Lalique pour Homme "Lion" EDP (Lalique)

When I ponder a brand like Lalique, I consider the bottles before their contents. How could I not? As a student of art history, I am well aware of René Lalique’s historically significant jewelry and glasswork. He was arguably the most versatile glass artist of the first half of the 20th century (he died in 1945), and his contributions included inkwells, hood ornaments, and the design and manufacture of luxury perfume bottles for fragrance industry giants like François Coty (Chypre), Mary Dunhill (Flowers of Devonshire), and Jacques Guerlain (Bouquet de Faunes), among many others.

It is with pleasure that I hold Lalique pour Homme, the original “Lion” EDP version from 1997, in hand. It is a marvel of vertical, squared-off Art Deco geometry with an Art Nouveau flourish in the form of a lion’s head rendered in reverse relief. Every detail of this bottle design is well conceived, from the gentle curves of its sides to its metal shoulders and cog-shaped cap, which is also bizarrely reminiscent of classical Greek dentil molding. It is possibly the most beautiful bottle in my sizable collection, and I tip my hat to the Lalique Group for honoring their legacy with this degree of artful packaging. Well done.

The perfume within is by Maurice Roucel, who by 1997 had tinkered conservatively at the periphery of the male fragrance market with the understated Eros Homme (1990) for Tristano Onofri and the equally low-key R (1995) for Révillon. It is no surprise to me, then, that Lalique pour Homme is a barbershop dream of a woody-oriental fougère, with a subtle, streamlined design of its own: soft, bittersweet grapefruit, lavender, rosemary, sandalwood, sugarless vanilla in the vein of Caron pour Un Homme, a microdrop of patchouli, and a powdery mossy musk. There is no oakmoss or treemoss listed on the box, but I do detect something powdery and oakmoss-adjacent in the base accord, which I will return to in a moment.

It reads as perfectly simple, and its material quality is high enough for me to parse each note clearly. It reminds me of Clubman Classic Vanilla aftershave, and by extension, Caron Le Troisième Homme, minus the jasmine. Roucel’s scent is frequently likened to Creed Bois du Portugal (1987), and I think its dusty lavender and sour sandalwood are responsible for that particular comparison. I can agree, but the two aforementioned fragrances outweigh the Creed comparison for me. Maurice Roucel is incredibly talented, and he managed to capture a 1970s or ’80s gentleman’s cologne vibe on a budget without sacrificing quality. His creation smells crisp and fresh, yet sturdily masculine, with dry herbs and woods. It is an olfactory statement: “I am a true gentleman.”

I love this fragrance. I have read reviews where authors contextualize it as “a dying breed” and “the last of its style,” with yet more comparisons to classics like Patou pour Homme, Cardin pour Monsieur, and Arden Sandalwood, but I am not so sure. Yes, the staid earthiness of the traditionally French lavender-sandalwood-oakmoss fougère speaks to that fading lineage, but Roucel cleverly added a very dry and ephemerally powdery orris note, like a pale gemstone in the center of an otherwise austere landscape of clean lines and muted tones. It hints at the makeup-powder iris fragrances that would follow.

The orris-laden Deauville by Michel Germain, released two years later, smells like a logical next step after Lalique pour Homme, as does the ambery and conservative Allure Homme, also released in 1999. Eventually, this desiccated and diffusive woody-floral style reached its apotheosis nearly ten years later in Dior Homme (2005). So it is not contradictory to view Lalique pour Homme as an old-school fragrance that also foreshadowed things to come.

Ultimately, it is simply a pleasurable barbershop fougère for me, something I will pair with Clubman aftershave on facial hair management days, when Brut feels a little too gauche or Azzaro feels too aggressive and macho. Lalique pour Homme is the guy who makes the girls grin by wearing a sport jacket to lunch, and who still has a landline phone in his apartment because his mom is hopelessly cellphone illiterate.

He is, in a word, charming.

Revisiting Lalique's Original Encre Noire

Summer Fields of Vetiver

Encre Noire is often referred to as a "modern" vetiver, and few can get through a sentence about it without mentioning Iso E Super, so let's just get that out of the way first: there's quite a bit of Iso E Super in Encre Noire. There, I said it. Let's move on.

Released in 2006 in a semi-opaque black cube bottle inspired by René Lalique's own 1913 "Biches" inkwell design, the perfume was created by Nathalie Lorson, an experienced professional in her second decade of high-profile designer output. It was a sensation almost immediately; the public embraced the glassmaker's "black ink" as if it were something avant-garde, innovative, or oddball, and its sales were brisk, with every fragrance community personality and blogger having their say. 

Oddly, few dwelled in any detail on Lorson herself, whose history includes her 1994 debut collaboration with Sophia Grojsman on Bvlgari pour Femme. After that, her portfolio gets a little hazy (rumors abound that she worked on something called Wish for Chopard, released in 1997), with her next confirmed fragrances, Dolce & Gabbana pour Femme, Boucheron Jaipur Saphir, and Chopard Casran, all appearing in 1999. Lorson has publicly mentioned that she loves working with vetiver, and yet had no known vetiver perfume to her name until Encre Noire, which I find interesting. While others may consider her contribution to the pantheon of vetiver perfumes to be austere and even a bit severe, I think it's a truly great vetiver fragrance that sits comfortably among its 20th-century predecessors in the genre, most notably the original Guerlain Vetiver from 1959. 

Spray Guerlain Vetiver on one wrist, and Encre Noire on the other, and it hits me: Encre Noire is merely an updated version of Jean-Paul Guerlain's first solo fragrance creation, and in my opinion, an improvement. Guerlain opened his composition with a dry bergamot and coriander accord that was puckeringly bitter-green and pungent; Lorson capitalized on vetiver's natural grapefruit facet, a result of nootkatone, a sesquiterpene ketone that occurs in both the citrus fruit and vetiver root, and used it to amplify vetiver's natural freshness in Encre Noire. Guerlain Vetiver only dwells on citrus for five minutes, after which it segues via tobacco into the main attraction, i.e., unadulterated vetiver, reputedly of the Bourbon variety. Encre Noire bridges its grapefruit fizz to a heart of both Haitian and Bourbon vetivers with what smells like a drop of natural cypress oil, although the effect is fleeting, at least to my nose. I'm sensitive to vetiver, and so even a suggestion of it overtakes my olfactory receptors and shoves me directly into its dense green thicket. 

Encre Noire's vetiver heart, just like Guerlain's, smells uncompromisingly of vetiver, vetiver, and more vetiver. I find that vetiver develops a sour quality with onion-like off notes, and I experience it here. I think the worst example of this is found in Route du Vétiver by Maître Parfumeur et Gantier. There, the onion quality is so pungent, and the vetiver extracts are so natural and concentrated, that it resembles the stink of sweaty, stuck-on-a-bus-for-three-days-in-Rome body odor vetiver, which is to say, not my absolute favorite kind. Fortunately, and unlike both Guerlain and MPG, Lorson's vetiver is fresher, brighter, airier. The root is there, but it's not covered in dirt and left in a wet clay pot. Instead, it's garnished with accents of citrus and evergreen, and the whole crisp affair is only passingly sweaty, which I can abide. The subtle but effective fixatives of base Cashmeran and Iso E Super disencumber the vetiver oils of their natural shortcomings, leaving a pristine, simple, and balanced fragrance that wafts pleasantly for hours at a very low hum that is unlikely to offend, even if overapplied. Encre Noire is, in a word, gorgeous. 

Vetiver will never be a "love" for me, as it isn't my favorite note by any brand or in any incarnation, but I accept Lorson's 2006 update to the traditional, straightforward vetiver genre, something that had, rather amusingly, gone extinct by that point in time. Guerlain Vetiver had always been the main reference for the material, and while I think it remains a very good fragrance, it smells of its time. Encre Noire, on the other hand, nods to that classic format while nudging the inherently dated olfactory profile of vetiver a few feet closer to the future. I like that Lorson did not try to reinvent the wheel here; she took advantage of vetiver's numerous facets and used a few key synthetics and naturals to highlight them and give them their time as her perfume develops. She extended the grapefruit/nootkatone facet on top, enhanced vetiver's woodiness with Cashmeran and Iso E Super in the base, and tickled the transitions with nuances reminiscent of green cypress needles, and to quote The Brownsville Herald, "That's all she wrote." 

Grape Raspberry Eau de Parfum Spray (Al-Rehab)

Smelling Al-Rehab's Grape Raspberry fragrance is like experiencing my own version of Stephen King's The Langoliers. I've accidentally stepped through a time rip into a past that sits empty and devoid of life, with every molecule of this past world lingering in a forgotten state. It's November 12th, 1988. The week of my first flu. I spent the whole day in bed, and at 4:30 pm, mom entered my room with a big bottle of Dimetapp Elixir, which she duly unscrewed and administered to me via tablespoon. Just as memory recalls, a bottle of Dimetapp Elixir is there on my nightstand, and the spoon rests beside it. Except mom and the child version of me are nowhere to be found. Feeling nostalgic, I unscrew the Elixir and pour it into the spoon, marveling at how closely it resembles alien blood. As I bring it up to my lips, I catch a whiff of its radioactivity: fakey-fake "Great Grape Taste."  

Grape Raspberry EDP spray is that exact flavor in fragrance form. Every sniff gives Dimetapp. There's no sense in trying to parse "notes" with it. There are none. It's just artificial grape with an acrid sugary aftertaste, diabolically potent and difficult to stomach. And yet I'm strangely drawn to it. It smells like my childhood, specifically the ailment-ridden part of it (I wasn't often sick, but when I was, I was sick sick). Perfumers usually overlook that sort of thing in favor of happier recollections. The impulse is to attempt romantic or adventurous angles, with all sorts of gourmand, fresh, dusky accords meant to evoke happy summers at the beach, or huddling under a baseball dugout during a rainstorm with someone who wears a totally normal cologne. But what about being a sick kid and ingesting a bizarre purple pancake syrup for a low dose of phenylpropanolamine (PPA)? Which, by the way, is now restricted due to young women developing hemorrhagic strokes from a much higher dose of PPA in diet pills. Good times!

I'm not sure if the rest of the world also used Dimetapp Elixir, or if it's uniquely American, but my guess would be there are massive swaths of Europe that would be horrified by both the texture and flavor of it. Likewise, the scent of Al-Rehab's Grape Raspberry is the stuff of nightmares, a dense, syrupy-sweet onslaught of synthesized methyl anthranilate, petroleum-based chemical byproducts of synthesized methyl anthranilate, and refined white cane sugar in a concentration high enough to kill a man. Jacques Bogart's Silver Scent eschews this level of crude bombast by allowing the orange blossoms from which its methyl anthranilate is derived to peek through and lighten its load; don't expect that level of care here. Al-Rehab has always been a garbagey brand that isn't worth the $5, but with this fragrance they've out-niched the topmost echelon of esoteric niche and given me, perhaps the sole inhabitant of this niche, exactly what I needed. 

Bogart (Jacques Bogart)

The house of Jacques Bogart was established by Jacques Konckier in 1975, many years before its acquisition of Balenciaga in 1986, and Ted Lapidus in 1998. Konckier's stated vision for the brand was "I create only for men." Bogart's 1975 eponymous debut had been, until recently, their flagship scent; it is apparently discontinued. Jacques Bogart has always been a European concern, with its main distribution channels snaking through the central and eastern regions of the old continent and across the Middle East, only appearing in the USA via the secondary grey and eBay market. Bogart, dubbed "Signature" after the pen-and-ink graphic on its box, is often likened to another major European export of the time, Paco Rabanne pour Homme (1973), but I think it's a little more accurate to view it as the European progenitor to a popular American mainstay of that groovy era, Halston 1-12, which was released the following year. 

Halston 1-12's resemblance to Bogart is obvious from first spray, as they share a similarly bombastic opening accord of desiccated citrus, green galbanum, lavender, pine needles, and mastic resin, but Bogart's notes are filtered through more than just the soapy linalool of Roy Halston's scent. Max Gavarry and Vincent Marcello's collaboration on 1-12 was a unification of Marcello's mastery of the agrestic chypre (Lauder's Private Collection) with Gavarry's unique take on lavender and vetiver (Puig's Estivalia), which resulted in an erstwhile barn burner of a chypre-fougère hybrid. Their other Halston chypre, Z-14, was an early "clubber" (Studio 54) frag, while 1-12 competed with "mature" colognes like Royal Pub, Kanøn Man, and Grey Flannel to win over the Republican Wall Street types who quietly bankrolled these brands and demanded something in return. 

Perfumer Maurice Maurin nodded to this conservative segment of American fragrance culture with an aromatic fougère body on a rawhide leather chassis. The distinguishing feature of Bogart is a finessed accord of phenylacetic acid (dank sweetness), Atlas cedar oil (fetid woods), and trace isobutyl quinoline for an unassertive animalic base under otherwise clean greens. Bogart is like a cool breeze through a wilderness in late summer, after the funk of high heat has dissipated, with traces of deer and beaver gently lingering on its trail. Some reviewers mention the inclusion of dimetol, but Maurin may have also tinkered with trace amounts of dihydromyrcenol, which is perhaps why many link Bogart to Paco Rabanne pour Homme. Combined with dimetol, DHM creates the same nuanced herbal freshness found in Acteur, Maurin's 1989 brief submission for Azzaro. Bogart is unusual for the brand in that it is the only Bogart frag that lacks bombast; it smells demurely green, leathery, and dry, and recedes instead of reaching out. Patchouli and oakmoss complete its far drydown, with cedar-centered woods growing only slightly funkier, and I appreciate the somber woody-green aura of this stuff.

That said, I actually prefer many of Bogart's contemporaries over it, and find its staid personality a little too reserved for my liking. If you were to ask me which is better, Bogart "Signature" or One Man Show (1981), I'd have to point to the latter. It's cruder, yes, but it's also crisper, grassier, muskier, and all around more distinctive and, frankly, more fun. Still, Bogart "Signature" is a worthy olfactory callback to an era when men in suits and ties commuted by train to New York City for twelve-hour workdays, indulged in expensive martini lunches with their attractive female secretaries, then boarded the seven o'clock express home to their wives and young children in Groton.

Silver Scent (Jacques Bogart)

Grapes, Gum, Orange Blossom, Bacchus

I've done my best to ascertain why they named it "Silver" Scent, but I've come up empty. I'd like to say that it was their "silver" anniversary, but 2006 is not 25 years after 1975, so that doesn't wash. There's nothing silvery about the smell of Silver Scent, so its name and the story behind it remains an impenetrable mystery.

Methyl anthranilate is a naturally occurring chemical in Concord grapes, and I love how grapes smell. Additionally, MA is found in oranges and neroli, two things that also smell great, so finding it in such singular abundance in a fragrance is interesting. When I was a small child, I was briefly obsessed with a pearlescent black plastic necklace that my grandmother gave me to play with. I'll never forget one particular summer afternoon of fidgeting with the beads and marveling at how their colors shifted depending on their angle relative to the sunlight. Silver Scent is the olfactory incarnation of that necklace. It's a blast of black grape soda in the first fifteen minutes, followed by the neon of an expensive grape-flavored bubblegum from the 1990s. But then, an hour in, it shifts to subtle nuances of Joop! Homme, a distinct shimmer of off-white orange blossoms that add a retro floral glow. Bend down to tie my shoe, and it's purple candy again. 

I've seen some reviews that denigrate Silver Scent as simplistic, linear, one-note. It does play one simple tune, but it plays it with an affecting innocence that lingers long enough (and loudly enough) to elicit suspicions of disingenuousness, like the chronically-caffeinated coworker who always blurts "Awwwww!" when someone gets engaged. At its core, this is a decadent fragrance, steeped in the richness of amaranthine fruits and the cheap dessert wines rendered by them. Only a person who has achieved enough in life to enjoy it could wear this and understand what it's saying, a trait typical of the most seasoned among us. Perhaps that's what they meant by "silver" after all.

78 Vintage Green (Banana Republic)

Whenever I stop at Burlington, I try to find a 75 mL bottle of 78 Vintage Green (I once saw a 5 oz bottle and passed on it, years ago), and I've had no luck. I suspect the original Icon line of Banana Republic fragrances is quietly being discontinued, as grey market stock on several of them has dried up considerably since their first appearance in 2017. 

There are a handful of 30 mL bottles floating around store shelves, however, and the other day I paid the $13 for one. (I could've purchased two, but I'm stupid.) My take on the fragrance: This stuff is nice, but weirdly redundant in my collection. Everything I'd read about it suggested it was a bright, vegetal-green hesperidic scent with a hint of fig leaf and a surprising amount of galbanum. Instead, it's a soapy and overwhelmingly synthetic rehash of Versace Versence in the first 3 hours, with a woody fig note for 2 of them that recalls Salvatore Ferragamo, before settling at the 6-hour mark on Linen Vetiver's mossy-musky base. The far drydown is identical to Linen Vetiver's. 

Worth having? Not for me. There's an astringent green tea note tucked in the opening accord of 78 Vintage Green that strongly resembles the tea in ck One Essence, but Gino Percontino's composition never quite convinces me that it's better than any of the aforementioned releases. While I'm not a huge Versence fan, Versace's scent smells more balanced. Essence is more natural. Ferragamo is more focused. And Linen Vetiver is softer and more dimensional with its warmer greens undergirding a summery floral bouquet. I simply don't need this particular Icon fragrance. A 1 oz bottle is too much. 

Pino Silvestre Black Forest (Parfums Mavive)

No release date. No promo copy. No promo, period. A perfume that was nonexistent one day, and everywhere online the next. No reviews. No conversations. No mention of it anywhere. Until now: I own a bottle of Pino Silvestre Black Forest so you don't have to, and I'm here to tell you about it.

Except there isn't a ton for me to say. Do you remember Green Generation Him ♂ with the opaque black bottle that came in a silver cylinder? Of course not. Nobody does. Parfums Mavive releases these things to five "farmacias" out in the backwoods of Italy and then discontinues them a few months later because, surprise surprise, they don't sell. GGH was released in 1998 and is a watery-herbal thing with fennel and orange blossom over a pallid derivation of ck Eternity for Men. It's an extremely rare fragrance. How rare, you ask? So rare that the bottle and packaging shown on its Parfumo page is my bottle and packaging. Literally my photo, cropped out. Nobody can find the stuff, and they're not missing much, although I do like it, and it does smell pretty good. 

Black Forest reminds me of it. Same sweet orange blossom over lavender 1990s fresh fougère underpinnings, except a denser and sweeter accord to reflect the cavity-inducing times we live in. A hint of cinnamon, a very light sprinkling of amaretto, but then minutes later, minty herbs, woods, "dark" greens that refuse to fully elucidate their intentions, or their identities. Lush coumarin, a mossy texture that smells entirely synthetic, and some musk, perhaps after the brand's own Black Musk? That one also comes in opaque black glass. Black Forest is interesting but challenging and reminds me of a Zoologist scent I can't quite place. I rarely wear Green Generation Him ♂ but I really don't foresee myself wearing this much either. It's not terrible. It's wearable, and I guess I could see maybe wearing it for kicks now and then, but Jesus. Talk about oddball. 

I imagine this will be discontinued in a few months, and prices will skyrocket on eBay in the next five years, after whatever limited production run gets exhausted from grey market sellers. Mavive's inspired-by nineties scent is better, easier, much more accessible. But what do I know? Somewhere in Naples is a guy in a Ferrari rocking Black Forest while his buxom squeeze rocks him. Let's hope he reviews it, so I'm not the first and last word. 

Jungle Vibe (Rayhaan): Nineties Vibe

Using Forbidden Words

If you were to ask the folks at Estée Lauder, I think they'd say "jungle" is not politically correct enough to include in a fragrance name. Synthetic Nature was once called Synthetic Jungle, but a decade after Lauder's acquisition of Frédéric Malle, one might suppose that a combo of market testing, possible trademark infringement (Kenzo Jungle), and distaste for the perceived "cultural appropriation" of jungle-adjacent communities led to the decision to delete "jungle" and pretend it never happened.

Rayhaan does not possess the same scruples. Jungle Vibe, released in 2025, celebrates the jungle in its vibe. Green bottle. Leaf patterned glass. Bodoni Poster font in all-caps. The fragrance smells at least a little wild and green, and everything it puts out alludes to that. But having taken a closer look, I've concluded that the fragrance is a victim of an even wilder and painfully shortsighted influencer campaign. Apparently every YouTube and TikTok broccoli head out there is saying Jungle Vibe is a clone of Dries Van Noten's 2022 Santal Greenery, as if Santal Greenery is the only other green-woody fig frag. 

I hasten to proffer a contrarian view: Jungle Vibe is instead a first cousin of Salvatore Ferragamo pour Homme (1999). My evidence? By the way, do not confuse evidence with proof; many complain of a dill pickle smell in the Rayhaan, but if you refer to the reviews of Ferragamo pour Homme on Fragrantica, you find immediate references to dill pickles there as well. Jungle Vibe smells like a carbon copy of the older perfume, but with blatant embellishments tacked on to give it its own identity. For example, Ferragamo predates Rayhaan's crisp fig and sandalwood structure, but Rayhaan modified this scent profile into something grassier and vaguely herby, and with salty Ambroxan in the base. 

Jungle Vibe is enjoyable, not because it smells like another green fig scent (it does), but because I relish it as a late 1990s throwback. That Bodoni font with the script over it, that color fade on the box and bottle, that abstract fig in the fragrance, all are reminiscent of the artistic and cultural styles of 30 years ago. Refer to Chopard Heaven as the starting point for the packaging aesthetic, and work out from there. The "pickle" problem is really a matter of personal perception, i.e., how an individual nose smells Javanol. Some perceive smooth creamy woods with accents of green twigs and rose, while others smell brine. I smell a good perfume, green, a little herbal, sweet with fig, and woody, with pickled Javanol that doesn't bother me in the slightest. 

My partner remarked more than once that Jungle Vibe smells intensely green and bitter-grassy, which is interesting because my nose picks up way more of the sugary fig and grapefruit. But there's no denying Jungle Vibe smells good, and is well made. Why all the video-reviewing midwits are hellbent on claiming it's like one particular niche scent is beyond me. It's not like Dries Van Noten's scent profile is "original." The late 1990s were littered with fig scents, including numerous masculines, so when you smell this type of fragrance, you can really take your pick of what it most resembles.

Ithaque (Memo Paris)

Ithaque is a Greek mythological isle said to be the home of Odysseus. Well, Ithaca is the reference name for it, and Ithaque is the French translation. Memo is interested in French flourishes, and contrasts the name with stylized ancient Grecian imagery on the bottle of their 2023 fragrance, luring in the fat wallets with an admittedly striking package. You'd be forgiven for assuming this scent has a direct connection to Greece, when in fact it bears little to no resemblance to anything from Pyrgos. 

Instead, Ithaque (the fragrance) smells rather like a minimalist interpretation of the dead-horse Aventus DNA. It's also an "ignore the official pyramid" perfume. The market copy says little about what's really going on here. Ithaque opens with one of those weird, contemporary-luxe "fruity" accords that bears a glancing likeness to citrus/fruits (grapefruit, pineapple, red apple) yet smells anything but natural. This weird Franken-citrus also reads as slightly floral, with tartness, crispness, greenness. Eventually it dusks up and resolves into a recognizable shape: blackcurrant, paired with Texas cedar-like woodiness for a dry-smoky profile that lingers for the duration of the fragrance's 12-hour lifespan. Eventually, it fades out to a discreet, low-dose laundry musk. 

There's clearly Hedione HC and Iso E Super here, but there's also a few fancier chems that flesh out the juniper-like fruitiness that lingers in the periphery of that massive blackcurrant accord. I happen to love anything blackcurrant, so despite my misgivings about Ithaque smelling 99.9% synthetic, which is troubling at Memo's price-point, I actually really like this stuff. At the 45-minute mark, the cedar element pushes past the fruity tones to give Ithaque a similarity to Banana Republic's equally fruity-woody Cypress Cedar, but only until the smoky currant fully kicks in with marginal sweetness.

Another pleasantly clean, transparent scent indebted to Aventus. 

Violette Eau de Toilette (Molinard)

Molinard is a house whose name echoes my own; I find the "Miller" of Italy to be quite the interesting fragrance house. Fragonard, Molinard, and Galimard are all Grasse firms whose lineage stretches back into the 18th and 19th centuries, with Molinard citing 1849 on the purple boxes of its "Les Fleurs" range. As a violet fan, I've always wanted to own the now-discontinued Violette EDT, and finally got a chance to purchase an unsprayed specimen in its "tombstone" bottle, brand-new old stock, still factory cello-wrapped. 

Les Fleurs Violette was first released in 1910, then re-released in 1994 as the fragrance reviewed here, alongside a handful of other floral reissues (a couple of which were released in 1993), including Rose, Mimosa, Muguet, Lavande, and Jasmin, with Fleur de Figuer arriving very late to the party in 1999. Looking at these, I really wonder what their angle was. The 1990s was largely about spiced fruitchouli/ambery things, yet Molinard reverted back to very spare and simple Victorian and Edwardian soliflores, eschewing the bombastic, Angel-fueled trends of the time for a demure sensibility more suited to lace-collared dowager duchesses than leather-chokered glam-rock ingénues. Violette is exactly that: demure. It's as shy as it gets, with little more than a bright and semisweet Parma violet note, the requisite sharpness of violet petrol, and a soft, subtle, and very powdery base of some understated white musk. The whole affair is direct, dry, and one-note. There isn't even violet leaf to add any aquatic or spicy tones. It's 100% chalky-petrol violet flower, with only the shadow of a hint of juicy sweetness in the first two minutes. 

I'm not gonna lie: I expected more. But then again, I didn't expect very much more, because I wanted a pure violet soliflore in this conservative style. I'm not even sure my expectation being crushed by reality is a bad thing; what more could this kind of fragrance do? Yes, my $10 bottle of Violetas Francesas cologne smells pretty much identical, at a lower concentration, but if I splash that on and follow it with a healthy spritzing of Molinard Violette, I'm about as violet as a violet-lover can be. Yardley's April Violets offers coy suggestions of stone fruits and watery violet leaf with a tingle of botanical pepper, and feels downright Rococo in comparison, but if I'm in the mood for that kind of violet non-soliflore, I know where to go, and it isn't here. Like Yardley, Molinard's material quality isn't mind-blowing, but it's very good, and maybe a little better. Its ionones and irones are delicately balanced upon their powdery undercarriage, which says "competent perfumer." Longevity is 12+ hours. You want a solid, no-games, no-frills violet? This is it. You can still find a few bottles on eBay for not insane prices if you apply yourself, so I recommend looking there first, and/or perusing the frag-forum swap boards. 

April Violets (Modern Classics Version, Yardley)

April Violets is getting reviewed in June. Sue me. 

I wanted the vintage version of this one, but Yardley is plagued by a downmarket vibe that makes spending $100 on a bottle feel wrong enough to not want to do it, so I shaved a zero off and grabbed the "Modern/Contemporary Classics" version instead. 

My bottle is the "90% Naturally Derived Ingredients" formula. On Yardley's website, the copy on the newest bottles reads "94% Natural" because I guess British regulators asked that the company push their claims to the absolute limits. Add "Vegan & Cruelty Free" on there, and you can hear Keir Starmer fart with every depress of the atomizer. 

It's no secret that I'm a lover of violets. The problem is, there's a dearth of violet fragrances on the market, and finding a daily-driver violet is no small task. My violet collection is sadly limited to Grey Flannel, Aoud Violet, Love in Black, Fahrenheit, Violetas Francesas, Royal Violets, Tres Nuit, and now April Violets, and of those, really only Grey Flannel, Fahrenheit, Violetas Francesas, and Love in Black are true dyed-in-the-wool violets. 

There's a reluctance among manufacturers to produce violet fragrances because ionones are notoriously difficult on the nose, sometimes overpowering the senses, but more often fading into anosmia-induced invisibility, which then deceives the wearer into believing the perfume is off. I can see this as a problem for April Violets, which smells sturdy enough after first spray (brisk violet leaf and apple, with hints of peach, mimosa, and green leaves), but after five minutes the ionones and natural violet leaf extract take over, and the composition flickers in and out of perceptibility. 

With that said, I can smell it if I focus on it, and it smells great. Delicate greens, pert fruits that aren't juvenilely sweet, and a tender, transparent violet bouquet against a dewy backdrop of aquatic violet leaf—a sanguine purple study in olfactory watercolors. I've seen reviewers bitch about it being "harsh," which raises the question: do you people also think deep tissue massages are harsh? A watery floral that lasts four hours with zero projection and fades into literally nothing is harsh?

If so, then Fahrenheit is obscenely abusive, and Grey Flannel is 60 grit sandpaper for the nose. I can't think of a gentler scent in my catalog, which says a lot, since I'm always seeking meditative green fragrances like this one. Bet it's a hit in Japan!

Cancelling GoDaddy, The Worst Blog Hosting Company in the World, & Starting From Scratch

I'll make this brief; I'm no longer using GoDaddy as my web hosting servicer, and am cancelling frompyrgos.com in that iteration. Rather than go on a long ramble about my problems with them, I'll make it as short and sweet as possible. The reason I'm cancelling my deal with them is simple: GoDaddy broke my trust. 

I spent months trying to configure their absolutely pathetic blog features to allow mobile and desktop users the smoothest experience. All I wanted was three pages: a home page (they couldn't even manage that), a "reviews by brand" page that was extensively linked to each individual review that I've written, and a blog page that simply linked directly to GoDaddy's awful-looking blog, which is only customizable three ways, none of which are user friendly. This was too difficult for GoDaddy, and after spending months creating links on the "reviews by brand" page, one day they just randomly erased all of those links, and erased my entire blog. Even on the dashboard, they simply said, "your blog hasn't been published yet," when it was published almost a year ago. Truly insane. 

One can argue that I should've called customer service to straighten it out, but no. I'm not straightening it out. If they can erase months of work with a technical glitch, a random screw-up, for no clear reason, straight out of the blue, then I see no point in continuing my work with their hosting service. I'm not going to spend another month toiling to make my blog functional (it shouldn't be that difficult), only to have another random glitch come up and erase everything again. With GoDaddy's virtually nonexistent blogging features, its non-intuitive creative dashboard that takes hours to figure out (sometimes for things as measly as simple links), and its incessant glitchiness, I see GoDaddy's expensive hosting service as a liability, and have no further interest in doing business with them. 

I'm done.

As I mentioned in earlier posts on this topic, my goal was to cobble together a modernized blog that at least got readers to my content without confusion or technical issues, after which I would eventually utilize GoDaddy's rather good merchant features to promote my own products. While I haven't ruled them out as a hosting service for my future commercial endeavors, attaching the blog to them has proven to be a complete and utter waste of time, and I strongly discourage anyone from using them as a writing platform. I can see now why Blogger and Wordpress are so highly regarded in this space—after 16 years, no problems with frompyrgos.blogspot.com, not even a single issue. Wordpress has just as good a reputation, if not even better, and I'm considering transferring my content over to them, but will weigh my options. 

Meanwhile, continue enjoying the content here uninterrupted, as I will continue posting, and will keep you updated as to Plan B for using a more 21st-century site, something attractive and user-friendly. Of chief interest to me is to find a site that is mobile friendly, and I suspect Wordpress will be the place for that . . . 

Mystique Bouquet (Afnan)

"The 1960s Called and Wants its Catherine Deneuve Back . . ."

I'm told there's a bit of a backstory as to how this fragrance was created, something about Quentin Bisch winning so much with Ex Nihilo's Fleur Narcotique (2014) that Parfums de Marly asked him to self-flatter in the original Valaya (2023). But how Imran Fazlani's 2024 creation fits into that situation is beyond me. I've gleaned that these fragrances represent a newer style of florals unique to the '20s. At least, that's the take on Fragrantica. My take is different. In any case, Mystique Bouquet smells a lot like Valaya in the first two minutes—like, a lot. But then it goes even further in a surprising direction.

There are some clones out there where you smell them and tell yourself, okay, this smells like fragrance X in the top and mid, but the base is totally different. Then there's clones where you smell the original and then smell the dupe, and you're like, Christ, there's no point in wearing the original anymore. Enter Mystique Bouquet: Fazlani took the intensely synthetic dryer-sheet musk explosion of Valaya and reinterpreted its chemical cacophony as a French chypre from the 1900s with a contemporary sheen of Ambroxan. At heart, the scent structure here is the sort of thing a sexy French woman in 1967 woud wear, and the old-school feel shimmers through in a very classical, wonderful way. But that's not the only thing that grabs me about it. My heart opens to Mystique Bouquet in its first hour, because that's when I get hit in the face by a massive wallop of regular 'ol oakmoss. And the kicker is it's not even listed on the box (although it does appear in the pyramid).  

When you've worn as many fragrances as I have, you know that oakmoss has a lung feel to it. There's a body and heft to it that can sometimes impart a heaviness to the air you breathe. It's here in this fragrance, and enough of it that I know it can't possibly be IFRA compliant. It isn't some hypoallergenic version of oakmoss. It's vintage Mitsouko-moss. Combined with an intensely radiant bergamot/peach accord, a bleached bouquet of squeaky-clean white florals, cistus labdanum, a big grassy-green note, and a salty base of multilayered white musks, Mystique Bouquet far outdoes Valaya (piss poor in comparison) for roughly a quarter of the price. Plus it comes in a gorgeous bottle and box, so kudos to Afnan for once again blowing me away on all fronts in the quality department. 

Lecture Time: How Olivier Creed's Death Hits the Fragcomm, & What His Legacy Gives Us . . .

Park Your Carcass, Kid. I'd Like A Word.

Olivier Creed died about a week ago from an undisclosed cause, and this hit me. My first thought upon learning of his passing was, do people realize what he gave us? 

I'd like to take a moment to cut through the bullshit that has surrounded Olivier Creed and his brand for decades now. It kind of started after Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez published The Guide (2008) and insinuated in not-so-opaque language that Creed was a fraud. With snarky reviews and faint praise for even established classics like Green Irish Tweed and Bois du Portugal, the duo's appraisal amounted to an indictment of quality and character that to this day feels spiteful, mean-spirited, and unjustified. 

After The Guide, it became de rigeur to act like you were "too good" for Creed fragrances. In January of 2014, The Candy Perfume Boy wrote:

"I have a turbulent relationship with the house of CREED. They are definitely on the pricey side for what they are and their quality can be a bit hit or miss, but it would be unfair to say that none of their scents are worth seeking out."

This left me rolling my eyes. Then, a few years later, I read his river of glaze for Prerogative, the Britney Spears celebuscent. His fawning over her and the fragrance made me think he was taking the piss. It would be "unfair" to say none of the Creeds are worth seeking out. Why, thank you, Candy Perfume Boy, how genteel of you to admit Creed into your teeny-bopper club. I suppose one can find solace in knowing that knife-wielding, raccoon-eyed Britney Spears—yes, that's your girl—calms your turbulence. 

But it wasn't just the Candy Perfume Boy. Every other blogger had some dismissive or trite word for Olivier and his fragrances. There was always a gripe: price too high (yet just fine for far clunkier brands like Maître Parfumeur et Gantier and Etat Libre d'Orange), marketing a lie (and nobody bats an eyelash when Parfums de Marly staples a wizened date on its masthead), or inspiration too dry (Green Irish Tweed is very old-school, but Mitsouko, well, Mitsouko . . . ), there was always a reason to crap on Creed. 

So let's cut the bullshit. Was Guerlain a god-seed brand, as Luca Turin is wont to characterize it? For the 20th century, particularly the first 60 years, yes. But times change. Tastes shift. And in the final chapter of the millennium, it wasn't Jean-Paul Guerlain who permanently shifted the direction of masculine perfumery for the 21st century. It was Olivier Creed. Not Pierre Bourdon. Olivier. Creed.

Let's get something straight here. The perfume industry isn't just about the perfumer. Creativity is a driving but also distracting force, and when dealing with things as delicate and temperamental as scent and its finest finesses, it takes an evaluator to recognize the winning timbre, and a businessman to put it in people's hands. Olivier Creed delivered on both counts. The suits at Lancôme weren't smart enough to recognize the genius in Bourdon's submission for Sagamore? Had it ended there, Green Irish Tweed would not exist. It was Creed's commiseration with the jilted perfumer that brought it to life. The fragrance went from "green beans" (Chantal Roos, YSL) to masterpiece. Olivier looks bad? Imagine being YSL right now. Jazz is discontinued, and was never nearly as popular as its close contemporaries, GIT and Cool Water. Do the math.

What Gabe Oppenheim left out of his clumsily-written book, The Ghost Perfumer: Creed, Lies, & The Scent of the Century (2021), even as he derided Olivier for "stealing" the formula, is that Pierre Bourdon never came up with dusky ambergris in the base. 

That's Creed's signature accord. It's what makes GIT. It is, more than perhaps any other contemporary perfume of the last 50 years, a fragrance about the base. And I'm not talking the post-2013 reformulations of GIT that gradually stripped out the sandalwood and natural ambergris tinctures. I'm talking the 1990s and 2000s formula, which I've smelled, and which boasted the richest, smoothest sandalwood base I have ever encountered in a perfume, including Guerlain's classics—and it isn't particularly close. Even Turin had the decency to at least grudgingly admit the fragrance was brilliant. 

Oppenheim, by the way, characterizes Creed's adjustments to Bourdon's formula as "modified, because Olivier would sometimes take the ingredients Pierre recommended and replace them with the most expensive version of those ingredients," a rare devotion to quality for the consumer summed up with: "Olivier had no idea how to meet a perfumer's budget but he couldn't have cut costs even if he'd wanted to, according to a [conveniently anonymous] source." His sentence doesn't even make much sense, but I glean from it that Oppenheim believes Bourdon's formula was at risk in Creed's hands. 

So, in cutting the bullshit, no, Pierre Bourdon is not the only perfumer who created Green Irish Tweed. He supplied the original formula, and with that there is no argument. But Creed then took the original formula, and subsequent iterations, and figured out which one worked. He then crafted the specific base, by choosing the specific base materials over the recommendations of Bourdon (excluding him from that particular process) and fitted it to the novel, post-Drakkar Noir opening and gusty-floral heart of the scent. Clearly, by Oppenheim's own account, Olivier had a heavy hand in the making of Green Irish Tweed, and why wouldn't he? Creeds of that era all shared the "Creed Water" base, comprised of a precarious balance between natural ambergris, salty-synthetic ambergris, expensive musks, subtle florals, and precious woods. 

To a degree, Olivier Creed was a perfumer. In keeping with my cut-the-bullshit approach to the man, I'd like to point out that there were perfumes that he solely authored. Its isn't clear exactly which (accounts differ), but if you know enough Creeds, you can spot which among the complex masterpieces smell relatively "minor," and make an educated guess. I'd hazard that Tabaróme Millésime and Love in Black are Olivier creations. To my knowledge there have been no attributions to the contrary (not that the brand is very forthcoming) and Tabaróme smells like a proto-Bleu fragrance with little more than ginger, citrus, green tea, a dab of hay-bale coumarin, and amber comprising its lithe structure, frankly smelling like the work of a man who "dabbles" in the art without actually committing to it. Likewise, in LiB, the overall feel is of a fragrance made by someone who took a 20th century violet toilet water and simply amped it up with the best violet and irone materials money can buy. Another trademark of Creed's personal style: simple elegance that frankly any amateur with an unlimited budget could pull off.

I won't eulogize Mr. Creed here, because I did not know him personally. The man's many foibles are on record, and I recognize them for what they were. Yes, he fibbed in the marketing copy. As does literally every other market manager for a niche perfume brand. And no, it has never been established that Olivier fabricated his family's history in the perfume industry. There was no perfume industry in Creed's salad years, so logically (and yes logic eludes Creed critics on this point) there is no way to disprove or verify Olivier's claims to family formulas and centuries of parfumeur lineage. Bespoke perfumery typically leaves literal record-keeping breadcrumbs, and until someone proffers a convincing explanation as to how Olivier was able to create a hit-after-hit range of impeccably—and classically—tailored Grey Cap EDTs, (and no, one does not pull that many beautiful fragrances out of his ass), they are the only breadcrumbs to follow. 

My observation of how Olivier Creed's death has impacted the community is filled with sadness. Yes, there are numerous farewells that acknowledge the beauty Creed brought into our world, and their sentiments are noted with warmth. However, the staccato of Gen-Zombie insults peppers the condolences with a salt of nastiness unlike anything I've ever seen before. What the hell is wrong with you people? This one dimwit who goes by the moniker "gezakolab" continuously harangues the Fragrantica obit with senseless comments about how Olivier "scammed all his life." 

Social justice keyboard warrioring against a dead man because you read a crappy book is just pathetic. Despite others imploring him to recognize that there's a time and place, he had to keep adding his digs. 

Then there's "50shadesofscent," another loser, who writes, "We let him rest, we just don't care about him" . . . which is a weird and ugly thing to say when someone has just died. I mean, it's a take. If you don't care about him, then . . . what are you doing in the comments of the Fragrantica obit for him? What have you, anonymous keyboard warrior, contributed to the fragrance world that qualifies your opinion of Olivier Creed in death over that of his hundreds of thousands of fans? Name one thing. But you won't, because you're a disgusting little turd who hides her face behind an avatar and an ugliness, the only things you can show the world, or what little of it wants to see you. 

There have been some readers of mine who have messaged me privately to applaud my stance on Creed and the company as a whole, and they have rightly pointed out that nobody has ever just said the thing with receipts to show for it: Olivier Creed stole people's intellectual property and defrauded them of millions of dollars over the course of his career. If you want to say that, just say it. Stop hiding behind snarky innuendo, dismissive attitudes, acting like you're above appreciating a brand because you heard some random things that you've chosen to believe. Everybody says stuff like, "Creed stole the formula . . . aaaand he edited it and inserted expensive materials, and evaluated multiple iterations of the formula (because he was an amazing evaluator), and then decided this was the one he would release, this fragrance that has sold hundreds of thousands of bottles over 40 years, and nobody could legally stop him because, well, nobody wanted to." 

There have also been readers of mine who have cited Oppenheim's recalling of Bourdon's testimony to him. Bourdon does, according to Oppenheim, outright state that Olivier Creed stole from him. But the question is, how exactly did Bourdon put that? Was it a casual French quip made by a quirky elderly perfumer who was obsessed with the dihydromyrcenol-fueled violet/iris profile of GIT, and to an even greater extent, Cool Water? Or was it really the teary-eyed regret-filled rant of someone who feels deeply wronged, and if so, where is the follow-up to that? Where is the meat on the bones of "Creed stole from me" that any wronged perfumer would gladly hand up? Nowhere in Oppenheim's book does Bourdon say anything like, "Olivier Creed stole my formula, and here's how hard I tried to make things right." 

No. In fact, Bourdon's testimony recollects the opposite: after supposedly getting ripped off with GIT, he did the obvious thing for revenge and offered the cheater Silver Mountain Water and Millésime Impérial as well, allowing Olivier to steal from him twice more and continue "scamming" the public. 

Make it make sense. 

Olivier Creed's legacy is rich and grossly underrated. While people like Luca Turin bang on about the dusty and casually-glossed-over antisemitic legacies of the Guerlains and Chanels, Olivier Creed, who has fundamentally shaped the modern perfume landscape in ways that are too numerous to count (there would be no Sauvage if Aventus had not been commissioned), goes relatively neglected and unnoticed. You can always tell when someone has never smelled Green Valley, for instance. They'll mourn the loss of Samsara, and opine on the beauty of 31 Rue Cambon, and then say something like, "Oh, Creed? Eh." Nobody who has ever seriously worn Green Valley has ever said "Eh" about Creed.

Olivier leaves us Green Valley, the finest fragrance I have ever encountered, as well as a bevy of other, mostly older fragrances, many of which are now discontinued. The IFRA was the final nail in classical Creed's coffin, securing draconian regulatory liens against the production of practically every Grey Cap Creed and the earliest stabs at the "Millésime" range, before it was a thing. I'm nursing a bottle of vintage 2005 Fleurissimo, which today smells like a bouquet of heavily-salted tuberose, because it was the one Creed that Olivier would hold up in advertising photos, glad to let the sunlight glint like gold from its yellow-hued liquid. Fleurissimo is another flawless example of what Creed offered us in his legacy, that rarest of things: a commitment to giving the customer the very best, no expense spared. How many founding fathers of major niche brands think that way today? Precious few. 

People bitch about profit being the sole driving force behind many of today's releases, and they're not wrong; the perfume industry of the '20s is hellbent on taking ethyl-maltol and ethyl-vanillin and slapping $250 tags on them. They forget that back in the late 1960s, there was a young man who wanted to drive up his own margins to nearly-unbearable levels, just so his customers could feel like they were wearing something unique, unforgettable, special. Scoff if you want to, that's fine. But the day will come when some teenager will happen across a bottle of unused and untouched Fleurissimo, and after one wearing will hit the Reddit boards and bro forums to ask, unironically, "Why don't any of my girlfriend's perfumes smell this good?" 

The silence in response will be deafening.

One Man Show Emerald Edition (Jacques Bogart)

One of the neat things about being a collector is finding "rare" items, and perfume collectors are especially driven by scarcity. I've been on the lookout for One Man Show Emerald Edition since its release 8 years ago, but for whatever reason it's always been tough to source. Apparently Emerald was initially a Dubai exclusive, then trickled into Europe, and eventually got swept into the grey market, which the Bogart Group uses to unofficially distribute its wares to the continent. Recently a few inexpensive bottles appeared on eBay, and I was on it. 

Emerald Edition is an unusual one. Corinne Cachen has been in the game for a while now, and has at least one foot in the "old-school" world of green, spicy-woody frags. See Montblanc Presence (2001) and Avon Surreal Garden (2007) for just two mainstream examples. Emerald opens with a lick of sugary sweetness that is swiftly overtaken by a rush of what smells to me like a "sandpaper accord" commonly found in pre-millennium masculines: ginger & white pepper-adjacent elemi resin (150-180 grit), sage (sclarene), and the most bitter rendition of methyl heptine carbonate (violet leaf) Cachen could possibly use. Violet flower appears in an abstract and very contemporary form, resembling Mancera's Aoud Violet a bit for at least twenty minutes or so, but then a potent nutmeg and desiccated coumarin emerge, lending earth-hued shadow to the grey-green fog. Still spicy, a little woody, a little green thanks to the lingering violet/violet leaf aspect, and with that sclarene really piercing through everything, Emerald settles on dusty nutmeg and a dry-resinous tapestry of violet, cedar, salty musks, and Bogart Group's version of Akigalawood.

One thing nobody mentions is there's ethyl maltol in this fragrance. It's blended in so carefully that unless the juice in the atomizer stem was allowed to get old enough (as in my bottle), you won't smell it clearly save for during the first one or two sprays until the stuff balances out. I'll end with this: Emerald Edition is worth seeking out if you're a hopeless lover of green and agrestic masculines from any decade, and if you're okay with smelling like a 51 year-old man who just stepped out of 1997. This particular Bogart won't turn heads or be remembered, but it's definitely a mature and serviceable men's offering, and I'm glad I have it, if only for how hard it is to find these days.

Angham (Lattafa)

This fragrance was a bit of a "hypebeast" phenom for the Reddit and YouTube crowd when it was released in 2024, and continues to enjoy massive popularity with the under-thirty set particularly. Lattafa is a reputable Dubai-based concern known for their florid packaging and commercial success in duping designer and niche brands, and yet Angham is a Lattafa oddity, in that it seems to be its own thing entirely. I find it refreshing to encounter a fragrance by this brand that isn't overwhelmingly duping or modding something else. Sometimes a little originality is needed. 

The hype was based on a widespread perception that Angham was a dupe of Burberry Goddess (2023), with countless influencers rumoring its likeness as being nearly 1:1 with Amandine Clerc-Marie's creation. However, poke a bit deeper into the chattering morass, and you'll find a fair number of people who either unwittingly debunk the comparison, or outright declare that Angham isn't really close to Goddess at all. Having only smelled Angham, it's tough for me to weigh in definitively, but I can say this: Angham does not really match the pyramid or stated impressions of Goddess, from what I can smell. Goddess is apparently a punchy lavender-forward floral that warms into a smooth vanilla base, with hints of cocoa and ginger, while Angham is gingery-citrus with a velvety floral-vanilla drydown. I get a linalool lavender (reconstruction) with a very brief snap of super-light citrus and transparent ginger in the opening accord, which rapidly segues into a nondescript non-gourmand vanilla base, and it's linear for the remaining twelve hours on skin and fabric. Ethyl-maltol is definitely in the mix, as are a blend of woody musks that manage to oscillate between floral and synth-sandalwood, the kind of lizard-brain-says-expensive sweetness that could not offend if it tried. Projection is so-so.

If you're after an undeniably classy crowd-pleasing vanilla perfume, Angham is a solid option, albeit a boring one. I'm sorry, but vanilla is vanilla. Of more interest to me is the marketing angle Lattafa took with this stuff. For one thing, they named it after Egypt's biggest female radio star, which kind of makes Angham a "celebuscent" even if Angham herself has nothing to do with it. The brand leans into this by attaching a chromed metal musical staff imprinted with notes and a G-clef, a design that extends onto the chromed metal cap. Great idea, but one problem—the little square in the center with the fragrance's name makes the whole thing look like a big Band-Aid. The line of the cap's base meeting the bottle even matches the spot where you pull and peel before applying to a minor wound. A textbook case of a good idea badly executed.

Jicky EDP (Guerlain/Les Légendaires Collection)

Let's talk about Jicky. 

Here's the thing.

Jicky's reputation precedes it, and there have been approximately 889,000 internet reviews of Jicky written in the past 26 years. I don't need to get into how Aimé Guerlain created the world's first abstract perfume in 1889 using more than one entirely synthetic material (De Laire's coumarin and vanillin). I don't need to mention that up until very recently, Jicky was the oldest preserved (not hugely fucked with) perfume still available to buy new. Guerlain has apparently discontinued it, but hey, it had a good run. And I really don't need to mention that Jicky holds the original "Guerlinade" that the house would infuse into nearly every major release thereafter. It's an "oriental fougère," the very first of that breed. 

Since I don't need to mention any of that, let's get into the issue I have with Jicky in its latest, and probably last incarnation. I own a bottle of the "Les Légendaires" heart-stoppered EDP, pictured above. This version is, according to Thierry Wasser, Guerlain's master perfumer, a faithful reconstruction of the original 1889 formula, as it would have smelled, vs. how subsequent 20th century reformulations of Jicky smelled. Wasser's angle is that Jicky was animalic, but not that animalic, and was really more about showcasing the two synthetics pioneered by Aimé. Indeed, the fragrance reads to my nose as more fresh than fierce; I'm pleased by the brisk but delicate sunshine-in-the-morning lavender accord that introduces this fragrance, and impressed by how it's couched in gentle brushings of basil and rosemary, the former of which is shockingly evident throughout Jicky's considerable 14+ hour lifespan on skin and fabric. (Was Aimé Italian?)

This all dries very gradually into the base, with barely any heart notes, save for a whisper of nondescript florals that literally breeze into a foundational and everlasting civetone-laced coumarin and vanillin. The coumarin is gentle, hay-like, semisweet and balsamic, the finest and possibly best balanced coumarin that I've ever smelled. Wedded to that is the cushy sweetness of the vanillin, but conjoining the two is that infamous animalic rasp. I'm puzzled by the rasp, because more than a few reviewers seem to find Jicky, even in this formula, borderline unwearable for having too much civet. I, however, sense barely any. It could be my nose, or perhaps it's simply a musk component that jumps out at some noses and not at others, and I'm one of the lucky chosen who can happily wear Jicky. 

Whatever the case may be, it's a tremendously pleasant and enduring fragrance, but my issue with it is that I want the animalic component to be more pronounced. For that matter, I want everything to be more pronounced. "But Bryan," you shout, "This is Jicky, so take it or leave it!" Well, not so fast. It may be that Jicky is set in stone, and it's unreasonable to expect anything but what I get from it. If I want an even brighter, smoother, and more penetrating lavender, I'm out of luck, right? If I find the sedate blush of barnyard hay in its base too evanescent, I can kick rocks, correct? Wrong. I have a fragrance that delivers in these departments, and yet smells about 95% similar to Wasser's Jicky: Ungaro pour L'Homme II (1992). 

Jacques Polge's 1990s entry in the Ungaro masculine line says, "I'm like Jicky, only more so." Bigger, more lucid lavender. Heavier civet, right from the outset. A bold, coumarinic-ambery quality that speaks to more recent contemporaries like Brut, while also nodding to Guerlain. Vanilla, just as restrained, and folded into more tangible wood accords, i.e., rosewood and sandalwood. Ungaro II is the logical reconfiguration of Aimé's 19th century masterpiece. Take all the good ideas, blow them up, rebalance everything to scale, and voila! If you want what Jicky actually smelled like when it was first released, you can now have it. Just don't tell anyone. For all intents and purposes, this is just another in a long line of "fougèriental" masculines pushed into department stores for mass consumption. (Except it's actually an educated remake of the original Jicky . . . don't tell anyone.) 

Wasser can claim that his formula is closest to what Jicky once was, but I'm not entirely buying it. Sure, the fragrance is gorgeous. The lavender is crystalline, the herbal notes are like fine porcelain accords brushed with tender love and care, and the "purr" of animalism in the semisweet base is fun to wear. But the 19th century formulas used more naturals, and probably more real musks. The early forms of coumarin and vanillin were, from what I've read, a bit cruder and louder than the stuff being used today. And if Guerlain wanted people to notice this very first abstract composition—as in, not just representing literal flowers—he would want it to sing. People were stinky in the years before deodorant soap. Perfume was the answer, but it was, by sheer necessity, stern about it.

I encourage you to grab a bottle of Jicky while you still can. It doesn't show up on Guerlain's website, and the rumor is that it's been canned. Who knows if that's true. But I'd also warn you, if you're looking to drop $150+ on a vintage bottle of Jicky: Perhaps take a moment to reconsider. You can spend the same big dollars and buy Ungaro II, and I promise you, you're essentially getting the same fragrance with more balls, and also frankly more dynamism. Ungaro II smells like it contains real civet, although I doubt it does. The current Guerlain does not, that is certain. If you're looking for something like Jicky, but richer, then you're looking for Polge's fragrance. Just be ready to pay for it.

Of course, you could always just buy a vintage, or even "deep" vintage bottle of Jicky, which by many accounts has a much more fecal civet note in it. I could do the same, but my issue there is with Guerlain's unpredictability. This stuff isn't available to sample, especially in vintage form. Finding a truly satisfying vintage means picking through 137 years of formulas, spanning literally dozens of different bottle types, with all sorts of concentrations, and I'd probably have better luck playing lotto tickets. 

Jicky has a superior lavender note, of that there's no doubt. But Ungaro's lavender is pretty damn close, and as I mentioned before, it's brighter, louder, and richer. So, if you're a vintage hound, and you're not sure where to start with Jicky, Ungaro is your one-and-done shortcut. No multiple formulas (Ungaro II had one run), no weird bottles and concentrations to pick through (Ungaro comes only in EDT concentration), and no b.s. with the civet (Ungaro's civet is no joke). I'll let you decide which road to take.  

Victoria (Lattafa)

Basic Victorian Bitch

There's fine perfumery, and then there's Basic Bitch Juice. 

Let me make the distinction: fine perfumery entails the complex and abstract blending of accords that, when conjoined a certain way, create something moving on both a sexual and intellectual level. Think Catherine Deneuve, who mainly wore Mitsouko, and picture her nude in a bathtub in Pola X (1999). Mitsouko = Not that Basic. 

Basic Bitch Juice is bright-fruity meets intense, sugar rush vanilla, followed by six hundred sprays and an influencer vid gushing about the compliments she gets wearing it. Sweet, saccharine, edible, evoking only calories and candy. In other words, even a coma patient would find it agreeable, but nobody finds it particularly interesting.

Such is Lattafa's Victoria. It's trashy in a good way. Often compared to lemon meringue, I think it smells closer to vanilla-frosted shortbread lemon squares baked by a chef with a fondness for ethyl maltol. I smell Victoria and immediately think, "Basic Bitch." 

She never stopped celebrating her "dirty thirty." She shops at Poshmark. Spends $150 a week on Starbucks. Pulls her hair up in severe ponytails all day, every day, instead of just getting a pixie cut. Melts for other people's dogs but shudders at the thought of having children. And she exclusively wears perfumes that smell like cotton candy. It doesn't smell good to her if it isn't identical to what she can stuff in her face and feel guilty about as she goes for seconds. Hell, she's even named Victoria.

With all of that said, I should be fair to Victoria (the perfume); while it won't win awards for originality, it should get noticed for being incredibly well made, and well heeled. The box is studded with leather siding meant to resemble the corinthian style of Victorian fainting couches, and frankly it looks great. The faux marble patina on the box and bottle evoke cold marble staircases and gothic horror. If I didn't know better, I'd look at it and think I was in for a dusty rose chypre. Instead, the fragrance opens with a pert blend of fizzy lemon aldehyde and d-limonene, which I feel leans into an orange character as it dries, with distinct nuances of neroli and petitgrain lending greenness and depth. Maybe a careful dose of something like valencene is in there. Clearly they were going for a Meyer lemon, and they did a fair job. This smells convincingly edible-citrus. 

Eventually, a pastry-like accord shows up, and this is where the fragrance begins to resemble a graham-cracker-crusted lemon square to me. Its subtle florals still wisp along in the background, undergirded by an ever-present ethyl-maltol sugary sweetness that is probably the only annoying aspect of this thing, at least in its first hour. As a creamy vanilla accord wells up in the base, this spun-sugar effect begins to cohere better, and by the five hour mark, it's basically a great big fluffy vanilla with a halo of candied lemon. Projection is modest and longevity is longer than a CVS receipt, so you'll get a work day and then some out of it. Victoria is both fresh and warm, another plus, as it works well in both winter and summer. It's like a splicing of traditional lemon cologne and vanilla cookie candle, or perhaps just the cookies, an unadorned and direct gourmand. 

It does smell good, overall. There's no arguing that. And the floral facets of neroli and petitgrain do inject some much-needed sophistication into an otherwise Basic scent profile. The vanilla is very foody and overly sweet, what with the ethyl maltol and whatever other candy flavoring is in there, and you really have to like gourmands to wear this on a regular basis. Not entirely my thing, but every once in a very blue moon, I get the urge to wear a good vanilla, and Victoria is definitely a good vanilla. To me, personally, it reads as a serviceable post-shave fragrance that strays well over the border of common 20th century citrus-vanilla barbershop tropes, and thus is worth having around. I find it works pretty well with Limacol aftershave/cologne splash, which basically smells like one-note mentholated Meyer lemon (and is severely underrated imo). 

It's a quality perfume, but it leaves me wondering, why? Who briefed this thing? Who woke up one day and said, "Lattafa, you must clone Dolce&Gabbana's Devotion, and put a Caffè Sicilia spin on it!"  Then gussy it up with cod Victoriana and a blue-marbled bottle that looks like a prop from a Roger Corman film. Why, Lattafa? Why? 

Wild Vetiver: Cut The Sh*t, Creed

I can see how this new release by Creed could be considered "great." It smells great in a safe way that borders on generic. It feels pretty good to wear it. It's a very attractive bottle, sort of a proprietary shade of green that I haven't seen elsewhere, save for lime popsicles from the dollar store, the extra-cheap kind that come wrapped in waxy white paper. Even the name is fun, conjuring imagery of unconstrained fields of tall vetiver grasses waving hello as far as the eye can see. It's all good. 

Except Wild Vetiver is a little too close to Eladaria. Same bored, sugared peony-rose thing, which weirdly smells nothing like an actual flower. This note, by the way, is pretty much the whole shebang when you get past the initial Yankee-Candle "timur pepper", which is really just a mildly spiced grapefruit/bergamot hybrid with a bit of supporting aspartame blackcurrant. What I find strange is the fruits smell deeply fake and sweet, just like the rose, and rather like—you guessed it—Yankee Candle. You can identify everything, and it smells bold enough to stick for a few hours. Not exactly cheap, per say. But Silver Mountain Water's blackcurrant is also sweet, and even a bit sour, and it doesn't smell remotely foody or aircare-like. Not so, Wild Vetiver. 

I hoped the base would bring in the grassy fields to justify the name. But the drydown is merely a watercolor sketch of Ambroxan and Habanolide, Ambrettolide, and maybe even some methyl laitone for more silky-smooth pseudo sweets. Ever since Carmina, Creed has been playing with this low-sugar rose-jam-meets-orange-marmalade thing that worked great in that fragrance, and somewhat well in Eladaria, but with Wild Vetiver it's a case of diminishing returns. Creed's new "Senior Business Development Manager" is happy to take a successful accord and milk it. Fine for some, perhaps, but for me? Cut the shit, Creed, and bring back Green Valley. You can do "green" better than this.

What note didn't I mention because I never once smelled it here? 

Crap, it'll come to me. 

Patchouli Cologne (Bourbon French Parfums)

When it comes to patchouli, people have experience-driven, subjective views. If you're older than 60, you picture headband-wearing, half-naked hippies who haven't bathed in months and use patchouli oil to cover the stench. If you're an old Millennial (X-ennial) like me, you tend to match it with balls-out masculine powerhouses of the '80s, stuff like Giorgio for Men and Lapidus pour Homme, which were still widely worn through at least the first half of the 1990s. If you're a young Millennial (born during or after 1986), you think of "dad" or "grandpa", and if you're a Gen Zombie with your characteristic lifeless stare, you recall Angel and A*Men, likely worn by an older brother or sister. In other words, somehow, someway, you know patchouli. 

Or do you? How many people turn to patchouli in the 21st century as a single-note material for niche perfumery? I'd hazard to guess, not many. An essential oil derived from the leaves of the Pogostemon cablin, an herb in the mint family, patchouli has a rich, earthy, and slightly sweet scent profile, and has been the cornerstone of perfumery since the dawn of time. A base material, it deepens and enlivens a scent structure while also strengthening core accords and enhancing longevity. Want a vibrant woody masculine that leans heavily in the abandoned sawmill direction? Patch. A crisp oriental with many disparate notes in desperate need of enduring unification? Patchety-patch patch patch. A basic fougère that simply needs a touch of testosterone? Where my Hare Krishnas at? 

But patchouli has a very real problem nowadays: it gets lost in the mix. The days of appreciating it as a "soli-note" material seem to have slipped into the distant past, with most of the Free Love era having aged out, and the remaining generations having disturbingly little love leftover for the natural woody distinctiveness of high-grade patchouli oil. Patchouli still gets used in perfume, as often as it ever did, finding its way in some form or another in many mainstream designer blends seeking to recapture the magic of the next Thierry Mugler phenomenon, but the heaploads of diabetes-inducing sugar that gets crammed into every new thing tends to obscure its presence, at best. When was the last time Paco Rabanne released a chesty one-note patchouli cologne? When was the last time a drugstore brand offered a mainline of patchouli with everything but the tourniquet and syringe? I hear crickets. 

Like nearly anything that is good these days, the only places to turn to for this sort of thing are ultra-expensive luxury brands or affordable but esoteric indie brands that require more than a modicum of interest to suss out of hiding. I've been on the market for a solid one-note patchouli fragrance for years now, but my hangup has been price; with so many economical classics on the market, I don't want to splurge and dump $350 on a Chanel like Coromandel, $450 on Dior's Patchouli Élixir Précieux (or their technically more budget friendly Coromandel comparative, Patchouli Impérial). Ironically, these perfumes are great and feature prominent patchouli, but with the exception of perhaps Patchouli Élixir Précieux, are somewhat embellished multi-note compositions that merely allow patchouli to star in an otherwise ensemble cast. No, I'd rather just find that hidden gem and truly one-note patchouli that insiders covet and gatekeep. The problem, of course, is that such a fragrance will be kept behind that gate, and finding it will happen only by chance. 

Enter "Patchouli" by Bourbon French Parfums. I happened upon it by chance. I tend to search for fragrances that are "grassy" and "green" and "woody-floral," so I was in the right ballpark. In my travels, and after reading about a handful of Lush and retired Jōvan fragrances, suddenly Fragrantica's Bourbon French page appeared. I was reading Shamus's reviews (author of the retired Pour Monsieur blog), and he had one for this fragrance. He writes:

"Whoa, this is some rip-roaring patchouli. Dark, damp, and dirty are the only words that adequately describe it. This is raw, balls-out, uncompromising patchouli that takes no prisoners . . . It's far too potent and ballsy to wear at the office, unless you're the guy in charge." 

This, of course, piqued my interest. Now, full disclosure: my familiarity with patchouli is limited to the essential oils found in health-food grocery stores and Indian markets. There are several of the former and only a few of the latter here in Connecticut. Most of the oils found at them are mid to low-grade in quality, and speak to the true essence of patchouli without offering a hi-fidelity take that you can comfortably wear. In other words, pretty good, but too crude. Decent enough to understand the scent, but rough enough to dissuade you from splashing it on. 

But a patchouli cologne from a respectable indie brand in the South that has offered fine toiletries since 1843? A scent that gets thumbs up from nearly every reviewer? Common threads—"raw" and "dark" and "potent"— mean count me in. I ordered the 4 ounce cologne blind and hoped I wouldn't be disappointed. After all, if it's "rip-roaring patchouli" and if it gets praise from Shamus, who spent years endorsing the most high-testosterone brews deemed worthy of a wardrobe, it must be the stuff. 

So, is it the stuff?

Well . . . not exactly. No.

Here's the thing. What Mary Behlar, owner and perfumer of French Bourbon, has done is take an essential oil akin to what you find in a health-food store, dilute it to a safe cologne strength (gotta abide that IFRA), and bottle it. Then she sells it for not much more than what you'd pay for the raw version at the grocery store. I should mention that it's unclear what concentration Shamus and other reviewers are writing about when describing this fragrance, so it's possible he's actually referring to the EDT or perfume strength version. I imagine those versions would simply smell exactly like the grocery store oils, but then again, maybe the perfumes are where Behlar really showcases her artistry. 

Here in the cologne, however, I'm not exactly blown away. Bourbon French's Patchouli smells dark(ish), a little dirty, not at all damp, sawmill-floor dry, and mostly like a discreetly finessed and polished marble of a patchouli after the rough edges of the raw material have been tidily rebalanced and tamed via the aforementioned dilution process. I do sense a slight touch of real perfumery in the drydown, with what feels to me perhaps like a light brushing of watercolor cedar, a microdose of Iso E Super to enhance that crisp-woody finish that decent patchouli oil naturally possesses. And that's another point in its favor—quality patchouli oil. Say what you will about the complexity or artistry, but there's no denying that whatever grade of patchouli is used here is a cut above what you'd find at your local Whole Foods. 

It's possible that my post-Covid nose, which sometimes waffles in sensitivity, simply isn't picking up the richer and bolder nuances of this fragrance, and maybe with more time I'll come around. It's also true that I'm able to catch very vague whiffs of the stuff throughout the work day with pretty modest application, we're talking one spray to the shirt and a couple under it, and it comes and goes like a phantom, sometimes entirely invisible, and others tripping the olfactory center of my brain into action. I agree that it smells entirely natural, which is of course a good thing, and it also smells pretty exquisitely balanced, which is probably the greatest technical feat here. Taking something as saturnine and burly as natural patchouli from India and recalibrating it into an easily wearable yet appropriately raunchy cologne is no small feat. 

With that said, this isn't the balls-out monster I was led to believe it would be. It's easily wearable at work. I wear it to work, and I work with several people who have no idea what a landline is. It is commanding in profile, yes, but in performance it feels civilized to a fault. I think my Givenchy Gentleman, which isn't even vintage, swings its patchouli dick more than Bourbon French's does. I get unwashed hippie imagery with both fragrances, but that honeyed chocolate snarl in reformulated Gentleman (even sans the intense civet of its 1970s formula) just feels more aggressive to me. It's an EDT concentration with very artfully blended supporting notes, while Behlar's blend has the disadvantage of being a lighter concentration with patchouli and not much else, so perhaps this isn't a good comparison. I will say again that it is uncontroversially better than the raw oils you get at your corner granola dive, so if you want something at least better (and allergenically safer) than that, this fragrance is a good place to look. 

I should also sincerely acknowledge that I do like this fragrance quite a lot, and I wear it, and I'm glad to own it. As a patchouli fragrance, it is undeniably good. And also, I want to age it a bit in the bottle, especially with air in there, and see how it matures. Perhaps in a few years it will darken and take on a more throaty timbre. Perhaps I should drop the extra $40 and look to the perfume?

In the meantime, the search for the truly intense and complex patchouli, which might only exist in my mind, continues . . .