Twin Peaks: Gres Cabochard, Aramis for Men and Lauder Azuree

It's been noted before that Aramis bears a distinct kinship with Cabochard (Grès) through the common perfumer behind both creations, namely the legendary Bernard Chant. But two other perfumes fall neatly somewhere between those two neighbouring meridians: Azurée by Estée Lauder and Bandit by Robert Piguet. Roughly, they can be likened to a family:

Aramis being the butch Godfather patriach, well behaved on the outside, dangerously brooding on the inside. Cabochard is the maternal force turning the neck (and therefore the head as well) in any which way she likes, while Azurée is the younger long-haired son driving fast without a licence and Bandit the rebel without a cause tomboy daughter who shuns panties in lieu of leather pants. They could have been The Sopranos, had the show been more stylish-oriented and retro glamorous. Or not. It doesn't matter, we can imagine.

Actually I'm cheating: Technically, the original sketch for Cabochard from 1959 was later deprived of its intensely opulent, romantic floral heart of India-reminiscing blossoms to serve as the core of the formula for Aramis (1965). For those who didn't know it, Azurée (1969) is also by Bernard Chant; a fresher interpretation of the Aramis idea given a luminous fruity topnote of refreshing bergamot, while still remaining resolutely herbal.

Chant was mad for chypres, skanky animalic or non; his Aromatics Elixir for Clinique is a seminal study on mossy herbal patchouli with a big rose lurking inside the bush. Azurée, albeit herbally green and chyprish, is softer than Bandit and lacks the acid green bite of the quinolines that compose the latter's leather note, thus making it more approachable of the four specimens, if largely unsung.

Comparing the two classic fragrances from Grès and Aramis, Cabochard and Aramis for Men respectively, I find myself contemplating how reformulation has changed perceptions: Cabochard has lost something of its intensely feminine mystery of floral chypre throughout the years (the ylang ylang and civet have been watered down), gaining a toughened, ballsy exterior which brings it even closer to the virile Aramis; the latter hasn't suffered major loses so far, although a reformulation in the mid-2000s altered a bit of its veneer.  
Aramis appears somewhat sweeter and mossier, underneath the male snagging quality with its pungent bitter leathery and artemisia green notes on top laced with cumin and a hint of ripeness emerging very soon ("body odour zone", "wild!", "unbelievable"). It has a more powdery-earthy vibe overall, with a sweet pleasing note in the drydown which lasts amazingly well. Cabochard is more screechy and strident nowadays with its synthetic castoreum and floral reconstitutions, yet still rather formidable compared to so many blah scents around. Both are abstract landscapes where everything is sophisticated, yet wild too; a cultural map of the sexual revolution unfolded through the span of a couple of decades.

Certainly not interchangeable, but similar enough to appeal to lovers of rough, fangly greens with mossy, leathery drydowns, this quartet of fragrances ~Aramis, Azurée, Bandit, Cabochard~ has a place in any perfume collector's arsenal. All fragrances are highly recommended as "shared" between both sexes irrespective of their advertising campaigns.

Notes for Aramis for Men:
Top: Artemisia, aldehydes, bergamot, gardenia, green note, cumin
Heart: Jasmine, patchouli, orris, vetiver, sandalwood
Base: Leather, oakmoss, castoreum, amber, musk

Notes for E.Lauder Azurée:
Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, artemesia, gardenia
Heart notes: Jasmine, geranium, cyclamen, orris, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Leather, patchouli, oakmoss, musk, amber

Notes for Piguet Bandit:
Top: galbanum, artemisia, neroli, orange
Heart: ylang ylang, jasmine, rose, tuberose, carnation
Base: leather, vetiver, oakmoss, musk, patchouli.

Notes for Gres Cabochard:
Top: aldehydes, bergamot, mandarin, galbanum, spice
Heart: jasmine, rosa damscena, geranium, ylang-ylang, iris
Base: patchouli, leather, vetiver, castoreum, oakmoss, tobacco, musk, labdanum, sandalwood.

Top photo Vogue US cover March 1969. Vintage ad from the 1980s for Aramis for Men.

Leather Series 11: the Big Bruisers

Perfume directions often go the way of fashion trends and lifestyle choices, which sometimes translates as going the way of the dodo, and this is nowhere more obvious than in the leather scents that emerged in the late 70s and during the 80s. After the brief optimism of the mid-60s, the world entered a grim period of oil crisis, economic downfall and the threat of the planet suffering nuclear annihilation. So what emerged from this situation? Consumerism, the cult of the ego, striving for quick wealth and excessive partying all rolled into one big cigar! Bret Easton Ellis wasn’t far off in his American Psycho: there was some degree of paranoia running through the course of that era and the leathery scents that graced it partook of it in some degree.

Many of those big, nasty bruisers that emerged owe a lot to the intense patchouli high of such scents as Aramis (1965). Composed by Bernand Chant who would follow with equally patchouli-laden Aromatics Elixir, Aramis, arguably the male version of same nose’s oeuvre Cabochard, made it OK to leave a bombastic luxurious sillage announcing itself in Wagnerian ouvertures that demanded their own Brunhilde following.

But it was Estée Lauder’s Azurée which was continuing the noble lineage of leathers in 1969. With its rather masculine edge despite its feminine gardenia aspirations, submerged into deceptive aldehydes or cyclamen and jasmine aromas, it opens on dark, musty oakmoss that grabs you and makes you pay attention. In a way though its leatheriness does not possess the striking green slap-across-the-cheek of Bandit or the smooth caress of a gloved hand that is Diorling; resulting in diminished revenue in today’s currency.

Caron’s Yatagan by nez Vincent Marcello came out in 1976 to a striking ad campaign brandishing a man with a giant curved Ottoman sword, the yatagan in question. On a par with Djedi in its uniqueness and otherworldiness it conjures up visions of fierce Tatars roaming through the steppes, stomping over jade artemisia and dark pine needles and keeping the meat for their meal under the saddle, imbuing it with the horse’s dense sweat. Its odour of livestock is peculiar, in an accord with liquor that has gone rancid. The culinary image of steak tartare with its weird vibe of sour, bitter and metallic is embossed in the fluxes of memory and never fails to raise its head when I am thinking about this arresting, avant-garde and trully brave scent which inspired and is still inspiring many niche perfumers, even today.

One of the first masculine scents I purposely tried to locate and wear was Jules by Christian Dior. It came out in 1980 and for years it kept a low profile saleswise, until suddenly it stopped being carried by my local store. It was at that minute that the quest for it became an impossibility and therefore (predictably) a semi-obsession: how could they do this to me? Discontinue it when I hadn’t even paid enough attention to it in its darkly aged-tobacco-ish flacon? It was de trop! I was determined to locate it! Of course decisions and determination often culminate in materialisation years later and such was the case with Jules. My encounter with it was sudden, brisk and like seeing a familiar face which I hadn’t thought of for a long time: Cuir de Russie amped up via a peppery accord like bell peppers getting cut in front of me.

Cartier made their own pilgrimage in 1981 through the cult of the watch: the leather wristbands of their Santos watches, inspired by aviator Santos Dumont, and on a second level the bomber jackets of the first days of aviation gave cue to Santos the fragrance. One of my personal favourites it is perhaps too butch, yet its mesmerising nutmeg and cumin spice pas de deux hidden in the effluvium of dark and dank patchouli and rich castoreum never fail to captivate me. Strange as it might sound, Santos has all too often served as a personal ambience scent for centering: How many happy hours have I stooped over historical documents and textbooks trying to think of this or that relation between cause and effect while the gentle remnants of Santos on little silk cushions were wafting their magic…
Santos was followed with many flankers, one of the most memorable ones being the Concentrée version which mollifies the spice duo and renders the greener aspect more intense.

But Santos was not alone: that same year Chanel gave Jacques Polge the brief to come up with a new masculine that would make waves and he succeeded with the intense sweaty macho maleness of Antaeus with its unusual honeycomb accord in the deep drydown and the strength of its mythological inspiration.

On the vein of the intense Van Cleef & Arpels homme, Trussardi Uomo (which came out in 1983) was for one brief moon the scent of choice of my father, its crocodile-print flask bottle garnering pride of place on the bathroom sill. Spice along with tobacco is prominent in this one as well, highlighting my predilection for such materials, with a passing touch of serene incense. But on re-smelling the fragrance for the purposes of this article I came upon a distinctly sour note that has a pin-and-needles effect up the nostrils which I didn’t recall in my father’s morning ritual. A little research quickly yielded its unsavoury results: there has been a reformulation which happened around 1995 when the bottles were redesigned. Too bad!

Guerlain is no stranger to leather and Derby, a masculine leather fougère, is one of the most elegant and debonair fragrances in the genre one could hope for. First issued in 1985 by nose Jean Paul Guerlain, it got re-issued for the removation of La Boutique Guerlain in 2005 to great and deserved critical acclaim. The leather notes rest atop the moss and minty herbs, with a very thick, spicy clove introduction. After some time a floral phase of carnation and jasmine peek under the clove and give a smooth richness that then goes into the forest floor of a traditional men’s fougère and the leather note of a battered jacket that has withstood the elements in a battle at some far away place.

The less controversial Bel Ami by Hermès was brought out in 1986 and it placed leather firmly in the map with all the determination of the purveyors of fine saddles since 1837. Leather was cool by then. It wasn’t the mark of the daring individual a la Yatagan, but a distinguished mark of sophistication all over again.

But the two most legendary ones are intended for women: Paco Rabanne’s long defunct La Nuit (1985) and Claude Montana’s Parfum de Peau (1986). The quintessential bruisers, both scents sport an unapologetic dash of panache which prowls across the room, across the corridor and probably over down the street as well.
As to La Nuit and its amazing drydown despite the unasuming opening, I am leaving you to enraptured Luca Turin on his take ~which probably caused a stampede to try and locate some of the elusive juice:

“This is the warmest, sultriest perfume imaginable. To think I hated it when it came out ! My extenuating circumstance was that at the time (1985) I lived in Nice, where women can be toe-curlingly vulgar, and it was a big hit. La Nuit is probably the most animalic perfume ever made by a major firm, and I don’t just mean musky à la Koublai Khan, or castoreum as in Tabac Blond, but something beyond that, almost urinous/sweaty, “wrong” and truly wonderful. Spray Tabu on a horse, and you’ll get the idea. I wrote a disparaging review of it in 1992, apologized for it in 1994 and only recently treated myself to a bottle. Now that the Niçoises have moved on, I see it for what it was all along: the sexiest fragrance since Cabochard”.

Parfum de Peau was my major introduction to castoreum, of which it features copious amounts, and thus merits its own full review shortly.

Pic of Glen Ford originally uploaded by spuzzlightyear on livejournal. Pic of La Nuit and Jules ads courtesy of parfum de pub.

Chypre series 6 ~Masculine chypres: does such a thing exist?

In this month of chypres examination and discussion, Perfume Shrine pondered on their origin, their composition, the modern variations, their aesthetics and the relation they have to the zeitgeist (Click on the links to go to respective subject).
It was about time we focused on the question whether there are indeed masculine fragrances that fall into this category of chypre.
The matter arises because most of the frequently mentioned chypre perfumes are feminine, if you think about it. We also attribute traditionally perceived feminine characteristics to them, such as elegance or sartorial sophistication (for some reason this wouldn't resonate with the Italian man, but I digress).
And the subcategories of floral or fruity within chypre often predispose one to think into such terms, although the seasoned perfumed lover is not restricted by such artificial limitations pertaining to gender.

Like we discussed before Chypre relies on the juxtaposition of bergamot and oakmoss, with the traditional inclusion of labdanum and usually of patchouli or vetiver. There is a comparable fragrance family for men, called Fougère (pronounced foozh-AIR), the French word for fern. In reality this is a fantasy accord because ferns have no real scent of their own. Fougère fragrances have fresh herbaceous notes, juxtaposing lavender with oakmoss on a fern-like base, with an element of Coumarin (the smell of freshly mown hay, naturally found in tonka bean, the seed of a West African tree which contains up to 40% of it).
Masculine fragrances have usually gone the route of the fougère when trying to recreate a forest floor impression instead of chypre, perhaps due to the fact that chypre perfumes have been marketed to women, or because they often included floral elements which are traditionally thought of as feminine in the 20th century (albeit not before!).

Classification is rather dubious territory, as there are countless exempla of diversifications according to the source. Open any guide or reference site and you will see the differences leaping to the eye. Therefore the following is only an attempt to examine whether there is any logical base in attributing scents to this or that odorous category.

For starters, the matter of whether leathery scents are a subdivision of chypres (as they do mostly contain the basic accord)or a seperate category termed Leather/Cuir (according to the French Society of Perfumers) is significant. Going by that leathery and oftentimes tobacco scents very often do smell rather more masculine; such as the various Cuir de Russie versions (Chanel, Creed, Piver etc), Miss Balmain and Jolie madame by Balmain, Caron's fierce Yatagan and smoky Tabac Blond , or Bandit by Piguet, lost semi-legend Jules by Dior and Bel Ami by Hèrmes. You will notice that there is a proliferation of both -marketed as- masculine and feminine scents in the above. Should we or shouldn't we classify them under chypre? The matter remains open for discussion.

Another cross-polination happens, involving woody undertones.
An example that would implicate those as well as a whiff of leathery castoreum is Antaeus by Chanel. Decidely butch, pheromonic almost and a powerhouse, it came out in 1981 by in-house perfumer Jacques Polge. It contains the pungency of male sweat and animalistic nuances with honeyed touches and much as I love it, I can't bring myself to don it on my person. The official notes listed (clary sage, lavender, myrrtle, labdanum, patchouli) do not include the classic accord of chypre despite the cool opening on an earthy animalistic background, yet one is hit with such a composition that might remind one of the family.
Shiseido's Basala is another one, as well as the original Armani Pour Homme.
There is some argument that coniferous elements such as pine essence as witnessed in Pino Sylvestre could be included in a subdivision of chypre.

The flip side of this confusion would be the lighter citrusy notes that might blurr the line between hesperidic and chypre. As chypre compositions contain a discernible citrusy pong via the inlusion of Calabrian bergamot, the notion isn't too far off.
Chanel Pour Monsieur could be such an example. Elegant, refined, conceived while Coco Chanel was still alive, it pays tribute to all the famous men she had known. Created in 1951 by Henri Robert, second nose in la maison Chanel after legendary Ernest Beaux, it plays on a sharp and clean citrusy top that includes lemon, petit grain (the essence rendered from the twigs and leaves of the Seville bitter orange tree, Citrus aurantium) and neroli (the distilled essence of the flowers). It then segues to spicy notes of cardamon and white pepper that invite you closer, only to end on a whiff of cedar and vetiver that retains freshness and discretion for the wearer. Perhaps citrus-aromatic would be a closer categorisation.

And there are various decidedly masculine propositions that reek of the pungency of patchouli and vetiver, notes that are so much used for the modern chypres of the last few years.

Givenchy Gentleman, which is sometimes described as a woody oriental, is a beast of a patchouli perfume that remains untamed even though its name would suggest hand kisses and opening doors for you. He does, but then ravages you, ripping your bra off.
The original Aramis for Men could be another case in point, especially given -again!- the suave name that would belie its intentions that open on a crisp note of artemisia and bergamot. It has of course intense woodiness too, thanks to sandal, but with the elements of a classic chypre in place as well. Coupled with a pinstripe suit it goes out to the City to trade stocks and in the lunch break goes off for supposedly a gym session that is in reality an illicit tryst.
Why do such powerful and assertive masculine fragrances are given names that imply a more gentle approach? This could be the subject of another post...


For the time being, please offer your suggestions on masculine chypres and the reason why you classify them thus.

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