Dark Rose (Czech & Speake)

Quality of natural raw materials. Quality of patented synthetics. Quality of note separation. Of composition, legibility, the divisibility of accords, the breadth of chemical evolution, its arch across time. Quality of synchronicity. The beauty of the inhale; the thrill of the exhale. The scent memory left behind.

These are all things a connoisseur factors into the experience of smelling a reputable niche perfume. It's different from smelling designer fragrances. With ubiquitous offerings, my standards are broader. I want to know if what I'm smelling is good, or bad, with Kouros, Cool Water, and Old Spice as comparisons. If it smells like it could keep company with any of those, then it has a shot with me. I don't go to tiresome lengths dissecting each accord, separating each note, ferreting out chemical synchs over seven-hour time frames. I just stay cynical about the top notes, and suspicious of the base, and if the top pleasantly surprises me, and the base doesn't kill the buzz, I have a good scent.

Niche, on the other hand, gets micromanaged. Especially the better niche perfumes, things from Malle, Creed, C&S. I expect a lot of things from those brands. C&S frags rarely disappoint me, so I'm always nervous when I first try one. Dark Rose was one of those moments - I knew their Rose was good, and I had heard good things about No.88, but really wasn't sure about Dark Rose. It seemed it would be a love-it or hate-it scent. And it also seemed like something I wouldn't want to wear, even if I liked it. And I wanted to like it, and wear it. So I dragged my heels before trying this well-known rose/oud perfume.

I shouldn't have been worried. Dark Rose is enchanting. The top is a brassy incense accord, so rich and balsamic that I'm overcome with emotion just sniffing it. It's one of those, "Oh, Dark Rose, I want to live in your bottle" moments. I could definitely feel the quality in that intro, which was likely made of very high-grade synthetics with a generous sprinkling of naturals. It's persistent, but also shimmers, like fireworks that refuse to twinkle out. It's also long-winded, as I get ten minutes out of that top structure. Very, very nice.

Then, enter the rose. It's a velvety, deep, brilliant red, full of rubbery nectars. Flanking it is a silvery medicinal note, which at first resembles dew on petals, but rapidly reveals its darker earthiness: the dry specter of oud. These two notes form a rich, intertwined accord, with the delicacy of wine petals swirling against hi-gloss onyx. It's feminine, but then it turns, and I'm struck by how unisex it feels. It's gorgeous, simple, and direct, but so utterly beautiful that I'm at a loss for words, especially as its amber drydown, glistening with animalic sweat, closes the show. Dark Rose does fade out completely on skin within a day - at least it did on my skin, leaving no perceptible trace after nine hours. As Marilyn Monroe once said, "A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left."

Wise girl.

Cuba (Czech & Speake)

Polarizing fragrances interest me because there's usually one group of people who interpret the scent falsely, and another that smells its whole truth. Those who are faked-out by the pyramid inevitably feel there is something wrong with it - a "bad note," or a strenuous accord, usually animalic in nature. For example, in Kouros, many smell a "urinal puck note," which they readily attribute to the civet. These folks generally don't like Kouros, and can't tolerate even a minute of it on themselves. Then there are those who smell the civet as it is integrated into a body of bergamot, honey, wildflowers, costus, vetiver, and incense. They feel the civet creates a "lift" of sorts, which keeps the citrus from becoming too flat and sour, and the earthy notes from being too down-to-earth (read: bitter, serious, remote). In other words, they smell the fun.

After Kouros, I think of none other than Cuba by C&S, as it's perhaps the one scent that is equally as polarizing. This fragrance has two camps: those who smell human feces in it, and those who don't. The feces-detectors insist there's a massive wallop of shit, which splats its filth against skin upon application, followed by some spicy notes, tobacco, and cedar, all haloed in the utterly nauseating and enduring odor of fresh slurry. The other group simply smells a gussied-up bay rum, with a nice mint note on top, and an aromatic cedar base. There's a fetid cigar tobacco note, which is very naturalistic, as if tobacco leaves are floating in the perfume. It's warm, pungent, a sweet smell, a bit animalistic, a bit humanistic, and very much of the Old World that Cuba has struggled to escape from for centuries. It's a lovely scent, and I'd be happy to own a bottle.

Give Cuba a fair chance. Eliminate the expectation of smelling crap notes from your mind. Think clean thoughts. Associate the bittersweet scent of mint, lime, tobacco, rum, bay, and cedar with a close shave, and the wonderful smell of shave soap and water. If someone sniffs the air and says, "who shit their pants?", weigh their impression against your own, and if Cuba comes up short, wear Citrus Paradisi instead. People will ask "who pissed themselves?", but it's the lesser of two evils.

Citrus Paradisi (Czech & Speake)

I never understood the enthusiasm among niche fans for Citrus Paradisi. It has its detractors as well, but generally the fragrance is well received. It's certainly made well, as all C&S products are, and it exhibits its concept deftly enough, but the concept is the problem for me. It's too much of a good thing.

When I applied this fragrance to skin, the first thing that hit me was grapefruit, and lots of it. Grapefruit is what it's all about. The bitter freshness of natural grapefruit juice makes for an interesting and attractive smell, yet it possesses a strange funkiness that clings to nostril hairs long after the liquid has dried. When rendered honestly, grapefruit in perfume achieves the same funk, usually in the drydown. Sometimes grapefruit is used to balance a cologne, and prevent things from swaying too far into "clean" territory. When dosed properly, it's the perfect garnish for an olfactory fruit salad.

The intensity of Citrus Paradisi's grapefruit note is scary. I'm accustomed to sitting down, slicing my grapefruit open with a fruit knife, inhaling its lovely fumes, and digging in. But the grapefruit in this scent handcuffed me to the radiator and had me for breakfast. Just as I'm recovering from fructose shock, in crashes a wave of civet, and now I'm chaffing my wrist, trying to escape a Supernova Quasimodo Megafunk from Hell. 

The pungency of the citrus, which is already dialed up to eleven, now has urinous musk backing its gremlin advances. Try as I might, I can't get on board with anything this overtly funky. It's one-note funky, "just plain funky," no-fun funky. The far drydown smells like a forgotten ashtray in a Moravian pub.

Is Citrus Paradisi worth a try, even for citrus fans? I say funk it.

Mimosa (Czech & Speake)

I like a dirty floral perfume as much as the next guy (assuming the next guy is sufficiently deranged enough to bear comparison with me), but some perfumes are a little too dirty. Mimosa by Czech & Speake is one such perfume.

Czech & Speake is one of those niche brands that consistently wows me. Rose is amazing, albeit a bit simplistic. Dark Rose is even better. Cuba is a pleasure to wear. Citrus Paradisi is problematic, but I respect what they were going for there. But Mimosa is, literally and figuratively speaking, one hell of a stinker.

It's not difficult to review because it isn't very complex, and it doesn't move much. It opens with a sweet burst of ylang-ylang and jasmine. The ylang is perky and lends the floral arrangement a bright texture, while the jasmine is velvety and tempers the sharpness of the ylang with a softer kind of "sweet." The pair is nicely rendered and provide a clever intro to a mimosa soliflore.

When the star note arrives, it is loaded to the hilt with dirty indoles, creating a bitter pungency that makes my nose wrinkle and my sinuses close up. It smells like an overripe flower and a burnt match. On the one hand, I like indoles, and gravitate toward their funkiness like a fly to a neon beer sign. On the other, I'm not particularly fond of how these indoles work. Their intensity is repellent, and they make the fragrance smell like a granny perfume on steroids. Mimosa has been compared to fancy hand soap, but this is closer to soap from a tawdry French brothel.

Once it reaches this starched and pooped apex, it gradually fades into a whisper of its former self, and becomes more tolerable. I guess it holds up the C&S tradition of being balls-out and red-blooded, but it's simply a good concept, executed a little too well. It's a shame they missed with this scent - they were so close.

Frankincense and Myrrh (Czech & Speake)

Knowledgeable noses often opine on how the house of Aramis is grossly undervalued and should someday get its due. Aramis is great, but I'm pulling for Czech & Speake. Of those I've tried, it's one of a precious few purveyors of hi-fidelity perfumery. The notes of C&S scents separate beautifully, are quite realistic, and coalesce into scents that are very non-"perfumey." Frankincense and Myrrh is one of their best, and I'm not even a fan of spicy orientals. If you purchase a bottle, you're getting something that should cost twice as much as it does. This, in my book, is the hallmark of something that is truly undervalued.

With its austere title, the scent promises one thing, and delivers another. I expected a dark, roiling cloud of exotic warmth, full of olfactory smoke and shadow. Instead, Frankincense and Myrrh opens with a very bright and festive orange note, made herbal with a touch of lavender. Greener notes of sage and bay introduce the frankincense, in all its spicy glory. This is soon followed (and softened by) myrrh, and the composition settles on a sandal and cedarwood base. With its remarkable luminosity, Frankincense and Myrrh inhabits a different corner of the oriental hemisphere, tucked away from its extended family of Opiums, Cinnebars, Zagorsks, and Obsessions. This part of the map is where a hybridization of eau de cologne and oriental occurs, creating something that is at once lively and fizzy, while also dry and just a little caliginous.

The caveat is that Frankincense and Myrrh is not, despite its classification, a complex fragrance. Once the citrus/herbal top burns away, the frankincense dominates, with quieter myrrh and wood notes lifting the base into a haze of dry sweetness. I'm left with something subtle and masculine, a pleasant wear for autumn days and winter nights. It's sexy without being overt and obvious, and nowadays people tend to ignore the two star notes of this scent, making it unique. The fizziness of the citrus and lavender lends it a unisex air, which makes this scent accessible for women, too. I'm sure there are those who would complain that C&S doesn't invest enough time and imagination into their compositions, and I see their point; Frankincense and Myrrh is a scent that does the bare minimum with what it has, but to maximal effect. 

My counter-argument would be that brands like Floris, Czech & Speake, and Creed harness natural aromas, arrange and amplify their assets, and stop short of contrived embellishment in the name of elegance. Frankincense and Myrrh is essentially the most elegant oriental I have ever encountered, and one that I hope to eventually own and wear regularly. It's the perfect antidote for the soulless rows of calone-drenched deodorant sprays that pass as perfume in the men's section of your local department store. Seek this one out - you won't regret it.

Rose (Czech & Speake)

Czech & Speake used to only deal in bathroom fixtures, but at some point the company mysteriously decided to hire seasoned perfumers, keep their names from the public, and release a line of exquisite fragrances. What we end up with are a modest set of soliflores, with a citrus, three fougères, and a simple oriental to round it out. Among the floral fragrances, Rose tops the list.

If anyone were to ask me what makes a good soliflore, I'd have to steer them to Rose. Sweetened with hints of other white flowers, the central rose accord is so clean, clear, and delicate, that my nose almost swoons. The cleanness borders on being soapy, which snips a star off its rating, but this perfume is beautifully calibrated, enough to make even the staunchest rose-hater reconsider. 

This rendition is simple, ephemeral, effulgent. It educes visions of snow-skinned virgins, clad in nothing but translucent lace, and reclining amidst illimitable clouds of pink petals. It's a remarkable effect; Rose is chaste and seductive, a paradox within perfume.

The scent is linear, and doesn't develop much, or devolve. But it does suffer a terminable range of appeal, as very few women could consummately pull it off. That's not to say that only fair college girls can wear Rose - any woman can amp-up their femininity with this perfume. But let's face facts: Rose is a pristine soliflore that captures the essence of a budding flower. As such, it shines more on your Anne Hathaways than your Diana Taurasis. Women who can rock classic chypres; let the girly-girls have Rose.

Longevity is decent, at anywhere from 4 to 5 hours, and although labeled a cologne spray, Rose has eau de toilette strength and sillage. The nice thing about roses, and Rose in particular, is they're always "In" regardless of the time of year. Ladies, I say go for it.