Jean Couturier Coriandre: fragrance review & history

Coriandre by Jean Couturier first piqued my interest when I read Susan Irvine's description of it: "fit for a red headed Raymond Chandler heroine". Which means I sorta came late to it, considering Irvine was quoted saying it in her 2000 book. Perfume Shrine has long worshipped at the altar of film noir heroines and their universe and this was like a bowl of cream in front of a hungry kitten: irresistible!

via aromo.ru

Trying it out on my own skin after years of loving chypre fragrances I was struck by its discretion. Subtle and refined, it didn't speak of the femme fatale so much, but of a patchouli and geranium wreath around roses of a dark red hue, an elegant missile of indoors denotation. Contrary to its name, Coriandre doesn't predominantly smell of coriander (which has a herbaceous scent reminiscent of sweet oranges, lightly spicy), although there is discernible spiciness to it that does not recall the culinary. The green pong of angelica makes it dry and somehow young despite appearances to the contrary.

Jacqueline Couturier

Created in 1973 by Couturier's own wife Jacqueline, who was Grasse-trained and an heir to perfumers, Coriandre was the foundation on which the Couturier Parfums brand was established. Couturier wasn't a budding designer, on the contrary. Having began his career at Saint Laurent, he self-proclaims to have been involved in the development of both Y perfume and Rive Gauche fragrance. Whatever the story is, his wife has indeed worked in the fragrant sector, the daughter and grand-daughter of perfumers, one of the few women in this field at the time.

Coriandre comes in a bottle topped by a green malachite-looking cap, beautifully veined, an image reflected in the packaging. The 1990s slogan was stressing its classy demeanor: Habillez-vous "boutique", parfumez-vous "Couturier" (A playful wordplay on the designer's name, roughly translated as "Dress High Street, but perfume yourself haute couture). Another publicity from the 1970s extolled its mysterious freshness: "all the scents of the evening and already the freshness of the night". And then there is the typically French, typically mischievous -on so many levels- advertisement I have put at the top of this fragrance review, a woman sitting on a chair with her shirt ripped off at the shoulder, tagged "Coriandre, the perfume which makes you question the value of civilization". [whoah? pretty racy, eh?]

If I were head of their advertising department today I'd suggest they stress its uniqueness in a sea of Armanis, Flowerbombs and DKNYs. Little known, but contrary to many classic chypre perfumes's aesthetic not "old fashioned smelling" enough to deter a younger clientele, although it certainly doesn't do any favors to those raised on candy floss scents. This is exactly why I'm including it in my Underrated Perfume Day feature on PerfumeShrine, a regular column highlighting little known but worthwhile fragrances which are still in production, so if you're taking notes, take a note now.

Coriandre by Jean Couturier has been a little surgically enhanced compared to the 1973 vintage (this happened in 1993, circulating as Parfum de toilette), but it didn't involve a complete face-lift which is good news to its acolytes. Consider yourself honored and not humbled to be included in the latter. If you like the original Agent Provocateur eau de parfum in the pink ostrich egg bottle, you have good chances of finding a good companion in Couturier's Coriandre.

via vagdistri.com

Available from newsparfums.com and other etailers for reasonable prices. Careful, there is also Eau de Coriandre, a different scent, not just a different concentration, from 1996.

Official fragrance notes for Coriandre:
Top: Coriander, Aldehydes, Angelica, Bergamot, Orange blossom
Middle: Rose, Geranium, Jasmine, Orris, Ylang Ylang, Lily
Base: Patchouli, Sandal, Vetiver, Oakmoss, Civet

Estee Lauder White Linen: fragrance review & history

Would you appreciate a fragrance that projected around the way knitting needles would stick inside your nostrils, the equivalent of a scent porcupine? The "needles up the nose" characterization has never found a more apt bond than the one spontaneously created in the mind of one perfume lover on the board of Perfume of Life years ago regarding White Linen. The phrase has since entered the online perfume lingo as a casual but evocative definition for the painfully sharp, supremely stinging feeling that certain perfumes heavy in aldehydes (i.e. synthesized molecules with a "bright", soapy and fizzy aspect), such as this particular Lauder perfume, produce in those who smell them.

White Linen is possibly among the most distinctly aldehydic floral fragrances of all time, an honor it shares with Chanel No.22, but whereas No.22 goes for the snuffed out candle waxiness and smokiness (which recalls incense if you glint your head just this way), White Linen, its American counterpart and about 50 years its junior, goes for the steam of an iron pressing on a crisp, starched shirt which has been washed with the harshest lye soap on earth. In short, memorable! (You'd never mistake it for "white noise fragrance")

White Linen was launched alongside Lauder's Celadon and Pavilion in 1978 as part of the makeup and scents collection "New Romantics" (in itself influenced by the music trend that was just emerging). Composed by Sophia Grojsman, White Linen bears her signature style of impressive cleanness projected via loudspeakers fit for a Guns n'Roses concert. For a Russian emigre Grojsman has acquired throughout her career a particularly American ideal of femininity, no doubt thanks to the exigencies of the American giant of aromatics who employs her, International Flavors and Fragrances; well scrubbed, athletic, spick & span, Athenian rather than Venereal.

1993 print ad

Coming on the heels of the sporty leathery Azuree, the bitterish chypre perfume Private Collection and the bright and soapy-smelling aldehydic Estee, it's not difficult to see how White Linen also fits in the canon of Lauder and in the zeitgeist of the late 70s, when women began to make a career of executive positions and started in earnest to 'bring home the bacon, fry it in a pan' as one commercial* of the times claimed.

Although ubiquitous and always in production since its launch, without any detectable changes in its formula, it's one of those fragrances that fly under the radar, so I am archiving White Linen in my Underrated Perfume Day feature. Its monolithic structure (built on huge single blocks of materials, much like later Grojsman oeuvres such as Tresor by Lancome) White Linen packs a punch.
But the aldehydic knock-out comes with an astounding discovery: the aldehydes contribute just 1% to the formula, with equal parts of Galaxolide (synthetic clean musk, garlanded by at least 3 other synth musks) and Vertofix (giving a cedar wood note) accounting for almost half of the ingredients! The secret is that unlike most other aldehydic floral fragrances it lacks the modifying, mollifying caress of bergamot and ylang ylang.

late 1990s print ad

1986 print ad

A fresh rose core, so fresh that it borders on cleaned-up orange blossom, bring a kinship of White Linen to Calandre, while the overall genealogy brings it as a modern classic that derives from Madame Rochas and Chanel No.5. The sheen of squeaky green lily of the valley boosts the sharp cleanness, the sparkle of hedione brings luminosity and vetiver gives its own freshness and subtle woodiness alongside a powerful amber note. The latter two elements give White Linen a touch of sophistication which could tilt it into unisex territory.

White Linen is a powerful, titanic Aurora and although it is removed from what I (and many other people) find comfortable, I can't fail but to admire its guts and its blinding brightness, white-washed like a house directly carved out of white volcanic rock in the Aegean.

*that's actually the slogan for Enjoli. 

The advertising photos are all so charmingly appealing that I decided to include them all. 

1978 print ad

Boucheron Boucheron Femme eau de parfum & extait de parfum: fragrance review

Direct kin off Narcisse Noir (Caron's venerable classic built on orange blossom and Sunset Boulevard notoriety) Boucheron Femme is at once a queenly narcotic perfume that recalls retro beauties and a fragrance that breathes contemporary air; if by contemporary we refer to the still living, still breathing women who first discovered it in the 1980s when it erupted Venus like from the sea foam "sprayed" by the creative sperm of perfumers Francis Deleamont and Jean-Pierre Bethouart in 1988. Obviously this is the result of palinoia rather than divine intervention, but it feels like the latter, such is the awe it inspires in me. Boucheron Femme feels the way Venus de Milo looks: eudaimonia (ευδαιμονία), in Greek literally  denoting "of benevolent spirit", a balance of prosperous good living, of contended human flourishing.

I suppose what I'm trying to convey in my Greek-inflected English is that Boucheron Femme possesses the sort of timeless charm that makes for idols such as Greta Garbo or goddesses such as Venus; intelligence built in the glamor package, a healthy dosage of wit and self-deprecation (or self-insouciance), the distance necessary to feel special and never "me too". The only reason I can discern for this perfume being less well known or lauded than some others (and thus forming part of the Underrated Perfume Day feature today) is that audiences have been so conditioned not to understand quality, even when it slaps them in the face, that the likes of Boucheron Femme can remain a code for the secret handshake societies of perfumistadom such as this one.

The formula of Boucheron Femme fragrance remains a beautifully balanced textbook definition of the floriental genre: an oriental perfume skeleton onto which lush flower notes have been etched with the precision of a skilled calligrapher on thick moire paper. Orange blossom absolute with its candied and indolic facets is contributing the main floral theme, blooming as the succession of two different but equally "fresh" directions in the introduction: one is the citrusy fruity theme of hesperides (elegant bergamot, juicy and sweet mandarin) plus fleshy lactonic apricot; the other is the emerald accent of galbanum grass resin rising atop with a couple of complimentary notes in bright minty basil and bluish, celadon narcissus.

Although tuberose and jasmine are among the cluster of flowers contributing to the rich radiant bouquet, Boucheron Femme is that kind of fragrance where one would be hard pressed to say where one floral essence begins and one ends. The orange blossom is dominant, sure, but the rest are supporting players with important lines to deliver all the same.
The plush of the base isn't just downy soft, it can only be described as the finest, whitest ermine, the smoothest marble, the deepest shimmer of smoky cognac diamonds. Constructed out of amber, vanilla, olibanum (frankincense), sandalwood and the vanillic, caramelic benzoin resin, it is everything a grand oriental should accomplish, but without losing the plot into too vampish. Boucheron Femme is always the lady and a very knowing and smart lady at that.

The bottle of Boucheron Femme is famously inspired by cabochon sapphires set on a ring. In fact the glorious parfum concentration (which smooths out the marmoreal qualities of the resins even further without losing the inherent radiance) is shaped like a giant ring for une femme aux gros doigts, sitting in its own leather-cased box lined with felt like a real jewel would. But what am I saying…it IS a jewel, what the French so aptly call un parfum bijou. 

Wear it with your very best, naked skin!

pics via pinterest

Prescriptives Calyx: fragrance review & history

Part of PerfumeShrine's regular Underrated Perfume Day feature, I'm inspired to talk of Calyx because it strikes me as the Prometheus of hardcore (if such a strong word can be used for the genre) fruity fragrances that have dominated the late 1990s, the 2000s and 2010s market so far (and in part a culprit for the emergence of fruitchouli). Coming out as far back as 1986, an uplifting tart tropical punch splashed all over a tan California blonde right out of the shower, it subsisted on the other edge of hope, pitted as it was against the likes of Coco by Chanel, Opium by YSL, Dior's original Poison or Giorgio Beverly Hills.

Still, the cosmetics brand that issued it, Prescriptives (since out of business, except for this fragrance which is still in production and now distributed via Clinique counters), part of the Lauder Group, had the necessary market cojones to sustain its sales for years. The pure, custom-tailored image of their cosmetics was a natural fit for the idea of a pure, celestially squeezed perfume which back then had none of the connotations of sugary hard candy stickiness and hair salon peach/apple waft we associate with fruity fragrances today. Its perfumer, Sophia Grojsman, is famous for her clean but potent accords, which make use of a very different idea of feminine allure than the standard "vintage" and European concept of animalic scents that enhance -rather than conceal- the odorata sexualis and hide cigarette smoke remnants off Old World garments. Calyx was the culmination of American Artemis versus European Aphrodite: the "lean, mean, clean machine" was coming on scene for good and Lauder (who oversaw Prescriptives) had already built a generous following thanks to their sparkling clean fragrances such as White Linen and Estee. Grojsman was put to record elaborating on the cachet of fruit as feminine nectar saying "some fruit accords, like the one in Calyx, have a very pure quality. It's a different kind of sexuality, more innocent than the animal notes…And men like innocence. To them it is sexy…Fruit also carries a connotation of sin. Where would Adam and Eve have been without that apple?"

This assertion is in a nutshell the axiom of feminine mental submission. In a way these fruity scents seem to me as if they're not so subtly introducing a regression on feminism. Woman becomes a pliable little girl again, fresh and unknowing in her virginal, not yet sexualized body, which awaits the all prescient male to do the plucking. It is important to note that contrary to similar concepts of youthful, nubile allure brandished in European brand fragrances of the time (such as Loulou by Cacharel) the girl in question is never presented to be aware of her own erotic capital as an authentic Lolita would be. Rather the innocence is poised as a halo around her, a scent message of total abandon of control. Where's the temptation of the knowledgeable apple, I question.

Calyx doesn't smell of apple either. It smells of a neon cascade of grapefruit (though like with Un Jardin sur le Nil with its illusion of green mango there is no essence of the illusory fruit in question in the formula), boosted by guava and papaya (which give an almost overripe scent bordering on garbage if you really notice it) and a cluster of more traditional, zestful fruit notes (namely the citrusy mandarin and bergamot for uplifting elegance and the lactonic peach and apricot for comfort & skin compatibility). The weird thing with Calyx is that the standard cool-steam-room of lily of the valley heart with its transparent florals from a distance is flanked by a little berry underpinning on the bottom and transparent woody notes that rely on bombastic synthetics. The feeling earned nevertheless is one of celestial, mental awareness rather than one of tropical languor on Bora Bora sand dunes all smeared in Coppertone lotion and for that unique reason it deserves a place in the lesser pantheon of perfumes worth giving a second chance to, feminism aside.

The full list of Notes for Prescriptives Calyx includes:
Top: mandarin, passionfruit, peach, mango, bergamot, grapefruit, papaya, guava, mint, cassia.
Heart: cyclamen, lily of the valley, jasmine, rose, neroli, marigold, melon.
Base: vetiver, oakmoss, sandalwood, musk, raspberry.

Chanel Coco by Chanel: fragrance review

Coco by Chanel must be among a handful of fragrances on the market to have not only one, but two flankers without being a spectacular market success to begin with. Flankers are supporting fragrances coat-tailing on the success of the original perfume, borrowing part of the name of the original as well as the bottle mould, but differing in scent and target demographics. Coco has two: Coco Mademoiselle, an alarmingly successful best-seller for youngish women that has far eclipsed the original, and Coco Noir, a woody fragrance of recent crop with dubious presence on the market as yet. Today Coco seems old fashioned and aimed only at mature women, fading-to-market-black, but soon after it came out it profited of a marketing campaign that positioned it as a sexy debutante scent, fronted by then teenager Vanessa Paradis! Funny how perceptions change and we used to wear Ungaro Diva and the like when not yet out of high school, right?

The most astounding personal association I have with Coco has always been one that pertains to its market share, not the scent itself: In all my many years of perfume observation & appreciation I have never met in real life a person owning a bottle of Coco, a fact which had always struck me as weird considering the continued presence of the perfume on the counters. Chanel No.19 is also an undivided presence on the local counters (and a steady seller according to SAs), but I actually know people who wear it, I smell it on the street from time to time and I have seen bathroom shelves with a bottle of it proudly displayed more than once or twice. Someone must be buying Coco too, then, right?
But let's take things at the top.

Aiming to capture a more Baroque side of Chanel, taking the sobriquet given to Gabrielle Chanel by her escapee father and inspired by Gabrielle's Rue Cambon apartment with its casket-like rooms full of Venetian glass, Chinoiserie panels and leather bound books, house perfumer Jacques Polge set out to compose a true 1980s perfume following the commercial smash hit of YSL Opium: bold, brash, take no prisoners. And he succeeded in the most part.

The fragrant secrets of Coco by Chanel
One of the peculiarities of Coco is that it was among the first perfumes to be conceived not as an extrait de parfum first but rather envisioned in its diluted form of eau de parfum. The market had gone away from the more discreet, more intimate use of parfum extrait and demanded a really powerful spray that would announced the wearer before she was seen; ergo the eau de parfum (and sometimes the parfum de toilette) concentration, less expensive than extrait but rivaling its lasting power, while at the same time being extra loud thanks to the volatility boost via the spraying mechanism.

The secret ingredient in the formula of Coco by Chanel is the inclusion of the base Prunol*, a rich and dark "dried fruits & spices" mélange famously exalted in Rochas Femme by Edmond Roudnitska, which gives Coco a burnished hint of raisin. The cascade of honeyed spices immediately asserts itself: pimento, cardamom, cinnamon, cumin and clove, while the overall feeling is one of amber plush and resinous warmth (with a wink of leather) with the flowers folded into a rich batter and undiscernable. The patchouli (tucked into the Prunol base) gives a whiff of chocolate, though, in the words of Susan Irvine, not even a fashion innovator of the magnitude of Chanel would have considered a note reminiscent of a bedtime drink as worthy of consideration in fine fragrance. (One would perversely wish she had lived through present fruitchouli-infested times to see how she'd chuckle under her smartly cuffed sleeve.)

A Perfume Apart
Coco by Chanel enjoys something of a revered status among perfumistas, so it's not clear whether it should be considered an "underrated perfume" in the first place, but my inclusion in the Underrated Perfume Day series isn't totally random as it would appear on first sight nevertheless. First of all it was demanded by quite a lot of readers. Secondly, this is the kind of perfume that I should be theoretically crazy about (a spicy oriental in the mold of my beloved YSL vintage Opium, Cinnabar, Feminité du Bois and Krizia Teatro alla Scala) and yet I am not. Indeed I have been trying it on and off for decades now.

However when married with a huge bottle of Coco (extrait de parfum in spray no less) I had the following peculiar problem, for something so -allegedly- admired: I could NOT swap it with other interested perfumephiles no matter what! I tried everything: stooping to suggesting I'd trade for inexpensive eaux de toilette from mainstream brands, offering to supplement with generous niche samples, pleading "please take it off my hands, it's a shame it should collect dust, just take it already". No one wanted it. I finally gifted it off to a women's shelter where its whereabouts have been lost to me. The perfume lover who had sold it to me in the first place recounted to me the exact same problem: "I spent two years trying to get this thing off my hands; when you came along and showed an interest I couldn't believe it".

Is Coco by Chanel something that perfumistas like to reference but rarely -if ever- wear? Are its wearers merely nostalgic for the 1980s, a time they were young and more optimistic, and therefore owning a little bottle is just that, a memento of carefree times? Is it, finally, past its due and not that spectacular to begin with? I think a bit of all those things. One thing however that it did magnificently well was its advertising by Jean Paul Goude: Vanessa Paradis as an exotic bird in a cage whistling to the meowing of a big greedy cat outside and "l' ésprit de Chanel" as the tag line. Coco Chanel would have been proud.

For more perfume reviews of such fragrances check out the Underrated Perfume Day feature and scroll for more musings. 

*For modern takes on the Prunol type base in perfumes, look no further than Bottega Veneta eau de parfum, Chinatown by Bond no.9 and Mon Parfum Chéri by Camille (Annick Goutal).

Givenchy Ysatis: fragrance review & history & free perfume giveaway

Ysatis remains among the most memorable perfume launches of my childhood, alongside Cacharel's Loulou, mainly due to the commercial that accompanied it, much like Faure's dreamy Pavane did for the latter. In the Greek version, a marvelously sonorous, rhyming phrase was able to be coined for the launch, a fact that would be difficult to accomplish in any other language:  "Αναζητείς το Υζαντίς" it went (a-na-zee-TEES toh ee-sah-TEES), roughly meaning that the love-struck male that would smell it would be forever seeking the source of the fragrant Ysatis. It does lend one to daydreaming, doesn't it. Especially to an impressionable, already obsessed with perfumes, mind such as mine, back in 1984.
The reality, as is often the case with perfumes, is far more prosaic: Jean Courtiere, president of Parfums Givenchy, came up with the name, while searching ~as is the formal naming process~ for something non copyrighted, non insulting in any known language and mellifluous enough to be catchy. Ysatis it was and it stuck.

The story

I also vividly recall that Ysatis was accompanied by images of carnival, chess board games and Venetian masks, a fact that I mistakenly attributed it to the masterminds at the advertising company borrowing heavily from the Venezia by Laura Biagiotti popularity, at its apex during the early 1990s, but it looks like it was done in reverse. (disregard the art school project ones posing as authentic). Accurately enough, my memory is as it should be: not only is the architectural Art-Deco-meets-skyscraper bottle of Ysatis posing as a chess piece itself, the commercial is set to a scene from the Venetian carnival (to the succeeding scoring of Hendel's Sarabande, immortalized in Kubrick's Barry Lynton, and of Folias d'Espagna by Arcangelo Corelli): the intrigued, love-struck man in question is seeking the glamorous, 1940s vague-coiffed and 1980s made-up woman behind the mask, the truth behind the glamorous facade. It all stood as very impressive and to this day I think they involuntarily captured a huge part of perfume's intellectual appeal; what is it that makes us want to peel the layers off a person like the beige-purple petticoats off an onion?

I'm relaying all these very personal associations to drive to the fact that Parfums Givenchy had a nice, long-standing tradition in my house, as my grandfather was a devotee of Givenchy Gentleman (1974), my mother occasionally dabbed from Givenchy III (1970) and my father had an amorous relationship with Xeryus (1986) many moons ago. So falling for Ysatis wasn't far fetched at all and taking in mind the first perfume I bought with my pocket money was YSL Opium, it seemed like a natural enough progression into the abyss into perfume appreciation. In fact the fragrance was so popular in Greece that a local fashion "chain" is still named after it.

Searching for this perfume these past couple of days I come across Ysatis advertised as "the perfume of power". But this is not what it stood for for me. Perceptions have significantly changed and we're not the creatures we were in the 1980s, when everything seemed possible, even gassing out everyone in the room with one's scent fumes, but Ysatis, poised as it is between three categories (floral, oriental and chypre) in its complex formula, has the tremendous force to evoke a time when one felt untouchable.
It sounds rather perverse and morbid choice for a teen, but I kinda think I was morbid all along. We did listen to lots of Joy Division and Cure and Siouxie & the Banshees and read Poe poems and gothic tales, so I suppose it wasn't just me.

The scent of Ysatis 

The main fragrance story of Givenchy Ysatis is unfolded in pummeling, sultry and creamy smelling essences of orange flower, ylang ylang and tuberose, brightened by the citrusy but sweetish oil of mandarin and chased by animal fragrance notes (smells like heaps of civet to me and there's also castoreum) and some spice in the base (the unusual for a feminine fragrance bay rum as well as clove). It's pretty "whoa, what the hell hit me?" at any rate. Like Gaia, The Non Blonde, says: "Ysatis is not for the meek or those still figuring out their style and taste". Word. If you have liked and worn Organza (also by Givenchy) in the 1990s, or Cacharel Loulou, and Ubar by Amouage, you have high chances of claiming Ysatis with the clinging tenderness usually reserved for Nutella jars.

Ysatis was composed by Dominique Ropion, maker of such ebullient, expansive fragrances as Amarige, Pure Poison, Carnal Flower, Portrait of a Lady, Une Fleur de Cassie, Alien, RL Safari, Flowerbomb or Kenzo Jungle, among many many others.




Ysatis has been reformulated and repackaged, though not ruined in the process; it's till Amazonian and lusciously haute bourgeois. Still if you're searching for the older formula, it comes in the black box vs. the newer purple one. The original bottles even read Ysatis de Givenchy. There is also a flanker, Ysatis Iris, also in a purple box, though that one has a purple hued bottle as well and of course the moniker "Iris" just below the name. Still, keep a sharp eye when shopping, as it's a rather different scent (focusing on violet & iris note sandwiched between the citrusy top and floriental bottom).

I have a generous miniature of vintage Ysatis for a lucky winner. Please state in the comments what was your favorite 1980s scent and what scents you'd like to see featured in the Underrated Perfume Day feature on Perfume Shrine. Draw is open internationally till Sunday midnight and winner will be announced sometime on Monday.

For more entries and fragrance reviews of Underrated Perfumes please click on the link and scroll.

Jil Sander No.4: fragrance review & history & free perfume giveaway

Although No.4 by Jil Sander comes nowhere near the novelty of Maxwell's laws of electrodynamics, it is despite its in the wings presence rather memorable to me both for its expansive radius of spicy oriental scent and the fact that its relative success condoned an infamous scented catastrophe just one year later, Spellbound by Estee Lauder (1991). But whereas you'd have to dig a moat around the house that kept a bottle of Spellbound (even in a remote drawer, under lock and key in a wooden box), Jil Sander No.4, although a characteristic 1980s-style powerhouse that would challenge the best of the lot in radiance, thrived on a somewhat less carnivorous attitude, This is exactly what makes it worthwhile of rediscovering it nowadays that we crave more flesh-eating perfumes after a prolonged 20 year-lasting perfume diet of either strict veganism or one for severe hypoglycemia. It's a the Lana del Ray effect: there's something trashy retro about her, but refreshingly different from the average pop singer too which makes it very "now and happening".

Tomb of Talma by Helmut Newton, Pere Lachaise cemetary  Paris 1977, via Pinterest

Coming out in 1990, No.4 by Jil Sander had both accumulated the gist of the big orientals that dominated the decade of carnage (and emulated their core elements), such as YSL Opium, CK Obsession, Dior Poison and to a lesser degree Cinnabar and Cacharel Loulou, but had also devised a way to give an impression of quiet animalism, an aura of worn elegance that was antithetical to the distance that the quarterback shoulder pads of these fragrances evoked at the same time.

It's utterly meaningless to try to differentiate "notes" in this perfume, as the weaving of each thread in this complex macramé is so intricate and complex that it would be more of an exercise in author's vanity than an actual helpful breakdown. The notes read like there's everything and the kitchen sink in it. It'd be much more practical to say that No.4 by Jil Sander is warm, perceptibly spicy with anise and what I sense as clove-coriander (a whiff of pomander), with a tuberose heart winking to Poison's direction. And more importantly it has the sort of oriental base that characterizes big 1980s classics: big, proud, Amazonian, sounding its barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.

If you like that sort of nyctophyliac thing, you will like this sort of thing, but it's worth keeping in mind these are bombastic perfumes worthy of a mini Katrina in radius; be sparing and considerate of your fellow human beings when applying, don't ambush them in the morning train to work.
If you enjoy anise and clove orientals but want something more contemporary (with a much higher price tag), you can look into Noir Epices by Frederic Malle for an alternative. If you'd rather settle for the under-appreciated underdog, No.4 can be found online for a decent price.

I have a vintage boxed miniature to share with a lucky reader. Please comment below this post with your impressions/opinions/questions to enter the draw. Draw is open internationally till Sunday midnight and winner will be announced some time on Monday.

Notes for Jil Sander No.4:
Top: geranium, peach, bergamot, plum, anise
Heart: rose, violet, jasmine, tuberose, heliotrope, ylang ylang, coriander
Base: amber, sandalwood, oakmoss, patchouli, vanilla, musk, civet, cedar, tonka bean.

Related reading on PerfumeShrine:
Underrated Perfume Day (reviews of forgotten fragrances),
Oriental Perfume Basics.

Laura Biagiotti Roma: fragrance review

Roma by Laura Biagiotti belongs to that outré category of scents that lend themselves well to brumous days and which were apparently marking their territory throughout the 1980s by fusing a minty, agrestic top note with an orientalized amber on the bottom. The initial impression, if you don't know the perfume beforehand, is somewhat alarming, as if the fragrance is starting to go off, but that weird tension is fully itentional. Must de Cartier (which weaved galbanum on top) and Dune by Dior (with its broom and monastic herbs) are two other perfumes which share kinship (and so is Fifi Chachnil). But Roma (1988) is less discussed about than either one, possibly because Cartier has luxury cachet thanks to the jewelry side of the business and Dune is sort of a cult thanks to renewed interest following good reviews. Such is the fate of some worthwhile but under-appreciated fragrances but this is precisely why I intend to highlight more of them on Perfume Shrine in the following weeks. (How about an Underrated Perfume Day featured regularly?).

via Patricia C./Pinterest

Though Biagiotti's Roma smells decidedly "Italian" (warm, golden fragrances that extol the pleasures of being human and alive) it doesn't necessarily lend itself to the classical image of either the Eternal City, la passeggiata or the column-styled bottle meant to kitschify the many adorning the Forum. (In that regard I prefer the vintage images of Fendi with the Raphaelite model kissing the statue).
Nevertheless the tag line has always been "un soffio d'eternità" which my rusty Italian translates as "a breath of eternity". Considering it has outlasted other fragrances that came and went, after 25 years on the market it feels like an eternity all right, in a good way. It's rather unsettling nevertheless to think I used this during heavy flirtation so many years ago, one memorable summer with bathing suit changing cabins on the shore a dark silhouette over the sea's horizon and the crushed chamomiles littering my pockets. More things change, more they stay the same, I suppose.

The greenish pungent top note in Laura Biagiotti Roma, recalling spearmint-on-acid and sassafras, very quickly gives way to the balsamic scent materials (myrrh and amber especially) that immediately rise to the surface, almost swamping the bridge flowers in deep sticky goo. But there is a lasting citrusy element which consolidates a classical oriental fragrance feel. My old bottle additionally features an inky note of oakmoss, earthy and bitterish, that is perfectly tempered with the myrrh resin (in itself bittersweet), creating a contrast that keeps me interested for the duration of Roma on my skin. If you like the amber coziness drydown of CK Obsession, Dune or Must you will find a good alternative in Roma.

via Michele Tiscini/Pinterest

In recent reformulation the moss in Roma is toned down, as are the animalic elements (civet), and the fragrance feels somewhat sweeter and lighter in volume to me, which subtracts something of its original charm and potency (Typical I should say for a Procter & Gamble owned company). Still, it's different enough than most fruitchouli scents on department store shelves nowadays and therefore worth trying out for yourself.
Although marketed to women (having a traditionally "plush", warm, silky skin feeling that reads as feminine), I believe the tension between the top notes and bottom lends itself well to male skin as well. Though Laura Biagotti has a Roma pour homme as well, the feminine is delicious on discerning gentlemen.



(*This is beautiful, but I find the acting a bit corny, don't you?)


Notes for Laura Biagotti Roma:
Top notes: black currant, Sicilian bergamot, pink grapefruit, mint and hyacinth
Heart: carnation, jasmine, lily-of-the-valley and rose
Base: amber, sandalwood, patchouli, musk, civet, vanilla, oakmoss and myrrh.