Tuberose Series 10: Beyond Love

All right, already. I am chewing diligently on my earlier words about By Kilian being unworthy of my attention due to their exclusive attitude and fancy-pants packaging, with ridiculous pricing to match. I Wuz Wrong, at least about this one. On the other hand, it would never have touched my skin if I hadn't found a slightly-used travel refill at a deep, deep discount.

Perfume Review: By Kilian Beyond Love (prohibited)
Date released: 2008
Perfumer: Calice Becker
Sample provenance: 7.5 ml bottle, bought second hand in 2009.

Once again, here's the review from PTG, by Luca Turin (and boy, is he ever the Calice Becker fanboy, isn't he?):

**** Tuberose tuberose... Not only is the smell of tuberose flowers wonderful, it isn't even, properly speaking, floral in the clean, vegetal sense of floral fragrances. Tuberoses smell of butter, rubber, leather, blood, and heaven knows what else. Using fresh flowers as a reference, much as Roudnitska did with muguet for Diorissimo, Calice Becker has composed a straight-up tuberose using the best absolute from India, with touches of other notes (magnolia, iris) to narrow the gap between the extract and the fresh flower. The result is the best tuberose soliflore on earth.

Oh-kay, if he says so. I'm sad to say that I have never smelled fresh tuberoses. They're a little upmarket for the rural area I live in, and I'm unwilling to spend big bucks at the florist. I did check around. The clerks at four of the five shops within fifteen miles of my house didn't even know what tuberose was. The woman at the fifth shop – my favorite, naturally, a little hole-in-the-wall place on a side street, with a parking lot barely big enough for three cars – knew what they were, knew where to get them, said they were gorgeous, but warned me that there would be a minimum of $75 for special order flowers they didn't normally carry, and did I want the shop to get them? Were these for a wedding or special occasion? I explained that I was just checking around, and thanked them. (Sometimes you have to love living in a small town. Sometimes it's a pain – and sometimes it's both at the same time.)

In any case, I do have a small bottle of tuberose essential oil on hand. I diluted it in grapeseed oil to the proper concentration (the shop said 2-4% in carrier oil was safe for skin, so I made it a 4% solution) and tried it on one wrist. You know what? It smells great. Seriously. Of course, you have all the oil issues – low sillage, sticky skin – but it truly smells lovely, if a bit simple. I liked it better than I liked Kai, as a matter of fact, which was another fragrance I called simple. Then, too, you have to love tuberose, which I do. The little 1-dram (4ml) bottle I bought cost something like $3, which probably means that you can buy it cheaper in larger quantities, and that it isn't terribly expensive even in small bottles, and that even the cheap version is nice. How cheap must synthetic tuberose be, if perfume houses use that instead of the essential oil? Cheapskates.

The By Kilian website lists these notes for Beyond Love (prohibited), under the label "To discover the perfumer's formula" – and what that “prohibited” thing is all about, I don't know, although I assume it's more marketing hoopla about forbidden flowers and carnal love and whatnot:

Fruity Note
     Coconut accord                 10g
Floral Notes
     Egyptian jasmine absolute   20g
     Tuberose concrete            250g
     Tuberose absolute            300g
     Green tuberose accord       50g
     Tuberose petals accord    480g
Amber Notes:
     Amber gris accord            10g
     Tonkin musk reconstituted 80g

Oh-kay again. I notice they don't bother to say what's actually in the stuff, although they make a big deal of listing the grams of each accord. (I do understand that there's a difference between concrete and absolute, because they're obtained by different methods of extraction. But puh-lease. Coconut accord contains something other than coconut? Green tuberose accord and tuberose petals accord are somehow different? This is supposed to make me want to buy the stuff?)

I'll stop ragging on the By Kilian website now, I promise. Because, really, Beyond Love is very beautiful. I admit that it is miles more gorgeous than the simple tuberose essential oil (thank goodness, or I'd start wringing my hands over the State of Perfumery). I'm going to make assumptions that Beyond Love contains at least some coconut, some jasmine, some musk and synthetic ambergris, plus a honkin' ton of real tuberose essence – and because LT says so, maybe some magnolia and iris too.

The first five minutes of Beyond Love are like a speeded-up, seen-at-a distance film of Tubereuse Criminelle: you get a hit of camphor-menthol, and a smaller one of rubber, and about half a second of undercooked chicken, and then it's all gone and it's tuberose, tuberose, tuberose. Less green and florist-fresh than Carnal Flower, less buttery-creamy than Fracas*, it smells both tropical-jungle green and seductively, headily floral. The coconut is very faint, adding a dreamy, milky quality without being too sweet or reminding me of suntan lotion. And I don't smell any basenotes at all – just tuberose. Which shouldn't surprise me, since tuberose does tend to take everything else hostage in composition. My guess is that the ambergris-musk base simply extends the length of time I continue to smell the tuberose, without adding much to the perceptible scent.

It has been several months since I wore *Fracas (review pending), so I'm going to get it out and test it in a Celebrity Death Match, but based on my memory of it, I'd say that I prefer Beyond Love as being a tad more wearable on any occasions not requiring full-length bias-cut satin gowns, opera gloves, and diamante. Not that I'd wear Beyond Love to work – it's too dressy-feminine for that - but I would definitely wear a discreet dab of it on social occasions. Yes, even to the theater, but just a tiny dab on one wrist. So far, Carnal Flower is half a mile in front of everything else, with Beyond Love and Fracas close together in second and third position. But the race for My Favorite Tuberose Scent isn't over.

Side note: I've worn BL solo three times, and twice now have had it on next to something vanilla and been impressed with the results. First time, it was the far drydown (14 hours after application) of Havana Vanille, when it's all deep, rich vanilla liqueur. Second time, it was the drydown of BL (7 hours after application, with just a hint of tuberose left) with a spritz of Shalimar Light Blue Juice (which is more strongly simple vanilla than the original version, IMO). Both times I couldn't keep my nose away from my wrist: Tuberose+Vanilla = Awesome.

The Bottom Line :
Quality       Definitely A. Beautiful, fresh-smelling, natural, and seamless.
Grab-scale score    8, maybe 8.5. (Still trailing Carnal Flower.)
Short description    Jungle tuberose.
Cost      $$$$   I'll be honest, if I hadn't found it used-n-cheap (my favorite!) I'd have been seriously annoyed by the pricing, and I doubt whether I'd like it as much. Unfair? Probably, but I gotta live with myself, you know.
Earns compliments:   Yes. Bookworm liked it, The CEO liked it, my girlfriends liked it. Gaze said “meh,” although usually he likes the same things I like, so that was the one demurral.
Scent presence   Moderately strong. Moderate to big sillage (be careful with the dosage, lest you asphyxiate people on the elevator). Lasts 6-8 hours. Like I said, I wouldn't wear it to work.
Review Report: NST, PST, Perfume Posse

Top image is from the By Kilian website.  Lower image is Tuberose by dbfarrell2003 at flickr.

Perfume Review: Bal a Versailles, or Hurrying Time

Perfume Review: Jean Desprez Bal a Versailles
Date released: 1962
Perfumer: none listed
Sample provenance: parfum bottle won summer 2009 in drawing from parfum1, parfum de toilette mini bought from eBay 2009 (labeled vintage, but who knows for sure?)

The CEO dislikes Bal intensely in its early stages, and I understand why. It smells, mostly, of heavy floral perfume, and reminds him of the elderly ladies at church during his 70's childhood. Bal is the epitome of what I think of as “French cathouse.”

You know, French cathouse - like when teenage you goes out with some friends, wearing your tastiest clothes and a generous swipe of Cheri's plum eye pencil, not to mention Carlynn's coral lip gloss and Kelley's Sand & Sable, and your father stops you at the door and gives you The Look. “Young lady,” he says, “you're not going out of this house like that. You look like a clown, and you smell like a French cathouse. Get back in this house, go into the bathroom, and wash that stuff off!” You roll your eyes, but you comply, dabbing off the lip gloss and the eye makeup with tissues and muttering under your breath, “He just doesn't understand... there's nothing wrong with it... I don't know what his problem is.” You swipe at your neck and wrists with cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol. You sniff back a tear or two, then re-powder your nose to cover the pinkness, and march out to the front door again. You pass inspection. You receive the reminder of curfew without rolling your eyes, and you escape. Twenty minutes later, you're again bedecked with the bounty of Cheri, Carlynn, and Kelley, making a mental note to hide the evidence before you go home from the skating rink.

Yeah, that “French cathouse.” The smell that is almost toooooo much. It's a heavy, rich smell that opens Bal a Versailles, and it is somehow, quintessentially, French.

I recently read a review of Teo Cabanel Alahine by Brian at I Smell Therefore I Am, in which he compared Alahine to Bal a Versailles. I didn't get it then; I don't get it now. Alahine is pure happiness to me, while BaV is the kind of scent you wear when you don't want to go home alone, shall we say. They're completely different in feel, as well in actual scent.

However, I would call both of them symphonic – very richly compounded, very layered and complex, greater than the sum of their parts. Maybe that's what Brian was getting at. (I should ask him. And while I'm at it, I'll put in a plug for ISTIA. Great writing by two people who love perfume, go check it out.)

March at Perfume Posse calls Bal, in parfum, “candied incense,” and I don't get that either. **But her take on the edp (similar to my pdt concentration) is “floral sex,” and that is spot-on. Spot. On. Big florals, with something honeyed and rich, followed by warm skin that is not quite sweaty... I'd say Bal in parfum is “floral sex, with candles burning.” Maybe my “candles burning” is March's “incense.” And candied? Well, I just said “something honeyed.” Maybe I'm closer to her description than I thought. (** It's in the comments of a recent post which wasn't actually about Bal, and if I can find the darn thing, I'll post the link.)

If I were to compare Bal a Versailles to any other perfume, I'd say Balenciaga Rumba. Rumba is similarly dense with complex florals and honeyed fruit, and contains a beautiful note of burnt dust that I for one find very pleasant. It's not exactly the candle wax of Bal, but in both scents there is that hint of heat and consumption – the dust burns, the candles melt, and underneath it all is the smell of warm skin and hurrying time, with a faint reminder that death waits for no man and decay will someday take this warm flesh.

Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
(from To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell)

That breath of mortality is something you won't find in many modern fragrances. It makes me want to seize the moment, because I suddenly remember that my moments are not infinite. It's genius, it's philosophy in a bottle. It's why I forgive Bal her French cathouse florals, and wear it again and again.

Notes for Bal a Versailles – an “everything but the kitchen sink” recipe if there ever was one:
Top: Rosemary, cassia, lemon, bergamot, mandarin, neroli, orange blossom, jasmine, rose, Bulgarian Rose.
Heart: Lilac, ylang-ylang, muguet, sandalwood, patchouli, orris, vetiver.
Base: Tolu balsam, amber, musk, civet, benzoin, resins, vanilla, cedar.

Notes for Balenciaga Rumba, just so you can compare:
Top: Orange blossom, plum, raspberry, peach, basil, bergamot
Heart: Honey, magnolia, carnation, tuberose, gardenia, jasmine, orchid, marigold, heliotrope, muguet.
Base: Leather, sandalwood, plum, amber, tonka bean, patchouli, musk, vanilla, oakmoss, cedar, styrax.

Both images from fragrantica.com.

Tuberose Series 7: Bath and Body Works Velvet Tuberose

Chiefly remembered by me as the unlikely gateway drug to my new addiction, as in, “Boy, this stuff is great! I'd forgotten how much I used to like perfume... Now that we're not pinching every dime, wonder what else is out there?” Finding out What Else Is Out There led me to Now Smell This, and I was hooked.

Perfume Review: Bath and Body Works Velvet Tuberose
Release date: 2007
Perfumer: Who Nose?
Sample provenance: my 50ml bottle, purchased in August 2008 from BBW store (it cost me all of $13.75 on sale, and if your tastes are decidedly upscale, you might decide you've read all you need to know). I think the packaging has changed for this scent, although the new tester bottle I smelled a few weeks ago smelled like my own bottle, which looks like the one pictured above.

Okay, okay, okay... by now, you've probably figured out that I'm a cheapskate perfumista, if there can be such a thing. I really struggle with the price schedule of certain houses I'd otherwise like to try (Amouage, MDCI, By Kilian) and simply cross other houses completely off my list because they seem like poor value to me (too many to enumerate). I have never paid full retail price for a bottle of anything. Online discounters are my friends. And of course I'm a suckah for eBay.

It wasn't always this way. Used to be, I'd scrape together babysitting money, or pizza money when I was in college, and troll the drugstore aisles for sent-bons. I discovered Bath and Body Works at about the time I started dating The CEO, and was devoted to their old Freesia body products. (NB: I miss Freesia, by the way. Sheer Freesia is what they're selling now, and it's not at all the same; it's missing something – I think a muguet note.)

True Story Digression: The CEO used to call up the company where I worked, using the pseudonym “Scott Preston, of Preston Enterprises in Charlotte, NC,” and ask to speak to Miss Muse in Accounting, an amusing little subterfuge that probably fooled no one.

In any case, in August of 2008, I made my way to the B&BW at the mall to pick up some Lavender Vanilla lotion from the Aromatherapy line for my sister's birthday. While I was there, I wandered around desultorily sniffing things, and came across VT. Before I knew it, I had bought a bottle. I wore it almost exclusively for several months... and aprés Velvet Tuberose, le déluge.

It is a rather sheer tuberose. I know, I know, “sheer tuberose” is something of an oxymoron. But still. If you're expecting some big creamy huge floral thing, you'll be disappointed in its light weight.

Notes for VT:
T: Magnolia, apricot, citrus, ylang
H: freesia, cyclamen, tuberose, gardenia, fig leaf, jasmine, orchid
B: sandalwood, amber, spice, musk, cashmere woods

The scent opens with just a few minutes' worth of tangy fruits and creamy but nondescript florals – and don't worry about that apricot note, it's barely there. Very quickly, you're down into the heart of the thing, which blends some fresh florals (freesia, cyclamen, and orchid) with a traditional white floral mix. I'm pleased to say I've never noticed that fig leaf, as fig leaf is pretty much a dealbreaker for me, ugh. After a few hours of tuberose-floral blend, VT dries down to a cheap-but-pleasant base of Cashmeran and musk. Amber and spice? No. Sandalwood? Not really, but you can't expect much from under $15, can you? Turns out, though, I actually like Cashmeran.

In fact, I like VT better than tuberose-centric mainstream scents like Michael Kors, Juicy Couture, and Christina Aguilera Inspire, all of which cost considerably more than VT. It's another one of those office-friendly tuberose scents: quiet, pleasant, pretty without overpowering the noses of all in the general vicinity. It stays fairly close to my skin, and can be detected within hug range. I still like to put on a spray or two just before bed, and sometimes wear it to work, when I don't want to have to think about what scent I'm wearing.

The Bottom Line :
Quality        C  Clearly cheap materials, but nicely blended
Grab-scale score:     6.5
Short description:    Tuberose Floral.
Cost:      $
Earns compliments:     Yes, in surprising numbers.
Scent presence:       Slightly better than average (2 spritzes last 5 hours), mild sillage. Will not get you lynched at the office.

Review Report:   Bois de Jasmin (brief mention)

Top image is Velvet Tuberose... by Robert Hughes at flickr.  Lower image is White tuberose by buttersweet at flickr.

Tuberose Series 5: DSH Perfumes Tubéreuse

Tubéreuse is one of the three top-selling scents at indie house DSH Perfumes, which is making a name for itself among American perfume fans for well-blended, quality classical (part-synthetic) scents as well as excellent naturals-only perfumes. Nose Dawn Spencer Hurwitz's website is a lot like the candy shop in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory*, stuffed to bursting with goodies of every description. I could happily get lost there.

Perfume Review: DSH Perfumes Tubéreuse
Date released: (I've sent an email to Ms. Hurwitz to ascertain)
Perfumer: Dawn Spencer Hurwitz
Sample provenance: directly from DSH, 2009
The listing for Tubéreuse, in the Parfums des Beaux Arts section at the DSH website, reads like this:
"Tubéreuse (Tuberose)
Its milky white and fleshy flowers bear the secret of attraction. In India, this flower is called “Mistress of the Night:” The most sensuous and intoxicating of perfumes.
Top notes: Citron Accord, Mimosa
Middle notes: Tuberosa, Tuberose Absolute
Base notes: French Beeswax, Heliotrope, Himalayan Cedar, Tamil Nadu Sandalwood"

I first came across this perfume last spring, during my first awed wander through the website. I tested it at about the time I was also testing some of the lusher Annick Goutals (Passion, Songes, Gardenia Passion), and certainly it's on a par, quality-wise, with the Goutal scents. It also seems to share a certain simplicity, or perhaps you'd call it transparency, with those classic AG feminines: it smells definitively of tropical flowers, with a few other notes serving as framework.

The opening is my least favorite part of the development, with a citrusy note that seems both bitter and a bit powdery.  Powdery citrus?  How can that be?, you're wondering.  I don't know myself - I assume that the mimosa (cassie) is the powdery bit, and the citron, or cedrat, is the bitter bit.  What it reminds me of is the dreaded Tang Dust Accord.**  I don't get this every time - so far I'm two-for-five - but I do find it somewhat unpleasant for the fifteen minutes it lasts.

However, the Tang effect might be due to neither citron nor mimosa, but natural indoles in the tuberose itself.  Somewhere*** in PTG, Tania Sanchez refers to a "back of the throat rasp" with regards to indole.  Certainly this thing is composed of natural tuberose, a buttery-sweet-tropical thing that lolls, heavy-lidded and languid, on skin.  I'm still doing some research on the difference between tuberose essential oil and tuberose absolue (I suspect that they are extracted by different methods, and that absolue is more concentrated), but both are included in the formula.  Tuberose is really the heart of the scent, with citron and sandalwood the supportive BFFs that keep it from falling over backwards in a swoon.

Four to five hours after application, the tuberose has quieted and there is a softly woody drydown, with a hint of not-too-sweet coconut. I like coconut; this is far less beachy than, say, Bronze Goddess.  But if you hate coconut, you will probably want to avoid this scent. To me, the coconut seems in keeping with the tropical, lazy character of the tuberose, and I enjoy it.

While I was considering the fragrance - why, for example, citron rather than bergamot, or orange? - I came across the following information, and suddenly everything became quite clear: this is a hymn to India.

Citron: "In South Indian cuisine, especially Tamil cuisine, citron is widely used in pickles and preserves. In Tamil, the unripe fruit is referred to as 'narthangai', which is usually salted and dried to make a preserve." (from Wikipedia)
Tamil Nadu sandalwood: the same species as Mysore sandalwood.  "Santalum album, or Indian sandalwood, is currently a threatened species and consequently very expensive. It is indigenous to South India... Sandalwood from Mysore region of Karnataka, Southern India is widely considered to be of the highest quality available. New plantations have been set up with international aid in Tamilnadu in order to avail of the economic benefits of sandalwood." (from Wikipedia)
Coconut:  "The Coconut Palm (Cocos nucifera Linn.) is supposed to be one of the five legendary Devavrikshas and is eulogised as Kalpavriksha - the all giving tree - in Indian classics. All parts of the palm are used in someway or another in the daily life of the people of the west coast; the traditional coconut growing area. Its fruit is called Lakshmi Phai and is used in social and religious functions in India irrespective of whether palm is locally grown or not."  (from http://www.bgci.org/education/1685/)

The tuberose blossom, as I found when writing my "Series Opener" post, holds a significant cultural place in India as well, being used in weddings and other religious ceremonies, as well as in personal adornment.  I've never been to India; now I want to go.

DSH Tubéreuse is really lovely and cohesive, an affectionate study of the flower.  Like ELPCTG, it's not a scent you wear in a business environment.  But where TG was girly, Tubéreuse is languid and sensual - it's every bit the carnal flower that Malle's Carnal Flower is not.  I recommend it.

* The 1971 movie with Gene Wilder, of course.  The candy shop is the place where Charlie buys the candy bar that holds the last Golden Ticket, after the shopkeeper sings, "The Candy Man."  I found the 2005 version, "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," with Johnny Depp, weirdly wonderful too.  (Depp seems to be channeling Michael Jackson doing Carol Channing; he's such a bizarre delight.)
** "Tang Dust Accord" refers to any component of a scent which makes the back of my throat hurt.  Background: The CEO adores Tang (the Kraft drink mix).  He actually prefers Tang to real orange juice (it's probably because of the sugar content), and I think he's nuts, but hey, people who live together make compromises.  But here's the thing - I hate making Tang.  Just hate it.  No matter how I do it, whether I put the mix in first or a little water in, whether I snap the cover of the pitcher on top or not, a little mushroom cloud of Tang dust always rises up and hits me in the back of the throat.  Honestly, I can feel it in my sinuses.  Gah.  Even if he makes the Tang, or one of the kids does, I can walk through the kitchen ten minutes later and get hit with the Tang dust cloud effect. It hurts.  I hate it.  I especially hate encountering it in perfume, as I have in Lancome Magnifique, Guerlain Insolence (edp), Giorgio, and occasionally in DSH Tubéreuse. Luckily, with Tubéreuse the effect doesn't last long.
*** If I find the page, I'll update with a direct quote.  Edit:  Found it!  In the review of Diptyque Olene, TS gives a short chemistry lesson on indole and skatole, two chemicals found in both white flowers such as jasmine, ylang, etc., and in animal waste.  Then she explains why chemical recreations of natural white florals don't smell right: "If you measure the amount of indole in, say, jasmine oil and make up a synthetic mix with the same amount of the pure stuff, it will smell of mothballs [indole] whereas the natural one doesn't.  Why?  Nobody knows.  But that is the main reason why white-flower reconstitutions seldom have the back-of-the-throat rasp of the real thing."

The Bottom Line :

Quality     A   Smells almost entirely natural; entire composition is thematic.
Grab-scale score    7, maybe 8  (Depends on whether I get TDA or not)
Short description    Tropical tuberose.
Cost   $$   1 oz. bottle of edp is $65, but you can buy a dram (4ml) of edp for $10.  Parfum is also available.
Earns compliments:  Yes, but not from people who dislike tuberose.
Scent presence:  Average (two generous dabs of edp last four to five hours).  Moderate sillage. Not an office scent, in my opinion.
Review Report:   None.  Although this scent has its fans at fragrantica, it's not listed in the database.

Top image is from DSH Perfumes.  Center image is Rajnigandha - Tuberose (Explore) by H G M at flickr. 

Tuberose Series Bonus: Giorgio by Giorgio Beverly Hills

I should NOT have tested this.  This is not going to be a serious, formal review because I just can't stand to do it.  Also, with this review, you're going to get pointless digressions and some disturbing emotional reactions.  You have been warned.

Perfume Review: Giorgio Beverly Hills
Date Released: 1981
Perfumer: Bob Aliano
Sample provenance: miniature bottle bought retail 2010

I wasn't going to bother with this.  I blame Luca Turin yet again, for reviewing it in the downloadable updates to the original Perfumes: The Guide.  I should have known better from that stupid Insolence experience, but nooooooooo.  Also I was blinded by nostalgia and a fuzzy memory of what Giorgio actually smells like (which is, actually, not Turin's fault).  He does make the excellent point that "many people harbor a sneaking fondness for the bad old days" of the excessive eighties, pointing out that outrageous and surprising perfumes like Angel are still succeeding, in these times of post-post-decadence.  Here are portions of his review (go read it in its entirety if you can, it's an interesting and informed take):
                       **** Giorgio.  Fruity tuberose...  The secret of Giorgio was the discovery of an accord that could stand up to a monstrously powerful tuberose while extending it in interesting directions. Two heroically strong aromachemicals were drafted: one being... reminiscent of pineapple, and the second a... base made between... a fresh-almondy-marine material and... the Concord grape smell... The result was a cute, twelve-foot-tall singing canary, at first impossible to ignore, and at length too big to love.  But if any composition embodies what makes... classical perfumery great, it is Giorgio.

Okay, first off I'm going to say yet again that it is definitely not fair to give four stars to something that doesn't smell good.  I do not give a flying flip whether it "advances the art of perfumery," got me?  I only want to wear scents that smell good.  Secretions Magnifiques four stars, anyone?  Didn't think so.  Now, I'll wade through some difficult opening notes to get to something beautiful, or at least to something interesting.  And granted, people's opinions on What Smells Good tend to, duh, differ.  I love tuberose and hate balsamic resins.  I think vetiver is boring.  I like rose and aldehydes.  You may think I'm nuts.  But for a reviewer that keeps dissing tuberose he calls "synthetic," it was downright immoral of LT to praise this *&#^%^@(*@ mess.

Disclaimer:  I went to high school in the 80's, all right?  And while I was wearing polite applications of Chloe from my dabber bottle, big spray bottles of Giorgio were all the rage.  Black rubber bracelets, banana hairclips, leggings and big tunics, Swatches and enormous abstract-art earrings in pink and aqua... and Giorgio.  Which I kind of liked then - I had a friend who seemed to have all the disposable income a girl could want, and she wore it in discreet quantities.  At the time I thought she smelled fine.

There comes a time in your sober years when you appreciate your parents' chintzy refusal to buy your teenage self trendy stuff.  I never had a yellow-and-aqua paint-splatter swimsuit to wear to the pool.  I never had a pair of Candies sandals, or even those fat-soled flipflops everybody wore.  And sure, I suffered when the cheerleaders went down the hall in a gang, snickering about my not-even-close-to-designer jeans and reeking of Giorgio, but now I feel better about the whole thing.  I recently showed my high school yearbook to my children, and they laughed at my hair but admitted that my clothes were "not as weird as what those girls are wearing, eww."  Take that, Two Christies!  Take that, Charlene and Amanda!  Your trendy clothes were weird!  Also, your Giorgio smelled baaaad.

I freely admit I couldn't afford it back then anyway.  And never mind all the science-chat about anthrancilates and whatnot, descriptions of Big Bird and grape popsicles, what Giorgio smells like to me now is money, humiliation, chlorine, and bad taste.

If I was going to attempt to wear Giorgio, this was the day to do it: The CEO just left on a trip to the Farm Bureau National Convention, Bookworm's gone for the day to an indoor track meet, and the boys are supposedly cleaning up their rooms but they keep sneaking down to the laundry room to visit Sara the ailing calf.  Here's a transcript of our conversations about Giorgio:

Me: I'm trying this out.  What do you think?
Taz (who never sniffs me if he can help it):  Eww.  It makes my throat hurt.
Gaze (trying to be diplomatic, but failing): I don't like that one.  It smells like... really bad Halloween candy. The hard kind in weird flavors, like you get from the people who don't like kids but they don't want people to think they don't like kids.  So they give you stuff, but it's nasty.
Me (secretly pleased):  Really?
Gaze:  And the pool.  It smells like the pool. You know, on really crowded days, when they put too much chlorine in there?
Me:  Ha ha ha ha ha!
Taz: Mom, I think Sara's better, she's eating that hay now.
Me:  Ha ha ha ha ha!
Taz:  Hey, Mom... Mom, why are you laughing?
Gaze:  I don't know.  She's acting weird.  Maybe that perfume is making her sick.
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... (maniacal giggling)
Taz: Mom, will you stop laughing and make us dinner now?  Mom?  Mom! Stop laughing.  This is important.  Please go wash your hands, I don't want my hot dogs to smell like that.

It would probably be pretentious of me to repeat that old saying about the mills of God grinding slowly, so I won't.  But I will say that the taste of vindication is sweet. 

I have a nasty headache now that I didn't have when I put on this dab of Giorgio edt.  Thank the Lord, I can go take a shower now.  Maybe now I can cease the maniacal laughter.  Sample of Giorgio Beverly ILLS is going out with the trash as soon as possible.

And I'm sorry, I really am.  I should have known better.  But, see, this is why I love perfume.  Two drops of yellow gunk (which have consequently contaminated the air around me for seven hours) suddenly returned me to the horrors of being fifteen.  What else could do that so quickly?  What else could go straight for the jugular like that?  Nothing else taps so elegantly, so directly, so brutally, into the emotional center as perfume.

Top image from fragrantica.  Lower image from paper_antiquary on ebay.

Tuberose Series 4: Carnal Flower

Carnal Flower gets a lot of positive attention from perfume fans, and deservedly so.

Perfume Review: Frederic Malle Carnal Flower.
Date released: 2005                         
Perfumer: Dominique Ropion
Sample provenance: sample from The Perfumed Court, 2009
Created with M. Malle's aunt, the actress Candice Bergen, as inspiration, Carnal Flower is something of a contradiction in terms. Like Ms. Bergen, whose onscreen persona in the movie Carnal Knowledge is both warmly maternal and icily aloof, Carnal Flower is both cold and warm. Other than that reference, I find the name "Carnal Flower" rather inappropriate - this perfume does not smell in the least like a boudoir to me.

The scent begins with a chilly, almost mentholated note, along with camphor and a tiny spritz of something vaguely juicy. There's enough of the floral quality of the tuberose peeking through here for the opening to smell very like the refrigerated, moist air of a florist case. The menthol-camphor hint picks up on the odd notes of what Tania Sanchez calls “Chinese muscle rub” in tuberose flowers, but here it's lovely. Gradually the tuberose blossoms out, becoming warmer, but it remains almost translucent, with a fresh greenish light shining through it. There's a lot of grassy-green jasmine here that keeps the tuberose from being too buttery and fleshy. I don't smell much of anything else here, but the scent is anything but thin. This accord of sunny tuberose and green jasmine sticks around a long time, but eventually the jasmine fades so that the basenotes begin to come up under the tuberose. The base, though faint, smells like beach-warmed skin at the end of the day. It is neither too sweet nor too warm, and once the base comes up there's very little left of the experience.

Notes for Carnal Flower:
Top: green notes, camphor, citrus
Heart: melon, tuberose, jasmine, orange blossom, ylang
Base: coconut, musk

I do not smell melon, or at least I don't smell what I think of as perfumery melon, a la DelRae Emotionelle or Parfum de Therese, neither of which I like. If there really is melon here, it's more like a crisp, barely-ripe honeydew, all sweet green. And the coconut is merely a hint in Carnal Flower; you will not be thinking of piña coladas.

Lasting power is less potent for this scent than for many other tuberose scents on me. I was getting three hours' worth with hefty dabs, and it took pouring my sample vial into a small spray atomizer to change that experience. If sprayed according to my usual formula, I get four hours, which is a little light for an edp. On the other hand, longevity is often the downfall of all-natural perfumes, and there seems to be a large percentage of natural ingredients in CF. Also, it's a very beautiful four hours.

Carnal Flower is an exercise in green and white, cold and hot: the green is the cool of herbs and leaves and grass and chilly air, and the white is the creamy sweetness of tuberose and jasmine and skin and summer light. The two sides don't play tug-of-war, but rather curl around each other like yin and yang, two integrated halves of a whole.

Sometimes I associate a particular scent with a piece of music – for example, Apres l'Ondee is always Debussy's “La Mer”, while Attrape-Coeur is “Nessun Dorma” – and such is the case with Carnal Flower. What I'm hearing while wearing it is Brahms' beautiful “How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place,” from his German Requiem: a clean white light, a longing sweetness. I may find a more beautiful tuberose, but I may not. At the moment, this is the most lushly ethereal thing I've ever smelled.

The Bottom Line :
Quality    A Smells natural; seems coherent with good flow.
Grab-scale score    9   If not higher – I'm leaving myself a little wiggle room!
Short description    Ethereal green tuberose.
Cost       $$$
Earns compliments: Yes. Even Bookworm, who tends to dislike tuberose, calls this one "pretty."
Scent presence      Slightly less than average (2 spritzes last 4 hours), moderate sillage. Will not get you lynched at the office.
Review Report:  Now Smell This, Bois de Jasmin, Perfume-Smellin’ Things (by Marina), Perfume-Smellin’ Things (by Donna), Aromascope.

Top image: Carnal Flower from fragrantica.  Middle image: Mexican tuberose by jelens at flickr.  Bottom image: Tuberose The Pearl by nipplerings72 at flickr.

Tuberose Series Part 3: Chloe

Karl Lagerfeld Chloe, vintage
(Please note that the currently-in-production scent called Chloe by Chloe is a completely different scent. Date released: 1975                     
Perfumer: IFF (Like that's helpful. Sorry, that's all I can find.)
Sample provenance: 1) a sample of vintage edt from friend's bottle, 2) mini bottle parfum via ebay

Here's our first Blast From the Past. Born when disco was hot, Chloe was quite popular for a few decades. There was a flanker, Chloe Narcisse, released in the early 1990’s, that smelled neither like original Chloe nor like narcissus, but was a fresh floral that seemed to me rather like having my back molars drilled. The original Chloe went out of production sometime before 2008, when Chloe Parfums revamped the fragrance in its entirety, from bottle to scent to esthetic. It is no longer a white floral, but a thin, hissy rose that smells as beige as the satin ribbon adorning the (admittedly pretty) bottle. I have yet to try Chloe edp Intense, which is described as a rose oriental - a category I have some fondness for - but it's on my List. As usual, please forgive the lack of diacritical marks.

Luca Turin called the first Chloe a “big natural tuberose.” I had not smelled it for some time until digging up a sample in a swap and finding a little bottle for about $3 on ebay, but it was instantly recognizable.

Some review caveats:
1) We're talking vintage here. Carefully kept or not, all vintage perfume is still vintage. It has, de facto, changed somewhat from the original scent. Some fragrances seem to suffer more from age or light/air exposure than others do; some may remain wearable and some may not. Some may be wearable once the degraded top notes wear off, which can take anywhere from five minutes to an hour or more. This particular scent, in both samples, seems to have survived the ravages of time fairly well. It is close to the color it should be; its top notes are fainter but have not turned unpleasant; it smells very similar to the one in my memory.

2) I wore Chloe for several years, beginning when I was about twelve and continuing through my first year of college. I liked it very much but did not love it; it was a gift. Also, it was perfume, and I wasn't going to turn that down, whether I loved it or not. (It would have been considered wasteful of me to buy something else while my bottle was still good.) Ergo, I have a whole set of memories associated with Chloe. I'll try to keep them out of the review. Also, one of The CEO's old girlfriends used to wear it as well, so she'd pretty much ruined Chloe for me anyway as a personal scent. I'll be passing this bottle on.

Well, Dr. Turin is right about Chloe being a big natural tuberose... and he was sort of wrong, in being a little too succinct in pointing out the confusion engendered by the “same name, different perfume” issue. Original Lagerfeld Chloe does contain a huge slug of tuberose, but I would not refer to it as “a tuberose”. (Sorry for the bait-and-switch there; I did say this would be a “tuberose and tuberose-dominated scents” series.)

I wanted to see how much my nose has developed, so I tested Chloe without looking up the notes. Here's a transcription of my scribblings: “not tube soliflore, I didn't remember it being that anyway... there is a honkin' ton of orange blossom in this... and something lactonic – peach? But it's not saying Mitsouko to me, so not lactonic peach. Some other lactone, it's buttery-creamy... so maybe ylang... Jasmine too. Probably some other florals as well, this is a kitchen-sink floral thingy. Freesia? Lilac? Dunno, but it's a fresh floral note in there with the indoles – maybe some muguet... Base reminds me of Ivoire, you see that with a lot of those 70's florals being neither strictly chypre nor strictly oriental but very rich: sandalwood, moss, musk, vanilla. Could be other stuff in the base too...”

So then I checked with fragrantica to get the list of notes, and I'd give myself a C+ on diagnostics. I missed a bunch of things!

Notes for Chloe:
Top: aldehydes, honeysuckle, orange blossom, ylang, hyacinth, lilac, coconut, bergamot, peach
Heart: jasmine, rose, narcissus, tuberose, carnation, orris root
Base: oakmoss, sandalwood, amber, musk, cedar, benzoin

I give myself credit for the orange blossom, ylang, lilac, and peach, as well as the jasmine and two-thirds of the base. I noticed the lactone but misidentified it (coconut, how did I miss that? Actually I still don't smell it even when resniffing and looking for it, my brain just says, Lactone!). Also, I failed to pinpoint most of the florals. How did I not get narcissus, as much as I love that note? I said vanilla instead of benzoin (which does have a vanilla-ish creaminess), and missed the cedar entirely. I would swear that the aldehydes have been damaged in both samples, so that they're not very perceptible. Then again, someone sensitive to them might be able to pick up the note.

Armed with list of notes, I smelled it again. Again, unless I concentrate very hard, I smell mostly tuberose+orange blossom, with some lactones and one of those rich 70's bases. It is dense and rather perfumey. The florals are well-blended, and so is the base. This is a rich formula, to be sure, and it flows smoothly from one stage to another. Sillage is a lot quieter than you'd think it would be for a composition that probably saw its share of Studio 54, and even softer in the parfum. This fits with my experience wearing it for years – I'd have hated a sillage beast, but Chloe is relatively polite.

You know what Chloe really smells like? Vintage Arpege with more tuberose, and more light coming in through the windows. But it's certainly not light by modern standards: it was getting very, very poor reviews from horrified younger Fragrantica members who tested it because they love the new Chloe. Even among its older fans, Chloe is regarded as being dated and perfumey. That would include me: there's no way I'd wear this now, even if I didn't have a history with it.

The Bottom Line :
Quality            B   Clearly there are natural materials in the vintage, and it's smooth.
Grab-scale score    3
Short description     Tuberose-heavy lactonic floral; very dated.
Cost              $
Earns compliments:   Only from The CEO, and I expect that's because he has pleasant memories associated with it.
Scent presence:        Average (2 healthy dabs last 4-5 hours), mild to moderate sillage.
Review Report:        Member reviews at fragrantica.  Member reviews at basenotes. (Sorry, the report is skimpy. Nobody wears this now.)

Top image is Chloe perfume from fragrantica.com.  Middle image is Tuberose 2 by cbcastro at flickr.  Bottom image is Orange blossom by VillaRhapsody by flickr.

Perfume Reviews: Ormonde Jayne Ta’if and Caron Parfum Sacré, or Two Peppered Roses

In my Pepper post of a few days ago, I promised reviews of these two scents. (I also promised a review of Lumiere Noire pour femme, but that one’s going to take me awhile; it’s very complex and I need some more time to process it.) It also occurs to me right now that there’s a pretty famous Peppered Rose I haven’t smelled: The Different Company’s Rose Poivree – notorious for its first version smelling like a sweaty jockstrap. Apparently it’s been reformulated for polite society – but no sample has come my way as of yet. Ta’if and Parfum Sacré are two favorite scents of mine; they share a spiciness and a warm, winey rose. I tend to associate them in my head for that shared spicy rose, but of course during the side-by-side test I confirm for myself that they’re different.

This is good. How else could I justify having both? Actually, I own only a decant of Ta’if, which is by far the more expensive of the two, and which I obtained in a swap with dear Daisy the Enabler. Parfum Sacré I have only worn in eau de parfum, as the extrait is no longer made and is both hard to find and ridiculously expensive. Just yesterday, an eBay auction for a 7.5ml bottle of Parfum Sacré extrait sold for just under $150. Yes, $150, for a quarter-ounce! No matter how gorgeous it is – and it’s reputed to be The Bee’s Knees – I can’t afford that. Good thing that the edp is wonderful. I have heard that it’s been reformulated as well and is thinner than the original. My bottle, which came from an online discounter in Feb. 2008, must be old stock. It smells just like the samples that came from The Posh Peasant and a swap friend who bought her bottle in 1998: wonderful.

Today’s experiment was to wear Ta’if on my left wrist, Parfum Sacré on my right. Here are the notes for each:
Ta’if: Pink Pepper, Saffron, Dates, Rose Oil, Freesia, Orange Flower Absolute, Jasmine, Broom, Amber
Parfum Sacré: Lemon, Pepper, Mace, Cardamom, Orange Blossom, Rose, Jasmine, Rosewood, Vanilla, Myrrh, Civet, Cedarwood

The similarities are apparent – pepper, spicy notes, orange blossom, rose, and jasmine are congruent. At the beginning, each scent is strongly peppery and spicy. (And yes, I know that pink pepper is a dried berry, not a true peppercorn. It smells like “fruity black pepper” to me. I like it. Kwitcher whining.)

Ta’if smells quite peppery to me at the start, and it takes a few moments for the saffron to show up. I like that saffron note, whatever aromachemical it is – saffron seems creamy and smooth to me in perfume, and it’s a texture I enjoy. But very soon the dates come to the fore, and for several hours Ta’if is all about creamy saffron, the sweet dried-fruit character of dates, and that beautiful rose. Bookworm likes Ta’if; it’s probably the sweetness she finds appealing. There in the heart of the fragrance, there’s a fresh floral presence which could be the orange flower but is probably freesia, since freesia has a cool, dewy, florist-case quality that my brain calls “fresh.” This is such a pretty fragrance. I wouldn’t call it girly – but gosh, neither would I term it Edgy, as Luca Turin seems to imply in his review of it in Perfumes: The Guide: ‘Wear it when the desert wind blows, as Raymond Chandler put it, “one of those hot dry Santa Anas that … make your nerves jump and your skin itch…”’ Good grief. Wonder how he got Edgy out of the not-quite-gourmand saffron+dates+rose, which I consider the true character of Ta’if, and which lasts for a good three-four hours on me. As the drydown continues, it gets a little less pleasant; the amber is not my favorite type (labdanum cistus), and there’s nothing else in the base with anything near the rich sweetness of the heart. However, by the time the drydown arrives, the fragrance is nearly gone. There is a dreaminess about Ta’if, a head-in-the-stars sort of innocence about it.

On the other hand (literally!), Parfum Sacré begins with very “kitcheny” notes – it’s primarily lemon pepper, both aromatic and a little dusty. Just as I begin to think, “Well, if there’s lemon pepper, I must be cooking fish tonight,” the nutmeggy mace and the cardamom come in, hand in hand with that beautiful winey rose PS shares with Ta’if, and it’s not kitcheny anymore. I smell a good bit more orange blossom in PS than I do in Ta’if, but PS is still largely a rose fragrance in my mind. Oddly, Bookworm smells only pepper and wood in PS, no rose at all, while I get mostly rose and incense. The wood is there, of course, and I sometimes think of Dolce Vita when I wear Parfum Sacré, but I smell a great deal of myrrh too. There is supposedly vanilla in there, and civet, but I am not conscious of smelling them. The drydown of PS is beautiful; it is rich and mysterious and layered. Parfum Sacré is one of those rare fragrances that I wear for comfort, but which also seems very sensual to me. I think of phrases like "the eternal feminine" in connection with PS.  When I wear it, I feel very feminine: both very motherly, and very… well, interested in doing what women do in order to become mothers. It also has that magical quality of melting into the skin, becoming part of me instead of being simply a scent I wear.  It was one of the first scents I fell in love with over the past year, and every time I have worn it since, I’ve been glad I bought it.

Summing up in a few words:
Ta'if is a rich, sweet rose, with saffron and dried fruit, idealistic and young at heart.  I love it.
Parfum Sacré is a rich, warm rose, with pepper and wood and incense, emphatically womanly.  I love it deeply.

Top image: Rose Bouquet Well-Defended by bartholmy at flickr.
Second image is from ormondejayne.com.
Third image is from fragrancenet.com.

Perfume Reviews: Guerlain Shalimar Light/Eau Legere, or The Story I Really Wanted to Tell You

By the time I came to The Kingdom of Perfumistas, Queen Shalimar had an acclaimed flanker, which was widely praised and subsequently discontinued. This modernized version was known variously as “Shalimar Light,” or “Shalimar Eau Legere Parfumee.” Even more confusing is the fact that the version concocted by Mathilde Laurent was later tweaked by Jean-Paul Gaultier, after Ms. Laurent had a falling-out with her boss and went to work for Cartier.

I have done some research on this phenomenon, which I'll share briefly with you.  Also, I highly recommend reading yet another one of Helg's terrific posts on the subject, here.  (One of these days I'll stop pointing you in the direction of Perfume Shrine, but she'll have to stop writing so beautifully and thoroughly first.  Like that's going to happen.)

Shalimar Eau Legere, composed by Mathilde Laurent, was a pale straw-colored liquid, presented in a pale blue bottle with dark blue lettering that brought that distinctive Shalimar bottle to mind, pictured at left. The sprayer mechanism was located in the fluted ventaille top, which does not come off.  This is the version that most perfume-lovers call the better iteration. It's nearly impossible to find these days.

The second version is generally known as Shalimar Light, although all bottles of SL/SEP bear the same two descriptions (Shalimar Eau Legere Parfumee/Light Fragrance). The second version, with notes similar to the first, is light blue liquid in a clear bottle with gold lettering. This bottle has a removable cap, with spray mechanism underneath.  This version is slightly easier to find, although it's getting scarce too.  I have a photo of the two bottles side by side, but am experiencing camera problems at the moment.  I'll post the photo when I can.

Recently, a bottle of SEL (first one) came into my possession, so now I have both it and SL , as well as some vintage Shalimar proper, in the rich parfum de toilette concentration. Of course, I had to test them simultaneously. The review of the newest version, Eau de Shalimar, in the quarterly updates to Perfumes: The Guide seems to indicate that only the top notes were slightly changed for the J-PG version, but I would disagree. These two are definitely versions of the same fragrance, but I smell differences throughout. (Be aware that my bottle of Eau Legere came from someone who had bought it in a duty-free shop several years ago, and I have no idea in what conditions it has been kept in the meantime. My bottle of Shalimar Light, blue juice, came from an online discounter.)

Up top, SEL (Laurent) has a ton of citrusy bergamot. It's very elegant citrus. But right away I smell the familiar Shalimar TarNilla base, much gentler than in the original, but there in its recognizable ice-cream-on-the-asphalt glory. This glowing bergamot slowly slides into a blended floral heart, a lovely creamy jasmine and ylang mixture that seems augmented by something herbal (rosemary? sage?), and to be honest, this is the very first time I've gotten the reference to the Shalimar Gardens. It does make me think of gardens, albeit not fresh dewy gardens. This is a woody garden, with stuff like rosemary and sandalwood underscoring the florals. Eventually this subsides into that smoky-tarry-vanilla base I mentioned. However, the base isn't strictly vanilla – it's at least as much about benzoin and tonka bean as it is vanilla. And although it's very much like original Shalimar, I get no patchouli sticking out to my nose; it's very smooth. There's just that hint of tar...

As for the Jean-Paul Guerlain version of Shalimar Light, pictured at right, it's subtly different. The first five minutes are strongly reminiscent not of bergamot, but of lemon oil furniture polish, intense and inedible. I love the smell of lemon oil, but I'm not enthused about smelling like the maid, so I turn my attention elsewhere for the first five minutes.* After that the strength of the bitter lemon note softens and becomes very enjoyable. This citrusy facet seems to stick around longer than it does in SEL, and is still faintly apparent in the drydown. The florals are less apparent in this version; I do smell jasmine and ylang, but this iteration of Shalimar Light seems more focused on the citrus and vanilla, without the floral focus the first version seems to have. The drydown is far less smoky, but the vanilla is smooth and unsweetened, and augmented by the rich creaminess that tonka bean and benzoin provide. This one is pretty much lemon-vanilla-tonka all the way, delicately garnished with a single jasmine flower. It's somewhat less complex than the Laurent version, and bears less of a resemblance to classic Shalimar.

I think the first Eau Legere, the Mathilde Laurent composition, is a better fragrance. It's as detailed as tapestry; it takes the wearer on a scent journey; it keeps surprising with things one might not expect (the 3D florals, the herbs, the smokiness).

BUT. (You knew this was coming, didn't you?) I actually prefer Shalimar Light, the version tweaked by Jean-Paul Gaultier, or as I like to call it, SL 2.0. I think there are a couple of reasons informing my preference. One, I smelled the blue juice first, and liked it. I didn't compare it to anything, I just enjoyed it, unburdened by any idea of trying to identify which I liked better. Two, SL 2.0 has become a comfort scent for me in all seasons except summer, when I find it too heavy. It's one of those wonderful perfumes that just plain smells nice; I don't have to think about it, or process it emotionally – I just put it on and feel like myself. Three (and Three is actually related to Two), it reminds me somewhat of My Darling Emeraude in feel. It's a “me” scent. Shalimar Light shares that velvety benzoin-tonka-vanilla base with Emeraude, and with Mariella Burani, another one I feel very comfortable in.

Notes for Shalimar Eau Legere/Shalimar Light:
Orange flower, lemon, bergamot, jasmine, rose de mai, iris, opoponax, tonka bean, vanilla, ambergris, incense
Notes are quite similar to Shalimar (well, duh), but the basenotes have been pared down considerably - no vetiver, no leather, no sandalwood, no civet, no patchouli. No musk is listed, but Shalimar Light can smell fairly "dirty" on me at times, and I think there's some musk in there.

If you went and checked out the Perfume Shrine post, you probably read that comment from Guerlain's PR rep stating that Eau de Shalimar is the same as the Jean-Paul Guerlain version of Shalimar Light.  I'd disagree.  I tested a sample vial, and assuming it's representative, Guerlain has thinned down the Blue Juice even further.  The opening smells like lemon baby wipes, not even as assertive as the lemon oil furniture polish in Shalimar Light v. 2.0.  The florals are thinner, and the base smells more straight-up vanilla than that creamy, deep benzoin-tonka-vanilla thing that I love.  This one's all watered-down lemon cream soda, too sweet and thin to be worth something.  There's a good reason it's clear liquid in clear glass, seems to me, and in my opinion, Eau de Shalimar is a mess to be avoided.

Images are all from ebay and fragrantica.com.  Like I said, I'll try to post that one I took myself sometime soon.
*And I AM the maid around here. 

Perfume Review: Guerlain Shalimar, or The First Story

My father-in-law is a storyteller. What he especially likes to do is tell you a story, and then say, "I told you that story in order to tell you this one..."  The second one is always better, but it would not make any sense unless you've heard the first one.

This is sometimes true of perfumes, and of perfume reviews.  In this case it's true: I've been wanting to review Shalimar Light for some time, but have thought that it was pointless to do so without reviewing Shalimar first.  Shalimar is one of the oldest extant Orientals, along with Emeraude.  (Emeraude's been mangled so many times by reformulation that the current version is utterly unwearable.  But we won't discuss it.)

Officially released in 1925 by the house of Guerlain, home of several of iconic classics - Jicky, Mitsouko, L'Heure Bleue - and named after the Shalimar Gardens of Lahore, it's been called the “reference Oriental,” and is famed for its combination of bright citrus underscored by creamy, yet smoky, vanilla. It's also been known for decades as the scent of indecent, sensuous women... if you want more information, check out Perfume Shrine’s review here.

But you know all this. Let's dive right into the shallow pool of my own opinions about it.

I think the bottle is one of the most distinctive and beautiful ones ever. It's hard to mistake a Shalimar bottle for anything else, with its shield-shaped flacon and blue fluted top. Yes, I know Shalimar has been presented in a number of different shapes over the years. My own miniature bottle of vintage parfum de toilette is not the classic shape. My point is that, as far as I can tell, no other scent has been released in the classic Shalimar bottle, thus making it distinctively identifiable as Shalimar.  It may also be Guerlain's biggest seller. Devotees seem to stick with it – and indeed, nothing else smells quite like it. It's not like my replacing a worn-out bottle of Revlon Xia Xi'ang with one of Elizabeth Arden's True Love... no, for Shalimar wearers, only Shalimar seems to do.

I'll list the notes here, not so much because they matter, but because these notes are the pattern for later development, and also because I am something of a geek who likes to compare lists of notes both to what I smell in the fragrance, and what I smell in fragrances that are similar.
Notes for Shalimar: bergamot, lemon, mandarin, rose de mai, jasmine, orris, vetiver, heliotrope, opoponax, vanilla, civet, Peru balsam, benzoin, tonka bean, patchouli, leather, sandalwood.

Before I “fell down the rabbit hole,” as they say, I used to pick up the lovely tester bottle from the department store counter, sniff longingly, and then quickly put it down. All I could smell was bergamot and patchouli. Ick. Now I know that I seem to be extremely sensitive to patchouli, picking it up in quantities unsmellable to the general public. And now that I have smelled many other Orientals, the patchouli doesn't stand out to me as it used to; now what presents itself to my nose is the small amount of birch tar added to the vanilla to replicate the smell of the original composition, which had a particular impurity that caused it to seem smoky. I like to call Shalimar The TarNilla Godzilla – it's tar, it's vanilla, it's loud, and it's one of the few scents that seems to last for days on my skin.

I like that bottle of parfum de toilette a lot more than I ever liked the EDT in the tester, which just proves my belief that classic Guerlains (the ones I mentioned above) are difficult for me in the lesser concentrations, but more easily wearable in parfum or PDT form. You don't want to know what I had to say about L'Heure Bleue in EDT – but the parfum is probably my favorite classic Guerlain. (I leave aside the gauzy silk chiffon of Apres l'Ondee. I suppose you could call it a classic Guerlain, since it's old and it's still in production, but it's so light that people never seem to hate it. They might not find it compelling, but nobody is wishing it out of existence. Or at least not to my knowledge.)

A drop of Shalimar is lovely when it's chilly outside, and particularly when there's woodsmoke in the air.  What I like better, though, is a drop of Shalimar followed by a spritz of Shalimar Light 2.0... and now we come to that second story I was talking about.  To be continued...

Image is Shalimar pure parfum by bhperfume5mor at ebay.

Perfume Review: Rochas Tocade

In 1994, Rochas released this honkin' ugly bottle of wonderful stuff, created by Maurice Roucel.  Thank goodness I read a positive review of it before ever seeing the bottle, which is one of the cheesiest things I have seen in my life.  The bottom part of it reminds me of the pretty shape of the Femme bottle, but it's topped with a cylinder and a coolie hat in plastic Made In China colors.  It's a shame, really, about that cap.  It's too tall.  It's pointy.  It's plaaaaaaastic.

Ahem.  Muses in Wooden Shoes never, ever, buy perfume for the bottle.  And isn't that lucky for us?  Tocade - which means "Infatuation" in French - is just lovely, and a genuine bargain at $25-30 for a large 100ml bottle. 

Here are the notes for Tocade:
T: green notes, bergamot, freesia, geranium
H: magnolia, iris, orchid, jasmine, lily of the valley, rose
B: patchouli, amber, musk, cedar, vanilla

Tocade is primarily a rose-vanilla-patchouli fragrance, and like Organza Indecence, it's right at the edge of my low patchouli tolerance.  Other people might not find it very patch-forward, but I do.  Tocade opens with a breath of galbanum and a whisper of something my brain calls "fresh" - it's probably the freesia - before heading full tilt for that rose-vanilla combo.  It's a lovely rose, neither the fresh lemony rose you smell in, say Perfumer's Workshop Tea Rose, nor the winey rose of Parfum Sacre or Voleur de Roses, but, rather, a glowing deep pink rose, smooth as painted china.  I do smell the magnolia and lily of the valley, and although I can't pinpoint the orchid, there's a smooth floral quality to the heart that seems to be common to orchid scents.  And although the base skates toward the sweet side, it's not the marshmallow variety of vanilla/amber - there's enough backbone in the cedar and patchouli, and enough dirt in the musk, to keep it honest.  Although it doesn't smell like Shalimar, it does have that dirty, smoky vanilla vibe in the drydown.

This is one of my sexier perfume options, I confide.  It's a casual, comfortable, party-girl kind of sexiness, a white tee shirt and jeans sort of sexiness, not the femme fatale variety.  It's so friendly and affectionate that one imagines Tocade to be unable not to flirt outrageously with everyone (yes, everyone) she meets.  In fact, I usually refer to it as That Slut Tocade.

Which is probably unfair, but since it amuses the heck out of me while expressing that "friendly sexiness" that is Tocade, I'm going to keep using it.  That Slut Tocade.  Heh.  Beavis and Butthead would be so proud.  (By the way, according to a French-speaking friend, it's pronounced toe-COD.  Just in case that might be helpful.) 

True story:  I bought Tocade this past spring, just about the time the weather was getting too warm for it.  I promptly put it in my closet, inside a box with a few other cold-weather scents.  Two months later, I opened the closet, and a big waft of Tocade stumbled out and threw her arms around my neck, slurring, "Hiiiiiiii!  I'm Tocade.  I'm a little druunnnk (hiccup) and I've somehow (giggle) lost my panties, will you take me ho-ome?" Whew.  I promptly made sure the (ugly) top was on firmly, and then put the bottle inside a plastic bag inside the box.  That was three months ago, and I continue to get hints of Tocade when I open the closet.

(So be careful with this stuff, willya? Don't, you know, spill it on your closet floor or anything.)

I've used the phrase That Slut Tocade often enough now that I think I'd better clarify: I like it.  I really, really like it.  It's comfortable without being a real wallpaper scent, and my husband likes it too.

But it really deserved a better bottle.

Perfume Review: Bath & Body Works Moonlight Path, Clone No. 3

Okay, today we’re going way downmarket for the review of our next Chanel No. 5 clone: Bath and Body Works Moonlight Path. I’ve long been a customer of B&BW – largely because if I want anything fancier than drugstore body products, they’re it. I do have a few favorites among their offerings: I dearly love their Aromatherapy Orange Ginger lotion, their Velvet Tuberose is a terrific, low-budget Fracas Lite, and I wore the Freesia bath products all during my honeymoon.

On the Late & Lamented List: Freesia is gone. It’s been replaced with Sheer Freesia, which is simple and pretty but lacks the crisp greenness I remember smelling in the old one; I think there may have been some aspect of lily of the valley along with the freesia in the old version. Sigh. Well, I still have some Diorissimo.

My husband’s sister and her husband once gave me some really rich hand cream scented with Moonlight Path for a birthday. I opened it, sniffed and exclaimed, “Chanel No. 5!” My brother-in-law gave me the fish eye, and I hastened to explain that it wasn’t exact, of course – it just reminded me of my mother’s scent. And then I had to explain that I liked No. 5 but didn’t wear it because, well, it was my mother’s scent, “and you know how that is, right?” And then I shut up, because I was Just Making It Worse. (Sorry, K. It was a nice gift you and E. picked out – I used it all up with pleasure, and it smelled nice, and you have good taste. And I love you both. Which you know. Grin.)

So when I began seriously sniffing No. 5 Smell-Alikes, I remembered Moonlight Path, and went back to the Bath and Body Works store at the mall to retest it. It’s not as close to the icon as Mariella Burani is, and even farther away than Eau Premiere, but it does echo some of the facets of No. 5, particularly the powdery aspects.

Here are the notes for Moonlight Path:
Top: Bergamot, lavender, mandarin, coriander
Heart: Rose, jasmine, violet, tuberose, ylang, lily of the valley
Base: Sandalwood, vetiver, oakmoss, vanilla, amber, musk, patchouli

I never smell the lavender in Moonlight Path, which is probably a good thing, lavender being an un-favorite of mine. The congruencies of notes between the two scents include bergamot, rose, jasmine, ylang, lily of the valley, and all the base notes. Indeed, it’s the drydown of MP that reminds me most of No. 5, and since MP is fairly light, it’s the drydown that I spend the most time in while wearing it. I do smell that rose-jasmine-ylang-LotV combo that is such a pleasant part of No. 5 for me, and that’s enjoyable in Moonlight Path, but sadly, it doesn’t last very long here. It is powdery.  Very powdery.  Intensely powdery, even – and I’m not all that big a fan of powder. The list of basenotes sounds more complex than it actually is in Moonlight Path, contrasted directly with No. 5’s rich and shimmery sandalwood and musk base.

It’s perfectly nice. But powdery, you know… and if you like that kind of thing, the body products might layer very nicely (and, um, cheaply, if you care) with No. 5.

Top image: Moonlight Path body butter at B&BW; bottom image is Fillable Puff Patter with Powder at ebay, which my late grandmother would have absolutely adored.  She'd have bought one for every woman she knew, bless her heart.

Perfume Review: Mariella Burani, Clone No. 2

This is one of several posts in which I’ll be reviewing perfumes that are similar to, or are based on, or that remind me of, Chanel No. 5. Today we’ve got Mariella Burani, which I have in EdT. I first heard of it through Abigail’s review on I Smell Therefore I Am, which you can read here, and when ScentScelf (of Notes From the Ledge) approved, I had to try it. People, this stuff is dirt-cheap and lovely, which is a combination that always sacks me for a loss. I bought my bottle on ebay, slightly used, for $15.50.

This is one of the prettiest bottles I own. If I didn’t worry about light damage, I’d leave it out for decoration – I adore the hefty glass rectangle topped with the red-orange resin roses that should be tacky, but instead are kitschy fab.

Mariella Burani starts out with the sunniest, happiest citrus ever, with a sheer fizz of aldehydes. The aldehydes don’t give the impression of soapiness here; they sparkle briefly and evanesce. This citrus is miles away from furniture polish, and although the notes don’t list orange, I infer it. In fact, MB reminds me of childhood Florida vacations and the tangerine sherbet we’d eat at Baskin Robbins at the beach. It seems soft, rather than bracing. This citrusy veil seems to cling to the perfume as it develops. But as the scent moves into its floral heart, it begins to smell reminiscent of No. 5. When I look at the list of notes, it’s clear why: ylang, rose, jasmine, lily of the valley, and iris are listed for both fragrances. MB’s floral heart is blended very well, and the effect is smooth, voluptuous, and Just Plain Pretty.

I should explain that I am a sucker for Just Plain Pretty. I’m never put off by such girly articles of clothing as cotton sundresses trimmed in eyelet, or by fluffy blue sweaters, and Mariella Burani is no exception. It’s not that I never want something complicated or interesting or tough – it’s just that a pretty, feminine, fragrance always makes me smile.

My favorite part of the scent story is the part where the floral heart begins to fade, and the orientalesque base begins to turn up. There is, as Abigail mentions, a creaminess about it that makes me think of pearl necklaces. The effect may be due to the benzoin-tonka bean-vanilla combination. Geek alert here: I checked my Excel perfume file for the notes on some of my very favorite perfumes – Emeraude and Shalimar Light – and bingo! Benzoin, tonka, and vanilla.

Another attractive aspect of MB is that it seems weightless – neither a light, refreshing cologne for summer, nor a richly gourmand oriental for winter. In this, too, it is reminiscent of No. 5’s uncanny knack of being Appropriate For All Occasions. Also like No. 5, it seems ageless to me as well – my teenage daughter and my mother could both wear it as well as I can.

If Mariella Burani has any flaws, they are that a) it doesn’t last very long on me, and b) I don’t get much sillage. It zips through its development, from sunny orange through pretty-lady-florals to creamy base, in about three hours. This is, of course, normal for my skin experience with EdTs, and my bottle was so inexpensive that I don’t mind spritzing with abandon. Our weather has been what I call comfortable (60-70 degrees F), which may not be warm enough to show off MB. On two successive nights, I sprayed my wrists and neck one time each, and woke up warm and cosy the next morning, smelling the most gorgeous creamy floral scent; I was actually sad that it was time for my shower. Perhaps warmer weather would encourage the scent to bloom into the air a little more. And I think the EdP might suit me better; one would hope that the longevity would be better than the EdT’s lasting power.

This scent is lovely on its own; it’s an excellent alternative for those who find classic No. 5 difficult to wear. If the edp comes within my reach, I will snap it up.

Notes for Mariella Burani:
Top: tarragon, bergamot, rosewood, lemon
Heart: ylang-ylang, rose, jasmine, lily of the valley, iris
Base: amber, sandalwood, tonka bean, patchouli, musk, benzoin, vanilla, vetiver


Top image: my bottle, purchased at ebay.
Bottom image: 50's cotton sundress at syriekovitz.com