Bird of Paradise (Avon)

Avon is sort of a mind-warping brand for fragrance enthusiasts. On the one hand, it's a cheap and somewhat gimmicky mail-order concern that is representative of every twentieth century archetypical "consumerism" paradigm imaginable. You want a fragrance? Don't have a lot of cash to spend? Here's the Avon catalog. It has two hundred items for quick order this season, and another two hundred available at the end of the year. Next year another few hundred will roll out, and none of them cost more than eight bucks. Pick a title and it'll show up at your door in a week. That was how Avon worked from 1940 to 2016, which was when Cerberus Capital Management inked an acquisition deal and sent the brand to Latin American countries, where it continues to enjoy success.

On the other hand, Avon is a serious historical oddity of a brand that has released more perfumes than virtually any other company. The casual observer may think it's a cheapo throwaway name, but those who are in-the-know view it as a playground for big-name perfumers, including Olivier Cresp, Harry Frémont, Laurent Le Guernec, Rodrigo Flores-Roux, and Sonia Constant, among others. People of their pedigree consider Avon to be a safe testing ground for unusual ideas, a place where experimentation and freedom of expression can occur without much risk of their careers going up in flames. If you try out a new girly-floral idea that incorporates durian fruit and the result sends people running for the exits, you'll be given a good brief for Dior the next day, because nobody minds if an Avon perfume doesn't sell. Avon has something like three thousand perfumes under its belt. A failure could live in their range for years before they even notice it. 

Things get even more interesting when you look at what was released in the sixties and seventies. Take Bird of Paradise, for instance. Released in 1969, this stuff was a bridge between the patchouli head-shop vibe of the hippy free-love era and the open-collared Stepford/Nixonian decade that followed. It came in a variety of bottles, but its earlier incarnations were clear glass with gold caps that were shaped to fit whatever sculpted image Avon was having fun with that day. The original was a rather pretty peacock, but it also came in a fairly uninteresting rectangular bottle and a smaller "golden thimble" bottle, which is the one I own. How does it smell? It's formal but affecting, a Schiff base derived from methyl anthranilate and an aldehyde, upon which one of history's more opulent drugstore orientals was built. Bergamot, lavender, a hint of pineapple for fruitiness, honey for sweetness, florals and greens, sandalwood (a surprisingly high quality synthetic but not Mysore, contrary to popular belief), and incense. No masterpiece, but nice. You get more than you paid for here, which is how Avon has persevered for over a century. 

Roses, Roses Cologne (Avon)

When you take Route 8 North through Waterbury, Litchfield, Torrington, you eventually reach the end of the road in the form of a T-junction. Turn right and take a picturesque drive to Massachusetts. A left brings you to a massive antiques warehouse with about a hundred vendors and no air conditioning. Xanadu. 

Tucked amidst the trinkets and overpriced crap are some cool pieces of furniture, old books (usually late nineteenth, early twentieth century), and if you're really committed to picking through the rubble you can find an interesting cologne or two. I happened across a shelf of Avon bells from the seventies, and bought two of them for ten bucks each, the Liberty Bell men's cologne, and the women's Hospitality Bell. They were unopened, in excellent condition, and priced well. What the heck.

The Hospitality Bell reminds me of a short story by Robert Arthur, The Rose-Crystal Bell, probably because it's heavy glass filled with rose cologne. Rose crystal, also known as rose quartz, is unlikely to be fashioned into a bell, a verity which is probably the least unlikely element of Arthur's memorably bizarre story. Still, the fact that the bell comes with a detached clapper makes it nearly impossible to not think of that little horror story.

Anyway, I expected Roses, Roses to be sickly sweet garbage, but it surprised me. It's a simple but decent soliflore, similar to Perfumer's Workshop Tea Rose. This type of basic soapy rose is just a lemon aldehyde built up with various rose ketones (damascones, damascenones). The interesting thing about this one is that the quality of the materials used here is clearly good, given that they've survived the decades without turning sour. The fragrance has held up for over forty years, and contains a bit of real rose oil, but it isn't very deep. Its drydown arrives quickly, and it's a simple floral tone that could probably double as an aftershave. Can't complain for ten bucks.

This is an instance where a crapshoot on vintage worked out. I've said it a million times before, and I'll say it again: roses are unisex. Sure, Americans aren't tuned into that, but a shave, a splash of Thayer's Rose, and a slap of this stuff works. A guy can pull it off pretty easily, given how light it is. (Longevity, however, isn't bad - three hours.) For those curious about why men have "rose" as a shaving scent option, there's volumes written about it; history books posit that Edwardian Englishmen considered it "Gentlemanly" to smell of woody florals, and roses fit the bill. It's also always been culturally popular with Middle Eastern men, usually paired with oud, something I don't love. 

My history with notes like rose, fruits, white florals, has been fairly neutral. We're living in strange times, when Victorian and Edwardian trends have come full circle. Pre-war men lived with green flowers in their alcohol splashes, plenty of lavender, lilac, and rose, but by WWII the conscripted considered any scented product beyond perhaps Skin Bracer and Old Spice "girly." Then the 1960s hit, hippies took over the world, and by the 2000s our sense of humor had returned. Few people comment when I wear rose.

Can you find a Hospitality Bell today? They're all over eBay, with the "Moonwind" scent enjoying an edge in availability. If you're interested in a cheap rose cologne to follow a shave, here's something in a bell-shaped bottle to consider. Just don't try ringing it.

Tribute Cologne for Men (Avon)

The sticker on the bottom of my 1976 Liberty Bell-shaped bottle

It's been a while since something impressed me, but I'm about to review a fragrance that has impressed me to no end since the moment I accidentally happened across a full bottle. It's a little fougere from 1963 called Tribute, and it's excellent. I truly enjoy this stuff, and wish Avon still made it.

As one of Avon's first masculine colognes, Tribute was a bit of a Hail Mary pass to the market. With only two or three relatively obscure predecessors, the brand must have been nervous about how their fragrance would land. The masculine perfume landscape of the early 1960s hadn't fully resolved itself, and only a few commercial hits, including Chanel Pour Monsieur, Arden Sandalwood, Tabac, Monsieur de Givenchy and Vetyver, Guerlain Vetiver, and Royall Lyme and Spyce, had formed the terrain. The execs at Avon had a choice: imitate or innovate. They decided to imitate Jicky by Guerlain, and made one of the best manly lavenders of the time period.

This fragrance is just a big, burnished (buurrrly) lavender note, plain and simple. I could get into abstract notions of notes and accords, but that wouldn't be an honest account. Instead I'll simply point out that there are vague accoutrements to the lavender note, things that you could probably label, but names don't matter here. This isn't a minty-herbal lavender. This is a furniture-polished woody lavender. This is a saturnine beauty prancing through sunburnt grass lavender. A chiaroscuro oil painting lavender, under a fresh coat of linseed oil. An austere father to Sex Appeal lavender. Its ambery tones are suggestive of orientalism, yet there's a clarity to the star note, and a bit of a cushioned, musky, hay-like sweetness, which gives me an unmistakable French fern vibe. 

Avon's everyman pitch was likely bolstered in the years following Tribute's release, and I imagine it made them plenty of moolah until the 1980s, when men finally lost interest in buying barbershop stuff in kitschy, toy-shaped bottles. Tribute is probably too simple to succeed today, but if they ever reissue it - make that correctly reissue it - I will eagerly seek it out. It's a fougere lover's dream. 

Wild Country Cologne (Avon)

Here's one I'm reviewing because its reputation as a "barbershop cologne" precedes it, and not because I agree with the consensus. I respect Avon as a competent budget brand, but don't have much use for their products. Many older guys (ages fifty and up) are sentimentally attached to the cutesy aftershave decanters of the Johnson and Nixon years, those colored glass bottles shaped like sturgeons and Model T Fords, which are inexplicably popular decades after the Avon playground closed and went corporate. Millennials raise eyebrows when men old enough to be their grandfathers get excited over disposable trinkets. No grandpa, the cowboy boot decanter isn't cool.

Wild Country was released in 1967, and is one of the first offerings by the brand. Badger & Blade is home to its fanbase, and I've read countless reminiscences of Vietnam vets and retirees pining for a fresh bottle of the musky, Canoe-like fougère of their youth. Often they're referring to the aftershave, which is no longer made. Sadly, I cannot join the chorus. Wild Country has been reformulated into an anemic wisp of its former self. Yes, it smells archetypically "barbershop" and very "fougère," replete with standard citrus, lavender, musk, and powder, and if I really concentrate, I can appreciate its soft citrus and lavender notes. But unless I bathe in it, Wild Country barely registers to my nose. After twenty sprays, I get a mild waft of sweet tonka over a whisper of talc, and only the talc remains. It smells good, but it's too simple and short-lived. Thirty minutes later, it's as if I never applied a scent at all.

If Wild Country aftershave has held up enough to be worn, go for it. Mesmerize for Men is currently the only fragrance in my collection to have completely spoiled beyond recognition, so I'm not about to scour eBay for "vintage" Avon. Canoe, Clubman, Royal Copenhagen, and Old Spice are better options, and I wholeheartedly recommend using them instead. Canoe is a better fougère, Clubman and Royal Copenhagen are ballsier, and Old Spice is classic. Wild Country is, put frankly, pretty boring stuff.

I Bought Mesmerize For Men Years Ago And Never Wore It. The Weirdest Thing Happened.

The new bottle design, with a curlicue under the name.

Here's something that never happens. I blind buy a cheap fragrance, and by a stroke of luck discover I like it. It smells like a friendlier, fruitier version of Zino, with a pert apple top note followed by a dusky woods accord, rather like a gentle rosewood, sandalwood, and cedar melange, and surprisingly well balanced for the price.

It's right up my alley, I really like it, and inexplicably never, ever wear it. I'm drawn to its charm and recognize its value, but I snob up. It's Avon. I have Green Irish Tweed and Balenciaga Pour Homme in my wardrobe. Why the fuck would I ever wear an Avon?

So it finds its place amongst the other bottles and remains there, gathering dust for so long that I've lost count of the years. Yes, I wear it a few times, and get around to reviewing it, blog about it, etc. But is it in the rotation? No. Just no.

The other day, after my ponderous reacquaintance with Sex Appeal, I realized it was time to give Mesmerize another whirl. Extracting the bottle from its near-final resting place is like a scene from Indiana Jones. Then I crack open the Ark and whuh huuuuh-huh huh??? What. The fuck. Happened?

The crisp little citrus apple ditty of top notes is now a weird, purple violet thing, no longer edible. It slowly and painfully unfurls itself amid a howl of raw alcohol, revealing a twisted, garbled mangling of wood-like husks, the shocking remnants of what used to be a staid, coherent, remarkably conservative hue. Incredibly, the fragrance now strongly resembles my also-spoiled vintage Cool Water, with the unbridled ionones that once served the apple notes becoming a stark and abstract "fresh" scent.

A weird, messy saltiness also pervades the drydown, which I believe is how the anchoring musk note met its end. Where once it smelled clean and a bit drab, the musk now attempts an ambergris effect on a ten dollar budget. How does that work out, you ask? I won't mince words - it smells awful.

Though it is somewhat interesting, I am appalled by how this fragrance smells now. It is completely unwearable. The base does not emerge unscathed from the wreckage of the top and heart accords. No stage of the wearing experience is salvageable. My barely-used bottle of Mesmerize for Men (a now discontinued scent) is spoiled.

If anyone, including our friend at Wordpress, doubts the veracity of my claim, I will gladly send my bottle to you so you can experience it for yourself. But since I doubt anyone will care that much, I'm happy to just share this unfortunate experience with you here, and leave it at that. Mesmerize deserved better from me. I should have wore it and enjoyed it while it was still good. Rather than throw it away, I'll hold on to the bottle as physical proof that a good fragrance, not abused or misplaced in any way, can absolutely spoil with nothing more than the passage of time.

Musk Fire (Avon)

Musk Fire has such a simple title, yet somehow it's one of the coolest fragrance names out there. Somehow the idea of pairing cool sweet musk with Zippo spark turns me on. Too bad this scent disappointed me, because I was really hoping it would impress me as much as Mesmerize did. It was quite a let-down.

I want to point out that Musk Fire gets accolades from respectable noses in the blogosphere, so I shouldn't be your last stop in assessing this scent. It doesn't appeal to me personally, but it's well made and remains steeped in tradition. Musk fire's style hearkens back to the 1950s and '60s, the aftershaves and colognes that used nitro-musks and sharp citrus notes. It opens with a synthetic bergamot, lemon, and cardamom accord before switching to clean sweet musk. And that's pretty much it. Not much more to say.

A little fresh, a little spicy, a lot musky. Synthetic, yes, but no-muss, no-fuss. Still, it's kinda-sorta weird retro style isn't for me. Give it a try if you're looking for a light musk to impart that "clean shirt" vibe to co-workers and friends, without spending big bucks. If you grab another fragrance from Avon they'll probably throw this one in as a freebie.

Mesmerize for Men (Avon)

Masculine fragrances of the last thirty years have generally trended in two directions: woody-fresh and fruity-fresh, with the first category hosting things like Grey Flannel, Drakkar Noir, Zino, and Ungaro, and the second seeing Cool Water, Acqua di Gio, and Mugler Cologne. They're terrific realms to explore, with specimens of the first genre enjoying a second (or even third) wind. I was complimented today by a young female co-worker when some warm rain re-activated my Drakkar, a mere seven hours after application. Her reaction in a long line of similar reactions suggests, contrary to popular belief, that women in their twenties and thirties gravitate toward herbal-piney scents, and not just your ordinary saccharine musky-florals.

The fact that most female perfume bloggers ignore the aromatic power-fougères of yesteryear amazes me; things like Paco Rabanne, Azzaro, and Drakkar are still as effective now as they were on their release date. Today's blogroll is loaded with comments on fruity-chypres and borderline-unwearable florientals. I love you ladies, but enough with the obscure niche stuff already. Pepper your posts here and there with something about these mainstream masculine masterpieces, and address the poor, pedestrian fougère. I'm fully aware that Parfumerie Générale and L'Artisan are amazing, but I'm dying to meet the girl who dons Skin Bracer in the morning, and would much rather read what she has to say. I understand the French turn their noses up at Mr. Drakkar because he was over-used by lesbians in the eighties. If that's true, I'd like to see a fashion revival, not strictly limited to that demographic.

Which brings me to Mesmerize by Avon, a humble firm with only one notable chypre on the niche-snob radar, a certain retro celebuscent called Deneuve. With no hi-power beauty queen fronting it, I can understand how the feminine Mesmerize floundered, but the masculine version flogs all expectations. I purchased Mesmerize from a co-worker who recently decided to become an Avon rep. She let me flip through her little catalog, and I was very close to changing my mind and declining a purchase, or maybe giving Ironman a try. I don't know what happened, but I suddenly realized I liked the royal blue bottle for Mesmerize, which is the only Avon bottle that isn't Hellishly ugly, and ordered accordingly. I'm glad I did, because Mesmerize is very nice. 

Its sweet green-apple and bergamot top note is reminiscent of Cool Water and every fresh fougère since, and this aromatic fruity edge persists into the drydown. But wait - there's more to it than this - Mesmerize rapidly transforms into a warm, woody oriental in the Zino/Ungaro axis, with similar ambery overtures of precious woods (rosewood, sandalwood), vanilla, and musk. Though admittedly middle-shelf, for twenty dollars you could do much worse, and in many ways this scent is much better than competition at twice its price. The fruit notes aren't blatantly synthetic or obnoxiously "fresh" and I get a pleasant balance between the softer aromatics in the heart and base. Longevity and sillage are decent but average, clocking in at six hours and two or three feet respectively.

Given that this is sort of a Franken-scent, an unexpected combination of two hugely popular scent profiles, one might ask, 'if not Zino or Cool Water, why Mesmerize?' For the sizable phalanx of adult men under forty, this respectable little oriental (or fougèriental, if you prefer) eliminates the need for an either/or commitment to the two camps represented by those scents, and binds them both into one. Many fragrances since 1992 have tried doing this, and most have bombed. This one stays aloft, and just plain smells good. Ladies, Mesmerize is eminently wearable as an off-beat feminine, and I think female skin would bring out its mandarin and vanilla notes better than mine does. Consider this one of those share-wear frags, and go guilt free after sneaking a spritz or two in the bathroom. And yes, by all means, ignore the feminine version - Avon is capable of impressive things, but they dabble in the mundane far more often.

Derek Jeter Driven & Driven Black (Avon)

A few years ago, Avon released Derek Jeter's celebuscent, cleverly named "Driven," which I did not have an opportunity to try, because at that time I was preoccupied with finding a job. Now that I'm comfortably working, I can peruse the many subtle pleasantries this fragrance has to offer - thanks to its re-release! For reasons unknown, Avon discontinued Driven, and this must have been an unpopular move, because not only is it back, but it's back in black.

Just a quick note on Avon: Do not underestimate this company. Remember those silly plastic statuettes from the sixties and seventies, every conceivable shape and size, filled with some cheap aftershave or cologne? Those days are but fond memories. They now have serious fragrance campaigns, with several older brands represented, and some good new ones on the roster. Driven is one of them.

Jeter has publicly admitted to liking and wearing Cool Water. He has hinted that Driven is Cool Water with a few curve-balls thrown in. I agree - Driven is essentially Cool Water with fruit notes, mostly grapefruit, traded in for tobacco, apple, and cedar. It opens with a bright punch of lavender and citrus, with a little melon sweetness, and gradually moves into a minty bitterness that I can't quite describe. I've read notes lists that cite rhubarb and bamboo, but it just smells very "blue" to me. It's like they created a new and overly-abstract interpretation of lavender.

Just as I begin to feel Driven is too smooth, ozonic, modern, something good happens. The fruity blues back off, and a darker sueded leather accord emerges. This is another adjustment to the Cool Water formula, as the Davidoff scent contains a wily tobacco and cedar element that flirts with darkness to balance its freshness. Driven merely says "leather" instead of "chew." Good play. Unambitious, but commendable. If you're a fan of Cool Water, but want to try something that's stylistically more contemporary (without sacrificing quality), give Driven a few innings and see what you think. You're getting tired of all my little baseball jokes, I know. This is almost over.

Driven Black is a bit of a mystery to me. I'm anosmic to it. I get hints of it - mandarin, sage, some cedar and sandalwood. Then, a big suede note, which seems to be the bulk of things. It flits in and out, but more out, unfortunately. I like what I smell, when I'm able to smell it. But this is the only fragrance I've encountered that genuinely seems much, much too weak. Either that, or my nose just doesn't want to play ball.