04/12/2019
Floyd
290 Reviews
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Floyd
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Ginsbergs Lavender in the mud of Woodstock, or: Grandma's soap
The Cedar Street Tavern was located at the eastern end of Greenwich Village in New York. Once a meeting place for avant-garde authors and artists, it was a meeting place for abstract expressionists such as Jackson Pollock and the literary beat generation around Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and Gregory Corso. By the way, Pollock is said to have been banned from the local area because he is said to have lifted the toilet door out of its hinges and hurled it through the room to urinate into an ashtray. In the '60s, it's said they met Bob Dylan there, too. In 2006 the bar finally closed. She was dismantled into her mahogany pieces and shipped to Austin, Texas, where she was finally rebuilt ten years later in the Eberly Restaurant.
With this story you can expect a fragrance that reflects all this in some way. Daring, smoke, tobacco, leather in a classic form of the late 50s to 60s perhaps. Unfortunately this is exactly what the Prospector Co. did not succeed at all. Unless it is the deconstruction of the place, the theme of the fragrance, the earthy flowery lightness of the hippies perhaps, too, after all, the beat generation was considered the forerunner of the 68s. Literary deconstruction creates meaning through paradox.
The fragrance Cedar St Tavern wants to be one of those, according to the name suffix "Fougère", but it is not. Right at the beginning there is a floweriness which is almost biting for me and which can be attributed to lavender. The biting then quickly fades into the background, mixing with the sweet, earthy notes of patchouli and tonka bean. After only one minute he smells for me after something sweetly simple soap. It used to be in Grandma's sticky sink.
After about half an hour I can hardly perceive the scent on my skin. For a possible base note a sheet of paper has to be used, which I spray generously. Here the same spectacle takes place at the beginning: flower, sweet earth, soap. After only five minutes I have to press my nose into the pulp. So much only for shelf life and Sillage. After about an hour some moss is added to the sweetish broth, which completes the development. After another two hours he's gone, probably to Austin, Texas.
Who or what in the name-giving tavern is supposed to have smelled like that? Allen Ginsberg, perhaps most likely. I see him singing mantras in front of me with his miniature squeeze. The Ginsberg, who wrote the great jazz poem "Howl", certainly didn't wear something like this. It occurs to me that poverty is certainly also an issue of the avant-garde. Hmm. But then again this does not fit into the paradox of deconstruction. Tom Wolfe would probably say, "This scent is definitely off the Magic Bus!"
With this story you can expect a fragrance that reflects all this in some way. Daring, smoke, tobacco, leather in a classic form of the late 50s to 60s perhaps. Unfortunately this is exactly what the Prospector Co. did not succeed at all. Unless it is the deconstruction of the place, the theme of the fragrance, the earthy flowery lightness of the hippies perhaps, too, after all, the beat generation was considered the forerunner of the 68s. Literary deconstruction creates meaning through paradox.
The fragrance Cedar St Tavern wants to be one of those, according to the name suffix "Fougère", but it is not. Right at the beginning there is a floweriness which is almost biting for me and which can be attributed to lavender. The biting then quickly fades into the background, mixing with the sweet, earthy notes of patchouli and tonka bean. After only one minute he smells for me after something sweetly simple soap. It used to be in Grandma's sticky sink.
After about half an hour I can hardly perceive the scent on my skin. For a possible base note a sheet of paper has to be used, which I spray generously. Here the same spectacle takes place at the beginning: flower, sweet earth, soap. After only five minutes I have to press my nose into the pulp. So much only for shelf life and Sillage. After about an hour some moss is added to the sweetish broth, which completes the development. After another two hours he's gone, probably to Austin, Texas.
Who or what in the name-giving tavern is supposed to have smelled like that? Allen Ginsberg, perhaps most likely. I see him singing mantras in front of me with his miniature squeeze. The Ginsberg, who wrote the great jazz poem "Howl", certainly didn't wear something like this. It occurs to me that poverty is certainly also an issue of the avant-garde. Hmm. But then again this does not fit into the paradox of deconstruction. Tom Wolfe would probably say, "This scent is definitely off the Magic Bus!"
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