tarragon—I don’t get much cinnamon—followed by an unfurling garrison flag of patchouli. There’s also something dry, bitter, and smoky, possibly vetiver or just patchouli’s darker side. A small touch of semisweet amber sits in the base, though it could be an early version of Paul Léger’s honeyed carnation from Anaïs Anaïs, or simply patchouli’s sugared finish. Either way, the materials feel top shelf; the fragrance is radiant yet modest, and if you love patchouli, this might be as good as it gets. Beautiful stuff.

The Reddit Test That Confirmed My Suspicions: When Politics Sneaks Into Perfume Recommendations

A few days ago I dropped a simple, pseudo-anonymous question into r/fragrance:

“Which Fragrance Blog: From Pyrgos or Varanis Ridari?”

The post was deliberately short and neutral. I wanted unfiltered opinions on two long-winded masculine-fragrance blogs. Anyone with two minutes and Reddit’s post-history feature could figure out it was me, as my handle is easily recognized on Reddit. That was the point. I wasn’t hiding; I was testing whether the answer would stay about the writing or drift somewhere else. Knowing that Redditors would self-censor and pass on commenting at the mere sight of me, I hoped that a clueless few would step into my room and take the test. After all, it's a fair question.

One lone commenter stepped up almost immediately: electrodan. His verdict:

“Varanis Ridari by a long shot.”

Strong words from Dan. When I politely asked what specifically made him prefer Derek’s site over mine, he gave a measured reply:

“FP is fine I suppose, there have been some times I don't enjoy his attitude, and he's made a few comments I strongly disagree with. I prefer VR’s demeanor and I think his knowledge is as strong or stronger than most, especially about traditionally masculine marketed scents.”

Fair enough on the surface. But when I asked for even one concrete example of what he meant by “attitude” or “comments I strongly disagree with,” the tone changed. He ran the post-history search, realized who I was, and the response became:

“Well, I find the fact that you’re pretending you’re some rando… disagreeable. You posted a way too long screed about a conversation you had on Reddit about Olivier Creed on your blog…”

Talk about a non sequitur. He was referring to my November 2024 piece, “The Trump Anomaly: How Olivier Creed Accidentally Harnessed the Unfortunate Power of ‘Orange Man Bad.’” In that post I simply noted how both Creed and Trump get misquoted, misconstrued, and misrepresented by false narratives convenient to the "progressive" class. I also pointed out (with photos, here and on Reddit) that vintage Creeds in larger flacon sizes have their Royal Warrant printed on the boxes, which is the detail a different Reddit troll had wrongly claimed was missing entirely from Creed's story.

That was the trigger for Dan. Suddenly the “by a long shot” preference wasn’t about prose, depth of experience, or scent knowledge anymore. It was about the fact that the From Pyrgos author has expressed conservative views that support the current President of the United States of America. How dare I?

Here’s why I ran my test and why I’m writing this now.

Fragrance appreciation is supposed to be about the perfumes, their notes, their history, the craft in creating them (not the art, wink, wink), but it is not, or at least it should not be a loyalty test for political tribes. When someone says “by a long shot” about two blogs that both deliver thousands of words on masculine scents, then pivots to politics and "Hey, no fair!" when pressed, that tells readers the recommendation was never about the writing. It was filtered through an external lens, and in this case the lens of a pugnacious NPC who had difficulty reading a room with one other person in it.

I’ve been at this for over a decade. My readers know exactly where I stand on everything because I’ve never hidden it. They keep coming back anyway, not because they agree with every aside, but because my fragrance analysis holds up. Derek’s blog is newer and also excellent; I’ve said so publicly many times. But the moment a reader’s preference flips from “by a long shot” to “you’re pretending to be a rando” after he remembers my politics, the mask slips and the truth becomes clear: the left will say anything.

The pernicious part isn't the politics alone; people are allowed their views. What’s corrosive is when those views quietly become the unspoken filter for “which blog is better.” It turns a community of scent enthusiasts into another battleground. I’ve watched it happen in other pursuits; once it starts, the actual subject matter (perfume writing in my case) gets sidelined, sometimes out of sheer necessity. My 2023 post about Reddit trolls and the decline of Parfumo/Basenotes was written for exactly this reason. This test just supplied fresh evidence.

If you’re reading this and you like Derek’s writing, great — keep reading him. Derek is a fantastic voice in the fragrance community, and deserves everyone's readership, including mine. If you like my blog, stay here. If you like both, even better. Just know the difference between a recommendation based on the actual writing and one that arrives with an invisible asterisk attached. My readers have always been here for the scents, not the scoreboard, and I’m grateful for them every single day.

Jaguar for Men (Pardis SA/Sodimars)

The more I read about this fragrance, the more confusing its history gets. Thierry Wasser is credited as having authored the original formula at the ripe old age of 19. But then in 2002, Dominique Preyssas reformulated it into Jaguar "Classic" which is the version I reviewed last year. However, Perfume Intelligence does not credit Wasser with Jaguar 1988. This suggests that Wasser was not the perfumer after all, and that Basenoters and others (including me) have spread yet another rumor as fact into the ether. 

We may never know who the actual perfumer was. I find it difficult to believe that Wasser, at 19, could have formulated the vintage version in my collection, which dates to the early and middle 1990s. The Sodimars formula smells very old-school in a great way, and the word that springs to mind is "plush." Rich but softly-rendered mandarin orange top note, followed by gentle but radiant accords of resinous evergreen woods and patchouli, with a hint of artemisia (the one note that does not appear in the reformulation), a sort of vague white floral that for some unknown reason people pretend to know is gardenia (again, I'm one of them), cloves, the dusky silhouette of incense through all the agrestic artifice. The main thing that separates vintage Jaguar from current is the obvious presence of oakmoss, and and overall powdery-green aura that recalls one of its contemporaries, Gucci Nobile. 

The reformulation in the darker glass with silver cap has a much more vibrant citrus accord that lasts and pervades the structure into the drydown, and for some reason the subtle shifts in focus from spicy-green (1988) to cedar-green (2002) slides my association from Nobile to Krizia Uomo. Preyssas's formula is soapy; the original formula is more powdery, and not soapy, although not very powdery, either. Between the two, the vintage is softer, its patchouli vibes with oakmoss in a quieter and more sophisticated way, while the reformulation is sharper, brighter, and could also be compared with accuracy to any version of Paco Rabanne XS pour Homme, while the vintage could not. An interesting fragrance that has been through some interesting permutations over the decades!

Archives 69 (Etat Libre d'Orange)

Christine Nagel of Hermès fame (H24 line) authored Archives 69 for ELDO in 2011, and I find a stylistic connection between it and Nagel's later work. She seems to favor creating bold and bittersweet accords that are abstract, durable, memorable. Much like modernist New York School painters, she deals in the spontaneous fluidity of individual artistic gestures. In H24, narcissus (daffodils) becomes dark green bananas; sclarene sage becomes citrus; rosewood becomes magazine ink. She subverts expectations by using disparate perfumery materials as a sculptor in 1954 used wire—twisting, tying, weaving—to create new forms not previously witnessed by man.

Archives 69 is more focused than H24 in that it isolates and then cultivates our perception of incense. Nagel allows incense the flexibility to become a bouquet of flowers, and a grinder full of exotic peppercorns, and even a synthetic machine-moulded polystyrene yogurt container. After a brief, peppered-citrus topnote, Archives 69 moves to a Day-Glo dab of olibanum, kaleidoscoping its spicy, sweet, smoky, resinous, floral, woody, milky, and bitter facets into a smoothly undulating central accord. Archives 69 invites an experience of movement, color, and depth that it abandons at the thirty minute mark, to become disappointingly weak and thin. In those early moments, I find genius in how Nagel portrays incense. It possesses not any one particular quality, but all the qualities lightened to a very low f-stop, an over-exposed brilliance that gives life to a material then tends towards leaden solemnity, at least in most ecuminically-minded perfumes. Various citrus and floral nuances float and drift in and out of perception, and the fragrance feels complex yet effusive and friendly, a 1960s hippie chick in a bottle. 

Then the deflation happens. Everything runs out of puff, the notes flatten, the accords suddenly feel frozen and vaguely chemical, and Archives 69 stalls. I blame the art direction of Etat Libre d'Orange more than I blame Christine Nagel for this; the brand clearly wanted a light and evanescent incense fragrance that one could imagine as patchouli-adjacent in true post-Summer of Love, Woodstock fashion. All fine and well. But if you want that, you have to make some practical concessions, and one of those would be to accept that the only way someone can give you an avant-garde incense cologne that actually smells good for a few hours is to let the materials say what they need to, for as long as they need to. Running out of steam after ninety minutes says, "We cut the budget," and for that sort of thing you're better off naming your fragrance Archives 79. Why do I keep feeling like this brand could solve its many problems by picking better names for its fragrances? 

Brut Cologne (Sodalis)

The Best Drugstore Brut in Years

I know. Another Brut review. 

Hear me out. You can't find this stuff on store shelves in Connecticut. Grocery and drugstores everywhere only carry the Splash-On formula, not the cologne. I have no idea why. Seems to me if you're selling the weaker formula, you can just as easily sell the stronger one right next to it, but no. Not in Connecticut. Here we are dead-set on providing only the bare minimum. 

I saw a bottle on eBay that I thought was High Ridge Brands’ Brut cologne and bought it. When it arrived, there was no mention of HRB anywhere on the label. Instead, it says it’s distributed by Sodalis USA in Westport, Connecticut. A quick search shows that High Ridge Brands was acquired by Sodalis in October 2024, and Sodalis took over manufacturing and distribution for several brands, including Brut. Like the HRB version, this one is made in Mexico for the North American market.

It smells great. It’s a slightly stronger take on the HRB Splash-On. That version leaned heavily into lavender, with a fresh, powdery feel. This cologne brings out more of the amber, but unlike the Idelle Labs releases, it doesn’t push too far into sweet, vanilla-heavy territory. There’s not much separating this from what was sold in the 1980s and ’90s. It’s fresh, ambery, lightly sweet, and a little musky. I like it a lot. It’s better than HRB’s reformulated Splash-On and probably the best plastic-bottle Brut I’ve smelled in years.

What’s interesting is that recent manufacturers seem to be steering the formula back toward an earlier profile rather than continuing down the cheaper path Idelle Labs took. My guess is that Sodalis has people closer to my age involved in these decisions, and they’re paying attention to what enthusiasts are saying online. Maybe they’ve seen discussions on forums like Badger & Blade, Basenotes, Fragrantica, or even this blog, and realized that people want Brut to have some swagger again. Whatever the reason, they made the right call, because this Brut actually smells quite good.

All I can say is, thank god Helen of Troy no longer makes it. Their final formula was absolutely abysmal. 

Brut Spray Cologne (Helen of Troy, Canadian/Northern Territories Formula)

There isn't much I can say of interest about this particular version of Brut, because let's face it, at this point in my career, I've reviewed Brut to death. They no longer make the plastic bottle spray cologne in North America to my knowledge, as High Ridge Brands hasn't released one, at least not in my neck of the woods. Back about ten years ago in Texas, Helen of Troy/Idelle Labs produced the plastic spray bottle pictured above for the Canadian market. I figured it would smell identical to the American Idelle formula from that time period (roughly the mid to late 2010s)—which is to say, cheap.

To my surprise, this version smells better. Much better. I don't know if atomizing it is what makes the difference, or if it's just my imagination, or if it's actually better, but despite remimisenses on the gradual crappening of Brut under Idelle's regime, this spray bottle version diverges from even my best memories of their American product. It opens brisk and minty, very crisp and bright, and the stearyl acetate materials smell very green and lavender-forward. This is a stark contrast to the vague, snowy top accord of the American formula, which I didn't mind, but always wished was better. From there, the Canadian stuff gets woodier and richer with understated vanilla and powdery tones. In this regard it swings closer to the Brut I remember, yet it somehow resembles Unilever's current glass formula more. The glass formula, by the way, is great. Weird.

Eventually it all calms into that familiar powdery vanilla 'n talc base, with noticeable ambery musks (things that replaced musk ambrette, perhaps Ambretone and/or ambrettolide) tucked in there for depth and staying power. Spray this stuff on fabric, and you get a decent 4.5 hours. Get it both on and under the shirt, and you can probably get through a 7 or 8-hour work shift while still catching faint whiffs of woody vanilla. By no means is this Canadian stuff, now semi-vintage and discontinued, anything to go crazy over, or even bother seeking out. But I'm here to tell you, if you can get a bottle of this for less than a bottle of the glass spray in any iteration, do it man. Do it now. 

A Man's Truth About Smelling "Classy"

When you get into the "hobby" of fragrance collecting, conversational pattern recognition kicks on at some point, and when people ask you for the fiftieth time about which fragrance is recommended for "black tie" events, you realize what you thought was true before has changed dramatically now. Prior to this pursuit, my view of what it means to smell "classy" invariably incorporated an association with expensive fragrances, things that would set you back no less than $100. Chanel, Dior, YSL. You had to pony up if you wanted to impress, especially if you were trying to impress women.

Several hundred fragrances later, I've come to a brutal realization that I'd like to share with you. There are some things that are open for debate—are chypres better than other genres, is Guerlain the greatest fragrance house to ever exist, will Pascal Morabito reissue Or Black in its original formula—and there are some things that aren't subjective at all. People will tell me that fragrance is about personal taste. Once upon a time, I agreed with them. Not any longer. I've had an olfactory epiphany, and it concerns the question of "class." Men are given to using fragrance the way male peacocks use their tail feathers, and the endless spectrum of options seem to muddy the waters in making a sound choice. Thirty years ago, certain fragrances could be chosen, and one's peers would wordlessly nod their approval. Eau Sauvage. Yes, go boy. Azzaro Pour Homme? Nice, see if you can rock it. Cool Water? Get 'em while they're young. 

Other fragrances would get short shrift, not because anyone considered them bad, per say, but because their caché was very much as defined: hidden. Old Spice? Yeah, an old standby, but really? Canoe? I mean, if you're that confident, and we meant that in a bad way. English Leather? Sure, I guess, if you're competing with thirteen year-olds. And Brut? Brut, the stuff in the plastic dark-green bottle? Bottom shelf at Walgreens? At least you didn't pick Lilac Vegetal, so I suppose it could be worse. The attitude back a few decades ago was that Brut and its contemporaries (and near contemporaries) was a lazy guy's pick. Sure, he could wear it, and nobody would mind. But it's for going to the mall, or just chilling with buddies, or playing cards. You don't wear Brut to stand out. You certainly don't wear it to smell like a winner. 

At 62 years old, Brut continues to sell globally in no fewer than 7 different formulas. Despite all odds, and millions of young people turning their noses up, Brut has achieved something even Old Spice couldn't manage: truism status. Brut is obviously a winning perfume. It has continued across 6 decades to rake in millions of dollars and retain slow-but-steady market share growth. Despite the comings and goings of other much newer things, stuff in the Axe line, the designer realm, and even the haute couture niche space, Brut endures, and it endures solidly. You could chalk that up to luck in the 80s, in the 90s, and by the 2000s you could mark it down to a crumby economy and luck, just as you might pin an ever-hitting pang of nostalgia in the 2010s. But in the mid 2020s? 

It's not luck anymore. Nostalgia doesn't really have anything to do with it, because most of the buyers aren't old enough to remember Brut in its prime, and the economy has been stable for years. At this point, Brut exists because Brut has earned it. And it hasn't earned it by being financed despite floundering sales, or by simply being so ubiquitous that even in discontinuation, it moves endlessly inexpensive units. Brut has made it to the objective and inarguably solid status of being an excellent fragrance, a genuine masterpiece, something that actually smells way better than everyday folks realize. Brut smells great. Brut smells masculine. Brut smells clean, fresh, green, powdery, sweet. Brut smells classy. 

We buy expensive and post-Aventus masculines because we live in a post-Aventus world, and of course, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. The men who buy and wear Chanel Boy aren't wrong. But you might debate the merit of Chanel Boy, and that conversation could be won in divergent ways. Not true Brut. There's only one right answer with Brut, and that answer is, "It smells good." Now, you can argue, "Yeah, but Aventus smells better." But I'd ask the ladies to weigh in, on a blind sniff test. I've received compliments from women while wearing Brut. Aventus doesn't even elicit a look from them. What's good for the gander isn't necessary good for the goose.

You're won't win awards for exciting, or get points for sexual bravado with Brut. You won't knock people on their asses and have your neighbor's husband asking you what it is you're wearing so he can find a bottle to impress his wife. Brut doesn't blow minds. But dress in a tux, cufflinks, smart car, the whole bundle, and then splash a little Parfums Prestige Brut aftershave on your face, and step out. That woody vanilla accord will embrace you in the cool night air, and its perfect balance, its beautiful simplicity, its absolutely anonymous masculinity, will elevate your aura and smell both classic and modern. A few spritzes of the EDT on your dress shirt seals the deal. 

Brut will smell better than any Amouage. Sorry, hate to bust your bubble after you spent $300 on that bottle of Omani art. Brut will make the single girl at your table wet. The artsy-fartsy oriental will likely repel her. And Brut will match any Creed. Sure, you can do pretty well with Original Santal. You'll do just as well with Brut. Furthermore, Brut works in the tradition of minimalist masterpieces like Rive Gauche pour Homme (now hundreds per bottle), Acqua di Parma Colonia, and Pen's Sartorial, and yet it's absurdly easier to use because it's ten times cheaper and infinitely more powerful for one simple reason: women will have a "This Man" moment of recognizing what they can't name or identify, and yet on a subliminal level they'll equate it with strength, confidence, and safety. 

Brut is, put simply, a basic traditional fougère with two unique flourishes—stearyl acetate on top (fresh-green) and soft white flowers in the mid (jasmine and ylang accord) that never gets too sugary, or too creamy, or too loud. The rest of Brut is structurally unremarkable, a simple anisic lavender with a splash of lemon, sweet coumarin, and woody vanilla, but the blend and balance are perfect. Your luck may depend on which formula you're using, but I recommend Unilever's Parfums Prestige neckchain version for straight-up best quality and execution of all the aforementioned accords. The squat bottle Unilever EDT, the Unilever aftershave, and the plastic bottle splash-on from High Ridge Brands are also all recommended. 

Brut is a great fragrance, and it's classy, black-tie worthy. If you're tired of wearing things that only satisfy in one or a few stages, but fall short in others, than Brut. If you wish your fragrance lasted without needing to be loud, than Brut. If you want to wear something that is endlessly versatile, than Brut. Yeah, I know. It's awfully cheap. How can a guy feel good about splashing a $9 cologne from a plastic bottle when he's going to a high stakes formal business event? Get over the package, and the price. Go with the smell. That smell has been carrying countless men to promotions since the Mad Men era. 

Remember, cheap has nothing to do with it. Not when the blend is perfect. And Brut's blend, as time has shown, is eminently flawless. 

Atlas [00:00 GMT] (Tumi)

Tumi is a Joe Connecticut luggage brand that sells luxury-priced bags to Joe Connecticut types. (If you don't know who Joe Connecticut is, come to Connecticut for a little stay and look carefully at the middle-aged white men in Polo shirts and chinos who drive Audi Q7s and Toyota Highlanders and have wives who look like birds.) Tumi apparently struggled during the pandemic—understandable given the circumstances—and turned to fragrance to keep the brand afloat. Atlas is just one of several EDPs they rolled out, and I figured it was time to give the brand a chance, and bought a bottle. 

What can I say about Atlas? It smells fine. Bright, minty ginger, a little metallic at the start and at the very end, with licks of grapefruit, amberwood (intense woody freshness), and cardamom for cool piquancy, followed by mintier geranium leaf and yet more ginger, all atop a mossy coumarinic base of semisweet amber and synthetic vetiver. The fake vetiver is forgivable because they put a good amount of IFRA-compliant oakmoss in here, which fleshes it out. I find it to be fairly lush and complex enough to warrant owning, but this style has been done a hundred times before, and often for less money. One example is Quorum Silver, which is about $20 for 100 milliliters and smells remarkably similar, and arguably better. Having said that, I think Atlas deserves praise for not succumbing to the ongoing designer trend of putting staid aromatics atop a basket of carnival burnt-sugar sweets. At least this carries a properly masculine character, expressed through a traditional yet contemporary bitter-green style.

I also find the packaging unique, another plus. Solid, heavy glass, with a very heavy metal cap that screws shut. I spent the first ten seconds of ownership tugging in vain at the cap; it took me a few to realize the trick. They should have an instruction manual for people with my diminished IQ. All told, Atlas is a decent woody-fresh masculine that smells like a stab at a 90s throwback aromatic fougère, or "nu-gère" as they were sometimes called, those bright and usually synthetic shaver scents that often intentionally excluded true lavender from the blend. I foresee my bottle gathering dust, and me sometimes pausing to look at it before deciding time and again to wear something else.