Touring Irish Bars: Irish Spring, Then And Now

I recently purchased a bar of Irish Spring soap that I estimate is from the late 1970s, perhaps '77 or '78. This qualifies it as "vintage," although its barcode limits the likelihood that it is of "original" vintage. I got the soap from a seller on Etsy, which is quickly becoming my favorite site. I have officially purchased a vintage house, and I intend on filling it with antiquated knick-knacks in a relatively sly manner - no overtly "old" things anywhere, except for the utilitarian stuff, like soap, floss, dollar bills. The "details" stuff. I'm doing this so that visitors will be quietly freaked out as they go through my things, wondering if I truly am a denizen of the past who hoofed it to the present somehow and brought all his possessions with him.

The purchase is enlightening and disappointing. To actually hold a thirty some-odd year-old bar of Irish Spring in my hand is actually really cool. It's my favorite soap. I've read a lot about it. Its commercials are all over Youtube. People opine on how much better the older version was, compared to the new. They're usually referring to two aspects of the product, its size and its scent, with the overwhelming sentiment being that the larger 5 oz bars were harder and better, and the fragrance was fresher and superior to the current stuff. Memory is a tricky thing, though. It turns out that Irish Spring has actually gotten larger by .25%, relative to the "regular size" of yesteryear. It used to be 3.5 ounces. It is now 3.75 ounces. They've changed the sizing jargon to "Bath Size" instead of "Regular Size," but that's splitting hairs. These are both Colgate's "Regular Sized" bar of Irish Spring.

What has changed of course is that Colgate no longer offers the 5 oz bar, or the subsequent 4 oz bar. In other words, there is no longer much variety when it comes to the size of this soap. I believe they still make it in a 2 oz "travel size" or something like that, but I haven't seen those smaller bars in a while, and can't verify whether they still make it.

One thing that has changed is the color. Now I believe this old bar of soap has actually faded in color, despite being stored in a sealed box, likely due to the dyes gradually aging. However, it still bears a very clear imprint of the name and logo, and is a beautiful marbled white and jade, much streakier than the current bar. I guess the temptation to whip out a pocket knife and slice into the stuff is supposed to be part of the appeal, but I honestly have no desire to do that. What you see here is what you get, inside and out, I'm sure:

The new bar is much greener, much less marbelized, and for some reason doesn't have the cute shamrock imprint. I guess the cost of stamping shamrocks was vetoed at some point by the suits in charge of production. No biggie, but they could have at least tried to preserve it. It would look nice on this pale, seafoamy green:

As for the fragrance, well, that's the disappointing part. I figured that unlike perfume, the fragrance in soap would stay true regardless of age, provided the bar remains in a sealed box, away from the elements. The box arrived sealed, with no signs of serious damage other than a few wrinkles and scuffs. Yet the soap barely smells of anything. The odor off the dry bar, and from the box itself, is all there is. It's a vaguely spicy, woody odor, very meek and pleasant, but impossible to decipher properly. I wet a portion of the bar and built up a lather on the palm of my hand, but that seemed to squelch what little scent remains, and I smell nothing but basic soap materials (tallow-like odors). Quite a bust, I'm afraid.

This soap has been around for over four decades, and perhaps bars from the late '80s and '90s have held up better scent-wise. Unless you're a die-hard Irish Spring fan, it's tough to see the point in seeking out a really old bar, but if you can get it for pennies like I did, you may has well buy it and see. Perhaps the luck of the Irish will be with you.

Soap Review: Irish Spring "Icy Blast"

For once I'm stymied, completely unsure of what I'm smelling. I thought this would be easy to do. I was wrong.

It's a bit silly to do a flat-out review of regular Irish Spring soap because everyone knows what Irish Spring smells like. We've all used it, or know someone who did. I've pontificated on its fake greeny goodness many a time. Enough has been said.

The other day while shopping at the grocery store, I realized that I've never used the "blue Irish Spring," otherwise known as Icy Blast. I figured, if I don't know what it smells like, it's likely others don't either. There's definitely a smaller fan base for this version of Irish Spring than for the original. It has been around for a long time, but Colgate does a lousy job in marketing it, and Icy Blast sometimes gets pushed behind those big packs of regular Irish Spring on store shelves. I had a friend in high school who used it - I vaguely remember him saying something about hating the regular soap, and that's all I recollect. I'm really starting from square one here.

I expected Icy Blast to smell icy. Like a blast of sporty shampoo freshness. For some reason I was imagining the sport flanker of Aqua Velva, which is mentholated sweetness in a pocket-sized plastic bottle (and somehow a million times better than original Ice Blue). On the other hand, I expected it would suck shit through a straw. Anything called "Icy Blast" can't be good. It must smell like a sport soap, just faceless citrus. 

Take this as a lesson for pre-figuring fragrances: it's not always possible. No matter how standard the packaging, or ubiquitous the concept, some things are going to throw you for a loop. When shower time arrived, I popped a bar of Icy Blast out of its oddly retro green box - which should be blue, but isn't - and stepped into the water.

Upon lathering, my first impression was, "this is grapefruit." There's a little waft of funky-sweet grapefruit that pops off the bar, but it isn't sharp, or cold, and certainly isn't alone - it's blended with a few other things. Try as I might, I can't figure out what those other things actually are. At first I thought they were violet and sandalwood on the same vanillic soapy base of original Irish Spring. Five minutes later, the violet became lavender. Then the idea that violet was there seemed ridiculous. Lavender and violet share no similarities whatsoever, but a highly-sweetened synthetic lavender, like the one in Cool Water, might at least be in the same general olfactory ballpark. That would explain why Davidoff's megahit keeps getting hitched to Creed's.

As I was rinsing the lather off my skin, I figured out the premise: Icy Blast is a fruity composition, capped by an attenuated sugared grapefruit note, which rests on original Irish Spring's green-vanilla base, and it's all laced together by something that smells like synthetic lavender, or maybe violet, or maybe violet-lavender. The fruits are pinkish-blue, probably berries, but they're vague. I expected vagueness, as it's soap, not fine fragrance, but I didn't expect an inviting mystery. It's a very good scent, somewhat oriental in nature, definitely fruity, definitely fresh, and entirely impossible to pin down. It isn't quite as strong as the original Irish Spring, but it's not shy, either. As I stepped out of the shower and sniffed the usual after-shower skinscent, I felt like violet was back again. I also felt like I was going a little insane.

Try this version of Irish Spring if you want to have fun playing an olfactory guessing game, made all the more compelling by the simple fact that this scent smells incredible. I know there are far better soaps out there, and I'm sure they're all amazing, but I'm an Irish Spring guy, and I'm all the richer for it.

Sung Homme (Alfred Sung)

Soapiness is a fragrance quality not often desired these days. Darkly-woody oud orientals, and blaringly sweet 'n feminine gourmands are the latest trends. Those essential oil bars of the '70s and '80s are largely relegated to the consignment bins of history's fashion graveyard. Still, some have survived. If you were to ask me what my favorite surviving soapy fragrance is, I'd say that I have two: Grey Flannel, and Sung Homme.

Grey Flannel was a given the moment I first smelled it; Sung Homme had to earn my love. A few years ago, I picked up a small bottle of Z-14, and another small bottle of Sung Homme, and did something obviously foolish - tried them both at the same time. The result was that I could tell what Z-14 smelled like, and couldn't tell what Sung Homme smelled like, except it smelled really, really bad. Because my sniffer was having no problem with the Z, I figured the same for the Sung, but it wasn't so. The intense leathery-cinnamon Mack truck of Z-14 ran right over the more subtle and nuanced Sung, allowing me to discern bare facets of what should have been a complex olfactory impression. I mistakenly thought that I hated both scents, and got rid of them as quickly as possible.

Fast forward a few summers, and I suddenly found myself curious about Sung Homme again. It occurred to me that I probably didn't have the whole picture, especially since I'd given Z-14 much more of a chance (it was the first scent I tried that day). Also, I'd been reading about it. People were fairly consistent in their evaluation of Sung - it was widely compared to Irish Spring bar soap, especially the original 1970s formula. It was also described as being very synthetic, a "powerhouse", and of a world that, since the years immediately following its heyday, has long been abandoned.

When it arrived in the mail, I unwrapped the bottle and gave it a spritz. This time there was nothing interfering with my nose. Lo and behold, there was the scent of Irish Spring bar soap, emanating peacefully from my wrist. Better still, it was the original Irish Spring, not the current formula, which is a little too dry and stark for me. The original soap had a creamier, spicier, and more complex scent. It was also a tiny bit sweet, which contrasted nicely with its green effect. Colgate has re-released the original soap in body wash form, but I'm not convinced it does it justice. The original bar was just . . . better. I don't know if Alfred Sung intended for his first masculine fragrance to smell like Irish Spring, or if it was just a coincidence. In the extremely unlikely event that our paths ever cross, I'll mention it to him. My guess is, he'd roll his eyes and give me an I've heard that a million times already look.

Anyhow, I digress - from that soapy, synthetically-green opening unfurled a dense array of spices and aromatics. Sage, thyme, fir, black pepper, and juniper berry are combined into a smooth, but forceful scent sheen, one that reads as a synthetic construct of representational notes, blended into an abstract soap effect. It was like I'd just showered, there in the middle of a hot August day. The brisk afterglow of my soap still lingered in the air around me, cool and thick, like a cloud. I smelled like a lye-based product, but not really clean. Something here made me happy.

As the fragrance dried further, the bittersweet density of the heartnotes began to give way for a pleasant blur of fake pepper, pine, patchouli, and oakmoss. Actually, the pine doesn't smell all that synthetic at this stage. It was linear for another couple of hours before it faded away. The verdict: Sung Homme is very good. Unusual, yes. Synthetic, yes, yes. But crap? No way. Yeah, it's about as soapy as a scent can get, and it reminds me of a Christmas candle with those massive fir and juniper components. But this is cool juice, a bright-purple '80s masculine chypre in one of Pierre Dinand's gorgeous Art Deco-inspired skyscraper bottles. Its bright demeanor isn't hard to like, especially if you're a fan of Irish Spring.

I really wish they still made bold chypres like Sung Homme. But then again, if we were awash in a fashion-scape where chypres are the trend, Sung might be considered too synthetic to be a real contender. It isn't something I reach for all that often, but when I do, Sung makes me consider the possibilities of masculine perfumery, and that's more than I can say for most things.