Antaeus (Chanel)

Chanel desperately needs to push the envelope with its masculine fragrances. This is how I felt when I tried Antaeus, Jacques Polge's woody chypre of 1981. I've read a lot about it, and many writers have opined on the scent's in-your-face character. Some have even compared it to Kouros by YSL. There are musings on how dynamic its honey note is, how it's a symbol for gay pride, and how nothing else in the Chanel lineup can touch its style and panache. Most of what I read is persuasive; Antaeus is a striking package, all sleek black lines and vintage lettering. It's as if its bottle is announcing itself as Polge's Kouros, Chanel's black sheep.

So it was with little trepidation that I tried Antaeus recently, to finally smell what all the hubbub is about. The scent starts out with a smooth blend of sage, coriander, bergamot, and something pungently animalic, while also discreetly green and floral. After a few seconds, I realized the animalic note is castoreum. It's lively, but definitely not in-my-face. After about ten minutes, the patchouli, oak moss, labdanum, and myrhh arrive, all blended into an oddly creamy olfactory illusion of sandalwood and honey. It's a waxy sort of honey, and indeed, Antaeus boasts a beeswax note in its pyramid. The effect is quite smooth and a little bitter. Nice, but nothing extraordinary. An hour later, the composition slips into a creamy drydown of wildflowers and labdanum.

Every time I sniffed my wrist, I wonder when the party will start. Where's the caricatured note? Why isn't the patchouli enormous? How about a slower castoreum, something that really saunters into the heart and base, staying the course to the drydown? What I smell is calm, composed, stately. Sure, it's very masculine, but the right woman could pull this off (not so with Kouros). Antaeus smells rich and powdery, a rosy chypre profile that sequesters away all ambition to spend the afternoon picnicking in the park while sipping dessert wine and reading Proust. 

While by no means dull, it's a far cry from challenging. This is a comfortable fragrance, the sort of thing you can slip on like a pair of slippers. It has me envisioning stuffy British diplomats at a gentleman's club, smoking cigars and twirling their moustaches. In any case, it is artfully made, but its quality does not overcome its ubiquity. Antaeus is expensive when you can find it. Kouros, on the other hand, isn't. Between the two, I prefer the one with animalis, but I still appreciate Antaeus as a classic any man can pull off. 

Medicine Cabinet: A Tale of Three Aftershaves

I know I said this blog wouldn't mix perfume and aftershave, but I lied.

The truth is, I have to get something off my chest. Perfumes I understand - aftershaves I don't.

What bugs me about aftershaves is that they're typically watered-down and cheapened versions of otherwise-classy compositions. I mean, I can't imagine listening to a live performance of Mozart's Abduction from the Seraglio and then settling on a scratchy cassette-tape radio recording as a souvenir. With Skin Bracer and Brut, the material for masterful opera is there, but the execution leaves much to be desired. It's like whoever was charged with formulating these fragrances graduated from Grasse in the top percentile, and immediately accepted briefs with $10 budgets.

Take, for instance, Brut:

Fabergé released their renowned ambery fougère in 1964, only to water it down and bottle it in plastic a scant four years later. Full of classical fougère elements, including lavender, lemon, oak moss, patchouli, and sandalwood, Brut's note pyramid exhibits all of the hallmark characteristics of a perfect masculine. And yet, it smells so . . . cheap. When I sniff the aftershave, I get the alcoholic vapors, something vaguely suggestive of mint and lemon, and then a massive, utterly unbalanced sweetness. Anise is in there, but instead of smelling floral and spicy, it's a bald cloud of coumarin. The cintronellol fields shallow against piles of oak moss and tree moss, and the whole thing ends up an odd combo of sweet 'n sour. It's like Clubman by Pinaud (which is an exceptional aftershave), only skanky, and unbearably sweet. It's a little too fetid for me to wear, even in the privacy of my home. I don't know. I really don't understand it.

Then there's Aqua Velva Ice Blue:

Originally by Williams, the makers of Aqua Velva got one thing right - psychologically, blue is more refreshing than green. After that, Aqua Velva loses me. For one thing, the scent doesn't smell blue at all. More of a dirty, minty greenish-brown. After a typical limonene (lemon), linalool (lavender), and peppermint opening, Aqua Velva slides into a weirdo combination of sweet musks and leathery woods. The leather note really presides over everything else, lending an unexpected darkness to the drydown. This is what makes Ice Blue a leathery chypre. Which would actually be a great thing, except the minty mouthwash top notes never entirely disappear. Instead, they mesh with the sweetened coumarin-leather whatever, which creates a sort of stained "freshness" accord. Me no likey. But me wanna likey, me wanna likey alot! All well. Perhaps someday someone from Combe Inc. can explain to me what the philosophy behind Aqua Velva's scent is. Maybe they could also explain why they've taken an already-challenged fragrance and doomed it before it even exits the bottle by making said bottle PLASTIC.

The best of the lot is Skin Bracer by Mennen:

I recently picked up a bottle of Skin Bracer, and I have to say, it's really nice. Nice enough that I wish it were a lot better than it currently is. It could also use a glass bottle, although Skin Bracer's switch to plastic isn't as recent as Aqua Velva's. If only these toiletry companies understood the deleterious effect of plastic on fragrance. Classified as a fresh fougère that trends ever-so-slightly into woody territory, this one is a little more abstract than its two compadres. It's like a Mark Rothko painting, with distinct blobs of scent transition that all somehow meld into one color. I get a distinct mint leaf from the top, intermingled with a very light lemon, which rapidly slides into a musty vanilla and leather base. The leather is more refined than the others, and the mint persists as the base fades. Eventually, when the darker notes are gone, the sweet freshness is all that's left. That, and my sense of ennui. Why, oh why can't this aftershave be made with better ingredients? 

I'd gladly pay twice as much for this, especially since this formula costs $9. Pretty pricey. But it could be better. It could incorporate hints of orange blossom to compliment the vanilla. There could be a little cedar to brighten the leather. Instead of a Rothko Print, I could have an original Rothko! Skin Bracer turns 80 this year, and given its age, Mennen should celebrate and turn up the volume on the scent. Sure, it'll always be a lowly alcohol-based aftershave, but that doesn't mean it has to smell like one.

Then again, maybe it's better to keep these aftershaves low-brow. Whether you're working on a lounge lizard moustache with Brut, a Bertie Wooster impression with Aqua Velva, or a Swedish Girl with Skin Bracer, you're working something. 

Paris Jardins Romantiques (Yves Saint Laurent)

Green Floral fragrances for women ought to be marketed to men. Why, you ask? Because nothing throws people more than a guy who smells like muguet.

Back when women actually wore floral perfumes, a guy may have had a harder time pulling something as delicate as Paris Jardins Romantiques off. But since most of your standard lilies and roses and violets have been replaced with burnt sugar and Body Shop chemicals, smelling of actual flowers is a real departure from the new "norm." Considering the history of Victorian dandy toilet water, and how rose and lilac were barbershop notes, there's no reason why a modern man can't update. After all, if Pinaud's Lilac Vegetal aftershave were any more feminine, well, . . . I really don't know what would happen. Something weird, to be sure.

Which brings me to this 2007 flanker for the infamous Paris by YSL. Billed as Romantic Garden-in-a-Bottle, the scent lets loose with an airy blend of muguet, rose, and violet. The lily really steals the show, rounding off the floral accords with grassy notes. The smell of muguet always makes me think of grass, its blades rippling in a cool, dewy breeze. That's the feeling with PJR.

Eventually a smidgen of carnation gives a little spicy kick to a restrained drydown of rose and violet. The violet never gets a leading part, and is relegated to a supporting role, quite far behind the lily. Even the rose isn't all that forward, although it weaves in and out of the scent's heart. I'm inclined to think that this version of Paris is much less feminine, and far more unisex than the original. If the flowers were fuller, then no, not for boys. 

But with this much greenery, and so much lily, the garden is pruned to my liking. I can't say that PJR is an eye-opener, a mind-bender, or a magical garden. But it is quite pleasant, simple, and perfect for those days when you need a little romance in the garden. Would I buy a bottle? I much prefer the bitter tonic of Eau de Givenchy and Chevrefueille Original, but in a pinch, this would do nicely.

Patrick (Fragrances of Ireland)

Ireland will always be a happy memory. I grew up spending summers in Sligo. My parents used to take me out to Strandhill, and we'd stop at the corner store and get H.B. ice cream. I would sit on the stone wall overlooking the beach, eat my ice cream, and take in the vast expanse of green and grey before me. The shoreline curled around the bay, its green fingers floating in and out of existence behind curtains of cloud and rain. The air was cold and clean, and full of salt, seaweed, wet grass, and stone. It was like being wrapped in an emerald, freshly dug from the earth.

It's been a while since I've perched on that wall or smelled those incredible smells, but another advantage of visiting Ireland is finding Fragrances of Ireland. The small niche perfumery has quite a pleasant and accomplished range. Unfortunately, almost all of the fragrances are for women. Patrick stands alone as their token fougère. It's a classically-composed fern, full of citrus notes and greens. It opens with a pleasant lemon and aldehydic moss, then switches gears during the drydown. I get a good shot of pine, an impression of wet hay, and eventually a musky wood. 

There's a little peat smoke in there, which is a nice touch. Peat is decayed vegetation mixed with earth. When burned, it smells amazing, a gorgeous blend of woods and minerals. The effect is of standing in a field near a cottage with a peat fire going. The rain is pelting down in lazy drops around me, and I can smell the salty brine of a distant beach. Salt and ozonic notes fuse the pungent pine, oak moss, and dry musk. This fougère is smooth, atmospheric, and green.

If it were made of top-notch materials, Patrick might be Holy Grail material. Sadly, the citrus is a rather naked limonene, and the balance between aldehyde and musk is a tad off. Limonene reminds me of the famous 4711, and here it's virtually identical to that eau de cologne. Sometimes Patrick feels a little too hazy, and I'd prefer better separation between the pine and moss notes. The composition is saved by the peaty woods that snake through the scent's core. 

Having a familiarity with how peat interacts with country air helps me to better understand what the hay-like shadows in Patrick are about. If it were just a citrus, pine, moss, and musk scent, I'd get bored. But with peat and brine in the mix, this enters a very rugged, masculine territory. It's good stuff.

As a green-lover, I'm inclined to think that I'll be repurchasing Patrick in the future. It's a good year-round scent, and the most traditional fern in my collection. If you've never been to Ireland, let me save you $1200 in airfare and recommend you sniff this lovely eau de toilette first.

Clubman Aftershave-Lotion (Pinaud)

This blog isn't really all-inclusive of both eau de toilettes and aftershaves. Clubman is a fine exception because it doubles as a cologne. Actually as a perfume. The damn stuff is so strong. But as a piece of Americana and pure liquid nostalgia, it damn well better smell strong. If an early 20th Century American aftershave is going to survive into the 21st Century, its scent needs to embody the boldness and universality of its time.

A quick history lesson: Ed. Pinaud founded the American branch of his high-end perfume company in 1920. From 1933 until the later half of the century, the Ed. Pinaud building on 5th Avenue in New York City was renamed Klotz Family Business Co. by Victor Klotz, Pinaud's son-in-law. A French supplier had been grumbling about its association with an American toiletry company, and Klotz responded by re-branding his line. It was circa 1940 when Clubman was first exclusively distributed to barbers for use in their shops. 

Using very little advertising and a word-of-mouth driven campaign, the Klotz Family Business brought Clubman to every country club, barbershop, and bathroom in the country. Klotz's strategy of reaching the American everyman paid off, and the transition from fancy perfumes to barbershop lotions was a success. Still, the product was never marketed as widely as Aqua Velva, Old Spice, or Skin Bracer. Clubman was always the commercially-aloof, in-the-know professional's choice.

Today, Clubman is found in Walgreens and Rite Aids for a few bucks a bottle. I've been using the scent for a couple of years as an aftershave, carefully. Many wetshavers choose to cut their alcohol-based aftershaves with water or witch hazel; I prefer to use Clubman straight, and usually consider it my SOTD due to its massive strength and sillage. Anything more than a thimbleful results in serious migraine material.

Classified as an ambery fougère, Clubman hits the skin with a pleasant array of floral and mossy notes. The top boasts a Victorian-era rose note, which isn't lost to the ensemble of lemon, lavender, cinnamon, oak moss, and tree moss comprising the base. The velvety concoction swirls into a powdery drydown that smells exactly like a barber's brush. In fact, every time I use this stuff, I feel like I just got a haircut. It's truly amazing how much scent-association is built into Clubman.

Flanked by Clubman Special Reserve, Clubman Vanilla, and Clubman Musk, the original Clubman stands alone as the ultimate barbershop fougère. That's a pretty coveted category, although it's one that gets overlooked by niche-loving snobs. Even YSL felt the need to address the barbershop fougère with Tom Ford's Rive Gauche pour Homme. Frankly, when I think of Clubman, I think of this:

Now I know that first impressions are the most-enduring, and when meeting a woman for the first time, concerns of which shirt to wear, which way to part your hair, and which cologne to use prevail. But consider what happens if you and the lady end up together, and she takes the time to peek at your toiletries. I can think of no cooler thing than to have a nice big 16 oz. bottle of Pinaud Clubman sitting by my sink - it tells her I'm a man's man, a little grizzled, a little neat . . . but totally refined. Attention to detail, in the end, is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

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.

Quorum (Antonio Puig)

The box for Quorum states that its contents contain alcohol of "vegetal origin." A funny thing to mention, but I guess some folks prefer organic perfumes? Or, perhaps perfumer Sebastian Gomez, who also authored Carolina Herrera's eponymous 1988 feminine, prefers them?

Anyway, this is yet another masculine aromatic from the early 1980s that has zero presence in the blogosphere, and I must ask: why? What is preventing people from writing about this scent? It's from a reputable house, it's 44 years old, and it's still around for a whopping $15 a bottle. For many, Quorum falls into the unofficial "powerhouse" category, i.e., it's a fragrance with tremendous sillage and longevity. There are rumors that the original (now vintage) formula was quite aggressive in the air, but at its current prices, I can't see forking over extra dough just to compare. Quorum is one of the best deals in masculine perfumery, and smells like it could cost twice as much as it does.

If I had to summarize the scent of Quorum in one sentence, it would have to be: it smells like burnt grass in September. The first few seconds yield a synthetic grapefruit citrus note, intermingled with a light touch of bitter cigar tobacco and a heavier dose of pine. At the three-minute point, the grapefruit recedes, and the pine steps forward, along with a very spicy arrangement of carnation, cyclamen, patchouli, cumin, and oakmoss. This lasts for the remainder of the scent's duration. The overall effect is one of sun-singed greens mixed with expired evergreen, akin to the aroma of long-dead pine needles wafting up to greet you as you stroll on a path in a forest. Only the ravages of rainless summer months could yield this effect, and usually it's the first few crisp autumn days that amplify it. As a woody chypre in the Polo family, Quorum celebrates when some greens turn yellow, red, and brown. Two or three sprays will give you an arm's length of sillage and at least eight hours of gentle longevity, but stack on additional sprays, and you'll clear the office.

When applied judiciously, Quorum has excellent balance and a nice, dry-green aura. However, the artificial grapefruit gets super-sweet and cloying if you over-apply. If the citrus was handled better (perhaps made with better materials), Quorum would be a five-star masculine. It shares with things like Old Spice and Green Irish Tweed the gift of situational duality; you can wear this at home, at work, or at play. As it stands, it could use a little freshening, but I enjoy it as a worthy addition to my autumnal rotation. Everyone sniffs things differently, and you may or may not get a leathery vibe from Quorum. I don't really smell leather here, and I'm glad. I'll take a musty pine over leather any day of the week. This is a good one, and well worth owning. Just don't overdo it.

Signature for Men (Max Factor)

I've always wondered what men smelled like back in the day. As a fan of old movies, it's not unusual for me to get stuck on some old Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart pic, and wonder what exactly the man off the street in 1950 wore before heading into his daily routine. Nowadays the answer is clear - most men either wear nothing, an Axe body spray, or some disgusting variation of Nautica Voyage or Tommy Bahama. But back then, before all the synthetic musks and ionones and esters . . . what was the air like?

About five years ago, I was helping a senior citizen friend of mine clean out the third floor of his 150 year-old Bridgeport home. The guy was a former graphic designer, print artist, and advertiser. He was also a Pepsi enthusiast, and a big fan of Eames chairs. In short, this guy's taste is really, really cool.

So it was with some surprise that, in the course of tossing decades of lost memories into a dumpster, we happened across an almost-full bottle of Signature by Max Factor. Labeled a Spray Cologne for Men, this scent was boxed and untouched since the day it was purchased, god knows when. Perfume Intelligence cites the scent as being made in 1950, and that's all there is. Being the fumehead that I am, I gave it a test spritz.

The gas-powered atomizer emitted far more fluid than desired. I was smacked with a massive wall of alcohol and decayed aldehydes, which smelled of nothing in particular. Then arrived a sweeping elegy of clovey spices and super-sweet musks. The arrangement smelled messy, powdery, and intense. However, after five minutes, it did cohere into a distinct, svelte-smelling musk. The closest thing I can compare it to is Aqua Velva Musk, which unfortunately is one of my least-favorite colognes. However, as its progenitor, Signature for Men certainly smells like a simple eau de toilette version of that sort of nondescript, sweetly masculine musk-smell that many men use as chaser to a shave.

Finding other bottles of this would prove difficult, as not even Max Factor itself acknowledges the existence of this long-defunct article. But no matter - I'm satisfied. I now know what the middle-class American man of the 1950s smelled like, at least some of the time. And I'm glad he's moved on to bigger and better things.

Pour un Homme (Caron)

When I smelled Pour un Homme for the first time, I wrinkled my nose, and almost returned the bottle. What the hell is that? I asked myself. Cold, not sweet, sorta-green, sorta-metallic, and altogether like nothing I'd ever smelled before. There was a urinous quality, too, like someone had pissed in a male sport aftershave. I sat there puzzled as this odd brew slowly resolved itself on my hand, and opened into the most gorgeous, natural-smelling lavender I'd ever met. Intrigued, I started my car and left the mall parking lot, certain now that the last thing I wanted to do was give this bottle back.

By the time I made it home, the lavender had receded, and a luminous, rich, earthy, and completely inedible vanilla had taken its place. The purple herbal luster of lavender hadn't entirely disappeared, and the urinous tinge to the base still appeared from time to time, but instead of smelling offensive, it was glorious. I smelled like I'd spent an afternoon in Provence running through the fields, and had finally returned to my chateau for a little cognac. It was wild and civilized, with an aura of something so simple and direct that it couldn't be ignored. Honestly, I felt like a changed man.

Pour un Homme is the fragrance for a conservative man. It's something a good woman gives to her man and makes him wear, even if it's against his wishes, because she knows it does him good (and she's right). It's the smell of someone who makes a home for his family, and protects it with love. It's a powerful essay on lavender, civet, vanilla, and musk, and it's 77 years old. Composed by Caron's founder, Ernest Daltroff, Pour un Homme was Daltroff's answer to the famous Guerlain masculine, Jicky. Unlike Jicky, Pour un Homme never found appeal with women - it was always man juice. 

Z-14 (Halston)

The realm between cinnamon orientals and leathery chypres is a dangerous one for me, mainly because I dislike the first kind and like the second. Leathery chypres are usually woody, dark; spicy orientals are often sweet, green, ambery, and dry. 

Z-14 opens with a pungent lemon, bergamot, vetiver, and oakmoss arrangement that rapidly warms into a woody accord of lavender, amber, and cinnamon. To my nose, the cinnamon balances against the dry citrus of the resinous heart accord, and is a subtle note. Interesting, because Z-14 isn't that different from its sibling, 1-12. Both fragrances feature elements of pine, carnation, patchouli, and tree mosses, yet both are remarkably different in design and performance. 

I do like the bottle, designed by Elsa Peretti, who designed all of Halston's classic fragrance bottles. It's simple but artful, in accordance with Peretti's "simple is better" aesthetic. This is a try-before-you-buy if you're attracted to retro colognes, but it's indisputably a classic that has survived the years intact.

1-12 (Halston)

Green as a color doesn't do much for me, but as an olfactory facet, it's the most important quality something can have. If it smells green, it's in. The less embellished green notes are by other "colors" in the olfactory rainbow, the better. Taking this into account, Halston's second masculine release, 1-12, is terrific stuff.

1-12 opens with the brightest lemon and galbanum I've ever smelled. The galbanum is front and center, sending a bracingly herbal chill down the scent's spine. About thirty seconds after application the pine shows up, complimented with the verdant spiciness of lavender, carnation and juniper, and bolstered with light touches of cedar and the earthiness of oak moss, tree moss, and more galbanum. All are very much there and identifiable, blended, but with excellent separation. 

1-12 is proof that masculine perfumery can be of Ivory Tower quality at Bohemian prices, and the size of the price tag isn't always correlative to caliber. It's also a great option for he who wants to smell original without sacrificing his sense of class and sex appeal. This frag shares the same box and bottle aesthetic as Z-14, so take a good look at what you pick up in the store when you go to buy!