Axiomatic

This water is like a tightrope walk along the female and male olfactory habits of past decades.
Deceptive in its statement of what this chypre wants to be until it supposedly changes for good.
And this is also the danger of the fragrance.
Because nothing is as it seems.

Hiss.

What can I say?
in 1980, Caron was able to grandiosely preserve the tradition of the house and greet it with magnificent hesperides.
And there are plenty of them to be found; the information in the fragrance pyramid is correct here.
As there are:
Very concentrated bergamot, bright lemon and a wonderfully fruity mandarin.
They are all lifted into the air in the house style with playful aldehydes, while casting shadows on the rather tart green herbs.

The basil reminds me of many a fine men's refresher and is made even more striking by the clary sage.

The sweetly resinous base throbs softly like a silent heart that wants to point out the development
But nobody listens to the warning.
Typical, one is blinded by the drama of Parisian elegance.
Ah, the catwalk of the beautiful!

A floral gauze of blossoms, like the muslin in the preliminary designs of a dress in haute couture, drapes the initial herbs without wanting to change much.
As if the flowers were still stuck in the stage of ideas.

And it is precisely at this point that an accord makes itself felt that was to cause a sensation at Dior in 1980:
Garden carnation, jasmine and cedar together with basil.
Jules struts confidently through the picture, the vain rooster.
Here, however, Lude has to lose some of his bluster and allow himself to be tamed by softer flowers.
But it still seductively charms with a very Mediterranean thyme, killer grin included.
The warmth at this point in the fragrance is congenial, pure carnal lust throbs here!
You almost want to plead: Just a moment, please stay!
Just the little death...
Sorry, I'm drifting off.
Incorrigible!

Unfortunately, our little Juliet has done the math without the flowers.
And so they cover up the macker more and more. He takes a crash course in draping à la toile from the tailors of the high house of fine tailoring.
Monsieur practises his mannerisms.

Gerard Lefort took advantage of the fact that some orchids smell.
This rare blossom has a rosy, vanilla scent and he indulgently lets it take the lead in the fragrance's progression.
It goes in the direction of leathery resins.

And before we know it, we have left the Marais district in Paris and are now in one of the fine boutiques on Avenue Montaigne.

The noble base of the fragrance smells exquisitely bien comme il faut.
A few brushstrokes of oakmoss, a shade of vanilla resins here, a hint of cosmopolitan patchouli there.
Plus high-quality leather, soft and supple.
The ambergris creates the "je ne sais quoi gesture" here and rounds off in a delightfully beguiling way.
The fine lady is a sight to behold, costume, canotier and Kelly bag fit like a glove.
Now off to the obligatory see-and-be-seen at Café Flore on the other side of the Seine. Shoo shoo!

But, but, the danger of the fragrance is only now becoming apparent.

Because the base is not as clear-cut as the previous course.
There is something tartly boyish about the lovely resins.

Well, it's not quite that hearty.
Nevertheless, some of the thyme will get into Madame's head and make her more resolute.

But anyone expecting our annoyed beauty standing at the cab rank on Avenue Montaigne in a melodramatic loss of control will unfortunately be disappointed.
Well, I mean, she's not exactly going to clear her throat and spit in the street because there's no cab in sight.
And if someone snatches the means of transportation from under her nose, she's certainly not going to let her inner construction worker hang out.
Phrases like:
"Va te faire BIEB! Sale fils de BIEB!"
will not pass her neatly made-up lips easily.

Such a:
"Espèce d'imbécile!"
would be in there, though.
I mean, it's human.
It happens to everyone and even in the best families.

Well, what would it be like with Julchen?
Thanks to the flowers and resins, things get dicey here, downright dangerous.

He, the king of the Trou d'Enfer in the darkest and most notorious alley in the Marais, might be tempted to make the following faux pas in the company of his mackers after a few sprays.

"Écoute mon vieux, pas des clopes ce soir!"
I'm ordering one of these lovely Religieuses with my café crème today. Or would you prefer the excellent macarons à la double Framboise Virginie?"

Well, well, Julchen will have some explaining to do with his half-silkies when he is nursed back up and woken from anesthesia.
I mean, in the emergency room, the hearts of those scoundrels will surely soften when they take a closer look at their oeuvre in the glaring light, their leader's bruises on gloriously soft resins.

And who knows?
Perhaps this little water from Caron will have a civilizing effect?

As the saying goes, packs fight, packs get along.
Even in the city of love.

There we have it!
Another one of those mysterious fragrances that initially scare you off with a good slap in the face, only to reveal a noble composition afterwards.

This desert prince does not make it easy for me, his world seems strange and closed to me at first.

Not that I should admit defeat with this kind of animalism.
No, quite the opposite, here the house once again proves its best quality.
It is this incredibly dry and dusty atmosphere that made me despair at first.

Here is another attempt.

Hiss!

What a strange opening!
Earthy patchouli sets the coordinates, the dusty desert welcomes you.
And immediately, natural papyrus scrolls are spread out to tell a story from the Emirates. One that describes the rapid structural development and expensive motorization despite the adherence to traditions.

The scent becomes drier and drier, I can literally smell the desert sand.

Or is it a lemon citron?
This citrusy fruit seems trapped, constricted by earthy and woody notes.
The ruthlessness of the seraglio.

The desert prince slowly approaches me in his immaculate white robe.
Olive green eyes, stern gaze, like this olive note amidst the woods.
Perhaps he masterfully defeats a falcon on his leather-protected forearm.

And the prince smells quite masculine under the bright sun, thanks to cumin and saffron.
But he wouldn't be a nobleman if the jasmine didn't exude this floral, virile elegance.
So he has mastered the cleanliness required on the Arabian Peninsula.

His homeland underwent a colossal transformation.
Buildings that surpass themselves in height with the help of what is technically possible, literally built on sand.
And I can sense this in the scent.
The dusty sand leaves room for a slightly metallic note, sourly infiltrated by vetiver.
The steel frame of the skyscrapers.
The interior design of these modern palaces of the skies is dignifiedly woody, austere and purist. Several types of wood were carpentered by master craftsmen.

The freedom-loving citrus fruit is also held captive here. Thanks to Elemi, her whimpers echo in the expensive alcoves as she searches in vain for an escape.

She is drugged with smoky hashish. Not over the top, no, well-dosed and skillful, so that no one here drifts off indecently.
The subtle intoxication as a substitute for insight.
This is how he tries to calm his conscience, because giving in would be a sign of weakness.

I do not overstretch his hospitality and would like to say goodbye.
The image of citrine captivity is too much for me.

Well-mannered, he drives me to the special-class international airport in his tailor-made twelve-cylinder vehicle from Maranello.
An oily note in the base tells me about the engineering achievement from Italy, the engine of his white sports car leaves nothing to be desired.

And so we say goodbye.
He is spicy and dry with an elegant wooden posture and commanding olive-green eyes.
I am stirred by the contrasts of sandy, built-up oases and the pain of citrus fruit.

Salam, dear prince!

Rudi is celebrating his tenth anniversary this year.
Well then, cheers to the jubilarian!

Rudi, you seem to receive nothing but praise, you fine Gewürztraminer, you!

And then I come along and spoil your party.
I'm sorry, my boy, but this time I'll have to give up the thirteenth fairy.

I'm not sure if your creator, Antonio Alessandria, knows his way around the Rhine.
But the way he serves up this unmistakable wine note suggests that Rüdesheim in the Rheingau has hosted him before.

Dear Rudi, then I'll order us a good drop!

Zisch!

Please excuse me if I can't stop swaying, but it's customary here in the Rheingau.

"I had something to drink
It must have been a strange wine
Because I passed out
And down by the Rhine I had to go small"

Boy, I hope I don't get kidney stones in Nierstein on the left bank of the Rhine from this!

What on earth is being served here?
This wine note with the "dried fruit" exactly reproduces the smells of a wine tavern in my area.
From the fruity, sour barrels to the fallen wine glasses or guests at the table.
Because as soon as the spilt grape juice starts to dry, it becomes thicker, stickier, stickier.
I tell you, you don't want to run your hand over it!

I see the birthday girl likes to wear leather.
But exactly the kind of rough leather jacket that makes you look like a rascal.
Well, if a proper pub brawl was imminent, the ruddy girl would know how to defend herself.

But why can't the obligatory saffron be missing here?
And immortelle to boot?

Well, how can I put it...

So, dear Rudi, if some of the Gewürztraminer ends up on your leather jacket during the frenzy of the party and saffron and immortelle toast each other, then you should get some fresh air very quickly or head straight for the toilet.

At least it turned my stomach!

This sweet, sticky note with the charm of sticking plaster and nicely spiced with curry is not only bad for the leather.
Somehow a number of digestive juices are presented to me in a medically correct way.

But, but, who's going to go limp here?
Come on, one more and then off to the washroom!

This delightfully old-fashioned rose soap is waiting there to make your skin smell flowery again.
Ah, rose and saffron, what a legend.

Because it says that you should never - and I mean never - blaspheme about it.
Otherwise, yes, otherwise, Caroline Reiber in the flesh would appear to you in your sleep from distant Bavaria.
And then you'd be swaying in three-four time until the end of time!

Oh, you know what Rudi?
I continue to enjoy your tenth birthday.
Let yourself be duly celebrated and praised, you seem to deserve it.

In the meantime, I volunteer to be booked at the local police station to sober up.

Salute!

In the midst of the 1980s, a strangely bright rose grew, seeking protection in warm leather in front of light-flooded basil as the leader of envious white bloomers, heralds of elegant coldness.
A drop of her melancholy blood only wanted to give life a little longer, whereas the relentless ferryman on the Styx took her master of the timeless cut with him.
And what began full of recklessness and creative confidence left a painful legend as a scent.

The short life of Perry Ellis granted him eight years of fashion success and fame.
No one else created this timeless look between 1978 and 1986, casual, wearable, minimalistically different.
His knitwear in particular caused a sensation.
And who else could stage his fashion better than Perry himself?
High-quality but all the more modest shirts, sleeves rolled up, perfectly fitting pants in the middle of that marshland not far from New York.
Fire Island's and GQ's darling always with that warmhearted smile.
The all American boy.
Today, that same magazine, GQ, suggests wearing its early 1980s fashion again.

in 1985, an unnamed nose created great things for Perry, his well-deserved signature scent until his passing.
I knew the fragrance from the beginning, but didn't afford the elegant pour bottle until a few years later because it was actually adorning someone else and I didn't want to compete with its aura.
All that remained of our growing friendship was this fragrance and melancholy songs from Book of Love (I Touch Roses) and 'Till Tuesday (Voices Carry).

Hiss!

Aldehydes, green galbanum and basil, citrus fruits, above all a gentle orange.
Everything so inviting, embracing and highly complexly interwoven.
Not fresh as usual, but cozy.

Then the pungency of a bell pepper from the southern sun.
The prelude of precious passion.

A whiff of greenish incense on mint whispers from the asphodelos meadows here.
Their white bloomers spread fresh floral musk sheets.
The invitation to caress with lavender honey, that ambrosia of the happy few.

But the spring-like rose shies away from that bright meadow, it will lie down on leather at the shady edge of the sandal bushes, the ground so mossy soft.
In this way, it can somewhat escape the severe coolness of its adversaries, vain jasmine gardens.

Resinous eyes see the order of the painting interspersed with contrasting plays of light.
And with the right incidence of light, the brown pupils reveal a universe of pleasant amber, like iridescent tiger's eye. Civet of the fresh midday.

The skin, still pale in winter, experiences a spring awakening and loses itself in a swirl of coumarin.
Hay-like, rosy, dry.
Soft leather wards off too harsh a cold, but allows patchouli and labdanum to float playfully with the monarch butterflies and foxtail butterflies.

And those winged shifters waft around the forgotten and taste the rose nectar.

The heart of an amiable outsider.

This idiosyncratic composition was a romantic invitation in the midst of too striking a style of the time.
It was precisely this changeable rose that was to become the core of the fragrance.
What is it now, where does it tend to go?
Aromatic green in the chypre style?
Masculine leathery?
Discreetly passionate?

For me, the latter.

How much accompanying fragrances once shaped a stage of life, giving it a frame in the album of memories.
Sometimes the image of the bottle alone is enough to conjure up those fragrant days again.

This makes the encounter with the altered version of the fragrance all the sadder.
The protective glass is broken by the unsuitable picture frame, the crack announces the unstoppable dimension of time in space.
You can see the photo from back then, the experience cannot be changed afterwards, but the smell no longer fits.
All that remains is a stored chord in the brain, which fortunately can no longer be reformulated.

This accord was dark green, conifers concealed a leather-covered, noble rose. And oakmoss enveloped a woody chypre.

Deep and rounded, those emeralds captured the massive green of the forested Rocky Mountains.

Everything fell into place, no discordant solos broke with the whole, a harmony from beginning to end.
The fragrance was simply called "Polo" for years. Its incomparable aura was to bring it a success that was reserved for only a few creations.

Today, a name suffix is needed, Green, to locate it in the brand's repertoire.

Rough, smoky, unrounded, the follow-up is offered.
Something the fragrance never was.
And a ghostly whiff of the past can be heard by experienced noses as an echo of the past.
But it remains only a faint and disguised frequency.

The overdrive testifies more to a chore than to a passionate dedication to adapting this epochal composition to current requirements.
Fortunately, other brands have succeeded in doing this with their draught horses.
Here, the foundations of the house have been unbalanced.

Acidic and urinous jasmine spoils the too smoky vetiver and puts it in brine.
Dusty juniper berry takes your breath away, the overly dry tobacco does the rest.
Crunchy woods are processed into chipboard.
Forgotten by the rain, the oak moss remains brittle and hard.
Recently, an ethereal camphor with a hint of eucalyptus has been wafting around the fragrance, which did not exist before.

And the woody melody of yesteryear sounds very distant, the rose too pale, the conifers uprooted. As if one were telegraphically reporting the predicament to headquarters with Morse code.

That will not detract from my memory.
The scent accompanied me on the threshold of puberty and afterwards like a coach to look up to.
These woody landscapes were worn by boys and men in my environment. We were able to agree on a common fragrance base.
Carlos Benaim created amazing things, because there are very few fragrances that can be worn casually across generations.

Carlos understood the direction of the then young brand very well when he was commissioned to create the right fragrance.
At the end of the 1970s, the fashion segment was dominated by Pierre Cardin and Lacoste with their distinctive logos.
Ralph Lauren achieved the unthinkable with his polo player. A small symbol with a big impact.
If he had done without it, his polo and rugby shirts would have been of high quality but indistinguishable from the competition.
And his range cleverly attracted several generations as target groups.
This fashion, a mixture of uptown Manhattan and country club in Kingwood Houston, was to bring about a paradigm shift in the USA: You are who, so show it!

Well, all we can say about the roaring sales in the early years is that every shopping mall and every high street was judged back then by whether a polo player had strayed there.

The unmistakable character of the fragrance was also fitting.
Deep, rich in shades of green, elegantly leathery with this magnificent rose, everything balanced. Was it the chamomile that connected everything?
In any case, the fragrance wanted to please, not offend.

If I were to choose a musical genre, it would be soft rock of the time.
Christopher Cross with his easily digestible loads.
Oh please, that little movie Arthur was the top!

Or more visually fitting...

Robbie Dupree with his hit "Steal Away".

Nice. sweet, cuddly.

Okay, I admit to exaggerating a little here, but with the best will in the world I can't attest to the social nonconformity of the old version of the fragrance.
Challenging accords, unusual notes, brute masculinity - he didn't know any of that.

It was the perfect companion if you were caught between the moon and New York City.

Or anywhere else.

And today, yes today, it has dried up.