Replica When the Rain Stops (Maison Margiela)

My favorite review of When the Rain Stops comes from Fragrantica member "Fragrauntie," who throws a bit of shade at Dublin:

"When the Rain Stops is supposedly inspired by Dublin in 1967. I wasn't alive yet in 1967, but I do remember, somewhat acutely and unwillingly, what Dublin smelled like in the early 80s. It wasn't like this. There's a distinct lack of diesel fumes, smog, deep fried breakfast foods and old men in wet wool."

That made me chuckle because it's so true. Dublin did smell like that back in the day. I have memories of the city in 1991, about seven years before the Celtic Tiger transformed the country and eroded much of Ireland’s old-world charm. Back then, it felt like a scene out of an indie film, full of smoky pubs, police on horseback, and the occasional attractive woman striding along cobblestone streets, braless under her knit sweater. Perhaps not the most ideal setting for a young boy, but it had its moments. And yes, the earthy stink of farmers in wool suits was everywhere.

Replica When the Rain Stops doesn’t capture any semblance of Dublin, but it does smell like a blend of one part Neutrogena's Rainbath and three parts early-90s aquatic musk, a slightly gummy freshness, but without the usual overdoses of dihydromyrcenol and Calone 1951. It’s clean and sexy in its way, though not particularly original. If I’m being blunt, it could easily pass for a fabric softener. The powdery fougère undertone of the Rainbath angle adds an unusual snowy softness, further emphasized by the surprising potency of this fragrance. Just one spray lasts a solid nine hours.

The masculine opening of pink pepper and cardamom lends WtRS a spicy, aftershave-like feel, faintly reminiscent of Hai Karate or Pinaud Clubman. But soon, pale florals—mostly lily of the valley and Hedione HC—take over, shifting the fragrance toward a watery herbal vibe, supported by the faintest hint of powder. There’s a touch of Kenzo Pour Homme in how this develops, but the resemblance doesn’t linger. In the end, I like this fragrance and would use it occasionally if I owned a bottle. But for the price they're asking? No way.

Is Brut the Ship of Theseus?

The Paradox of the Ship of Theseus is an age-old dilemma: can an object that has had every one of its parts systematically replaced over the years still be considered the same as it was in its original form? Can an object remain essentially unchanged despite efforts at preservation to remedy its decaying components, or is it preferable to simply reconstitute the object from the decaying pieces themselves?

This question lies at the heart of the Ship of Theseus, which boasted thirty oars and was celebrated by the Greeks as worthy of preservation. After many years, every plank, every oar, every board, warp, and mast had been replaced with ostensibly identical new parts. The vessel was granted a hero's memorial, yet philosophers debated whether this act preserved the ship or merely replaced it. Was the pristine vessel purportedly used by Theseus still truly his ship after 150 years of plucking and replacing, or had it transformed into something entirely different?

This riddle invites contemplation of whether an object is defined by its material composition or if its identity transcends the materials that constitute it. Is the preserved assembly of planks and boards the true ship of Theseus, or is it the ship constructed by a bored dockworker using all the original parts, even if it appears altogether different?

I often find myself pondering this question in relation to Brut. Of all the fragrances in my collection, Brut inhabits a strange, eerie realm reminiscent of this timeless Greek paradox. Launched in 1964 as a classic fougère with a nitromusk base, Brut has undergone countless efforts at "preservation" due to changing ownership, reformulations, and evolving standards in perfumery. In 2024, sixty years after its debut, and now manufactured by High Ridge Brands, one might encounter Brut on grocery store shelves and wonder: is this really Brut?

The dilemma arises from Brut’s myriad iterations, applications, concentrations, and bottlings, surviving only by the skin of its teeth into the twenty-first century as an anachronistic homage to its era. When a young man discovers a green plastic bottle today, he might question whether this fragrance resembles the original. If he is a pessimist, he may assume it does not. Should he buy and wear it, can he genuinely feel as though he is donning Brut? What else could it be if not the product advertised on the label?

This conundrum extends to the fragrance community at large, where reformulations are ubiquitous across nearly every fragrance older than a couple of years. Even “newer” fragrances, still commercially popular, are likely to undergo minor tweaks and adjustments driven by the availability of materials and fluctuating prices. Consider Creed's Silver Mountain Water, a fragrance celebrating its thirtieth anniversary next year. Despite the passage of decades and two changes of ownership since 2020, the white bottle with a silver cap still contains something called Silver Mountain Water. However, the dense, mineralic ambergris of the original has vanished, replaced by an intensely inky version that might better serve as a flanker to its 1995 predecessor than a true representation of itself.

Fragrances evolve, yet their names and overall packaging typically remain unchanged. This invites a critical examination of older fragrances: Are you what you claim to be? After the natural oakmoss has been eliminated, after the notes that flourished in the sixties and seventies have been diminished—first slightly, then more conspicuously—are you still Brut? After the synthetics have been replaced with kinder, gentler chemicals, after the cancer-causing nitromusk molecules have been excised and substituted with other potentially harmful musk compounds, are you still Brut? The bottle bears the name "Brut," yet the scent I experience cannot possibly resemble what a man inhaled upon unscrewing the cap in 1964!

The Ship of Theseus Paradox profoundly impacts perfumery and presents a pressing question for those who cherish vintage scents and seek their analogs in the contemporary market. If we accept that constitution does not equal identity, it becomes easier to view a fragrance that claims to be a certain scent as authentically that scent, despite undergoing extensive refurbishment. 

By adopting the "Continued Identity Theory," we might consider Brut to be itself, as long as the changes it endures unfold over an extended period and do not occur all at once. Imagine if Brut had been obliterated by Fabergé shortly after its release, entirely wiped from the market with every bottle bought back and destroyed. Then, in 2024, another entity produces a powdery scent and labels it "Brut." In this case, we would recognize that this new Brut is not the old Brut but something entirely different. Conversely, the Brut that has undergone minor adjustments over six decades—enough that no original part remains—still retains its identity as Brut. It remains close enough to the original to be considered the original, still the same perfume.

My solution to the Ship of Theseus Paradox is straightforward: Brut is Brut if I accept that it is. My acceptance of the current iteration allows High Ridge Brands to successfully market it to me. Helen of Troy had so thoroughly altered Brut that the formula available between 2015 and 2021 was utterly unrecognizable to me, and thus I did not consider it a fragrance at all. I did not buy it, I did not wear it, I did not respect it. Brut was effectively discontinued, despite never leaving store shelves.

High Ridge Brands successfully restored the fragrance I recognized, delivering an impressive rendition of its original formula. Consequently, I regarded Brut as "back," even though it had technically never gone anywhere. Then HRB reformulated its reformulation, slightly diminishing the fragrance's quality, yet it still surpassed the subpar version that Helen of Troy had marketed. For now, Brut endures.