Cologne du Maghreb (Tauer)

Cologne du Maghreb is an all-natural product, which means Andy Tauer wasn't kidding when he called it a cologne. Seventeenth century continental Europeans didn't have synthetics at their disposal when making perfume, so they relied on simple oils and distillations of raw materials for their compositions. Andy has plenty of synthetics at his disposal, yet chooses to work with naturals as much as humanly possible, the mark of someone who appreciates nature's many gifts. This is a flawless composition, a striking citrus/neroli explosion up front, followed by labdanum-fueled rose and cedar, with the requisite smattering of green herbs, and a hint of clove and cardamom for depth and warmth. It starts fresh and crisp and bright, and winds up with an oriental vibe in the drydown. It's very Chuck and Lyle. 

Normally I take Andy's perfumes very seriously, but I can't help but feel a twinge or two here. This one makes me grin. There is an unintentionally funny edge to the composition, due in no small part to its drydown. At first it feels very "conventional guy," the sort of citrus-heavy aftershavey familiarity found in the medicine cabinets of many American and European men. Its quality is several notches above aftershave, but ultimately this is straight-up citrus, which in 2014 is a no-frills feature. Nevertheless, the man who wears this type of Eau is usually a sane, dependable person that everyone likes having around.

Then it happens: CdM goes all lounge lizard on me. You wouldn't think notes as staid and traditional as rose and labdanum could join forces to become seventies raunch, but they do. There's a bit of Halston Z-14 in Cologne du Maghreb. It's a skunky, woody, sweaty feeling, loaded with imaginary pheromones and clueless cheer. When the cedar cuts in full-force, I begin to think of the movie Ishtar, which on the surface seems like bad news, I know. It's not though, because Ishtar is an underrated masterpiece of eighties comedy, with two bonafide Hollywood leading men delivering laugh after awkward laugh. Lyle Rogers and Chuck Clarke weren't losers. They were just cheesy. But their masculinity was the most virile kind, the stuff of blind chance takers, unwitting adventurers, nothing-to-lose optimists living without a prayer. Anything that channels Lyle and Chuck, intentionally or not, deserves a spot on my shelf.

Eau d'épices (Tauer)

One of the questions that sometimes comes up in conversations I have with people is, why niche? Isn't designer a big enough pool to swim in? With all the releases since the early sixties, and all the classics that have endured the ages, you would think the need to spend more money for fragrances by independent entities with vague reputations would be unnecessary. After all, there's a designer scent out there for everybody, right? Maybe, but that misses the point.

The reality is stark: niche fills a niche. Designer perfumes are made for the masses; niche fragrances cater to subsets of the designer populace who want specific experiences that popular choices do not always offer. If you want a great citrus chypre with bold fruit and orange blossom notes, buy and wear Eau Sauvage. It's very mainstream, and classically French. But what about an Egyptian spin on Eau Sauvage? Which designer delivers that?

I'm sure there's a brand out there that does, but good luck finding it. Andy Tauer, an independent perfumer with no affiliation to any designer overlord, offers a straight-up oriental variant on the fresh chypre theme with his beautiful re-release of L'eau d'épices, a colossal achievement in perfumery if ever there was one. It is rumored that L'eau was inspired by Tauer's own Christmas-countdown fan club soap, Mandarins Ambrés. Evidently it was a fresh-floral citrus scent with a good labdanum note, about as posh as soap can get. When I read about this, I thought it sounded good, but my initial reaction to L'eau d'épices was negative. It contains a very strong neroli note, and at first I wondered if it was just another neroli-on-steroids snoozer in the same vein as Tom Ford's Neroli Portofino, Amouage Reflection Man, and Perry Ellis Portfolio Green.

I needn't have worried. Though the orange blossom elements abound, there are subtle complexities to the fragrance's three-tiered structure of white flowers, Indian spices, and resinous amber. What is remarkable about L'eau is its Egyptian jasmine note, a little fleck of delicate white beauty to complement the neroli. It smells rich, a little sweet, and morphs the neroli into a new flower, something stunning and nameless as it dries down. The heart brims with labdanum, very dark and a little animalic, a classical anchor to the airier notes that precede it. Buttressing the petals are cinnamon, coriander (not urinous, thankfully), and a mighty eugenol-fueled clove that escapes dentist associations by being singed in hot clay, an allusion to desert and ancient sands.

The base of woody amber, mainly Ambroxan and a bit of Ambreine, is very direct and full, but not isolated into a monochrome skin-scent due to L'eau's intense concentration of floral top notes, which permeate the entire life of this perfume. Wearing L'eau d'épices on a warm spring day creates a new answer to the question at the start of this post. Niche perfumes like L'eau bring a new level of complexity, sophistication, and technical skill to the table in ways that most designer scents, even those super-busy everything-but-the-kitchen-sink masculine powerhouses of the late eighties and early nineties, never could. Part of this is attributable to Mr. Tauer's considerable skill. He is simply very, very good at what he does. The other determining factors are patience, and an expansive budget. I can tell that this perfume was made with very high quality naturals and synthetics.

L'eau made its early appearance back in 2007 and 2008, when little samples were offered to friends and fans, and the perfume was properly released in 2010. Eventually it became difficult to source the supplies for making it, and it was discontinued. Its discontinuation awakened potential buyers, who suddenly wondered what they'd missed, and apparently wanted the scent back. As Andy noted in an interview published on Fragrantica, "We all want what we can't get."

Andy spent the better part of three years gathering the quality materials that make this fragrance so captivating, and he reissued it in March to critical acclaim. The density of its spices, the headiness of its floral notes, and the smoothness of its ambery base all reveal the unhurried commitment he has to the finished product, and I'm grateful that he has given the world another chance to enjoy this scent. When you work for yourself and create perfumes to fit exotic dreams and ideals and not a brand image, you have the power and freedom to create and sustain amazing things, and that is manifestly the case with L'eau d'épices. This creation is a joy to behold.

L'Air du Desert Marocain (Tauer)

Once again I want to extend a big Thank You to Jeffrey Dame for sending me a sample of L'Air du Desert Marocain, and to Jim Gehr for turning me on to Tauer's work in the first place. It was by a happy coincidence that Jeffrey read my review of Tauer's Orris and immediately sent me more from the line, and Jim had included a vial of Orris in the sample care package that I received beforehand. I can't stress enough how lovely it is. I've read so much about LdDM, more than Orris (which is relatively obscure), and it did not disappoint.

Its introduction on skin is a rich array of spices that coalesce into something awfully close to straight-up leather, but I experience a very tight arrangement of aromatic materials as the scent unfolds. In the mix are cumin, coriander, sage, and an astringent terpene note that alludes to pine, of all things. In its first hour LdDM reminds me of Caron's Yatagan, but before long an oddly soapy floral accord overtakes the leathery dust devil. This is an interesting trick, and it makes me wonder what Andy was going for. Starting the scent off with a snarling desert scene that rapidly brightens into a sophisticated bar soap (I'm thinking of that triple-milled stuff you find in upscale boutiques) is, for lack of a better word, unexpected. Yet it smells really, really good.

The design of the fragrance is such that it allows relatively linear components to merge in an austere narrative that reads like Hemingway: "You come in out of the desert, smelling of the desert. You go into the bathroom and wash the desert off yourself." Two hours into the drydown, labdanum and jasmine peer through an oily vetiver and amber accord, and I'm convinced there's a third part to the narrative - "Some desert lingers after you've washed, and it won't come off." Fragrances like this send subtle messages to people - "I'm proud to be different," "My sense of style is unique, and so am I," "Real men smell like dirt and motor oil with a whiff of soap" - you can pick the line. This stuff sticks with you for seven solid hours, and it's compelling enough to make me reapply at the end of the day and start the whole story over again.

Whenever anyone asks me what the difference between niche and designer is, I usually say something off the cuff, like, "Niche fragrances are usually just pricier and simpler variants of designer scents." Tauer has me thinking I'll revise my response to, "Designer fragrances are designed to please everyone around the wearer. Niche scents, when done well, are designed to please the wearer." L'Air du Desert Marocain is a prime example, and it's a hit with those around me as well, which is nice.

Orris (Tauer)

When I first smelled Orris, I immediately thought of Malle's Une Rose, a fungal vinyl-rose perfume known for stretching the traditional rose concept across a darker terrain. Lipstick Rose sits next to it for Malle fans who can't meet the challenge. Andy Tauer's composition (a special edition for his blog's readers) contains a similar spongy rose note, due to a preponderance of Bulgarian rose absolute, which smells at once wine-like and rubbery. Hints of damascenone add some red color, powdered over by an ethereal iris and lemongrass accord. It's like water under frozen reeds on a foggy morning.

The rubbery rose note soon evolves into an extremely direct leather, dominated by a massive dose of birch tar. Within an hour, Orris warms into a rich aura that transcends the typical perfumery narrative. Tauer's use of birch tar, cinnamon, and a thankfully agnostic incense blends into something that resembles sweaty, sun-parched skin, suggestive of how a native girl might smell after a dip in the local oasis. All the elements conspire to bring this natural and slightly fetid odor to the center, sandwiched between an intense rose/orris, and two types of natural sandalwood, Indian and Australian. As time passes, the resinous woody notes become more sandalwood-centric, burned by smoky vetiver and oud.

Orris peeks into a fantasy realm of Earthly delights, its imagery brushed with strokes of flowers, resins, tars, precious woods, and grasses on a rhetorical canvas of unwashed human skin. The skin seems unwashed, until you realize it might belong to someone who considers a skinny-dip in a mineral-rich lagoon the ideal cleanse. She bathes with her friends and soaks up some late afternoon rays on a sandalwood slat, before trekking home through fronds of vetiver and lemongrass, little pieces of plant material flecking her moist body along the way. I'd make love to that girl, but as there are no dirty natives around, I'll settle for wearing Orris, which is as good as the real thing, and just as hard to come by.