Dissecting "Blue" Fragrances That Aren't Bleu: A Meditation on Perfume Synesthesia, Part Two

This is both the second part of my meditation and a review of Tabarome Millésime. Here’s the crux of it: Tabarome Millésime is the most important Creed of the 2000s, and yet no one discusses it. Before you dismiss this claim, hear me out, and then draw your own conclusions. My argument rests on a theory that ties this Creed fragrance to one of the biggest successes of 2010—a wildly popular Chanel, recognizable by its name and its signature "blue" hue.

To be clear, I’m referring to the years 2000 to 2009. Several notable Creeds came out during that decade, including Himalaya, Original Vetiver, Santal, and Virgin Island Water. While these other scents were derivative, Tabarome Millésime was a precursor to greater things. Most intriguingly, it defies its brown label and tan-green liquid. Instead, it smells like a rough draft of Bleu de Chanel—a very rough draft, mind you, but all the essential elements are present. There’s a sweet touch of citrus, followed by ginger, sandalwood, black tea, and green tobacco leaf. Hints of vetiver and mild smokiness are nestled within, while the sandalwood, dry and pale, echoes a birch note. Strangely enough, Tabarome Millésime feels more "blue" than Bleu itself.

Its resemblance to Bleu de Chanel is both fascinating and unsettling. From what I can gather, Olivier Creed is the actual perfumer behind Tabarome Millésime—not a "ghost perfumer" like Pierre Bourdon or Jean-Christophe Hérault. If this is true, it’s a monumental fact, more significant than most realize. Amidst the accusations of Olivier’s perfume “theft” and dubious business tactics, and the widespread belief that he’s more of an "evaluator" than a creator, we find ourselves in complicated territory. If Olivier’s 2000 release indeed paved the way for Chanel’s blockbuster a decade later, then he is far from inconsequential. In fact, he might even be a visionary.

So, what makes Tabarome Millésime smell vaguely "blue"? It opens with a sharp, sour citrus accord, bracing and almost unpleasant in its tartness—bergamot with a lime-like bite, only slightly softened by sweet mandarin. The ginger that follows isn’t as effervescent as I expected, but it’s deeper and rounder than anything I’ve encountered in a designer fragrance. Beneath the ginger, black tea, sandalwood, smoky-salty ambergris, and raw tobacco leaf emerge, all resting on a base of petitgrain and white musk. The composition is simple, lacking contrast and dynamism, presenting more as a single, multi-faceted note—ginger with a few supporting elements. The freshness, likely from ambergris and a cool, aqueous musk, combined with the ginger, gives the fragrance its "blue" character, evoking the sensation of crisp water and clear air.

Some reviews suggest Tabarome Millésime is ideal for the office or for older men. Luca Turin called it a "sport fragrance" and dismissed it as "mislabeled and pointless." Given how faint the tobacco note is, it might indeed be mislabeled, but pointless? I beg to differ. The gingery woods at the heart of this scent, a concept later mastered by Jacques Polge in a world-shattering perfume, carry considerable weight within the realm of masculine fragrances. One Fragrantica reviewer compared it to Dirty English by Juicy Couture, and I see the resemblance. Ironically, I’ve compared Dirty English to Bleu de Chanel in the past, referring to it as "Brun de Chanel"—Dirty English smells earthy and brown, with a streak of blue running through it. It shares enough DNA with Bleu that I view it as another stepping stone toward the final 2010 iteration of this idea. Masculine perfumery evolves in stages, a few years at a time.

Why does Dirty English evoke a color? Once again, we find the same combination of notes that parallels Tabarome Millésime and Bleu de Chanel: cedar, vetiver, smoky woods (perhaps "oud"), and a sharp, synthetic citrus note that doesn’t resemble real fruit but feels like a technicolor image of one. ISO E Super is just as prominent as the esters and aldehydes. Though far from an aquatic or ozonic fragrance, and certainly not marketed as one, Dirty English achieves a distinct "blue" tone, a fresh yet somber quality that echoes in Chanel’s later creation. To be clear, Bleu de Chanel is the most refined of these three, while Tabarome Millésime, despite its high-quality ingredients, suffers from an inferior composition and balance. Olivier’s scent feels too evenly spread, with the notes never truly playing off each other. In contrast, Dirty English, the cheapest of the trio, smells livelier—but it’s a zephyr next to Bleu de Chanel's tempest.

All of this leads to one conclusion: the best "blue" fragrances evoke the color itself, and the tranquility it suggests, without relying on tired aquatic or synthetic accords. The "blue" quality of Bleu de Chanel, Tabarome Millésime, and Dirty English stems from their ability to conjure a mood—a certain quiet, misty atmosphere, the austere beauty of nature in the early morning, before the light fully dispels the night. These fragrances inspire the sensation of a color rather than a seascape or a sunlit beach. The genius lies in the perfumer’s ability to distill this achingly familiar feeling into a scent, one that transports us to that place we all recognize as "blue."

Dissecting "Bleu" Fragrances That Aren't Blue: A Meditation on Perfume Synesthesia, Part One

In 2010, the perfume world experienced a watershed moment, much like Hollywood did in 1999. It was a year marked by great releases and intriguing innovations. Fragrances like Portrait of a Lady, Memoir Man, Eau Sauvage Extrême (new), Sartorial, Bang, Aventus, and Bleu de Chanel hit the shelves, revitalizing department stores struggling to stay afloat. Among these, it was Bleu de Chanel that captured my attention. I purchased a bottle soon after its release, though I found its backstory both plausible and dubious. Jacques Polge claimed the inspiration came from the scent of men washing and shaving in airport bathrooms—an aromatic memory he couldn't shake. To me, Bleu de Chanel embodied the apex of a movement in masculine fragrance, representing the color "blue" without invoking any of the typical "blue" scents.

What stood out most was its innovative structure and the unusual combination of notes. Ginger, a staple in men’s perfumes, was handled with a fresh, dynamic twist, alongside grapefruit, pink pepper, vetiver, incense, green tobacco, white florals, patchouli isolates, birchwood, synthetic oakmoss, and clean musk. None of these notes fell into the aquatic or ozonic categories that dominated the previous decade. Instead, they came together in a composition that smelled serene, somber, cool, and terrestrial—a shade of grey-blue that conjured inner calm. For me, the fragrance veered more towards tan or taupe, with the ginger and vetiver giving the heart a distinctive warmth. Synesthesia was in play.

As I wore Bleu de Chanel, I often pondered its origins. What perfume might have preceded it in the same way Drakkar Noir and Green Irish Tweed led to Cool Water? It felt so original that I suspected Chanel may have borrowed from a lesser-known brand. But the search for a clear predecessor proved elusive. Over time, I realized I had been misled by the "blue" marketing. I needed to explore beyond color and consider other successful mainstream fragrances. One contender that came to mind was Malizia Uomo Vetyver by Mirato. With its fresh vetiver, touches of ginger, citrus, cut grass, and neroli, it seemed to be a distant cousin of Bleu de Chanel. Yet, despite the similarities, Bleu wasn’t as overtly "green" as Vetyver. The ginger was subtler, and Vetyver’s transparent, sporty vibe didn’t carry the same gravitas as Bleu, which had an earthy, almost musty depth far removed from the frosted blue-bottle offerings at Perfumania.

I often wonder how differently I would have perceived Bleu de Chanel had it been housed in a brown bottle. Would the ginger and vetiver have spoken to me in a new way? Might I have imagined parched summer fields instead of misty autumn woods? The bottle’s color and name undeniably influenced my perception of the fragrance. Take Aqua Velva Ice Blue, a product of the 1930s that still smells remarkably modern. Its notes—menthol, citrus, peppermint, cedarwood, and abstract florals—create a balance between fresh top notes and earthier base notes, with a unique interplay of incense and leather. The parallels to Bleu de Chanel are clear, and I often wore both fragrances after a shave, with one person even remarking that I smelled “really beautiful.”

Yet, even with these comparisons, I can't shake the sense that something is missing. While Ice Blue and Vetyver share a gingery-peppery freshness, they occupy a lower tier in the commercial landscape compared to Chanel. It's hard to believe Polge would have drawn such direct inspiration from them. There’s a missing link—some forgotten fragrance in the higher echelons of the market—that quietly failed but laid the groundwork for something like Bleu de Chanel to flourish . . . 

Dior vs. Chanel: Which Brand I Prefer, and Why

I think of Dior and Chanel the way I think of Toyota and Honda: they are competitors, and one is a better deal than the other. Whenever I meet someone who is considering buying a new car, I usually tell them to look at Toyota and skip Honda. This raises the ire of my fellow car enthusiasts, who insist on the superior engine builds of Hondas, but I have reasons. Without getting too crazily in-depth about cars here, yes, Honda does make the best engines in the world. However, Toyota makes the best transmissions money can buy in the average-Joe car market, and their engines are only negligibly inferior to Honda's. 

Meanwhile, Honda's transmissions are markedly inferior, and while their engines are indeed a bit sounder and speedier, they require valve adjustments every 150K miles, while Toyota's require no such onerous (and pricy) maintenance. Also, Toyota isn't tempting fate by jamming turbos onto every tiny engine they make, which speaks better of their long-term potential compared to Honda's penchant for spooling speed. Lastly, Honda has always been the more expensive brand, and for what you get over Toyota (better "styling"), I think saving a few thousand and buying a Corolla is smarter all around. Sure, Toyotas are frumpy looking, but if getting you from points A to B is the priority, it shouldn't matter. 

Dior and Chanel are both luxury designer brands, meaning that while their popular ranges are firmly at mid-tier designer, they also offer ancillary top-tier "niche quality" perfumes that will set you back a few hundred a bottle. Both are old brands, with fashion labels driving their businesses, and both enjoy long legacies of commercial success. Both are historical game-changers in the perfume realm, both are excellent in terms of quality and variety, and both are wins, so regardless of which you prefer, if you own a bottle of something from either house, you've got something worth wearing. 

With that said, I do view them very differently on a subjective level. My perceptions of these brands are mine alone, so I encourage you to come away from this article with only a superficial interest in how my opinion tracks with your own. I have relatively limited exposure to both brands, so I don't claim to be an expert on either one. I simply have my thoughts on them, and what I think are some interesting reasons why I prefer one brand over the other. It bears mentioning that I'm 42 years old, so I'm of a generation of borderline Gen-X/Millennials that tends to view anything from the eighties and nineties through rose-colored glasses, so take that for what it's worth. 

I'm judging these brands using three metrics: Quality, Wearability, and Innovation. In terms of quality, I'm referring to the quality of materials, design aesthetic, and the overall conception of fragrances. With wearability I'm strictly considering which fragrances are "friendlier" or "easier" to just pick up and wear without having to worry about pissing anyone off. With innovation, I'm considering which brand is more forward-footed in style. There are some crossover winners in each category, but ultimately one brand of the two is a bit ahead of the game, and it might not be so obvious which it is, just from guessing. 

Let's start with quality, and Dior. Lately Christian Dior's marketing has been hyperfocused on Sauvage, their new flagship masculine. I say "new" advisedly; Sauvage is nine years old. For almost a full decade now, this fragrance has been the sun around which their other perfumed planets orbit. It is in their mid-tier line, priced at $120 for 100 ml, which is reasonable. What do you get for your money? I've never been all that enamored with Sauvage's aesthetic. The faded black-to-blue glass, the simple no-frills bottle, the black magnetic cap, all seem drab and uninviting. I don't see Sauvage on the counter and think, "I want to smell that." I think it's as dull and neutral as a brand can get, shy of putting out an unmarked tin. It's as anticlimactic as Clinique's Happy. was back in the nineties. "Savage" stuff, with all the savagery bled out of it. 

Sauvage is a blatantly synthetic fragrance, but that isn't surprising. Most of Dior's frags are blatantly synthetic. LVMH has access to the most expensive materials in the world, yet Sauvage smells like anybody could have cobbled it together. When it was released in 2015, the talk was about its intensive Ambroxan base, which was considerably louder and brasher than most of what came before. In Dior's case, the Ambroxan was clearly meant to be a "trendsetter" material, and indeed it was: after its release, Sauvage wound up spawning dozens of imitators, be they competitors (Luna Rossa Carbon), clones (Ventana), or just frags that wanted to cash in on what had become an Ambrox Craze (Office One). I found Sauvage to be a surprisingly unorthodox designer masculine, simply because the intensity of its accords and perversely traditional note structure (bergamot, pepper, lavender, cedar) seemed weirdly novel. 

Like it or hate it, the original Sauvage EDT of 2015 was well made, but not a standout in terms of material quality. It has that decidedly "designer" feel to it, of brash synthetic peppers comingling with equally loud woody ambers and fakey-fake ambergris/Ambrox, and at no point does wearing the original fragrance (the only version I mean to comment on here) make me want more. This isn't something I need to own. I'm not impressed with the "feel" of Sauvage. Yes, it's good. I get why guys love it. And yes, it works. This is a solid clubber scent, classier than most per its avoidance of trite caramel cliches. But Sauvage is something that endures in spite of itself, a fragrance that survives on the unlimited incomes of greaseball playboys who think every Thursday night is college night for the rest of their lives. This isn't a fragrance that serious fragrance connoisseurs think deep thoughts about. 

If the bergamot were a little less piercing, if the herbal/floral notes were a bit softer, if whatever chem is responsible for all that peppery "fizziness" were dialed back, and if the Ambroxan weren't so keyed up at the end, I think Sauvage would feel like something I could own. This gets us to wearability: Sauvage EDT is loud (the EDP is apparently not much better). Go easy on the trigger with this stuff. It fills rooms. It precedes its wearer. It's one of those things that sticks around long after you've left the building. Sauvage is wearable in that it's not a bad composition, but it's a bit tricky in the sense that you have to gauge how much is too much, and base that in part on weather conditions, temperature, and whatever activity you intend to partake in (indoor/outdoor). You can wear one spray with confidence, but two sprays might be too much. 

Is it innovative? Here's where Dior excels: Sauvage joins the esteemed ranks of older titles like Poison, Fahrenheit, Dune, and J'Adore as a marquee name that invented a new approach to synthetics. Here, the approach was simply to overload on Amroxan until your nosehairs hurt. But it worked, and it influenced literally every brand from here to Qatar in the years since. Here I am, nine years later, still writing about Sauvage. That says something. But like I said, Dior has always been avant-garde. Poison was terrifying in its intensity in the eighties, a floral nightmare in a black bottle that lasted for eons and boasted sillage that traversed city blocks. Fahrenheit was a novel accord of mown grass mixed with petrol and a hint of sweet florals. Dune was dry and fresh and weird. J'Adore was sweet and dusky and sultry, and all of these Dior fragrances are of a kind that are never forgotten once they've been smelled. Try them once, and you've irrevocably advanced your understanding of modern perfumery. 

This means Dior is the more stylish brand, the "edgier," faster label. If you want to play it safe, you don't look to Dior. Even Dior Homme, which is ostensibly their signature masculine, is a metrosexual homage to iris, a powdery lipstick kiss branded as a masculine. It doesn't get any more subversive than that. Yet Dior Homme's material quality isn't a heck of a lot higher than something like Michel Germaine's Deauville, which was a trailblazer in 1999 for having an intense iris note front and center in a mainstream masculine. Don't get me wrong, Dior is using better materials, but they're not so much better that spending the extra hundred dollars for a bottle of Dior Homme is a slam-dunk. I could just as easily spring for a ten dollar bottle of Deauville and get a satisfying iris fix, even if the material quality might be noticeably inferior. 

This brings me to Chanel. If we take a look at Chanel's flagship masculine, Bleu de Chanel, we find ourselves with something comparable to Sauvage in both presentation and scope. While it is just as muted in packaging style, a simple dark grey-blue glass square with a black magnetic cap, Bleu has something that Sauvage lacks: it is a true "remake" of a classic Chanel fragrance. The original Bleu de Chanel was released in 1931 alongside the accompanying "Rouge de Chanel" and "Beige de Chanel," and was a product of Gabrielle Chanel's salad days.

This fragrance smelled nothing like the current version, which is merely a revival of the name and not the fragrance, but it ties into a full-circle evolution of Chanel's branding, which by 1940 was largely limited to Chanel N° 5. Here we see that Bleu was indeed a smaller fragrance that was probably limited in release, and sat untouched in the archives at 31 Rue Cambon for decades before a brief ever crossed Jacques Polge's desk. Polge has divulged that his inspiration for his revival of Bleu was gleaned from years of shaving in airport lavatories, surrounded by men and their aftershaves, with a distinctly herbal-fresh glow following him all the way to the little square blue bottle we now know to be Chanel's modern masterpiece. 

The quality of Bleu de Chanel eau de toilette is leagues above that of Sauvage. This is inarguable. Where Sauvage's bergamot bites like a hungry wolf, Bleu's silvery lemon caresses the air in an aldehydic fizz, smelling life-like and rounded. Where Sauvage's peppery ambers ensconce the wearer, Bleu's minty ginger and vetiver ensemble settles into a refined hum. Where Sauvage's scratchy Ambroxan base bellows from the rooftops, Bleu's iso E Super and incense/patchouli base accord simply states that it is present, smelling crisp and civilized. Every note is accounted for, every element is crystalline, clear, and yet integral to the whole experience, the mark of a truly beautiful perfume. It may not win awards for being the world's most natural fragrance, but Bleu de Chanel EDT smells significantly better and more natural than Sauvage. 

Chanels are, in general, very conservative fragrances. Where Dior pushes the envelope, Chanel pushes the past. Traditionalism, civility, and maturity are all inherent to the Chanel brief. Look at what they offer: Antaeus is the most daunting of the line, and it is simply an animalic woody-floral chypre with an abundance of castoreum, which at this point has been neutered down to being barely there anyway. Beyond this one aberration, Chanel's range is unremittingly "safe," with things like Allure, L'Égoïste, Cristalle, and Chanel Pour Monsieur filling out their catalog. At no point in the Chanel lexicon does anyone think, "This shit is crazy." You might think that if you're not used to smelling gasoline in your grassy masculines and you've just sprayed Fahrenheit for the first time. Not so much after a spritz of liquid kitchen spice-and-sandalwood L'Égoïste. Even Platinum L'Égoïste is simply a familiar Cool Water-inspired freshie with your expected lavender and garrigue motif. 

Thus Chanels are intrinsically more wearable than your average Dior fragrance. When you really think about it, Diors aren't typically the safest perfumes out there. Conceptually speaking, their edginess is pretty established. If you're someone who wishes to smell unique, you wear Dior. If you're someone who wishes to smell unmistakably good, you turn to Chanel. This isn't to say that Dior's offerings smell less than good -- many Diors smell incredible -- it simply says that smelling incredible is a "maybe" with Dior, while it's virtually a guarantee with Chanel. I can't think of a single Chanel fragrance that doesn't smell indulgently beautiful. Sure, they may not be "exciting" per say, but if you appreciate beauty, you might find your heart flutters a bit faster upon smelling a Chanel. 

Pour Monsieur in its EDP form is yet another starched and buttoned-up offering, and I think it's a very good, albeit somewhat secondary fragrance. I was never one to jump on the Pour Monsieur bandwagon, as I consider it little more than a landmark masculine from an age when most houses did not offer masculines (but were starting to, 1955). Here is where Dior may have an advantage. Eau Sauvage, released eleven years after Pour Monsieur, took the fresh citrus chypre idea and one-upped it with Edmond Roudnitska's genius insertion of Hedione, which smells like liquid sex. Give me a bottle of the original Eau Sauvage over Pour Monsieur any day of the week. Eau Sauvage is simply the better fragrance, and it stands the test of time, smelling just as elegant and alluring as ever. 

Pour Monsieur, in contrast, smells dated and a bit stodgy, simply because Henri Robert had modeled it on classical eau de colognes without looking to modern tech, which was more Roudnitska's bag. Edmond Roudnitska's name is inextricably tied to Dior, as he was the author of the famous "Dior Twins," starting with Diorama in 1949 and ending with Diorissimo in 1956. Roudnitska wasn't wedded to "naturals" and standard synthetics. He was pioneering in his embrace of novel synthetic molecules, famously adding Calone 1951 to Diorissimo, in perhaps its very first mainstream application in perfumery. If we look at Dior through the Roudnitska lens, we see a brand that achieved greatness. 

But while I appreciate the past foibles of its pioneering nose, I view the Dior of today as the Honda of perfumery, i.e., more style than substance. Yeah, Dior is stylish and edgy and "fast" and fun. You can better handle sharp turns wearing Fahrenheit or Dior Homme than you can in the languorous Allure Homme or L'Égoïste. But the truth is, Fahrenheit and Dior Homme (and Sauvage) will wear out faster. You don't see many guys who wear Fahrenheit as their "signature" fragrance, their daily driver. There's a reason for that. You don't see a lot of guys in the real world (outside our fragcom bubble) who actually wear Dior Homme to work every day. There's a reason for that. Even Eau Sauvage, as lovely as it is, isn't really in the rotation on the regular anymore. There's a reason for that. Dior is the brand you take for a test drive when you want excitement, but you don't take it home. 

Chanel is the take-home house. Chanel is the Toyota of perfumery. Rounded edges, no sharp curves, all fuzzy and soft and comfortable, but nothing so amazingly sexy or seductive as J'Adore will ever grace Channel's range. The Chanel girl is classic. She fashions herself after Marilyn Monroe. She wears pearls and N° 5, and it's the "nothing else" part that makes you perk up and notice. The Chanel guy is dependable, sturdy, the rock you lean on in hard times. He wears Bleu, or if he's really testosterone-laden, Antaeus. He rolls up in Allure Homme or Allure Homme Blanche, and he smiles, and he waves, and his teeth gleam, and you feel better knowing he's in the neighborhood, because there are still American men living here. You know you'll get there with Chanel. You're pretty sure you'll get there with Dior. It's not a fair trade, if you actually sit down and look at the specs of these two brands. One gives you excitement, but some of that excitement might be from getting stuck in the driveway at six a.m. with a dead battery. You thought you wanted to wear Sauvage, but the Ambroxan is already giving you a headache, and it's almost not too late to head back inside for Tylenol. 

Of the two, I prefer Chanel. Let's face it, people: Chanel manages acre after acre of its own fields of flowers, just so it can get natural yield of distillates and butters to use in their products. This is a brand that, despite the knocks it takes for being unadventurous and "safe," takes perfumery seriously. It continues in that direction, despite the more recent anodyne approach of aftershave-inspired Bleu. At least Chanel sticks to what it does best, and keeps its aesthetic timeless and "chic." Not once has the house jumped the shark. 

Dior is a little less dependable, a little more synthetic and abrasive, and perhaps even a bit less serious in overall scope. While I don't think the perfumers at Dior are phoning it in, I do think its LVMH corporate overlord is more interested in plastering Johnny Depp's face everywhere than it is in releasing a truly great perfume. Chanel remains privately owned by the Wertheimer family, and is thus not beholden to a larger conglomerate with all the potential conflicts of interest that can arise when a parent company has "visions" for brands in its portfolio. That's a better baseline, and helps me sleep better. 

Is Nautica Life a Bleu de Chanel Clone?

If you hop on Fragrantica and read reviews for Nautica Life (2014), you'll find that a sizable number of them compare it to Bleu de Chanel (2010). I thought this was interesting, because there are a limited number of things that get compared to BdC, despite its being a resounding success. Unlike Drakkar Noir and Cool Water, Bleu hasn't been cloned to death, with only the occasional copycat appearing over the past thirteen years. 

Nautica is one of those slightly downmarket designer brands that had one massive success (Voyage) and countless minor "meh" frags that people buy as Christmas presents for cousins and nephews. All of them are "fresh" fragrances that are either blue or blue-grey in color, and they all tend to lean in the aquatic direction. I spotted a small bottle of Life on eBay for under fifteen dollars, so I purchased it, wondering if it was indeed a sleeper clone of BdC. But frankly, I'm more interested in if it isn't a clone at all, and is merely being misrepresented as one by clueless noses on Fragrantica. It's easy to say something smells like something else, but at some point you have to show receipts. 

When I received my bottle, it was an advertisement for cheapness. The outer plastic had peeled off the box, which was dented in one corner. The cap doesn't stay on the bottle, and the bottle has a minor leak around the atomizer. It's a solid glass bottle, which in itself isn't cheap, but between the drips and the useless cap, it feels every bit like a chintzy cheapo. The juice is a very light grey-blue, almost clear, and the vaporizer stem is shrouded in a material meant to resemble sailor's rope. I actually like that little touch. I gave it a couple of spritzes, and had to prime the atomizer, which meant it was genuinely new. What hit my skin was surprising, and I had to hunker down with this scent to understand it. 

The top notes are sea salt, lime, ginger, and sage. All of those notes are evident in the first minute. The salt effect is very pronounced, as is the sage, with the citrus and ginger elements secondary. Ten minutes later, it dries down to a base that smells a lot like the top, but with a distinctly woodier quality, slightly spicy, and ensconced in lingering sage, ginger, and salt. The saltiness alludes to a marine dimension, while the sage and ginger form a weirdly woody undercurrent that Nautica claims is "hinoki wood," a Japanese aromatic wood. None of this smells blatantly like Bleu de Chanel, but the more it dries down, the more I can smell the comparison. Still, I think Life is its own thing. 

My sense is that the pairing of ginger and dry woody notes is what spurs people to compare Life to Bleu, which also pairs ginger and woods. But the Chanel is a rich, multifaceted masterpiece, with discernible layers of vetiver, incense, cedar, labdanum, and patchouli. It smells vibrant and fresh, while also smoky and dry, with its material quality obvious, and its profile unmistakable. If I have to search for Bleu de Chanel in something, it doesn't smell like it. While Life does have a vaguely similar mating of camphoraceous ginger and dry wood, the stars of the show are salt and sage, both of which push through the strongest. Life is also far simpler, and its gentle waftings of herbs and residual sea salt are reminders that whoever put the scent together had the sense to keep it basic. 

Would I recommend Nautica Life to a fragrance aficionado? Probably not, but if the subject of inexpensive "quasi-aquatics" of the last fifteen years came up, I would mention it. Aquatics really hit their stride in the 2000s, with Bulgari's Aqua pour Homme setting the bar for what would be fifteen years of Bulgari wannabes, nearly all in the designer market, and most for under ten dollars an ounce. Things like Guess Man and Montblanc Starwalker were standard woody-fresh masculines of the era, all alluding to the aquatic, but without going full-bore into it (they contain "watery" notes). Life, coming later in the game, carries on that tradition, with obvious non-aquatic notes of herbs and woods, tinged with sea salt and bitter citrus, which in this case smells a bit sour, but sort of works. 

Buicks And Bleu de Chanel EDP

Finally took a picture of my car!

I've been a bit busy this month. The winter of 2015 will forever be on my shit list, because it killed my 2001 Pontiac Sunfire, a car that I really liked and enjoyed driving for the better part of ten years. It had a good transmission and a surprisingly roomy interior, with decent pickup for a four-banger, and a nice automatic sunroof that I'll miss. The unrelentingly frigid temperatures finally had their way with the heater core and head gasket, which forced me to look for a new vehicle. Which I found rather quickly, as you can see above.

I traded up on the GM ladder and went for a car that I've always loved, an eighth generation Buick LeSabre Custom. Whenever I see these things in parking lots I stop and drool, and given that I desperately needed a car on very short notice, and a local garage just happened to have a LeSabre with very low miles (and at a great price), lemons became lemonade. Maybe it's revenge for how the universe robbed me of my beloved 1985 Chrysler Fifth Avenue, or the car gods finally gave me a break after cycling me through two Cavaliers (the Sunfire is just a rebranded Cavalier), but I had to have this car, and now that I do, I love it even more than I thought I would.

It's big. Really, really fucking big. It doesn't look quite that big on the outside, but it's a 16 footer and a six-seater with enough trunk space to fit two adult bodies, with room to spare. These big romantic American cars are like catnip to me. We tend to screw up on most things, but when it comes to cars, America is where it's at. Sorry, Europe and Asia. You can keep your Opals and Peugeots and Toyotas and Suzukis. Don't care for 'em. Maybe having an 18 gallon gas tank and a hood the size of an air hockey table is impractical and more than a little dumb. I don't care. Big cars are hot.

Anyway, on to Bleu de Chanel EDP. What can I say? This fragrance smells amazing. The EDT is rather Chevrolet, but the Parfum is a Buick. Maybe even a Caddy. I'm still not wild about this fragrance, but I do like the EDP quite a bit. It's very, very similar to the EDT, but it's richer, smoother, deeper, and a little more dynamic, with a very shimmery, almost Creed-like ginger/citrus/labdanum top accord that shifts effortlessly into an ambery incense that goes on for hours, and smells incredible.

Why does it smell better than the EDT when it's basically the same composition? Maybe it's the richer labdanum note that clinches it, along with a more lucid ginger, and juicier citrus notes. It's pretty much the original BdC, now in digital surround sound. There's pink pepper in there also, and what smells like a faint hint of rose, sweet and almost boozy, which makes it more unisex, something I might prefer on a woman.

In any case, if I can ever afford another bottle of perfume again, I'll try and make it a bottle of BdC EDP. The EDT is a compliment mill, so I imagine the EDP will really drive 'em wild. Bravo, Chanel. Keep up the good work!

Macy's Surprises Me

I still have a cold, so I'm not quite ready to review anything yet, unfortunately. But I recently received a Macy's gift card, and whenever that happens I do a little inner eye-roll and wonder what the hell I'm going to spend it on. $25 at Macy's is a generous gift, but the store is devoid of options when it comes to fragrance. The only quality options are the original Polo, Polo Sport, Drakkar Noir, and the original Allure Homme (and maybe Bleu de Chanel, if you're forgiving). Last time I used a gift card, which was back in January or February, I bought a 1.7 oz bottle of Bleu, just to give it a fair shot, and so far I rarely find myself reaching for it. I don't mind it when I wear it, but its heavy reliance on iso-E Super, and its bland woody-amber characteristics don't make much of an impression on me. It's also one of the few Chanels that garnered negative comments. One woman asked if I was wearing Axe. Ouch.

I trudged back to the mall this morning, expecting to find the usual Macy's fare - some of the Allure Sport line, Bleu, Platinum, and maybe Pour Monsieur's "concentrate," which would actually be the best option, given the circumstances. At least it has a barbershoppy vibe that wouldn't be out of place in my collection, although truth be told, I'm perfectly happy without it. Lately in Connecticut I'm not even seeing the American version of Pour Monsieur in stores anymore. I'm doubtful it sells well, with its drab grey packaging and unusual scent. American guys are likely to pass over it for AdG. So imagine my surprise when I approached the Chanel counter, and within five seconds spotted one lonely 3.4 oz bottle of Antaeus standing shoulder to shoulder between Allure Homme Sport and Bleu. WTF?

The saleswoman approached me and I abruptly said to her, "I'll take the Antaeus, please." I didn't give her time to say anything to me. She stopped before she could roll out her "can I help you" thing, and switched right to, "Oh, wow. Ok, you really know what you want! That's nice, for a change." I nodded and smiled, probably a Cheshire cat smile, and five minutes later walked out with it, at a steep discount thanks to both the card, and a 16% rewards card membership. Without fully comprehending what had happened, I drove away with a brand-new bottle of Antaeus.

I reviewed Antaeus back in 2011 after smelling it a few times in European airports, and I was generally unimpressed with it. Judging by the fact that airports often have older bottles of older fragrances on their tester shelves, the version I smelled in Czech Republic (which was the last place I smelled it) was likely a slightly older formula, perhaps before Chanel pared all the oakmoss and castoreum out of it. To sum up, Antaeus has always smelled very good to me, but it's up against stiff competition, and I think the competition beats it. Luca Turin calls it a "cigar-box woody," and it's definitely cast from an 80s mold. Still, I don't fully agree with his assessment, as it's a fairly citric, floral chypre, with a pleasant twist of vetiver in the base, and the heavier Bois du Portugal-like, lavender/woody-amber quality of 80s boxwoods isn't really what Antaeus is about. There are, however, distinct woody notes in its heart, and there's no denying it's a woody fragrance for Chanel, so I guess I see Turin's point. Compared to Kouros and Balenciaga Pour Homme, Antaeus is rather staid and unadventurous, albeit well-composed, classy, and likable enough.

Smelling it again today, in its current formulation, brings to light one new realization: its quality of materials is a cut above the usual Chanel department store fare, and right in line with Chanel's Les Exclusifs range. In fact, I'd say Antaeus is a better buy than anything in the Les Exclusifs line, simply because it's stronger and more durable than those surprisingly weak fragrances. Of course there are the "vintage fanatics" who feel that IFRA regs have ruined the scent altogether and rendered the current stuff unworthy, but it's a load of hogwash - if you put Antaeus up against things like Prada Luna Rossa and Polo Double Black, you'll find its complexity, depth, and smoothness are all miles better. The fact that it no longer contains oakmoss or strong animalics isn't a big deal, especially when Kouros still contains stronger animalics, and still smells better, and not to mention Balenciaga, which smells better than all of them.

I've included a few photographs of my bottle, just so Antaeus fans can see what markings to look for, what cap shape to look for, and can compare mine to older and/or counterfeit bottles. I understand older bottles have markings on the bottom of the bottle - the new stuff has nothing on the bottom. The final question is, how did Antaeus end up at a Macy's? I would have asked the saleswoman, but she didn't look old enough to know what the hell she was talking about, and even if she did know, it would be impossible for her to account for how a Chanel that isn't stocked by Macy's could wind up there. Nevertheless, I'm glad someone screwed up.

N°19 Eau de Toilette (Chanel)

Although it has unfairly been called a "bitchy" fragrance for cold, "wire mother" types, N°19 EDT has proven time and again that it is in fact a friendly floral-green composition, full of softened edges. I've yet to wear the EDP and parfum extrait, so I can't comment on those, and they very well could be meaner than the EDT. But true to its advertising, I find the lower concentration of 19 to be full of spring colors and smiles. Compared to its snarling Panther sister, Jacomo Silences, it's just a frisky little kitty in a dewey glen.

The main difference between this Chanel and Silences rests in the uses of citrus and galbanum. N°19 opens with fresh bergamot and iris, commendably the same Biolandes synthetic and orris tincture found in the pricier Les Exclusifs, with its velvety, truffle-like aspect carefully balancing a few drops of gin-dry fruit. Galbanum and oakmoss are present, but noticeably muted, lending just enough bitterness to last into the far drydown. Pale shades of rose, hyacinth, and muguet bring sweetness and warmth to the heart, which rests on a simple base of vetiver and musk.

N°19 is very green and cool, but it lacks Silence's eeriness. Jacomo's interpretation of the green theme begins with an intense, almost overwhelming cloud of grey galbanum, with no bergamot, or any discernible citrus to speak of. If you squint, you can just barely catch the same dessicated edging of woody citrus found in fragrances like Grey Flannel and Polo, but it remains lost behind that incredibly bitter top note. Eventually iris and hyacinth push their petals through the haze, and Jacomo's very different approach to iris becomes obvious; Chanel consistently renders a "true" iris, while Jacomo, perhaps due to budget constraints, opts for an abstract, powdery-grey gauze. In conjunction with crisp hyacinth, muguet, and rose on a near-identical base of vetiver, oakmoss, and musk, Silences is but an angrier N°19. I must say, I prefer it to 19, for that reason alone.

Nevertheless, 19 smells terrific and is notably quieter than Silences, which may make it easier to wear. The great thing about these green florals (I'd call them green-floral chypres, but purists would howl about the absence of labdanum) is their ability to usurp fresh ozonics and sports aquatics while maintaining an air of discreet sophistication. They're aloof and unsavory, dry enough for men to pull off without feeling self-conscious, and fresh enough for the dead heat of summer. There's really no excuse to wear Polo Blue or Chrome, not while these are still being made. And it saddens me that today's woman reaches for the sweets instead of these classy sours, as the many Angel flankers and "body mists" found in malls far outnumber classical chypres.

How can I impart to women of the twenty-first century that they're sexier in iris and vetiver than cassis and ethyl maltol? Hard to say, but I can tell them here and now that N°19 is Lady Brett Ashley in a bottle, so go read your Hemingway, travel the world, and figure yourself out. I'll be here when you get back.

Re-Thinking Bleu de Chanel

Back in October of 2011 I wrote that Bleu de Chanel and I have no future. My review was brief and simply described the basic impressions I got, note-wise and in general, of this strange department store offering from Chanel. In short, I had nothing good to say, and felt that Bleu was trivial generic nonsense from a brand that usually does better. I can't redact my opinion because there's a lot of merit to it, and numerous enthusiasts across the internet echo my sentiments, although some seem to hold the brand to unrealistic expectations. I've always felt that Chanel was a touch overrated, with heavily synthetic compositions that rarely hide their mass-market nature, but that doesn't mean they haven't done some interesting and successful things in the last twenty years. 

The original Allure Homme was a resounding success, commercially and stylistically, and was something I wore exclusively for ten years. It has since been reformulated and changed a bit, but remains a "new classic" in contemporary masculine perfumery. Numerous flankers followed suit, and then a couple years ago Bleu de Chanel hit the market, and every guy from here to Paris was intrigued by it. I felt it was nice, but smelled like deodorant. That's not necessarily a put-down - deodorant usually smells good - but it's not exactly a compliment, either.

I'm wearing Bleu de Chanel as I write this, considering its nature with more thought than before. I'm pondering what a fragrance like Bleu means for Chanel, and for the American male. This fragrance is very popular here in Connecticut, and has been selling like hotcakes according to the SA I spoke with today at the Macy's in Milford. It's gotten to the point where Bleu stands almost alone on store shelves, with only the original Allure, the two Sport flankers, and PE keeping it company. 

I don't know why Macy's stopped offering the "White" edition of Allure, but Chanel still sells it from their web site, so whatever. Sniffing Allure Homme Sport again today, I was struck by how ridiculously generic THAT one smells. I mean, yikes. Aldehyde overload, tons of grey citrus, and that magazine-strip woody-amber drydown that's strong enough to liquify your pituitary gland. It's a dismal entry in the Allure line, and not something I'd ever be compelled to buy. The salesman didn't even want to pitch it to me. He was a bit more enthusiastic about Bleu, though, and I guess I can see why. It's a better fragrance.

I went ahead and used a gift card to buy a small bottle of Bleu, because smelling it today made me realize that this fragrance is just interesting enough to warrant exploring after all. Bleu makes it hard to do this, though. Its opening isn't that far removed from AH Sport, although I think it has a mellower aldehyde effect on top. The citrus notes are designer-grade, blatantly synthetic, and very cold, grey, humorless. You don't really feel like you're smelling lemons and grapefruits here (Adam Levine's new signature masculine, on the other hand, smells like grapefruit galore), but rather some sort of unripe, frozen analog of citrus, frosted with aldehydes. Sort of like citrus that's been sliced open two weeks prior to when it's really edible, and then tossed in the freezer for a half hour. 

The effect is fresh, cold, weird. The aldehydes make it feel like generic rubbish for the first minute or so, but give it enough time and smell what grey citrus notes are like. I actually don't mind grey citrus (4711 is a grey citrus), because it doesn't denote the use of junk in a formula to me. It just puts the citrus idea in a different category of "fresh" - i.e., not juicy.

Then there's an ashen ginger-mint-nutmeg-cedarwood accord that is just as frigid and colorless as the opening. It smells clean, it smells cold, and it smells like a March morning in frost-bitten woods. The woodiness of Bleu is prominent once it dries down and loses its opening luster. But I'm struck by how the "bleu" concept has been applied here. It's not "blue" in the aquatic sense, or even in the ozonic sense. It's "blue" in the woody amber sense, with those cold amber tones, rarest of rare things, used harmoniously together to form one hell of a weird, dry, deodorizing effect. Indeed, Bleu still smells quite a lot like deodorant to me, but at this stage the pinkness of some grapefruit from earlier, plus a hint of patchouli and labdanum, make this arguably the nicest deodorant a man could buy. Speed-stick, eat your heart out . . .

When it comes to masculine freshness I usually go with Cool Water as the old faithful, and enjoy Aqua Velva when it comes to shaving, but I now understand how this piercing, woody-fresh offering from Chanel can carry on the masculine tradition of smelling fresh, blue, and clean, without succumbing to the pitfalls of your usual aquatic and "sport" fragrances. It's not the stuff of greatness, and possibly not even all that good, depending on who you ask (if you ask me, it's the best of a mediocre lot), but I've forgiven Bleu de Chanel its banality because it keeps me coming back to it, and presents me with an option for when I want to smell like the cold death of morning on my way to work.

Chance (Chanel)

The weird thing about Chanel is that they try to have two entirely separate perfumery styles from two different countries: France, and America. Chanel's mass-produced perfume division was originally an American enterprise (WWII forced the French Gabrielle to move the perfume factory to New Jersey), and much of its contemporary fragrance line is manufactured here in the United States, but I smell within the department store and "Les Exclusifs" ranges a minor difference in compositional approach. The Allure line, while continental in style, speaks to the dominance of fresh fougères and orientals in the American market of the nineties, and Bleu de Chanel continues to address our love of all things squeaky-clean. Coco Mademoiselle and Chance in particular feel very American, stylistically speaking, although all of these perfumes draw from French influences, using tonalities and olfactory textures of fresh chypres, aromatic fougères, and ambery orientals to achieve postmodern duality and versatility.

The Les Exclusifs, on the other hand, aren't nearly as rosy-cheeked and red-checker tableclothed, or at least they're not meant to be. There's more than a little Franco-American haughtiness to 31 Rue Cambon (it puts on airs), a faux-sophistication to Coromandel, that's intended to reach out to a different mindset altogether. You aren't supposed to wear Coromandel while sipping Orange Julius with girlfriends at the mall in Westbrook. I mean, you can do that by all means, and it wouldn't raise eyebrows, but it does raise the question - would you spend over a hundred dollars for a Chanel if you only wore it slumming? I tend to think that the Les Exclusifs are aimed at the "hip" adult who doesn't mind donning blue jeans and getting ice cream at Baskin Robbins if evening tickets to the opera are nestled comfortably in the hip pocket. Elegance goes anywhere and everywhere, after all.

Chance, however, doesn't say anything about elegance, American or otherwise, and that's my problem with it. This perfume feels unoriginal and mundane, and maddeningly comfortable in its own "unoriginally-mundane" skin. Its olfactory cues are borrowed from Coco Mademoiselle and Allure, and what smells to me like an assorted array of Estee Lauder perfumes. Jacques Polge has big love for that transparent and synthetic patchouli that he crams into every one of his feminine creations. Chanel's image is conservative, with a slew of "safe" masculines and feminines, and I think the company fails at dividing its customer base into separate camps of well-to-dos, and well-to-don'ts. Luca Turin contends otherwise, and I see what he's saying, but disagree with the suggestion that two different kinds of people shop Chanel perfumes, and further disagree with the contention that Chanel manufactures two types of perfumes for two kinds of buyer.

By default, the department store perfumes would have to possess a certain degree of tawdriness and vulgarity to qualify as sneaker juice (the sort people have fun with, anyway), and none of them do. The Les Exclusifs would need a homogeneity of classical form, and none of them share that. I should be able to wear Coromandel and feel as enthralled with its contours as I do wearing 31 Rue Cambon, and smell the same quality design work in Jersey and Cologne, but that's not in the cards. 31 awakens my inner Doubting Thomas, and Coromandel makes me think of Zino (and I suppose if I'd tried it, Lutens' Borneo). Thus far the only Chanel that truly bridges these cognitive schisms is the inimitable N°19. I'll get to that one later.

There's also something a little played-out about Chance. I return to 1997 whenever I smell it, despite its being a 2003 release. The freshness of its pink pepper, citrus, plastic patchouli, and flowers combine to make a simple and happy scent. I appreciate the use of jasmine and iris, although both components are dialed down to an extraordinarily low setting. Like many Chanels, Chance comes across as a little too formulaic and uninspired. There's absolutely nothing wrong with its message - it smells delightful on the right woman, and obviously wants men to notice her, but I can do that without any help.  

The message from Chance should be that the woman wearing it wants you to overlook her physical attributes in favor of her "self," her intellect and motivations. That requires tension, something to pull away from poles of sweet glamour and divide the senses. Chance could use a wallop of civet or castoreum against a touch of rose or overripe plum. It could use something more than what it currently offers, in any of its incarnations (there are several flankers). But I guess with Chanel's latest releases, there's no chance of that. Wear this one to Hoboken, with evening tickets to the latest Robert Downey Jr. flick, and don't think twice about it.

Coco Eau de Toilette (Chanel)

One of the oft-spoken truths about postmodern perfumery is that the difference in concentration between a perfume's Eau de Parfum and its Eau de Toilette counterpart undoubtedly equates to a difference in structure. Yes, both concentrations share the same name, but in actuality they're two different fragrances altogether. Sometimes the differences are subtle, not played-up in any overt manner, and are merely examples of how a particular fragrance profile can vary (Green Irish Tweed and Cool Water are good examples - I've always felt that the latter is the EDT version of the former). In the case of Chanel, the differences can be more extreme. Coco EDP is a rich, dense, fruity, spicy oriental, big-boned and big-haired in a darkly eighties tradition. I have little use for that concentration, but the EDT is more accessible and easier to wear. Neither version fits my personal style, but the design aesthetic of Coco EDT is something I admire.

The original perfume was Jacques Polge's first creation for the house of Chanel, and as such reads as a Big Bang theorem on his stylistic trajectory with the company. He started working with all of his hallmark signature notes crammed together in Coco's gravity-challenged tapestry, and as his design sense evolved, these elements dispersed and often became the centers of their own separate universes. Just look at how Polge handles synthetic patchouli today, compared to thirty years ago. Ditto for stewed stone fruits, resins, and even aldehydes. Allure, Chance, and Coco Mademoiselle all bear some relation to the original Coco, and I find it fascinating that this famous nose has never directly addressed his ever more casual approach to structure and composition. If Chanel's notes-as-cosmic gases keep expanding away from each other like this, Polge's work will someday become indistinguishable from Jean-Claude Ellena's.

I can smell a semblance of this in Coco EDT. It opens with the usual pop of aldehydes, but enters fuzzy, "Chanel-esque" territory very quickly, with transparent and dry-sweet notes of opoponax and myrrh supporting a looser semblance of the parfum's amber. Unlike Coco EDP, the EDT's amber has a dryer, cooler aspect, and never feels overwrought. I don't get much citrus out of the EDT, but if I exhale from a sniff close to skin, I get a slight orange note, and perhaps a hint of peach. It's not a stretch to think the molecules found in citrus rinds were simply stripped of their fruity associations and molded into characterless aldehydes for this perfume. The floral notes are the least successful element, smelling neither green nor creamy, but rather aloof, flatly sweet, and powdery. This sends Coco's vibe into the granny zone for me, a place I rarely find myself. But every woman has her own skin chemistry and personal style, and there's no doubt that this lighter, fresher version of Coco, while different from its source material, satisfies those who understand it best. Expect seven hours of longevity and a good throw of three or four feet in projection, and apply sparingly - as with all Chanels, this one has punch.

Coromandel EDT (Chanel)

If you are at least remotely acquainted with the historic marvels that are Coromandel screens, you know they're very special and insanely beautiful items. Layer after layer of heavy lacquer is applied to each panel, with incised half-tone colored images inlaid between them. They've become rather rare to see nowadays, and are often found in museums. There's plenty of olfactory imagery built into the material concept of these screens, at least for me. I imagine old, dehydrated wood, the musty sweetness of lacquer varnish, the bitter, powdery twinge of trace precious metals and stones. The centuries of disuse has rendered this combination no less lovely now than the day a Chinese tradesman put it all together. The spirit of a past era is therefore indefinitely detained, harnessed by the power of a man-made inanimate object.

Translate this to perfume. Consider an opening of sweet benzoin, its lusty energy brimming with fragrant woods and the sharpness of lacquered turpines as they emanate from coniferous hairline fractures. Then there's the smoky essence of whatever street the tradesman works on, with a low hum of patchouli (Asian moths are purportedly a nuisance) flitting through incense and olibanum. The longer you stand there processing the screen, the closer you come to its dry, sacchariferous core, essentially comprised of whatever colorful spicy-floral nonsense neighboring grocers and merchants placed on the bare boards before they were painted and bejeweled into service. The scent feels like it is alive, pulsating, functioning beyond a perceivable realm. That's the mystery of good craft: it transcends function, and even art, and enters a singular space of its own.

Chanel's Coromandel smells this way - on paper. Spritz a strip and revel in the lush elegance of a structure that touts benzoin, patchouli, woods, and chocolate, without falling into the oriental perfume-trap of overzealous redundancy. You've been here before, of course, especially with that much sweet patchouli, but never in a way that felt this refined, and in some ways restrained. Coromandel never shouts, never loses its balance, and never feels immediately familiar - on paper. Wafting from the strip's fibers, it's a postmodern marvel, a succinct commentary on the importance of remembering customs and civilizations that were extinct a few dozen generations ago. You'd be hard pressed to find anything else that smells this good - on paper. Unless you spritz another strip with Zino by Davidoff. And then it gets interesting.

These two perfumes share nothing in common. One is a mellow patchouli oriental, the other a lavender-rosewood fougère. Coromandel is soft and possesses Chanel's trademark fuzziness; Zino is characteristically sharp, and more herbal. Zino's opening definitely does not match the sweet, smiling grace of Coromandel's, and intead feels brutish, more than a little mean. And yet . . . and yet thirty minutes after application to the strip, Coromandel begins to resemble (stripping away the notion of bright lavender and woody citrus) Zino's early drydown, if it were reduced to mere amber. There is enough patchouli, smoky rosewood, and amber in Zino to make me think about Coromandel. Conversely, Chanel's use of resins and incense zeros in on Davidoff's ambery-fern approach. I'm sure you think I'm insane to write this. But do this: apply Coromandel to a strip, wait an hour, and really get a good sniff. Apply Zino to another strip (at the same time as Coromandel), wait forty minutes, and inhale. Switch between them, recognize their differences, but feel their respective vibes, and feel your eyebrows rise.

On skin, Coromandel is not quite up to par with expectations, but significantly better than 31 Rue Cambon. Its richness is apparent, but so too is its prettiness, that quality in every well-conceived Chanel. After the spicy opening and the ambery heart, this fragrance dries into a creamy, white-chocolaty, and surprisingly flat base. I'm told Borneo 1834 is the rough draft of Coromandel, but I've never smelled it, so cannot comment. I feel that, expensive and classy as it is, this Chanel has its masculine counterpart over on the designer shelf at the mall. But still, Coromandel has soul, generates wonderful associations, and every fragrance lover ought to try it.

31 Rue Cambon (Chanel)

Chanel would be well served to reconsider their compliance with IFRA regulations. I fully understand the legal concerns, and the social pitfalls of ignoring this association's multitudinous edicts, but when you're avoiding a recently-outlawed ingredient (slight exaggeration) critical to the success of your flagship niche perfume, you're just pleasing bureaucrats at the expense of perfumery. And that's pretty darned awful.

Successful chypres incorporate bergamot (and other citrus notes), cistus labdanum, and a base of oakmoss into variable structures that are usually citrus-focused, or woods-focused. Grey Flannel is my reference (Mitsouko for others) - a dehydrated, lemon-centric fruit melange on top, followed by a particularly woody accord that loosely incorporates the spiced bourbon barrel side of labdanum's many facets, followed by the dankest oakmoss imaginable. To suggest pyramid naturals are in there, other than the oakmoss listed on the box, is disingenuous. Synthetics always stand in for traditional raw materials in modern perfumes. The better ones intersperse naturals into the synthetic formula, but generally you're guaranteed to experience something lab-made. The trick is in fooling the nose into thinking it's smelling all-natural materials.

Absence of traditional chypre materials is often circumvented by a perfume's ability to substitute its means for the appropriate end, and achieve a balance between divergent accords. When you smell Grey Flannel, you feel like you're surrounded by dryly brusque, bright wood notes (a trick of the citrus light), while also feeling ensconced in the shadows of low-lying trees and shrubs, all very wet and dripping green. It's a deeply raw, leafy sensation, and quite a wonderful perfume. And Geoffrey Beene never went out on a limb to self-classify and then justify an absence of real cistus labdanum, so its secondhand classification by fragrance historians is not commercially influenced.

I approached 31 Rue Cambon knowing that it is generally considered a chypre, Luca Turin calls it one, etc. Chanel's spin is that they've created an oakmoss-free chypre, with bolder labdanum notes standing in, and a bunch of other things propping up the illusion. We're to automatically forgive that they're disinterested in bypassing IFRA oakmoss regs, which severely restrict the dosage of actual oakmoss permitted in contemporary fragrances, and embrace their compromise. According to them, and many Chanel fans, 31 is beautiful enough to get away with it. I'm not convinced, but I'll be a gentleman and say that despite my reservations, and what my nose smells, I'm eager to let 31 be different things for different people, without pre-labeling it and swaying their impressions. So I wore it to work, knowing that my boss and co-workers are not especially interested in perfume, and possess an average to below-average knowledge of the better ones.

As a creature of habit, I tend to leave home early every day to beat the morning rush hour traffic, which puts me in the office about thirty minutes before my shift starts. My boss was there on 31 day. She was talking to a resident therapist about something as I sat down. It was probably a minute after I sat down that she stopped mid sentence and leaned in closer to the therapist, also a female. "Is that you?" she said. "You smell nice. Some kind of perfume you're wearing?"

The therapist suddenly looked puzzled. It seemed she could not smell anything. "I'm not wearing perfume," she said.

The boss lady straightened up and said, "Well, maybe something in your hair? It smells like Obsession. Are you wearing Obsession?"

"No," said the therapist. "Really, I'm not wearing anything."

I kept my mouth shut.

The therapist left, and we began our morning routine, preparing for the day. I walked past my boss's desk, and she looked at me. "Oh, I think it's you! Are you wearing perfume? What is it? I just got a whiff of something that smells good. Is it Obsession? Are you wearing Obsession?"

This particular question didn't land so well, not because she was asking it, but because the answer in no way comports with the realm of $35 Calvin Klein fragrances. I ruefully (pardon the pun) wrote the name down for her, and she raised an eyebrow and said, "Huh. Thanks."

Not a $115 hi-pedigree perfume.

You could write this exchange off to pedestrian ignorance, but a pedestrian's opinion tends to be like a child's - brutally honest, and to the point. The fact that she was mistaking 31 for Obsession made me realize that she's the perfect age to know Obsession, and similar orientals, quite well. I can't personally say I smell Obsession in 31, but then again oriental accords are based on amber, and 31 has one massive plonking amber in its base. The Obsession thing made me cross-reference past pedestrian reactions to fragrances by other brands. Recently Mont Blanc's Individuel elicited a gushing response from a female co-worker who dropped what she was doing to ask me about it. She didn't compare it to anything. She simply said, "Ooh! That smells really good!" And Creed fragrances almost always garner "holy shit" comments. People tend to want to know what makes Creeds smell so dimensional. A prior boss thought Original Vetiver smelled "very, very expensive" but couldn't place where she'd ever smelled it before. She was not name dropping CK fragrances with that one.

Am I putting too much stock in this? Making too big a deal out of the Obsession comments? Perhaps. But it's a punch in the gut when you're wearing something supposedly classy, hoping its class will shine through, only to have someone's very first knee-jerk response be a throwback to a cheap eighties oriental. And an oriental is how I read 31 as well, very loud and almost bombastic, although falling just shy of shoulder pads. Its top accord is fruity, a little lipsticky, not particularly citric, but more of a "red fruit" type of smell, albeit with a slick of bergamot overlaying things. Because there's no oakmoss, it has an airy, flowing, floral feel, but this perfume desperately, desperately needs oakmoss. Its absence is painfully obvious. Then there's 31's grey iris note, which swiftly follows the initial sweetness with a thin, bready aspect. It yields some depth, and incremental contrast, but not enough. The iris in 31 is unfriendly, but it isn't plush. It smells as if someone clapped a bit of chalk dust across my wrist. Then comes the lactonic flow of peachy-milky notes that caress the air in a soapy cloud. One minute it's a floral jasmine-like arrangement of soft-focus white petals. Another minute there's a citrusy-vanilla vibe going on. And yet another minute later, peppery amber with labdanum standing in for moss. Quite a dizzying merry-go-round.

Ultimately it dries down to a woody-floral base, which gets flatter and sweeter as the hours wear on. Without the foundation of real oakmoss in this base, without that bitter green monster lurking beneath the sunny proceedings, 31 feels a bit hollow and commits the greatest sin of modern perfumery: it lacks tension. To suggest otherwise feels false. Let's face it, you can't create a high quality chypre with fair-grade synthetics and a masterful composition without attaching the perfume to the basic structure of a classical chypre. Yes, the citrus is there, yes, the labdanum is there, but no, the moss isn't, and no, 31 Rue Cambon doesn't quite pull off ravishing beauty without it. It is, however, very, very pretty, and I received a compliment from a younger female co-worker today who had to know what it was, and repeatedly said that it smelled VERY nice. So to suggest this fragrance is a failure is also false. 31 may not be perfect, but it's still a lovely perfume, and if I wasn't so hung up on Chanel's self-deceiving approach to it, I'd probably be less biased in my review. The next time they exclude something important, they ought to keep a lid on it. If lightweights can get blind drunk on the practical joke of non-alcoholic beer, we perfume enthusiasts can smell depth and contrast where there is only flat beige. The Placebo Effect is perhaps the world's greatest equalizer.

Égoïste (Chanel)

Sometimes fragrance companies produce a scent that is so beautiful, so distinguished, so utterly peerless in both radiance and allure, that everyone misses the point, few people wear it, and whole nations refuse to sell it. Such a perfume is neither aspirational, nor avant-garde, but simply the stuff every obsessed fragrance fanatic's dreams are made off.

Égoïste isn't it.

Jacques Polge's 1990 release surely serves as fragrant manna for some believers, those who enjoy its rich, herbal-fruity orientalism for being unique in an ocean of banality, and for the elegant woody-fresh ambiance it imparts. If a man stands up to say that Égoïste is the greatest masculine ever made, he isn't wrong. Because fragrance is largely functional, this person is simply bearing allegiance to that which functions best for him. To expect him to get into the ins and outs about the scent, and what it does for him, is to expect too much; I have met people who claim to love the smell of skunk, and though it nauseates me, their right to sit at home and spend hours inhaling skunk fumes (easily replicated using a common weed found in New England, nick-named 'Skunk Cabbage'), is ironclad, and I hope iron-curtained as well.

As perfumery is about functional design, it's apt to compare Égoïste to staplers, namely Swingline staplers. There are many staplers in the world, manufactured by hundreds of companies. Somehow the Swingline has become the North American holy grail of staplers. How did that happen? It's unclear, but I'd wager Hollywood had something to do with it - a little corporate comedy named Office Space not only made Swingline a household name, but prompted the company to produce the first-ever red Swingline, to correspond with Milton Waddams' inexplicably-shaded desk ornament. Red Swinglines didn't exist until Office Space threw the scare into their inventory and forced them to do a little coloring. I believe they may have gotten carried away, but there you have it.

Égoïste is Chanel's red Swingline stapler. Prior to its release, the brain trust in the back lot released something fantastic called Bois Noir, which by several accounts smelled wonderful, full of rich spices and floral notes that were big, proud, technically impossible, a true large-scale monument in modern oriental-style perfumery. But it walked a fantastic line, entertained the few who had real money to spare, and was quickly discontinued, which simply meant clearing off a shelf at the boutique in Paris. The little show at Cannes was over, and what do you know? Some people really liked it, Chanel customers in particular. Remember that off-beat woody-fruity oriental you used to make, Chanel? The one with that delectable stewed fruit thing going on in its heart? Oh, of course it wasn't unique, or significantly different (Mouchoir de Monsieur, Habit Rouge, and Samsara all got there first), or even exciting to smell, but theirs are beige, yours was red, and we want it back. We want a red stapler to call our own.

Chanel obliged, and we were given Égoïste, a tidied-up version of Bois Noir, with less oomph! Which is problematic to start, since Bois Noir's reputation rests on its having lots of extra oomph! The main attraction was the spicy-fruity mix in the middle, but somehow Égoïste's nose decided sandalwood had more heart, and attached the citrus-herbal-woody Mouchoir-like structure to a judiciously integrated Polysantol base, which may or may not have been in the original. The real attraction here is sandalwood. If you'd like a florid little semi-sweet woody oriental with a big, smooth, expensive sandalwood base, look no further. After the crisp citruses and tangerine/raisin/plum notes start twinkling out, I'm left with a soft, vanillic sandalwood that is as boring as it is neat. Did I mention the lavender? Égoïste's terse lavender note runs like a silver spine through the amorphous composition, breathing some breezy, aromatic masculinity into an androgynous perfume. Nice enough, but is it enough?

Technically yes, perhaps Égoïste's composition is the stuff of greatness, and some fan can rattle off a dozen reasons why it's better and more interesting than everything else Chanel has released in the last twenty years. Me? I'm satisfied with the black and grey staplers, thank you very much. They perform their simple task just as well, and without all the chagrin that accompanies something fun you know is headed for the scrap bin, just as soon as everyone's forgotten why they liked it in the first place.

N°5 Eau de Cologne (Chanel)

The Eau de Parfum version of Chanel's flagship fragrance is truly gorgeous stuff, full of beauty and elegance and charming nuance. I'm never comfortable wearing it because its floral heart is so lush and bright that it feels strange to wear, as though my identity changed, and I'm now a pearl-necklaced senator's wife instead of the 30 year-old male plonker that everyone knows, and loves to hate.

Another problem with the EDP is that it's only appropriate for cold weather. I've had people tell me they wear it year-round, but I can't see doing that in the middle of July. It's best to abstain from N°5 until the humidity evaporates, and the crisp breezes of autumn return, unless you happen to have a bottle of the Eau de Cologne concentration. In which case, you're good for July, August, September - knock yourself out, Chanel fan!

N°5 EDC is a stripped and augmented version of its purer concentrations. It reminds me that this fragrance was once considered a drugstore cologne. In eau de cologne concentration, its aldehydes are increased; the rose, iris, and jasmine are dialed way back; civet is dialed way up, in a manner which lends the construct a distinctly sweet, sweaty feel; neroli is the central flower, with bitter orange blossom and cool musk dominating the lifespan of this cologne. This attenuated variation opens with a brisk burst of aldehydes, followed by a piercingly animalic civet, which ushers in a freshened floral arrangement, all strewn across a humble sweaty-sweet base. The effect is both refreshing and interesting, and never blatantly strays into your standard fresh-citrus cologne territory, although citrus elements abound. I like how neroli is used - there's a bitter kick in the early drydown, which introduces the subtle woodiness in the formula.

I'm fairly certain the EDC of N°5 is discontinued, but bottles can still be found here and there, especially online. I wish I had one, as this version of N°5 is truly unisex, and totally wearable for men of all persuasions. Ebay usually has bottles posted, but beware of people selling watered-down L'Aimant by Coty in lieu of the real thing.

Pour Monsieur Concentrée (Chanel)

The concentrée version of Chanel Pour Monsieur is not to be confused with the standard Pour Monsieur, which is a different animal altogether. I would review the Henri Robert creation, but fear it's an exercise in futility these days, as the only findable version of this classic fresh chypre is Jacques Polge's reboot, unless you happen to frequent the Chanel boutique in Paris. I don't know why Chanel has chosen to replace its signature masculine, but then explaining anything Chanel does is virtually impossible.

Pour Monsieur Concentrée is the only masculine from this brand that I truly do not like, even more so than Platinum Égoïste. Polge has frequently been charged with re-creating antiquated scents using modern materials, and in this case the fragrance winds up smelling like a chemical bath. The lemon and lavender opening is so harsh and stringent that connotations with Lemon Pledge are unavoidable. Even more disturbing is that this accord retains its strength for an ungodly period of time - no less than an hour. In this phase, PMC is borderline unbearable, and skirts the domain of being a "scrubber." It takes patience and virtue to see it through.

Once the heaviness lifts, things do improve a bit. A touch of spicy sweetness enters the fray, possibly cardamom, and the greenness of vetiver and oakmoss darkens everything considerably. Within three hours, PMC has become a muted green skin scent, mossy, creamy, and altogether very staid and unexciting. The pendulum has swung to the opposite side of the cutting table, and now the fragrance has gone from being sharp and blaring, to stodgy and trite. Sniffing it from my arm, I wonder how anything this laconic in gait could make such a wide lope. I also wonder who in 2012 would actually wear PMC without harboring a constant sense of bitter irony. 

These are times when buttoned-up men's fragrances are the domain of the dead, or the eccentric. Yet they spring from classical tradition, with a legacy of vibrant life. If their updated selves are rendered correctly, they can guide current generations of young bucks into profusely successful lives. Nothing speaks better to personal class and good taste than a beautifully tailored masculine chypre, especially one from a world-class fashion house. It's the sort of thing that attracts pretty women, like so many flies to a flame.

Sadly, Pour Monsieur Concentrée is a clumsy welding of old ideals to new ideas, and so its time will never come to pass at all. There are certainly bigger humdingers out there, things that make PMC smell gorgeous in comparison. But given the slew of better masculines within the brand's own range, I can't see why anyone wouldn't choose to wear Antaeus, Égoïste, or Allure Homme instead.