Lucky You for Men (Liz Claiborne)

For us fumeheads, perfume shopping (make that HUNTING) is all about information. We crave information on perfume. Without knowing what we're looking for, it's not only hard to search for it, but also difficult to interpret what we're smelling when we find and sample it. It's more than just a bottle with nice-smelling alcohol in it. It's a creation. It has a nose behind its existence. There's possibly a story attached to the brief. And what is this fragrance part of? Is it something that follows something like it? A first for the perfumer and house? A new construction of some sort, or just following an established trend? So much to know . . .

Then there are folks who simply want to sniff something once, immediately decide if they like it, give very little thought to the holistic experience of actually wearing it, and make a quick buy. For these people, I present Lucky You for Men by Liz Claiborne.

Let me get this out of the way - I'd be lying if I said Lucky You smells bad, in the generic sense, because it doesn't. It smells good, also in a generic sense. It's the sort of stuff you might consider if you're just looking for an inoffensive, "modern-smelling" type of bottled nothing.

Am I damning it with faint praise?

Yes. The truth is, to anyone who is serious about perfume and craves the backstory and cultural context to everything he smells, Lucky You is dull, faceless, and utterly soulless. It begs no comparisons with anything because there's an ocean of anything it can be compared to.

Lucky You is little more than the standard (and redundant) blueprint for classic fresh fougères like Cool Water, Green Irish Tweed, and Aspen. I'd say it resembles Aspen the most, although without any of Aspen's meat to flesh it out. This fragrance is thin, wane, exceedingly pale from start to finish. There's a brief hit of alcohol and nonadienal on top, which replicates wet grass and violet leaf accords in the most expressionless way possible. A remote melon note melds with a half-hearted white musk base. Nice enough if you're fifteen; anyone older who wants to smell of postmodern greenery should skip this scent and either wear - well, you know what, you know what, or Aspen. Lucky You inhabits a challenged scent category, and there's no point in using a half-assed fresh fougère. At least with the other three you get what you pay for, and not less. Lucky You isn't even worth the $13 on its sticker, unless you're fifteen, and wearing it gets you somewhere with the gorgeous strawberry blonde in Mrs. Crumwitz's biology class. If that's the case, then I have but two small words to say: lucky you.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you for your comment. It will be visible after approval by the moderator.