Perfume Reviews by Colbourne

Ombre Rose L'Original by Jean-Charles Brosseau

Ombre Rose is the ultimate boudoir scent, a peach-inflected enticing whisper, the softest, most velvety white petals. Opening with aldehydes muted with stone fruit lactones and a gorgeous rosewood, then it unravels to present a pale rose with a ylang ylang fondant.

This is not the kind of powder that could choke—it is a sheer and light iris and tonka, yet the musk is vibrational, perfect for snuggle times, nuzzle times, anything in bed, really. My vintage Alfin version of the EDT has been added to my selection of fragrant nightcaps. Sweet dreams!

N'Aimez Que Moi by Caron

I applied N'Aimez Que Moi EDP and started listening to a French Horn solo Spotify playlist, as for some reason, it reminds me of the horn's plangent timbre. The open phrase is classic Caron, feeling like a glade within a dense, mossy forest, moths fluttering feebly on wild herbs, and the distant plaintive cries of a rose among consoling sweet violet and clove-shaded lilac. "Dry your eyes" they say, in the powdered, cloudy, misty daydream glade.

The rose, now upraised, disperses the mist with its own song, "Love Only Me." The clouds part just somewhat and rays shine down, the french horn echoes into the forest. The rose is now joined by the chorus of the woods, the arching cedars genuflect, and the refrain sings, "we will reunite my love, and all will be well." This smells of one of the truest roses, if only for a short, magical time, until the wooded chorus sends it to a blissful sleep.

This may prove to be far too precious, antique and fusty to all but the connoisseur, but I happen to find it absolutely faultless. It's poetry.

Rose & Cuir by Editions de Parfums Frederic Malle

Gertrude Stein opines in "Sacred Emily" that a" rose is a rose is a rose is a rose," but surely this is just poetic license—a rose, any rose, is not monolithic. Roses of all colors, all numbers of petals, numerous shapes and sizes, and—most importantly—all manners of scent, including no scent at all. Cultivars of rose can smell very "un-rosey" as well, including some that smell more like the rose geranium; after all, there is a sizable geraniol content in both, along with a number of other shared constituents. Still other rose varieties can smell almost leathery, or tobacco-like.

Then we have the idea of leather in fragrance, a concept that surely isn't hidebound, given the early interpretations of it through the birch tar inflected "Cuir de Russie" or the castoreum-meets-saddle-soap "Spanish Leather." The usage of isobutyl quinoline (IBQ) since the early 19th century by Coty and Caron has, over time, come to represent more an abstract representation of leather only as a facet of a whole accord. It imparts that coarse ferocity and mineral quality to a leather accord that often would include the aforementioned birch tar or castoreum, but what if it is unmarried from that which is so often associated? Does it still represent "leather" to a contemporary olfactory bulb any more than Pelargonium roseum represents "rose"?

Ellena's Rose & Cuir deconstructs both accords and this becomes obvious to many who seem deft at identifying their notes in a fragrance. Yet, when I smell it, I still feel the impressions of rose and leather: is my nose wrong? Of course it is not. The aldehydes, the galbanum, blackcurrant bud, the timut pepper, they all aid in illustrating this kabuki theater rose, massaging the geranium with tart fruitiness, stems, leaves, and luminous flesh. The vetiver shades in where the IBQ would otherwise feel somewhat stark and brittle, while there is additional alchemy that anchors it, of which I can only speculate. I smell fragments of Nuit de Noel here and there, without the carnation and oakmoss, which delights me. But what makes me most merry is how Rose & Cuir has both heft and a haunting feel, like Ellena summoned ghosts through its essence: like apparitions of rose and leather from a long forgotten past.

Eau de Protection / Rossy de Palma by Etat Libre d'Orange

The most obvious gothic imagery of blood-red thorny roses, while appropriate enough, can very well obscure the truth of Eau de Protection: that it is an exquisitely composed olfactory piece. It begins in an almost strident manner, a tangled vine of bitter metallic green, zesty, hot-sour sensations, biting-into-peppercorns and washing down crystallized ginger with pure rose water. I would almost say that I'd want this opening stage to last a lot longer, but then I consider that its duration is perfect: too prolonged a marvelous thing may turn grating to the nose.

This yields to the core of these dark velvet-ruffled roses, moist and mingling with the loam, flashes that are spiced-geranium-like and crepuscular. This is the overall feel: tenebrous, with peripheral warmth, a prickly rose garden that swallows itself in the moonlight. It feels somewhat like L'Artisan's Voleur de Roses, except on the contrary, the roses have a master plan to ensnare the patchouli and make it submit to their wiles.

Aqua Allegoria Rosa Magnifica by Guerlain

A duet between leafy-green, palest-pink dewy tea rose and lightly sweet and melancholy violet, Rosa Magnifica is delicately Victorian yet it is rendered in the direction of modern with the powder dialed down and a certain aqueous, watercolor quality that is the olfactory equivalent of ripples on a reflecting pool.

Its transparency makes it feel meditative, a cool-hued rose for contemplation. Never feeling showy and bold, it isn't going to bring one to their knees (unless it takes very little), but it is an effortless beauty, so lucid, so minimalist, like the poetry of Ezra Pound:

The tea-rose tea-gown, etc.
Supplants the mousseline of Cos,
The pianola "replaces"
Sappho's barbitos.

Christ follows Dionysus,
Phallic and ambrosial
Made way for macerations;
Caliban casts out Ariel.

Worth pour Homme by Worth

The vintage version of Worth Pour Homme with the its stylized "W" insignia, is a barbershop delight, redolent of bracing lavender, fresh-cut rosemary, and oakmoss much like its similar forebear, Paco Rabanne Pour Homme (no, this was not launched in 1932, as Fragrantica claims, but rather 1980). Yet, make no mistake, this is not merely Worth's "also ran," as the dry down is to die for in all of its woolly muskiness.

I for one love variations on a theme, comparing and contrasting, because I am just that kind of nerd, and with Worth Pour Homme, and what also makes it different is a certain sharp, pungency to the aromatics and a certain sternness in its overall feel: this one feels less golden chains and unbuttoned rayon shirts and more Piaget wristwatches and ascots. That said, it's just as much a pleasure as the many others of its ilk.

Halston Z-14 by Halston

If I had a dime for every time I read "IFRA" in a fragrance review where one pines for those classic fragrances (most often male-marketed ones) that have since become "shells of their former selves," I would be Scrooge McDuck. IFRA is not the enemy, it is the EU and their draconian regulations. For something still in production after all these years, Z-14 seems a bit worse for the wear, but it may not even be materials restrictions that have hollowed it out, but purely economics. The current version is a rather brittle citrus-cinnamon number, with none of that deliciously chewy, leathery-sweet labdanum and the fleshier oakmoss accord.

Older formulations, until the 2010s, smell great, and there's surely been enough pontification online as to what versions are superior, what to buy, so on and so forth, and I just refuse to add to that dialogue. What I will say is this: these previous versions feel both burly and articulate, with a resinous evergreen cypress note propelled with spices and herbs, leading into stout woods and a luscious, sinewy chypre base. Relegated to the bottom shelves of drugstores and discount rack retailers in its current, feeble iteration, it was once a luxurious item, and it would behoove anyone who seeks to curate vintage masculine fragrances to seek out the vintages and enjoy.

De Viris by Jacques Bogart

I am charmed by just how cool, bitter, and aloof De Viris comes across, starting off with a citrus pith and zest—no juice, boldly underlined with petitgrain leaves and a gobbet of clary sage. There the sensation of white pepper and bay leaf as it settles, morphing into a dry and distant heart, suggesting flowers and foliage, silvery-green waxy camphor leaves, quite vegetal and herbal, rendered fuzzy and overcast, autumnal even. Over time, this stoic greenery is enveloped like a twilight fog by musks, cedar, and vetiver.

It smells like New England to me: pleasant yet reserved; strong-willed; honoring the earth and providence. I am reminded of the imagery of Edith Wharton's Ethan Frome, which is quite an unlikely conjuring to come from any fragrance. It's stark and naturalistic, and so delightfully peculiar, especially since this comes from the same quirky house that brought us One Man Show and Witness. It is truly unique and I am sort of obsessed with it.

Xeryus by Givenchy

Ahh, the 80s coniferous aromatics, all needles and twigs, embodying the sizzle of forest under the collar of a freshly shaven tycoon who in his spare time reads John Muir and dreams of mountaineering. Xeryus, with its handsome art deco monolith of a bottle, smooth and discreet much like the juice inside. Not quite as audacious as its brethren, its clean and compact, no monkey business, no feral nether-quarter funk, but a whole lot of evergreen needles, juniper, geranium, and moss.

While Xeryus certainly did not define a genre like its senior, Givenchy Gentleman, it rather *refined* a genre, more quiet power than a flaunt, elegant yet durable.

Gianfranco Ferré for Man by Gianfranco Ferré

Sometimes words fail me, and when they do, I tend to fall back and the routine of explaining the notes that I smell in a fragrance: a fistful of sage, a dry lavender, and the like (yes, these are in Ferre for Man). In recent months of writing about scent, I've come to find this approach to verge on prosaic, and gleans very little beyond what I can identify and detect. I've challenged myself to steer away from this when I can, much like using "photorealistic," "stunning/stunner," and most certainly "DNA"—by the way, how can two entirely different perfumers with distinct styles who contribute to the same perfume house compose two perfumes for the brand with the same "DNA," anyhow? That one's a head scratcher to me.

Anyways, with Ferre for Man—yes, Man, not merely men, but a MAN, THE MAN—we are reminded that there is often no clear delineation between styles. A fragrance can be strictly a fougere or strictly a chypre, I suppose, but what about when the two overlap? Mostly fougere with some chypre elements, or a hearty chypre with a dash of fougere qualities? Here, I smell a clear confluence between the two, a "chygere," and this very much accounts for its appeal to me: double the satisfaction, if you will. To break it down to its bare elements, however, would do it a disservice. Its understated elegance belies its brutish fanfare, and this may get lost in translation for some noses who expect olfactory dividends for one reason or other (to get a pat on the back or to get laid?). No, it isn't a beast, but it isn't a simpering pretty boy.

Oh, here comes the adjectives, it was inevitable after all: smooth, textured, herbal, juniperous (I made it up but it works here), woody, dark, handsome, and maybe another "h" word or two. It's best appreciated when one is not distracted, takes a few deep breaths, and just sits in an armchair, a recliner, even, and notices it. It is no secret I celebrate masculinity especially as it is interpreted in perfume, and this encapsulates it. And Ladies: you can connect to your animus through wearing this just as well as I can lavish in my anima by donning LouLou or Ombré Rose.

For Man is stone cold stunner (fuck, I couldn't resist).

Maxim's pour Homme by Maxim's

Once upon a time, our favorite master perfumers had their career beginnings, where they would be assigned their briefs as relative newcomers. It's unlikely that we see their complete potential in these early releases, but glimmers of their prowess often shine through. Such is the case of Jean-Claude Ellena, who was tasked with composing the male-marketed follow up to 1984's Maxim's de Paris.

Ellena would compose a lush, leathery, mossy chypre that had become de rigueur since the release of Chanel Antaeus, and while the nose can definitely trace this back to its roots, a more polished refinement follows its aggressive showstopper carnation/wet jasmine opening. The spice and aromatics simmer rather quickly to settle into a very mossy, slightly rosy, castoreum-ish leather, leaving a seductive, musky skin scent. It's more than decent!

Colors Uomo by Benetton

[Original 1988 version by perfumer Jimmy Anton Studer]

I could choose to write on about how men's fragrances from the past recall a rosier time, "the smell of everything the world has lost," when "men were men" and "women were women' neighbors were looking out for each other, kids rode their bikes in the streets and alleys, and families could sleep with their doors unlocked and windows open without fear of being robbed in small-town America.

But I am not an ignorant goon, and I know the past, though something I adore revisiting time and again, was wrought with a lot of societal ills. While culture has collapsed and groupthink has come to reign with the advent of algorithm-driven social media, western society at the time was still in denial that its most viable contributors to their culture were gay people and people of color.

In comes Colors de Benetton, the original for men, and I won't even begin to pretend this is haute parfumerie, but it is the smell of hopeful youth through the lens of the era, still holding onto the gusto of manhood with its fuzzed-out coniferous, aromatic spiciness, but has one foot in the door of the sensitive and sweet. Vanillic florals, cedar, and sandalwood ease the coarse machismo. Where the likes of Antaeus and Jacomo de Jacomo began the 80s, Colors was its last hurrah with a hint of where the idea of 'masculine' in perfumery would go—deconstructed, just a bit more intimate—and maybe even more colorful.

Versus Uomo by Versace

As I wear it on this hot summer day, Versus Uomo has me eager for autumn. I imagine it being an early October day, and I am dressed in a decidedly more distinguished manner than a t-shirt, camo shorts, and New Balance sneakers. I imagine that it may even be a different time, different decade even. It's a bit more cloudy, but not overcast. The neighborhood in my neighborhood has lots of wrought-iron fences and large beech trees. I am walking to a library to read, and the internet either doesn't yet exist or exists no more.

Versus Uomo smells of large creamy, limey-lemony magnolia blooms that are just starting to wilt and brown at the edges; fleshy pulpy, papaya mixed with fresh lavender; a spiced carnation that was experiencing its last gasps in men's fragrance at the time of its release; a lot of soft-peppery-fruit linalool that recalls my beloved Habit Rouge. The dry down somewhat echoes that dusky base of Zino, slightly more smooth and soft-woody. The synesthesia in me feels like this is the way an oboe sounds: a wistful, keen pungency with a soft interior.

Romeo Gigli by Romeo Gigli

Romeo Gigli per Uomo has attained cult status since its discontinuation, receiving praise from so many— yet none of the online reviews state what I thought to be obvious: it was composed by Morillas as an ode to absinthe. Even the color of the juice is the hue of this fabled tipple. The impression of bitter-sage-via-thuja wormwood oil, the delightful green-anisic tarragon, the sweet camphor of hyssop, it's all here. Yet, what lies within this framework is the sensibility of a masculine amber fougere, with its lineage traced back to Le 3e Homme de Caron and even further back, to an extent, to Fabergé Brut.

Here, however, there is a plum accord, not unlike that of Rochas Femme, that, further in its development almost, but not quite, supplants the opening absinthe aromatics. This unlikely turn of events truly adds to the appeal, giving it a chypre-like feel into its dry down. Its base is a velour in shades of purple and pine, accented with balsam fir absolute and patchouli. It makes my heart ache that this is no longer in production, as it was truly a standout of its time, and one of the last truly innovative fragrances marketed to the male that would be released until at least the 21st century. It is also most definitely unisex.

Gai Mattiolo Uomo by Gai Mattiolo

I must admit I am not the biggest fan of late 90s masculine as they often have this post-CK-one aeriform quality to them. My good friend has plenty of deadstock Gai Mottolo Uomo to go around, and sent me a bottle, and it's driven by polycyclic musks while all else in their orbit feels vague.

Vague citrus, vague anise, vague rose. It all feels a little too vague, though, so that I cannot attach myself to it. It's pleasant enough, if just a bit too much the tenor of its time. What potential it does present in concept would be fully realized by Kenzo Power, released ten years later, where Olivier Polge turns floral, spicy vague inside out with the glue of labdanum and tolu.

Overall, this is nice, but I can't connect to its vibe.

Delta of Venus by Eris Parfums

I love guava: the fresh fruit, in juice form, guava paste, too. I drink GT's Synergy Guava Goddess kombucha regularly. I will spare you all of my purple prose and say this: Delta of Venus has the best guava accord I'd ever smelled in a fragrance, head and shoulders. It seems to be a hard one to pin down by perfumers, and Antoine Lie has perfected it here. Juicy, mouth-watering, luscious—it's all here, down to the distinctive muskiness associated with the ripe fruit.

I could very well be wrong, but I detect what I believe are a material called Paradisamide and Guavanate, the former an aromachem produced by Givaudan that reminds me of passionfruit and guava, and the latter produced by Bedoukian that imparts the woodier, muskier aspects of a pink guava. Otherwise, Lie had his own proprietary trickery in creating this vivid representation.

Aside from some accents that shade in Delta of Venus, to me it's mostly a guava "solinote" and I am all for it. One welcome detour in the dry down that I do want to highlight is a certain waxiness that gives it body and character. It's really just a splendid experience from beginning to end.

Ricci Club by Nina Ricci

Ricci Club is somehow dry, creamy and tart all at once: a unique convergence of spicy fougere, citrus aromatic, and green floral, it stimulates my palate with its multitudes. The lavender is muddled with peach and what reminds me of Angostura bitters. The green doesn't bite, it nibbles around the edges and adheres to the florals that bloom as the top notes simmer down. An orange-hued powdery amber, tobacco-like tonka and woodiness forms its base. It's the kind of fragrance that would suit a cool, breezy summer night.

I find it delicious, but I only own Ricci Club due to finding it for a steal online. Unfortunately, prices for it usually are quite steep for reasons I haven't quite determined, since there are often several concurrently for sale all going for three figure price tags. Be that as it may, it's a delightful wear, not to mention a fantastic conversation piece, as the box and bottle was designed by a favorite artist of mine, Sol Lewitt. If this sounds like it would be a treat and you can happen upon it for under 100 bucks, do pounce on it, but I wouldn't recommend spending anything more than that.

Sballo by Bruno Acampora

There is a dry, dusty barn where freshly cut antique roses are stored, by a straw bale garden and a meadow, where wild sage and pelargonium grows. It's windy and warm, a soft kiss of sunlight through wispy clouds. Sballo is a high, a trip, the euphoria that all has fallen into place just as it is meant to be. There is a sweet mustiness that feels so familiar, like an old relic that's been waiting forever for its new lease on life.

A mossy simmer, a hazy air over tilled earth, Sballo seems at first to smell like a 1970s chypre but then feels like a folk curative. It is at the junction of "some other time in the past" and "anytime, really, maybe even the future." Feral indoles and violet ionones percolate over spiced woods. It feels as comfortable as a favorite pair of brown corduroys, as textured as their wales.

Odisiaque N°6 by Sous le Manteau

When I was feverish collecting all sorts of natural fragrant materials several years ago while teaching myself perfume making, one oil stood out to me: that of cascarilla. Steam-distilled from the dried bark of the Croton eluteria tree, which is native to the Caribbean, cascarilla has a distinctive profile. It has a terpenic freshness at its top, a spicy, peppery, allspice-like heart, but also embodies a sweet woodiness reminiscent of myrtle. It flavors Campari (which reminds me that I need a good Negroni this summer) and it also was included in Coty's original formula for L'Origan. Its production is notably limited in comparison to other oils used in perfumery, so to find it used in a fragrance such as Odisiaque No6 immediately piqued my curiosity.

Its usage here is what propels the composition through a chiaroscuro landscape of dry grasses, hay, impressions of sweet woodruff and the approaching cool September air at sunset. Liatrix absolute is also used here to lend its more-tobacco-than-tobacco-itself effect. Its ethereal quality sets it apart from others in this agrestic class. The ease of its wear may make someone almost forget just how substantial it actually is, and this is especially evident as we reach the dry down. What a magnificent skin scent that is left behind: a soft, granular muskiness that still holds traces of the cascarilla and hay, feeling at once wistful and serene. This is not for those poised for instant gratification, one can't just apply and wait for something to happen. It's for someone who sees—or rather smells, the spaces in between, and not just what's immediate. If this sensibility calls your name, then you might just come to love Odisiaque No6 as I do.

Violette Kew by Le Jardin Retrouvé

There is so much doubt when it comes to modern fragrance, and I am the first to admit that I can often add to it, when there is just so much released today that fails to inspire. The cynicism cuts through the spirit like a dull knife. A lot of niche has caved in to the norm, with trite concepts led by a flattened culture dictated by algorithms and research methods. Others often flail for relevance, with inflated narratives that simply embellish indistinct smoky ennui and poorly applied accords.

There are perfumers and houses that still do surprise me, though, Maxence Moutte and his contributions for Le Jardin Retrouve have struck a chord with me. Violette Kew in particular is a daring ode to the humble violet, not exactly the most fashionable modern perfume accord but one I hold dear to my heart. Here, it feels so wide-eyed and full of hope, even as it is shaded in with cumin and cardamom, giving it some grizzled wisdom. This violet is somewhere between the watery-green and powdery parma, as stimulating to my nose as a sun shower is to my soul.

The foundation is that of a modern, yet tempered sandalwood and some cedar that recalls that of SL Bois de Violette, and while beautiful and painterly as that creation is, Violette Kew surpasses it in its intelligibility. It has clean lines and pure contour, kissed with a peachy facet, and cool in temperature. It certainly enough to wash away the cynicism and assure that there are modern noses that can arouse with their craft.

Eau de Rochas by Rochas

This is an immense crystalline citrus verbena that rides a wave a crisp basil and lands in a reservoir of sheer white florals. One could store this mouthwatering juice in the fridge and spray it with abandon to help make 90 degree days more bearable. I find this unfolds far more beautifully than Eau de Rochas Homme, which is a bit too sharp and tart with very little in the middle.

Eau Sauvage by Christian Dior

My preserved vintage of Eau Sauvage is an impeccable Roudnitska artifact. It's modern through the lens of the cultural decade, a sleek lemon eau fraiche that was given a flesh and pith, seasoned with the sweat squeezed out of swarthy spices. It marked the debut of Hedione, and for me to smell it here is to appreciate it in a whole new way, it has me imagine what its forerunners would be like had the pheromone-like molecule existed years before. Here, it seals all the aromatics with its wet jasmine tea cellophane. Then, it winds down to a smooth finish of moss, sandalwood and musk.

Overall, this a testament of the genius in unadorned simplicity. It is an institution in which so much has already been said. Sadly, it has over the decades become just a bit too watery in the middle and the bottom has fallen out. Much like all of the Dior classics, it is no longer respected by those who now possess its trademark. Its own flankers have outshined it in recent years, and young whipper snappers scoff at it as a grandpa scent, wondering why it even shares shelf space with the likes of "junior" Sauvage and all the vague and sweet-orris-loaf Hommes and their own flankers. In spite of the cruelty of time, it will forever be an icon.

♥ (You Are My Sister and I Love You) by Filigree & Shadow

I love a leafy, stemmy, bright Rosalva kinda rose, aldehydic, tart-berry-sweet and watery. The kind I adore in the classic Perfumer's Workshop Tea Rose and Jo Malone Red Roses. Here, James Elliott brings this same theatric, pull-the-heartstring rose and sends it to a tender place, highlighted pastel and softened with broad strokes.

This doesn't reinvent the rose in perfume, but one could argue this is now next to impossible. It is a beautiful rose, though, much closer to an earnest rose perfume than I encounter in these not so earnest times. I really do enjoy it and I am impressed with its execution. The sentiment behind it is what makes it most meaningful, and adds so much more meaning to an already beautiful creation.

Infini by Caron

This version of Infini PdT is layered beyond its opening aldehydes. It would seem disingenuous to discuss what notes I detect, whether a narcissus accord goes in whatever shape or direction or the rose is a certain kind of rosy and the lilac reminds me of arboretum walks in May, and so on. This is because my nose doesn't tell my brain that it knows where one ends and the other begins, or even if there are clear overlaps. It all just coalesces like the seasonings in a good warlock's broth: a composite deliciousness. It's so tasty.

Orbiting it all is muted, cool greenness and spiced-clove smoke, discreetly herbal accents, moving forward into the iris-cloaked "woods are lovely, dark and deep" and a warm amber sunset. It feels crepuscular, recalling that sensation I love, a hypnagogia, the liminal space between awake and asleep, a heavy-eyed mossy sedative. I took a nap in the afternoon while wearing this, and it served as the "smell-track" as some Don Slepian new age was the "sound-track." Infini PDT inspired me to explore this concept more. This earlier Daltroff version is a must for green aldehyde floral adventurers.