Neroli Portofino ( Tom Ford )

The nose behind Ford's 2011 summer release is the accomplished Rodrigo Flores-Roux, who also created the new Fougère Royale, and most of Arquiste's range. NP is part of Ford's Private Blend range, and was released but a shoulder's breadth from the much-maligned Lavender Palm. You would think, given its lineage, that NP would smell like a brand new take on citrus aurantium, the woody-fresh blossom oil of the bitter orange tree, but alas, it is simply a conventional perfumer's rendition. The very first thing I thought of when it hit my skin was 4711. That's surprising, given how cheap 4711 is, and how expensive NP is. Yeah, it's oddly the only fragrance I can think of when I smell NP, and that's not terrible, because 4711 smells really, really good. This Private Blend has imbued me with a whole new appreciation for the National Granny Cologne of Germany.

What becomes problematic is that NP doesn't really develop much, and remains a linear, semi-sweet, and utterly woody neroli, with hints of mandarin orange and cool amber in the base. That's fine, except that NP's price-point suggests it should be something more. Comparatively speaking, 4711 has complex development, with a rosy herbal structure underlying its layered citrus top accord. The basil and rosemary in that little $20 cologne really add dimensionality and zest to it, but NP is thoroughly non-herbal, possessing neither the humor, nor the panache of its predecessor. 

Speaking of humor and panache, the advertisements for this one really do a disservice to the buyer. I'm not normally influenced by visual advertising (I've been jaded by my graphic design studies), but with NP I really expected something fizzy and sexy. What I get instead is something flat and rather formal.

All well, at least the 4711 connotation is interesting. It's just a shame that little else about Neroli Portofino grabs me.

Euphoria Men (Calvin Klein)

I happen to own a small, .5 oz bottle of Euphoria Men, for reasons that are unknown to me. I can't even recall when I picked it up, although I suspect it was during a holiday season a few years back. 

I can't be bothered to wear this fragrance, or bring myself to address its popular reputation as a successful part of Klein's mediocre legacy. I won't wear it because I don't really care for it, and I've already covered Klein's mediocre legacy here. I do want to point out that Euphoria Men has one somewhat interesting thing I hadn't really noticed before - it possesses a rather good ginger top note. If you enjoy the damp, warm-fresh scent of ginger, Euphoria's rendition of it may be a good incentive to check this fragrance out.

I'm afraid the rest of it is a total non-entity. The ginger note is very fleeting, and lasts about three minutes on my skin before disappearing behind a thin wall of sweet ambers and peppery, synthetic leather notes. There's a point where the ginger transitions to the amber and makes Euphoria smell like ginger ale, but it's a short-lived effect, and it doesn't really add anything interesting to this fragrance's development. There's an intense version of Euphoria Men? That's to be expected, I suppose. While the original's longevity and sillage are adequate, it's not exactly a barn-burner in those departments. Euphoria remains in my collection as a fragrance to refer to solely for its top note.

Set Sail St. Barts for Men (Tommy Bahama)

One of the recurring challenges with department store fragrances over the past decade is their tendency to resemble expensive deodorants. Given that many are also marketed in deodorant form, this similarity isn’t particularly shocking. Bleu de Chanel strikes me this way, with its ashen woods veiled in a powdery haze that is neither distinctly pleasant nor unpleasant. A similar trait pervades several contemporary Chanel fragrances. When I tested this lively tropical cologne by Tommy Bahama, I encountered the same intentionally inoffensive, deodorant-like quality.

The difference, however, is that Set Sail manages to evoke something genuinely fun and laid-back—an increasingly rare quality these days. It’s a delightful blend of salty lime, lemon, margarita mix, guava, vanilla, and musk. The citrus notes, though fleeting, feel reasonably natural, and the saltiness remains pronounced throughout most of the fragrance's wear. Guava is an intriguing note, with a spectrum that ranges from dry and papery to sweet, musky, and slightly creamy. In Set Sail, it’s the latter—a cool, creamy guava that adds a refreshing dimension to the composition.

Released in 2007, this fragrance initially escaped my notice as I was working in Eastern Europe that year, where American fashion brands tend to arrive at a more leisurely pace. I only discovered Set Sail upon returning home, likely drawn by its notable success. My appreciation for it is as much about aesthetics as it is about scent—I truly love the bottle. It’s a substantial, oblong piece of glass in a striking Mediterranean shade of Brandeis Blue. The atomizer is faux gold-plated metal, nestled under a matching plastic cap adorned with a small length of docking rope. It’s arguably the finest bottle in my collection, rivaled only by YSL’s Jazz.

From a design perspective, both the fragrance and its bottle demonstrate excellent thematic cohesion. The scent feels tropical, fresh, and undeniably "blue," while the bottle itself resembles a fusion of Venetian blown glass and a polished gemstone. Although Set Sail is a cologne concentration, it delivers a respectable four to five hours of longevity before settling into a skin scent. Remarkably, it’s also incredibly affordable at discounters. If you’re seeking a summer fragrance with charm and character, this is a standout option worth exploring.

Soap Review: Old Spice Pure Sport & Swagger

I told you I'd review these bar soaps after using them, so here we go. 

I'm happy to report that the Pure Sport and Swagger soaps work well. They lather nicely, and leave skin feeling toned and clean. It's unclear as to why P&G chose to market only three bars - Pure Sport, Fiji, and Swagger - and opted to leave the original Old Spice fragrance out of the mix, but so far I'm pleased with the two I've tried. Let's hope they sell like hotcakes and spur the company to release the "Classic Scent" in bar form. A few points on Pure Sport and Swagger: 

• The bars are generously sized at 4 ounces (Irish Spring is only 3.75 ounces) and they feel  dense, like they've been triple milled (although I doubt they are). 

• They last a while. I get well over a week's-worth of showers from one bar (about ten days), while Irish Spring only yields around six or seven showers. I lather a lot though, probably more than a lot of folks do, so your mileage may vary on this.

• The bars are shaped in a way that prohibits them from splitting in two while being used. Unlike Dial and Irish Spring, which separate into two little pieces about two-thirds of the way through their life, Old Spice soaps remain one solid piece, right to the end, due to the attenuated curvature in their design. 

• Their fragrances are potent, but unlike other soaps, they don't cloy upon lathering. I get olfactory fatigue with these, to the point where I don't even smell them while showering. After I step out and towel off, however, I get whiffs of freshness that remind me of what I just washed with. Those whiffs endure for about five minutes after showering, so there's no doubt these soaps have strong scents. 

The lower curve in the bar shape doesn't effect its solvency in leftover water after showering, so you're unlikely to get that mushy-bar effect of soggy soap. I'm not sure how that is, but I suspect the density of the soap has something to do with it - they're actually not so easily permeated by water. Even in lathering, it takes a little extra effort to get suds. That can be viewed as a negative, in the sense that you have to work a little harder to get the same effect as other bar soaps, but I doubt anyone will mind. The lather isn't super-rich, and won't cover skin completely like Ivory Soap does (stingy bar, awful scent, but decent functionality to that one), but it's pretty good, and a little better than Irish Spring, so I can't complain.

Between the two fragrances, I think I like Pure Sport just a little more than Swagger. It smells fairly close to the aftershave, but a little more top-heavy, like Pure Sport's woody-citrus, without the sandalwood dry down. That's the reverse of  most bar soaps, which tend to feature only base notes. Pure Sport soap is very bright and fizzy-fresh, while Swagger is a little smoother and sweeter, with a muskier aroma. I really like Swagger as well, but it reminds me of Irish Spring Icy Blast for some reason. Maybe the light blue color and the sweetness is what does it. But it's a good smell and performs the same as Pure Sport.

I hope to try Fiji soon. For those of you who are interested in these soaps, I give Pure Sport and Swagger two thumbs up. They're excellent products, and a pleasure to use. 

Adam Levine For Men (Adam Levine)

I'm one lucky fucker. I have a job I enjoy, and I work entirely with women. And somehow, after all these years of being a dick, I'm still their favorite employee. I don't have to worry about catty stuff from them, and have learned that being the walking personification of Switzerland gets me through any and all issues unscathed. The key to success: don't take sides. Living by this results in good karma.

My one rue, however, is that they all love the guy pictured above. They're Maroon 5 fans! Not that there's anything wrong with that. I don't mind some of their music, although a few songs rub me the wrong way. And I have no quarrel with Mr. Levine. He seems like a fine, upstanding citizen. Probably gets more ass than a toilet seat. I don't know what his karma looks like, but I'd say it looks good, judging by his popularity. His voice is certainly adequate, and he has enough sex appeal to ruin whole generations of the female race.

What continues to puzzle me is that someone as far removed from the fragrance world as Adam Levine should take it upon himself to fund two celebuscents. Easy question - why? What could possess a Top 40 radio star to think that fragrance is a necessary addendum to his manly swagger package? Don't answer that, it doesn't really matter. 

He somehow managed to hire the accomplished Yann Vasnier to do his bidding, and apparently his bidding was an ode to grapefruit, because it comprises ninety percent of his masculine composition. Vasnier, probably using artistic license, fleshed the fruit note out with pleasant hints of lemon, sage, ginger, lemongrass, and cedar. It's not very woody, and more fruity than anything, but it smells nice enough. Expensive body wash for men, in liquid-spray form.

The grapefruit note in Adam Levine for Men is fairly standard designer issue, i.e., not quite true to the fruit. People who want grapefruit in their perfumes should know that it's a very pissy accord, with urinous off notes that elicit associations with rubbing alcohol and ammonia. To embellish the accord means robbing the fruit of its identity, resulting in something unnecessarily sweet, an almost unidentifiable citrus-like smell, that never truly represents grapefruit. Such is the case here in Mr. Levine's offering, with some spare lemon and herbal elements saving it from falling into the gummy-synthetic territory of a recent reformulation of the original Quorum.

I tip my hat to Levine for releasing something that smells fresh and citrusy without becoming sickeningly sweet and cloying, and recommend the much-cheaper Old Spice Wolfthorn as an alternative for those on a budget. Truth be told, P&G manages to achieve the same (almost exact same) fresh-citrusy effect, to the extent that I kinda feel bad for Levine. This type of structure has become all-too common, and its ubiquity devalues whatever cache it may have had ten years ago. Somehow I expect ALfM will be discontinued before the decade is out (its licensing company, Andrenalina, is in big financial trouble, so it all depends on whether someone else buys the formula). I'm not saying I don't appreciate the joy Levine spreads to the world, and my co-workers. I'm just saying he shouldn't quit the day job.

L.12.12 White (Lacoste)

White is probably the best of Lacoste's ill-advised color series, and deserves at least a test spritz at a retail counter. The recent standard for masculine fragrance is any combo of grapefruit, ginger, cardamom, some pungent cooking herb, usually rosemary or sage, and several clean laundry musks, stacked a mile high so disinterested noses can detect at least one or two as they smother a wan woody-amber. How does L.12.12 White measure up? All notes are accounted for, and the fragrance smells very generic and fresh. 

Now, you might ask me, "Bryan, why bother reviewing these tedious designer fragrances that, by your own admission, are utterly boring?" I answer you: L.12.12 White is neither boring, nor tedious, and smells good. Its citrus accord, though saddled by the requisite synthetic grapefruit, actually strives for a smoother, sweeter development, not too far removed from that of Eternity for Men (a superior fougère, albeit just as cheap). So it doesn't exactly break down doors, but does sidestep the predictable bitter-fresh effect commonly found in masculines these days.

The herbal mid is green and snappy, and many have commented on the white floral notes, but I think it's disingenuous to speak of them without irony. Yes, there's a hint of tuberose, perhaps a tiny drop of sweet ylang, but nothing really steps out as being blatantly floral. The ingredients are of decent quality, but not blended with great care, so lines are pretty blurred. You can sift under the fizzy, fruity-herbal top accord to find a semi-sweet cleanness with just the vaguest hint of green earthiness, but only if your mind is really set on it. Otherwise you're just smelling soapy-clean freshness that is as pleasant as it is nondescript. Eventually the powdery laundry musks arrive, with a cool blue amber in their wake. White gives a sense of billowing airiness, like clean sheets flapping in a country breeze. Nice, and definitely more on the "Masculine" side than "Unisex," for reasons that are hard to determine. Could be that piercing rosemary note, set against White's prominent citrus, with the feminine elements competing against the underlying amber.

Would I buy this? No, but not because there's anything wrong with it. I prefer Eternity for this sort of smooth-woody theme, but perhaps I'll stumble across White some day at Marshalls and plunk my wallet down for it. I am a lover of fresh fragrances, and would not regret the purchase.

Lime Sec (Pinaud)

The history of Lime Sec is difficult to trace directly, as its name does not appear in the few remaining editions of The Pharmaceutical Era Weekly, which advertised the full Pinaud range during the nineteenth century. I keep combing its pages in search of anything similar to it, but haven't seen many citrus references (apparently they had a hell of a lavender water - world renowned). This makes Lime Sec's true age a mystery, and it should be further noted that the brand has not been manufacturing perfume since 1810, as Lime Sec's label suggests - Edouard Pinaud was born around 1810, and I imagine little Eddie's perfumery skills were underdeveloped that year.

Pinaud's history is interesting. Edouard ventured into pharmaceuticals at the sprightly age of twenty (or thereabouts), setting up shop in 1830s Paris. By 1833 he had achieved a commercial break-through with Lilac Vegetol cologne water, which is found in the aforementioned catalog, and which is still available today, oddly enough. I used to own a bottle of "The Veg", as members of the online wetshaver community affectionately call it, and found it nearly impossible to wear. Its pungent, urinous, spoiled-greens top accord is enough to put you off your lunch, and the powdery lilac drydown isn't quite nice enough to redeem it. Still, it's a good aftershave, and deserving of preservation as a reference barbershop "toilet water" of the time.

Unlike expensive niche brands like Penhaligon's, Creed, Truefitt & Hill, and Floris, Edouard Pinaud is exemplary in that he held a Royal Warrant, issued by Queen Victoria, to be sole importer of fine toiletries into England, and English colonial territories, yet never used this official designation to add prestige to his commercial exploits. The Queen's warrant is no longer printed on Pinaud's packaging because royal warrants can only be reproduced within the lifetime of whoever issued them. When Victoria perished, so did her warrant, and any of Pinaud's rights to it. Nevertheless, at the height of his popularity it was rumored that Edouard's toiletries were favored by Napoleon and his armies, and that this brought Pinaud into Europe's royal circles. Edouard reputedly had little to say about this, but didn't deny it. The timeline for Napoleon is off by at least twelve years (Napoleon died in 1821), but Queen Victoria's warrant remains very much a factual part of the brand's history.

A Page of The Pharmaceutical Era Weekly, Featuring Pinaud

It is suspected that Pinaud's labels bear the words "Perfumers Since 1810" because of their takeover of the French Legrand Perfume House, which was founded in 1810. Once the facility was under his ownership, Edouard was able to mass produce his toiletries, and began exporting to the States. By the middle of the nineteenth century his most successful export to America was his Eau de Quinine hair tonic, a much-loved product that is still available today. Most of Pinaud's products were too pricey for the American market, so a cheaper line was developed, and "Pinaud's Roman Smelling Salt Perfumes", a direct ancestor of the Clubman line, was born. The line entered the U.S. barbershop circuit in 1895, and Pinaud's Bay Rum was introduced in 1900.

For a concise summary of the company's split into producing both Clubman and Pinaud ranges, see my review of the original Clubman aftershave-lotion. Lime Sec is not a Clubman-branded product, and is one of the few remaining items to still bear only the Pinaud namesake on its label. Prior to buying Lime Sec, I assumed it was a cologne in the same manner as Clubman aftershave, with a very cheap execution of a cheap idea, affably rendered to satisfy wetshaver tastes. To get better insight into the wetshaver community, visit Badger & Blade, where devoted men gather to discuss shaving techniques, products, and history. Yes, that's right, history - shaving history. It's actually a really interesting forum. It's probably not pulling in many ladies, but the guys love it, and that's understandable, since shaving is mainly a guy thing.

Lime Sec has a bad reputation, and even on B&B it doesn't find much love. Many guys feel it's a poor lime fragrance because the lime note is way too sweet. I thought I was in for Lime Jolly Ranchers when I bought my 12 ounce bottle blind for eight dollars, so expectations were pretty low. I happen to love limes, and how they smell. Last summer the only thing I drank was sparkling mineral water with fresh lime squeezed into it, and I would sniff my juice-covered fingers for the raw smell of pure lime oil. It's a very dry, citric, bittersweet aroma, with a distinct greenness about it. I'd know it anywhere, and it stinks to imagine a cologne that touts itself as a "dry lime", but smells like lime candy. I've learned from reading other people's descriptions of Lime Sec, and then smelling Lime Sec for myself, that I cannot believe everything I read on the internet.

To my nose, Lime Sec is a wonderful lime fougère in a very old-fashioned style of herbal citrus, coumarin, and musk. It smells very crisp and fruity on top, with a gentle burst of semi-sweet lime (not candied), followed by a touch of lemon, and a faint dusting of cinnamon and clove. Very shortly after application a low-key rose note develops, and is devoid of any floral sweetness. Across this little green bridge struts a bone-dry coumarin, welded to a cheap-but-pleasant musk note. The drydown has a strangely airy feel of something both powdery and aqueous, a nice effect for a cologne that doubles as an aftershave. None of Pinaud's aftershaves contain menthol or skin toners, so slapping their cologne on freshly-shorn cheeks yields little to no difference in effect. If you're gonna wear a Pinaud, you might as well get dual use out of it.

I understand why some guys say Lime Sec is a sub-par lime fragrance. It doesn't have a hyper-realistic lime note, and you won't wonder why it's not more expensive. But the lime note isn't candied, either, and trends closer to realism than I expected. It isn't such a stretch to imagine that I'm smelling lime juice when I sniff Lime Sec. I'd say it's nearly identical to real lime oil, except that the synthetic nature of its constituent parts (this is a lime reconstruction, of course) prohibits it from being completely convincing. 

That said, for eight dollars, this fragrance really does smell good, and is definitely a satisfying lime cologne. It does not scream "synthetic" or dry down to something thin and crass. The simple coumarin base note is very wry and direct, tinged with the after-effects of fresh, citrus-like aromas. I imagine there are guys who are anosmic to the one-note musk that accompanies the coumarin in the base, and that might detract from the experience for some. I'm impressed by Lime Sec, and it warms the cockles of my heart to think that a more natural formula may have been worn by mustachioed dandies over a century ago.

360° White For Men (Perry Ellis)

The entire 360° fragrance line by Perry Ellis is little more than a cloning machine, with blatant copies of several best-selling masculines of yesteryear "reinterpreted" for budget-minded consumers. That's fine, except most of the fragrances being cloned are already relatively cheap. Acqua di Gio, Drakkar Noir, and Le Male were all targeted for reproduction. Most of Ellis' chromos are good, but White stands out. 

This fragrance is a really good deal for fans of Le Male, and I think that Gaultier's fanbase would benefit more than the guys who prefer Red and Blue, mainly because I smell a crudeness in the other "colors" that isn't as offensive in White's formula. White is definitely a good substitute for Le Male, but if you truly like its musky-barbershop structure, you might as well pop for the original. Its lavender and mint puts it a league ahead. If you're cash-strapped and determined, White will certainly make ends meet.

As for the fragrance, there isn't much to say. White has a big, vulgar, chemical-smelling opening. I have to endure that awful intro for about a minute before the musks coalesce into a sweetly white-floral aftershave scent, loaded with powdery vanilla. You can sense the exact moment when White gets its shit together: its chemical burn suddenly becomes creamy and sweet, and stays that way for a few hours. I don't get any lavender, mint, or woodiness out of White, unlike Le Male, and it's a few notches louder and more white-floral than its older brother, but otherwise it's a near-carbon replica in the drydown. 

What's the point of 360° White? Hard to say, but I imagine it's dirt-cheap to make it at $18 a bottle, and it probably sells like crazy at Marshalls and T.J. Maxx. Hey, I can understand wanting to cheat designer prices without sacrificing fragrance quality. You sacrifice a little here, but if you're not all too concerned with owning Le Male, White is just fine.

Beautiful Eau de Toilette (Estée Lauder)

I never liked the ad campaigns for Beautiful. They tend to feature brides and grooms and flower girls, their Photoshopped faces illuminated by heavenly sunbeams streaming through lace curtains. For some reason, this green floral from 1986 is pegged by its creators as a "wedding floral", a dubious call made before anyone else can make that determination for themselves. That's unfortunate, because when I think of wedding florals, I think of unwearably-synthetic white floral bouquets, indoles piled a mile high, with the requisite screechiness and rubbery drydowns - the original Sung, for example. 

There's this western idea that a bride must wear floral bouquets, mostly of tuberose, rose, jasmine, and ylang, lest her maidenhood be sullied by (gasp!) - harsh citrus, masculine woods, prostitute-grade ethyl maltol - all before the cad-in-waiting can get his mitts on her. It would be refreshing to read that a girl wore Bois du Portugal or Giorgio, or some trashy boudoir water to her wedding, instead of all that frilly-frop crap. Perhaps she'll wear something like that to mine, whenever that is.

Beautiful's aroma chemicals are nicely blended in an abstract interpretation of potted greenery. As it dries down, the headiness of its white-floral intro subsides a bit, and a cool shimmer of muguet and orange blossom emerges, exuding decidedly greener airs. I enjoy the heart stage the most, as it's the greenest part. Eventually a gentle sandalwood and vetiver base asserts itself, and supports Beautiful's rich sweetness with load-bearing authority. The sandalwood is some sort of reconstruction, perhaps using Ambroxan, but it's hard to tell with all the residual floral notes. True to Lauder form, this one exhibits the wonders of a synthetic green-floral done right, but it does feel rather stodgy. 

Ladies, it's certainly okay to wear this on the big day, but only because weddings are about love and commitment, two serious topics that aren't addressed by the trashy attitudes of Paris and LouLou. For a shotgun wedding, I'd go with those other two instead. 

DKNY Be Delicious (Donna Karan)

It's hard to hear the name of this fragrance and not think of Scarlett Johansson, at least for this red-blooded American male blogger. To my female readers, I apologize, but I've been an admirer of my country's cutest talentless actress for a while. She embodies the fantastical notion of anyone literally being delicious. The dilemma for Donna Karan is that she would be hard-pressed to convince anyone that any perfume, no matter how wonderful, could add anything to someone who looks like Scar Jo. The argument is plausible because if Scar Jo smelled like sweaty b.o. on the red carpet, even with her hair and makeup undone, she'd still be the hottest person within a three-thousand mile radius, or to wherever Emmanuelle Béart is standing.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, let me address DKNY Be Delicious, the name of which plays on two themes: cutesy-pie sex appeal, and Golden Delicious apples. Hard to connect the two, isn't it? What, exactly, makes smelling like apples sexy? Is it sexy? Is it carnally "delicious", or just attractive and pleasant? The postmodernist, Frank Gehry-esque bottle suggests that apple is indeed the core focus of the fragrance pyramid, and it does not disappoint. One spritz, and presto! We've got apples. Barrels and barrels of sweet, acidic, somewhat-green apples. Well that, and aldehydes, along with watery floral notes in the manner of Ivoire, Pleasures, Tommy Girl, and Cool Water. There's magnolia, freesia, jasmine, and white musk, all woven into a snow-blinded gauze of floral freshness, and tied together by an unbreakable strap of sweet apple.

When it comes to this sort of fragrance, I'm usually turned-off by its "samey" and somewhat linear characteristics. Smelling Be Delicious makes me think of all the aforementioned perfumes, and also Ralph, which is equally pomaceous. As Be Delicious' apple note gets sweeter and breezier, I start to think of apple Jolly Ranchers, and that's never a good thing. If I want musky fruit, I'll try to stay on the "mens" side of the aisle, and reach for Pinaud's much-maligned Lime Sec (review pending). It's a toughie for guys to wear something like this (apple is a unisex note), because its combination of sweetness, fluorescent florals, and girlish packaging feels like an ensemble of pure crass. For straight-up manly crassness, it doesn't take much (again, Pinaud Lime Sec), and spending $25 is completely unnecessary. There's also the fact that Be Delicious is a baldly cheap formula, which is fine, except that it follows in the steps of Tommy Girl as being an apple-floral that only works as long as the girl wearing it actually benefits from it.

If you're a naturally beautiful woman between the ages of twenty-one and forty, and you were offered modeling gigs as a teenager, Be Delicious is automatically wrong for you - it really is just plain cutesy, and aims to complement plucky, freckle-faced girls, and make them more desirable to men who drive Audis and buy their luggage from Victorinox. Beautiful women don't need fragrances like this. On their skin, the candied apple-floral-musk effect is best if done expensively, or not at all - perhaps a total departure into the land of languid, Shalimar-inspired orientals is more fitting. Now I don't mean to stereotype or pigeonhole fragrances as being specifically for small subsets of people, especially women, but it's a precarious order of business with a fragrance like Be Delicious, because by nature it is stunning on only the right women, and downright sad on the wrong ones.

Lagerfeld Classic (Karl Lagerfeld)

In 2012, Karl Lagerfeld ended his licensing agreement with Coty, and signed a twenty year contract with Inter-Parfums, wedding all formula rights to the French company. Lagerfeld Classic, formerly Lagerfeld Cologne, has once again been re-branded, and likely reformulated for the umpteenth time. I’m reviewing the Coty formula of “Classic” because it's all I could find, and it’s one hell of an interesting fragrance.

Lagerfeld Classic is arguably one of the most contentious reformulations in the history of masculine perfumery. Opinions vary widely on whether Coty successfully preserved the strength and character of its progenitor, with some swearing the differences are negligible, and others considering Classic to be tripe, and unworthy of the Lagerfeld name. I have never tried the vintage Cologne, and don’t care to. When it comes to masculines at this pricepoint, I learned my lesson with Pierre Cardin Pour Monsieur. People drone on about how infinitely superior the Tsumura formulation of PCPM is to Five Star’s, and how its richer, more-natural ingredients are sorely missed.

I happen to own both formulas of PCPM, and while I agree that Tsumura’s blending is smoother, I disagree that the fragrance smells richer. It is light and transient, with a weaker lavender than Five Star’s, and a simplistic amber that falls short of the garrulous woodiness in the reform. While it’s worth seeking out the older formula, its superiority is grossly overstated. With seventies masculines, the temptation is to view reformulations as neuterings, when in fact they’re simply reworkings of dated structures to better comport with contemporary fashions. Such is the case with Lagerfeld Classic. The original Cologne contained an amber base called Amber 83, which contained Musk Xylene, one of the most commonly-used nitromusks of yesteryear, now disavowed by IFRA regs. Its extraction was necessary, but one thing leads to another, and when the musk went, so did the amber base (replacement parts were, from what I hear, successfully found and delivered). But I digress - this fragrance is cheap enough to make owning both formulas viable.

Coty’s formula is lovely, an example of how well the company performs under pressure. There's little doubt that Karl was the one applying that pressure. He is a notorious workaholic and control freak, possessed with obsessive-compulsive professionalism and perfectionism. I recently saw a documentary about Karl Lagerfeld, which followed him through endless preparations for a seasonal show, with the man jetting between four cities in two days to ensure that no empty hangers rolled through workrooms. It is very hard to believe that he disapproved of how Coty handled Classic. I think he would sooner discontinue it, than allow it to languish.

Lagerfeld Classic opens with an bright burst of pithy orange and green tobacco leaf, its airy crispness filtered through fizzy aldehydes. The bitter citrus swiftly leads the nose to a waxy white-floral note, which has been compared here and there to Jovan Musk for Men. I don’t smell any similarity at all (though Classic is very woody-musky), but that’s just me, and perhaps there is a faint resemblance between these two. Tarragon, opopanax, tonka bean, tobacco, and patchouli lend the heart a sweet, powdery softness, although I’m more comfortable describing it as soapy, rather than powdery. There’s a certain freshness here, with the synthetic orange note pervading the entire structure, and sending the simplicity of tobacco and opopanax to a more utilitarian realm. I’ve read that the aftershave is brilliant, and indeed can smell potential for a top-grade tonic with such a pleasant balance between warm citrus and soft spice.

Yet there’s more to it than a mere feeling of everyday comfort. To fully understand Coty’s treatment, one must refer to Lagerfeld’s place in history: it was released in 1978 as Karl Lagerfeld’s signature oriental, and I’ve read that the original formula was a bit dense and “perfumey,” with an unremittingly heavy vibe. Coty had a thirty year interval at its disposal, and with an interest in toning back the concentration while preserving the orientalism of an opopanax-based amber, they apparently referenced the original formulation of Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men. While by no means interchangeable, these fragrances share a peculiar fresh-musty style of floral ambers, where the soapiness of the green notes mesh with the softness of the spices to form a rich, semi-dandified feeling that projects for miles and lasts forever. I recall a doctor telling me once that my cologne smelled soapy-citrusy, and it was Obsession - I could see Lagerfeld eliciting similar reactions.

Comments about the difference between “Cologne” and “Classic” are definitely amusing. Some veteran basenoters and Fragranticans have wildly different opinions, but with this fragrance it pays to heed the “formula skeptics” who find little to no difference between Type A and Type B. Foetidus writes,

“I find it hard to say if it's been changed much with reformulation. Sometimes I think so because I think the rich opoponax in the base doesn't seem as rich as I remember. Other times I'm struck with an often experienced nostalgia when I spray it on. But whatever, I don't think the change has been very great, if there has been one. The bottle I use now is a recent purchase and I don't get depressed using it as I do when I spray Antaeus or Trussardi Uomo or some of the other classics that have been noticeably changed.”

In turn, Perfaddict says,

“Not much [change], really. After over 10 years without LC, i bought a 30ml bottle last July. I was not disappointed with what i smelled. Bought a larger bottle afterwards. Slightly less intense from what i remember but with good sillage and longevity. And i am a card-carrying powerhouse freak.”

Oslo-Fjord adds,

“I re-visited this fragrance some days ago, and it`s just as good as I remember. A timeless classic. Excellent sillage and staying power. I will definitively buy a bottle of this gem!”

And on Fragrantica, Starshadow opines:

“this CLASSIC version . . . I see no difference at all between it and the original. If the two are not exactly the same - and I believe they are - then they are, in my estimation, entirely too close to distinguish from one another.”

So would it be fair to say that the reformulation of Lagerfeld Classic is a cheap shadow of its former self, a dollar-store version of Lagerfeld Cologne? Certainly, but only as a subjective opinion about Coty’s formula. It’s safe to say that experienced noses would disagree, based on what is quoted above. Woody, spicy, powdery, sweet, citric, musky, Lagerfeld Classic is a little bit of everything to all people, and remains in production as that rare seventies oriental with a view to the twenty-first century.