Big Pony 1, 2, 3, & 4 (Ralph Lauren)

The Big Pony series has me wondering why Ralph Lauren hasn't caught on that redundancy is a cheap thrill. You capture the public's attention for all of two weeks, rake in some extra holiday-season profit, and eventually wind up discontinuing, discontinuing, and discontinuing some more. There's no big picture here. I thought the 1980s were supposed to teach us about the Big Business Big Picture. Apparently I was mistaken. Each of these fragrances tries to put a spin on something that's already been done a million times, and they fail miserably. I would never wear them, but I suppose if teenagers are faced with the choice of any of these, or Justin Bieber's new scent, they're better off picking a number. Here's my take:

Big Pony 1: The perfect example of what not to buy, for two reasons: 1) you'll wind up smelling like a cheaper version of Polo Blue, and 2) Everyone smells like Polo Blue. This is a thin watercolor sketch of that tried-and-tired "blueness" that has pervaded perfumery since Cool Water. Not to say that it comes anywhere close to the specific nature of Cool Water itself; BP 1 is a rather air-freshened and abstract blue sky concept, with a dryer ozonic texture. I'm fairly certain that Polo Blue has already failed at making this type of fragrance anything more than a teenage diversion.

Big Pony 2: I don't get the dark chocolate that supposedly distinguishes this scent, and I certainly don't get anything specific out of Big Pony 2. It reads to me like a spicy, cinnamon-type musk. It's rather nondescript. There's a heated amber lurking around in there. Oh, I get it - red bottle, hot scent. $65 for this? Really?

Big Pony 3: I probably shouldn't be doing it, but I'm giving Big Pony 3 a pass because it's the most likable of the BP lineup. Some ginger-mint and an incredibly synthetic greeny heart. The fresh notes are slathered over a faceless white musk. I'm a sucker for green, even when it's as soulless as this. I suppose if I were 17 and sexually frustrated, this would be my spring spritz. Anyone even a smidgen further along in life should just man up and wear the original Polo.

Big Pony 4: Amazingly, this is the most faceless scent in the series. It has an orangey, ambery, raspy wood & musk essence. The scent feels a bit like a Chanel in its muted affability, yet lacks refinement, distinction, or anything to set it apart from the mindless league of colored Polos. If scratchy wood is your thing, you're better off with Polo Blue, Black, or Double Black. Me? I'll steer clear of Ralph Lauren's 21st Century fragrances altogether, with more emphatic route diversions thanks to Big Pony 4.

And there you have it. They're better than any of the Calvin Klein scents of the last ten years, but that's not saying much. I'm thinking Lauren's fragrance department is downwind of the lavatories, and their Glade air fresheners aren't working so well.

Cool Water (Davidoff)

Last summer my girlfriend and I were slumming on the couch and chatting about her old flames. We're going way back here, the guys she dated in high school, not college.

She rolled her eyes while describing this one guy who evidently thought he was Ryan Gosling before his time. "He was such a douche," she said. "Actually, most of the guys I knew were douches. They all had attitudes, they were never honest, and they always smelled like bad cologne."

My ears perked up.

"Oh?" I said. "What do you consider a bad cologne?"

"God, I don't know. Whatever was popular back then was pretty bad. But the one I hated the most was the one every guy bathed in - Cool Water. That stuff just smells . . . no."

"Really?" I grinned. "I'm wearing Cool Water now."

She was suddenly mortified. "Shut up."

"No, really. I am."

"Very funny." She stared at me for a few seconds, and it dawned on her that I was serious. She blushed bright pink. About thirty seconds before our conversation, she had complimented me on how good I smelled.

"So I guess you don't think it smells bad anymore, huh?" I was having fun with this.

"Well shit, it smells good on you."

"That's what I thought."

"Okay, don't you be a douche!"

Cool Water, like Polo, Drakkar Noir, Acqua di Gio, Tommy, and even Joop! Homme, is a scent with widespread notoriety. Everyone knows it, and those who don't are either in a coma since 1987, or live in an alternate universe. Or both. We have memory associations with this scent, not the other way around. When we think of good times, bad times, golden-olden times, we think of Cool Water. Many girls remember it more than guys, solely because their former lovers, or even their fathers wore it. It was emblematic of a culture shift away from a world of dark brown bottles, and toward an endless ocean of deep blue.

For the longest time I was reading about how close to Cool Water Creed's Green Irish Tweed was, a sentiment that puzzled me because the comparison's order was backwards. Green Irish Tweed came a solid three years before Cool Water. If anything, the Davidoff scent mimicked the Creed. But I didn't believe it - Green Irish Tweed is a dense violet leaf construction bedecked in rich iris, ambergris, and sandalwood accords. Cool Water is a synthetic orange blossom, lavender, mint, tobacco, cedar, and oakmoss fougère, very fresh, but also much thinner. I didn't think the two perfumes were similar. I wore Green Irish Tweed for a while, enamored with its complexities, and forgot about Cool Water. Then one day I stopped into a little shop somewhere and picked up the bottle of blueness. I spritzed it on my hand, and lo and behold, there was the EDT version of Green Irish Tweed.

Creed is a great company, and one of the many wonderful things about them is that they don't release flankers of their most popular scents. Their products stand alone on store shelves as sole testaments to creative success. Creed also never produces EDT versions of their EDPs. This is also laudable, but less so than the first virtue. While flankers are almost always irrelevant marketing gimmicks designed to rake in maximum profit with minimal imagination, EDTs of EDPs are often a company's way of making a scent more accessible by way of concentration range. Many people just can't take the heaviness of an EDP, and prefer to wear their favorite scent in a lighter style. It's a gamble for a perfume house because easing a concentration always changes a fragrance, and poses the risk of making a great scent smell weak.

To avoid that pitfall, good perfumers accept the inevitable and just change the fragrance themselves when composing an EDT of an EDP. They preserve the elements that give the original scent its character, but impose new accords and shift the focus to something else. Pierre Bourdon, the talented guy who brought us Cool Water, was also the talented guy who consulted on the creation of Green Irish Tweed. Bourdon was intimately familiar with GIT, and had a hand in creating its decadent thickness. There's little doubt that when Creed released the scent to insiders, Bourdon felt his input was well taken. His first opinion was very likely that the scent was incredibly marketable, and extremely well-poised to go commercial. His second opinion was how much of a shame it was that Creed didn't make EDTs. When Davidoff came knocking on his door a few months later, he realized it was an opportunity to create an EDT of GIT, something entirely possible through reformulation. Changing the construct but mimicking the scent profile was both utterly do-able, and entirely feasible on artistic and commercial levels.

Cool Water opens with an explosion of synthetic lavender, dihydromyrcenol, which smells like dessicated citrus, here blended with a bitter edging of green apple, and a touch of mint. The notes are brightened by aldehydes, and grounded by a hint of orange blossom, and the suggestion of violet leaf. The central part of the scent is that which most resembles Green Irish Tweed; Cool Water's detached middle is an amalgamation of white flowers, mosses, tobacco, and hints of wood, but all elements are pared down to an aromatic minimum. The jasmine and oakmoss are there, but only the light sillage of jasmine is detectable, along with the fresh greenness in the oakmoss. The cedar is distilled into a coy woodiness, its fetid characteristics discarded. The tobacco is muted and sweet. The amber is sheer, almost sueded, and the musk is pale, nondescript, lending all of these airy components a central role on an unimposing stage. If you sniff casually, the composition resembles violet leaf. Bury your nose in it, give it some warm breath, and you can detect the synthetic equivalent of each note. It's a very fresh scent to be sure.

Somehow Davidoff managed to find a spokesman in Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol actor Josh Holloway. Apparently it's one of his favorite scents. I guess he goes old-school, but when you look like Mr. Holloway, you could wear Coty Musk for Men and still smell like a million bucks. Personally I find it hard to believe that he would bother with something as ubiquitous as Cool Water, but I'm a skeptic. Maybe he really does like it. I like it, although I'll never love it. Fresh fougères don't move me. Even Green Irish Tweed, in all its luxury, doesn't offer an emotional peak. The concept behind fresh fougères is one that I'm unable to connect with - smelling fresh and clean. Soap gives you that. Soap is cheap, easy to use, and in abundant supply. Products that amplify the effect of smelling clean are largely just soap accessories, but I suppose one can never smell too clean.

As for my girlfriend, she learned a lesson that day. Perfume is like clothing - it works if you make it work; if you don't believe in it, it'll never work. Up until she dated me, she hadn't met a guy who understood what Cool Water could and couldn't do for him. Therefore it always smelled cheap, like something superimposed. When I wear it, I enjoy it, savor it, and recognize its limitations. The juice responds to my welcoming skin chemistry, and emits something completely different from what she smelled all those years ago on El-Doucho. That's the power of cool, baby.

Candy (Prada)

It seems fitting that a follow-up review to Proctor & Gamble's Old Spice is one of Candy by Prada. To me, they represent the opposite ends of the socioeconomic fragrance spectrum. On the one side (let's symbolically say the "right" side) you have the über-expensive haute couture gourmand, its core excessively saturated in one rare ingredient. On the other (again, we'll suggest it's the "left" side) is an inexpensive standby oriental of no particular interest aside from its incredibly pleasant smell. 

The first fragrance is financially segregationist; the second is ubiquitous at an eternally flat premium. One boasts flashy packaging; the other scent is barely packaged at all. One is destined to be forever great; the other perfume is never going to move beyond a shortlist of admirers, and for a few good reasons. Yeah, I know - I switched it up on that last comparison. The shortlist is for Candy.

This is the second fragrance by Prada that I've tried, the first being its signature feminine oriental from 2004. I'll review that one this winter. Candy, suffice to say, is an unerringly pleasant scent. It opens with a lush and sorta fruity burst of sugary goodness. I'm getting hints of sweetened citrus, devoid of tang, sugared and stripped down to a gauzy denotation. Washing up behind it is an ocean of benzoin, supported on a caramelized vanilla musk. There's a lot of benzoin going on here. One could even say there's 12% benzoin going on here (bullshit, but a worthy sentiment). 

The sweetness tenders as the minutes pass, and gradually becomes a truer benzoin, a root beer olfactory illusion against a spicy tolu balsam. It conjures conflicting images of gourmet caramels piled around bottles of Robitussin. It's weird. But it's also quite nice; Daniela Roche-Andrier's effective implementation of quality ingredients puts her formula squarely in the coveted bracket of being unforgettably original. Future references to candy-like perfumes will inevitably lead to Candy.

As with all evanescent entries in the fragrance catalog, Candy's real problem has little to do with itself, and everything to do with its context in the grand scheme of things. It smells (and looks) like something from 1998, not 2011. I'm reminded of Chanel's Allure Homme, Gaultier's Le Male, and Hilfiger's Tommy while sniffing Candy. The times aren't sweet and care-free anymore, and it would be wise for couture firms to remember that. 

Lord knows they haven't. As soon as I mentally adjust this scent to the current market, it gets into trouble. Candy's scent profile joins gaudy commercial celebuscents like Beyonce Pulse and Someday by Justin Bieber, company from which one should separate, not integrate. I expect piles of greenbacks will be carted into Prada's coffers thanks to Candy. However, as soon as another firm's answer to Candy resonates with buyers, the cache of this original will be eagerly looted, and eventually diminished alongside dozens of other gourmands. In two years it'll be little more than a living memory. BTW, Candy's licensee is Puig, purveyor of the wonderful Agua Lavanda and Quorum. 

Orientals seem to fare better with serious-minded adults when they pander to classical excess (think YSL's Opium), and avoid contemporary nouveau-gourmand silliness. Although Candy isn't really a silly scent, its target audience of midlife crisis Manhattanites is. So is its pink color scheme. Note to Prada: change the bottle's band to another less-obvious color. And lose the sugar, add some spice. I'll be wearing Old Spice while I wait for an improved flanker.

Old Spice Classic (Shulton/Procter & Gamble)

Quick question: who the hell is Joan Daly? Anyone? Anyone? All well, it was worth a try. Hey Joan, pout a little more and you'll look just like Courtney Stodden!

It's snowing outside, and there's about four inches already on the ground. Seems awfully early in the year for snow, but when you consider how the world is ending, maybe not so much. In a few years, when the polar ice caps have totally melted and we're all living like Kevin Costner in Waterworld, snow and gallons of frozen rain will be old hat. Until then, I'll try not to get too excited by an early Nor'easter.

I finally caved today and picked up a bottle of Old Spice. It was an interesting visit to Walgreens - they already have their Christmas specials out! Tons of fragrance and toiletry gift sets. That's another thing it's way too early for. What's going on here? Can't we at least have Halloween first? There weren't any sets of Old Spice, but they had the usual aftershave and cologne boxes in the men's aisle. I call it the men's aisle, although it's really not. Just that there's tons of stuff in that aisle that only men would buy - face razors, hair tonics, Pinaud talc, a crapload of aftershaves, and a deodorant section that's suspiciously short on lady stuff. You know what? I'm glad that aisle exists. It's one of the reasons I'm a faithful Walgreens guy (I hate CVS and Rite Aid. And with Rite Aid it's personal).

As the cashier rang me up, I could tell that Old Spice had taken a lot of hits. For one thing, the box has a crappy new look. Gone is the big sail boat of yesteryear, and even the newer "shiny" design has been retired. I actually liked that design. The off-red box was eye-catching, and I liked how the over-sized font hugged the corner. The new box, however, is lacking. Procter & Gamble recently revamped the entire original Old Spice look, favoring an odd "sewn patch" motif on the cologne, aftershave, and body wash bottles. In an amazing display of stinginess, they've pared the color palette down to two - red and grey, and I don't know why they bothered with the grey since it's only used in miniscule amounts. This saves them money because more colors means a more expensive print job. 

Not that Old Spice was ever a vibrantly colorful product, but at least the previous boxes had a few reds, a black, and a navy blue, in addition to the grey. The glossy design that came just before the latest version had a pretty gold font, which is also gone. Now there's just the white of the box, an overload of plain red, and a tiny dab of grey where it says "Classic Scent". It's pretty bad. I hope it was worth it to save an extra buck by eliminating the blue in the logo.

Then there's the bottle. It's now plastic instead of Shulton's exotic Egyptian white sand glass. It sucks. Rather than describe it, a picture is worth a thousand words:

Color-wise it's a negative of the box, with the exact same imagery. The design works a little better on the bottle, but that patch is still . . . not good. Someone over at P&C needs a little tutorial on graphics. You never want to print an impression of anything sewn, stitched, taped, or thumb-tacked. The eye instantly recognizes when an unnecessary visual substitute has been employed in lieu of the real thing. It makes a product look cheap. Either sew a real patch on there, or change the image altogether. It's not like they don't have better material at their disposal - their trademark ship is a terrific graphic, full of fun and easy lines. It's now so small that I can barely see it.

Also, the stopper is red instead of grey. That's no big deal. I think I like red better. Grey is so WWII. Oddly enough, after cheaping out with the plastic, they kept the metal stopper lip. Yet even this is barely there. The metal is whisker-thin and might as well be painted plastic. Shulton used a nice solid steel piece to hold the stopper in place, but even that got trashed. What a travesty.

The scent has also been changed, but that's no surprise. It's a fairly simple fragrance, and they've changed it a few times over the years, with the most recent reformulation for bottling purposes. Plastic does a number on perfume, and here they had to streamline the scent for minimal damage. Still, compared to the old Shulton formula from the 1980s, this version is lacking. My breakdown:

Shulton Old Spice: The scent opens with a crisp burst of orange and aldehydes, followed by a procession of spices. Cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, pepper, sage, benzoin, frankincense, tonka, and vanilla are all present and accounted for. It's definitely spicy, with excellent note separation for drugstore juice. The notes smell realistic, too. Cinnamon from the kitchen rack isn't a spice I enjoy, and here it's putting me out - it's the real deal. The drydown is sweet and rewarding, and very warm, although I wouldn't associate it with my generation. It smells like something old and traveled, an archaic oriental with good sillage and longevity. Nicely done, and appealing to men everywhere.

P&G Old Spice: Aldehydes, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, benzoin, and vague hints of orange fleetingly greet my nose in the first ten seconds of wear, but the drydown is much quicker than it used to be. The cinnamon is synthetic and toned down considerably, which ironically works better for me. The clove is a touch stronger, which adds a cleanness to the scent. The pepper, sage, and frankincense are nowhere to be found. Within a minute, a massive soapiness takes over. It's mostly vanilla, and something resembling anise. 

This accord weighs the base down, making it more aromatic and more linear. The anise note cleverly masks the bitter plastic smell. It's okay I guess. Better than a slew of pricier options, many of which are also sold at Walgreens. So it could be worse. But it's a little too facile now. Perhaps if used in conjunction with the body wash it scores highly with die-hard fans, but I'm not overly impressed. I still like it, though.

Old Spice is something I'd wear sometimes, and probably only on weekends. It has that casual feel to it, like something warm and familiar, a man's olfactory pajamas. I'm not one to delve too deeply into masculine orientals, but at least I know I'm safe with Old Spice. Unless you bathe in it, the stuff is as inoffensive as it gets.

I have to laugh at the new tagline printed on the box: If your grandfather hadn't worn it, you wouldn't exist. Thanks, grandpa. I think.

Bois du Portugal (Creed)

Portugal must have some smelly woods. The Portuguese theme is a hit with Creed, Pinaud, and Geo. F. Trumper. Kinda makes me want to visit the country, just to take a stroll through its woods and do a sniff comparison to something on my wrist. See if the real thing lives up to the hype. I'm thinking their woods will smell like mine here in Connecticut - bitter, dry, and earthy, with hints of green. Although if Creed's interpretation of Portuguese woods is anything to go by, New England may in fact smell more interesting altogether.

For some reason, Bois du Portugal is popular with wetshavers. The guys over on Badger and Blade have nothing but high praise for it, with many considering it their favorite Creed. I'm not as enthusiastic about it. It strikes me as odd that Creed's two most popular masculine scents are Green Irish Tweed and Bois du Portugal, with one a modern fresh fougère, and the other an old-world gentleman's club scent. GIT often lands the eminently-incorrect harangue of being a "boring and over-priced aquatic," while BdP is lauded for being the "epitome of masculinity." Neither classification is anywhere near correct in my view; GIT smells much closer to being the "epitome of masculinity," and BdP is just an over-priced and unbalanced clone of Pierre Cardin Pour Monsieur - an ambery oriental with a prominent lavender note.

My understanding is that BdP's lavender is its bread and butter. Without it, the scent wouldn't be so beloved by wetshavers. That weirdly aloof aromatic accord permeates the top of the scent, making the first five minutes smell like cheap aftershave. For a Creed note, it's awfully mediocre. The lavender in Pour un Homme de Caron is miles better, and even Cool Water's minty lavender has more life in it. I'm not sure if linalool or some bland variety of Dimethylheptan is the culprit, but BdP's lavender isn't lucidly herbal, or buoyantly aromatic. It simply smells hollow and cold, not dissimilar to the vague wafts of purple in Azzaro's misguided Chrome, or the cologney linalool in Agua Lavanda Puig.

As the fragrance develops, the lavender grows more intense, not less. This proves it's merely a synthetic, but fortunately it's nicely welded to a crisp arrangement of tobacco and cedar. The woody aromatics elevate things from a base level of male medicine cabinet to the loftier realm of department store oriental. Before long, an amplified version of Creed's standard sandalwood accord rises through the composition, with hints of sweetness via the signature ambergris base. Still, the lavender persists, continuing to shout past the staid woods. The longer it sits on skin, the louder and less realistic it becomes. Eventually it's the only bittering agent to an otherwise-creamy amber drydown.

Bois du Portugal smells masculine, yes, and the composition is very mature, very grounded and reassuring. But it fails to deliver an emotional impact. I envision Wall Street executives striding to waiting limos with cell phones plastered to their skulls whenever I smell it. Its sturdiness is a refuge from flightier fare, but in the end I'm sitting with a guy whose only conversational subjects are highlights of the opening and closing bell. To my wetshaving brotherhood: gentlemen, if by "the epitome of masculinity" you mean what I think you mean, and are referring to guys like Winston Churchill and Henry Kissinger, then no, that's not heightened masculinity, it's stodginess. The epitome of masculinity is Lee Marvin, not the prime minister. If you prefer Type A personalities who wear Bois du Portugal, just know that always having cashola won't make up for never having sex.

LouLou (Cacharel)

I rarely get defensive about a fragrance, but with this one I can't help myself. LouLou gets an unfair rap, particularly from adult men with better-than-average noses. The boys on basenotes toss some pretty tough words around:

"Think of this as the floral female version of Joop! Homme, very very loud and strong, with florals, spice, and heap-loads of sweet vanilla and helotrope."

- Scentimus

"Too much sugary and mellifluous for my taste."

- Darvant (I forgive your grammar because English isn't your first language - nice use of "mellifluous" by the way.)

"It’s “in for a penny, in for a pound” with LouLou. To enjoy it you’ve got to love the kind of retro, “perfumey” scents that granny wore, and you must feel no shame flouting your love."

- Off-Scenter . . . and ouch!

"... maybe this is a fragrance aimed just for attracting men . . . my friend also smelled it and said it was like vomit, a cheap fragrance she remembered from University."

- F_Frez . . . and double ouch!!

You get the picture. Dismal opinions on poor LouLou. And I'm not sure why.

LouLou is one big '80s floriental. The jasmine, tuberose, violet, rose, balsam, cedar, incense, and ambergris explode off skin in a harmony not seen in current feminine fragrances. It's all so thick and lush that, by today's standards, it could be masculine. Vanilla quickly washes into the fray, adding a sweetness to the woodsy and floral mix. Eventually the sugar from the vanilla dominates, and the entire affair melts into a sweet, warm, and powdery aura. 

Like most '80s boudoir masterpieces, this fills the air around its wearer, and follows her everywhere. It's not a subtle or subliminal scent, and I'm the happier for it. Who needs another sweet-but-meek white musk whisper these days? Enough already, I'd be thrilled to meet someone wearing LouLou, if only to engage her on the topic of what makes a strong woman in today's Live and Let Die world. A woman wearing LouLou knows exactly what it takes to conquer the men and women around her.

My point is that LouLou is Kouros for ladies. It's brash. It's sexual. It's vibrant, complex, colorful, dark, attractive, intimidating, magnetic. I could see LouLou on a man (not so with Kouros on girls), but that doesn't take away from its majesty. Few men would even notice it nowadays, and those women who remember it could either be tired of it, or lulled into thinking it's too "big" for common use. Nothing could be further from the truth - it's exactly what we need. Women are strong, usually stronger than men. They're capable of childbirth. Surviving Menopause. Living to be 98. I think it's time we guys admitted that, as the stronger sex, women should wear stronger perfumes.

I find it intriguing that Thierry Mugler's canon of super-sweet gourmand perfumes get a healthy dose of positive attention, while the Grand Dame LouLou gets second fiddle. What's wrong with a scent that smells sweet, like Joop! Homme? Everyone likes sugar, and I've yet to find a definition of "mellifluous" that makes the term sound cheap, or undesirable. "Perfumey" granny frag = Liz Taylor's White Diamonds, and there is no comparison. And how exactly is a fragrance meant "just for attracting men" a bad thing?

Here's my review blurb, take it or leave it:

"This is the sort of perfume that truthfully hints at the contents of its wearer, like the jacket cover of a Dick Francis novel. She who wears LouLou in the post 9/11 cityscape is, by default, deeper than her peers."

- Enough said.

Nobile (Gucci)

Fougères are typically scent constructions built on lavender and bergamot in the top notes, coumarin in the base notes, and anything else in-between. Aromatic fougères take things into a more surrealistic realm, adding to the basic framework any combination of spices, woods, and fruits. This can be a big plus, but unfortunately many aromatics are also fresh fougères. Some of the better ones are Azzaro pour Homme, Skin Bracer, and Francesco Smalto pour Homme, all of which fall into that "fresh" category. Alongside these distinguished entries are the hoi polloi: CK Be, Tommy, and Façonnable, to name a few. These scents try to smell fresh and edgy, rather like olfactory dares. 

They offer callowness, along with what their makers hope is a perceptible twist. One can only guess as to what they're shooting for. Perhaps the brightness of their accords is an attempt to infuse the empty Western-acculturated formula of Fresh + Clean = Sexy + Intriguing ÷ Sexual Tension² with meaning. I think they share a closer correlation with Alfred Hitchcock's philosophy on the difference between true suspense, and a mere surprise. In regards to the surprise, he says (and I'm paraphrasing):

"Let us suppose that there is a bomb underneath this table between us. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, ‘Boom!’ There is an explosion. The public is surprised, but prior to this surprise, it has seen an absolutely ordinary scene, of no special consequence. In [this] case we have given the public fifteen seconds of surprise at the moment of the explosion.

Now, let us take a suspenseful situation . . ."

In other words, the tummy-butterflies that many contemporary fresh fougères hope to deploy are nothing more than indigestion. They're brief slices of drama, sandwiched between massive loaves of boring.

Gucci isn't known for peddling stylistic restraint, and the company's image is arguably all about sexual edginess, taken to the Nth extreme. When was the last time you saw a Gucci fashion ad that wasn't composed of starved, suggestively-posed hotties sprawled all over each other? I vote never. Yet Nobile comes across as the total opposite of this facade. Instead of smelling gaudy and contrived, this aromatic fougère is sleek, brooding, and - surprise, surprise - sophisticated. It smells more like a Chanel, or a Fendi, than anything Gucci. I guess the late '80s was a contemplative time for the kids down at 725 5th Avenue.

Nobile opens with a bracing lavender, rosemary, and citrus, all of which rapidly move into a dry green forest. The artistic license taken by whoever composed the scent (its author is unknown) is quite welcoming and masculine. A stunning mix of cool green notes are dabbed with hints of mace, thyme, and rose. Wearing Nobile is like riding a corvette through a forest of fir trees. Everything smells brisk, lucid, all the aromas tilled by a stiff wind through beds of wildflowers and unharvested herbs. I don't know why, but it reminds me of the Welsh countryside - a place I haven't visited since the early '90s. Even the woody drydown of cedar, sandalwood, amber, and musk smells rich.

It's hard to say exactly what brand of masculinity this scent caters to. I suppose it's along the lines of Ryan Gosling or, if you want to go all sepia, Robert Redford. Nobile is one of the few fougères that literally sparkles when you wear it. It feels like the toilet water of someone dangerous, its charisma expressed in classic accords that are simply done right. It's a fertile playing field, however, full of vigor, boldness, vitality - all common characteristics of the modern alpha male. There's an edginess in there, but it's refreshingly direct. It drives fast, but stays in its lane. At no time does its inner tension succumb to the cheap thrills of overt fruitiness, or sweetness.

This scent is a unique and evocative fresh fougère, a distinctive presence in a crowded field. Its presence is fading, however; Gucci discontinued Nobile years ago, in an aberrant fit of self iniquity. I have no idea why they did this. I can only hope they get their shit together and undo it, and soon.

Bois de Violette (Serge Lutens)

This is one interesting fragrance. Evidently conceived by Christopher Sheldrake as the fourth variation of Féminité du Bois (which Pierre Bourdon shares credit for), Bois de Violette is also a descendent of Chanel's Bois des Îles, and Caron's Parfum Sacré. 

It stands among Bois et Fruits, Bois et Musc, and Un Bois Vanille as a most curious thing, and perhaps the most curious thing ever launched by Serge Lutens Les Salons du Palais Royal Sheseido. It is both beautiful and ominous, a testament to the strength and vitality of contrast in postmodern perfumery. A violet reconstruction has never been more lovingly crafted or better received by fans of things unisex and niche. It is perplexing, unnervingly memorable, and unarguably worthy of the accolades that it receives. Despite its many origins, this fragrance is one of a kind.

When I first wore it, I approached Bois du Violette from the wrong angle. As a male fumehead, my sole point of reference for violet is Grey Flannel. The problem is that Grey Flannel's violet note is also one of a kind. There isn't really anything else like it, and anything that comes close (like the violet leaf in Narciso Rodriguez for Him) is clearly derivative. Its dry and bitter-green casting of ionones emits a salubrious blast of unremitting masculinity - an ironic outcome considering the feminine associations surrounding violets. 

Bois de Violette, however, takes a different route altogether. While not exactly feminine-smelling, the methyl ionone is very sweet, and assumes a pivotal position against a dark and inanimate rendering of cedar and smoky spices. Its violet starts off smelling woody-sweet, then grows progressively sweeter as the minutes pass, until it threatens to become a massive Parma violet candy. Just in the nick of time, the cedar that magnified the woodiness of the initial violet accord returns with a vengeance and attacks Bois du Violette's saccharine center. 

The ashen wood stabilizes the scent, giving its sweetness a sophisticated feel. What once was an explosively feminine violet, now becomes a delectable array of cedar, honey, and spice notes. It's a striking evolution, and an utterly amazing experience.

My struggles with Bois de Violette lie in its crushingly-sweet violet accord, contrasted against the dense, suffocating intensity of Lutens-style cedar. Uncle Serge rules with a heavy hand, and nothing in this perfume is light, airy, or free. Sure, the violet is dynamic, a core component of a complex olfactory machine. Without its intensity, the woods would dominate, and all greatness would be lost. 

But just as the tension between dirty and clean makes Kouros a disquieting masterpiece, the placement of a massive violet reconstruction within a small cedar box is as magnificent as it is frightening. Free association words and phrases come to mind here . . . lost love, . . . frosty November, . . . death, . . . funeral parlors, . . . you get the idea. Not much in the way of purple violet fairies fluttering around. If you could bottle seriousness, Bois de Violette would be it. This fragrance is Russia against the Bolsheviks. 

I'll stick with Grey Flannel, either because I'm not mature enough yet to pull Bois de Violette off, or I'm just not that enthused about wearing something with this much cedar in it (I dislike cedar immensely). I'm not sure I agree with Luca Turin's appraisal of Bois de Violette as "a violet gem around which everything dances", as its notes struggle to shuffle under their own weight, but I agree that it's in the big leagues. 

It always plunges me into deep philosophical thought about the natural world that society has detached from and forgotten. It smells like an olfactory eulogy to a sacred treasure that's been irretrievably lost. They say that with every death comes a birth; Bois de Violette is a sacred treasure unto itself.

Narcisse (Chloé)

Good perfume is very much like classical music - all the notes are harmoniously composed in a way that elicits deep and genuine emotional responses. There is no price tag on emotion; one is either excited, or dissuaded, and no degree of fanciness can change it. Therefore, the pedigree of a perfume is not measured in dollars and cents, but in how effectively it impels others through its artfulness of smell.

In exploring perfumes, I'm often surprised by how inexpensive the successes are. Guerlain's Vetiver, for example, is quite inexpensive at about $20 an ounce. Yet it stands as one of the most famous reference vetivers of all time. Cool Water is another landmark fragrance that can be had for the price of a cab ride. Even some upscale niche scents are reasonable - 2.5 ounces of Royal English Leather is still well under $200. All things considered (it's 2011 people), that's pretty good.

So it wasn't a surprise to me that Narcisse by Chloé is a cheapie. The fragrance is incredibly lush, complex, and inspirational, and it joined a wave of '90s florals in setting a new standard for everyday women's-wear. By 1992, dry chypres for women were dead, but the classically-inspired floral arrangements that replaced them were masterpieces of their own. Narcisse (alongside Tommy Girl and Pleasures) is one of them.

I fine Narcisse to be very feminine, enough to discourage me from wearing it. If I were to vacation in Dubai or Calcutta, I might reconsider. There are places where sweet florals that border on being orientals are commonplace on men, but Connecticut isn't one of them. Nevertheless, I consider Narcisse to be beauty in a bottle. First, let me say for the record that it's an incredibly strong scent. I don't recommend liberal application, unless you don't mind being arrested for disturbing the peace. 

I mentioned in my review of Passion for Men that its limited budget is evident not in scent quality, but in strength; the same is true in regards to Narcisse, except unlike the Taylor scent, Chloé's is too heavily concentrated. Makes me wonder how much it costs to pay the guy who determines the concentration of fragrances. I'd like to be that guy.

Narcisse is sweet, warm, juicy, and full-bodied. It's one ripe perfume, and I mean that in the best way possible. The apricot and pineapple are inseparable in the opening, but they infuse the notes of marigold and plumeria with a velvety smoothness that holds up well as the perfume dries down. Eventually the gardenia/carnation/narcissus accord blooms brightly, producing a thick, heady floral aroma, tinged with spices. 

Nothing smells overproduced here - just rich. The effect is something that both warms and brightens its wearer. Later, daffodil and rose assert themselves against a creamy base of vanilla, orange blossom, balsam, and sandalwood. With its overt white florals, Narcisse smells a trifle dated in style (I'm flooded with images of Hillary and Chelsea Clinton waving from the White House lawn), but also sexual, and affable enough for today. I'd stick with a lady who wore this.

Are there still ladies who wear this? There must be. It's still on the market, and it's still affordable. It's also, incredibly, one of the only laudable things to come out of 1992. Sorry, Angel fans. And Lutens fans. And Safari fans.

Okay, okay. Other great things came out in 1992.

Oscar (Oscar de la Renta)

There seems to be a divergence of opinion concerning Oscar. Many on Fragrantica find an abundance of tuberose and myrrh in its construct; I smell far more lavender, herbal notes, and opoponax. Tuberose is there, but eh. In any case, Oscar is a floral perfume - we can all agree on that - and it closely hugs the oriental category. Its spices and herbal complexities outweigh the green aromatics of a straight floral scent.

Oscar (original 1977 perfume) opens with bitter lemon and lavender, spiced with basil and nuanced with tuberose. The lavender is frigid, herbal, probably Spanish, and the drydown brings forth the warmth and creaminess of opoponax and sandalwood. The base is cloves and ambergris, all haloed in a rugged aroma of rosemary and myrrh. This smells very expensive, beautifully and thoughtfully constructed, and surprisingly unisex. In fact, the top-note accords remind me of a classic masculine, R de Capucci. I don't know how the EDT version of Oscar interprets those sunrise-slapper lemon and lavender top notes, but I can say that the perfume is stunning, thanks to those elements.

I would wear Oscar myself, but I'm spoiled for choice when it comes to '70s feminines, and right now I'm uncertain as to which one to commit to. While I make up my mind, I'll yearn for a busty, beige suited, Oscar-wearing stunner who works somewhere on 5th Avenue, and lives within walking distance.

Sunwater (Lancaster)

Here's a good question for you: if you've sniffed Yatagan, Caron's bone-dry woody chypre, what do you think would make an appropriate feminine flanker for it?

Sunwater starts off with a big celery top note. Yatagan's is staid by comparison. I suspect it's the herbs intermingling with juicy citrus that produces such a distinct olfactory illusion, but my nose is pretty adamant here - it just smells like celery. Eventually a pretty jasmine wells up from beneath the bitter vegetal accord. The jasmine infuses the lush heart notes with hints of sweetness. I suspect the sugary heathen that lurks in the shade is the ylang-ylang, or maybe even the thin amber in the base. The effect is a little awkward, but at least it tries to be green, woody, and clean. Most perfumers just throw a drop of cis-3-Hexanal in a gallon of dihydromyrcenol and call it a day. Sunwater offers precious, blooming flowers (hedione?) in the drydown. It gets points for trying to end on a positive.

Yatagan, in all honesty, doesn't really possess such a massive celery note. It's more of a touch of celery seed against a ginormous artemisia accord. Sunwater, however, takes the vegetal note and plasters it against a cool aquatic ambience. It's actually akin to how the produce fridge at the grocery store smells after the mister hits the raw veggies in the display. My take is that this is a fascinating scent impression, fleeting as it may be. It's not the sort of thing I expect from a feminine '90s aquatic. It gets points for originality, but demerits for, well, smelling a little too weird.