Cryptic

Several years ago, oud fever began spreading like wildfire across the perfume blogs and boards, and like so many others, I was captivated. "Noble rot" they called it, and the tales of how it was harvested and the way it was used in the Middle and Far East made agarwood sound so esoteric and totally covetable that I couldn't resist trying some. Thus, I ordered a bunch of samples from Montale, the only house that was using oud on a large scale at the time.

Sadly, my oud testing spree did not go well. The Montale fragrances were without a doubt different from anything I had ever experienced and certainly interesting perfumes. However, I found myself feeling unsettled and borderline anxious whenever I wore them. I eventually figured out that the medicinal, Bactine-like aspect of Montale's oud was reminding me of hospitals, sickness, injury and other unpleasant stuff. "No oud for you!" I thought to myself. Enter Amouage Epic Woman, which I tested on a whim without even knowing that it contained the dreaded oud.

Agarwood (or an aromachemical meant to represent it) is present in Epic Woman from top notes to drydown, but unlike in other settings, the oud here is mellow, a bit sweet and plays well with the other notes. The noble rot descriptor fits perfectly, as the wood has a round, honeyed quality that gives the impression of careful ageing without the medicinal odor. This beautiful note provides the backdrop against which the rest of the fragrance unfolds, at all times enhancing rather than upstaging the other components. Spices, including caraway, pepper and cinnamon abound in Epic, and they have a remarkably fresh quality suggestive of crushing the pods and seeds under a rolling pin as opposed to the dry, musty/stale character found in some spice-laden fragrances. Allegedly, there is a Damascus rose at the heart of Epic Woman, but the floral that I'm able to detect is more of a jam or a liqueur than a natural rose, and all the darker and more rich for it.

Epic Woman's base notes include a creamy, buttery note reminiscent of the one featured in Fracas, as well as the magical silver Frankincense that characterizes most of the Amouage line. Although sandalwood is listed, I can't smell any nasty Polysantol, only an earthy whiff after a few hours of what I assume must be Gaiac wood. The sillage and longevity of this perfume are appropriately epic, as they ought to be for the price. Speaking of which, if loving this expensive juice means a month of eating Ramen in a styrofoam container instead of a proper and civilized lunch, I consider it well worth the sacrifice.

How did we reach the point in perfume history where fragrance is being banned in the workplace? In an attempt to answer that question, I decided to revisit some of the "monster" perfumes of the 80s for some possible insight into the current backlash against power perfume. For the most part, I've been enjoying some terrific work in the likes of Poison, Loulou and Coco, all of which must have been pretty spectacular prior to reformulation. If the current austerity movement in fragrance was in part a reaction to these perfumes, I can only imagine that they must have been commonly and egregiously overapplied, because the fragrances themselves are lovely. Giorgio is a different story in my view.

Giorgio's top notes of peach, apricot, orange blossom and bergamot are instantly familiar to me, probably because they were recycled by Elizabeth Arden with little variation in Sunflowers, which was extremely popular when I was young. The orange blossom in particular is a bit synthetic and overbearing, but nothing I can't handle. It is Giorgio's brash floral heart that I find off-putting. As a tuberose fan, I expected to be able to deal with whatever Giorgio threw at me, but the tuberose used here is the bubble gum variety, and it is not improved by a faux gardenia note that is reminiscent of a fabric softener sheet. I detect the ylang (a favorite note), but it is not sufficient to redeem this cacophony of strident floral notes.

On the other hand, the drydown of Giorgio is rather inspired. It contains chamomile, one of those quirky but wonderful notes that is seldom used in mainstream perfumery these days because it doesn't smell "pretty." Back in the day, when Giorgio still contained real oakmoss and sandalwood (both now conspicuously absent), this perfume must have faded down to a bewitching warmth. Even now it still has a certain distinction.

On the whole, I can certainly understand why this singular, voluminous perfume was banned in some restaurants during its heyday. It still has big sillage and good longevity, though no longer mammoth. If you have a nasty streak, Giorgio would be the perfect choice to wear to a wedding, along with a white dress, in order to upstage the bride. Otherwise, wear with caution as you would any statement perfume.

Fracas was created in 1948 by Germaine Cellier, one of the few female noses working in the male-dominated field of post WWII perfumery. To my mind, Cellier was a legitimate niche perfumer long before the term was even coined, in the sense that her best work (Bandit, Fracas, Vent Vert) appeals to a very specific customer as opposed to courting a more mainstream audience. I'm not surprised that Edie Sedgwick, Madonna, Martha Stewart and Morgan Fairchild are devotees of Fracas given that this fragrance is about as charimatic and Diva-esque as perfume gets.

Although Fracas is often referred to as the gold standard in tuberose perfumes, it is actually not an accurate representation of the flower's natural scent. For that, tuberose fans should look to Ropion's Carnal Flower and its brilliant realism. Instead, Fracas is more of a larger than life, fantasized version of the tuberose flower that was inspired by a stunning blonde of Cellier's acquaintance, Edwige Feuillere.

There is no point listing the notes of this classic, because Fracas is so much more than the sum of its parts, and to quantify it takes away some of the mystery, at least for me. Buttery, creamy, rich, opulent ... Fracas is all those things, and it is such an in-your-face dose of female sexuality that it inevitably inspires some hatred as well as devotion, as all great art tends to do. Fracas is justifiably cherished and revered, despite having been reformulated. Happily, it is one of the lucky few classic perfumes to survive an overhaul unscathed.

As far as the practicalities are concerned, Fracas has mammoth sillage and superb longevity. The only reason I haven't rated it higher is because I struggle to find occasions appropriate/special enough to wear it. Much like a cocktail dress, Fracas is not for workplace wear, unless you aren't afraid of being reported by perfumephobes or bent over a desk by a smitten coworker. ;)

Angélique Encens serves as a haunting reminder of how much has been lost in perfumery because of the decline in use of animal-derived notes. AE was created in 1933 as a tribute to the iconic, androgynous Marlene Dietrich and her role in The Blue Angel. At the time, perfumes with lusty, animalic notes were all the rage. The 20s and 30s saw the launch of Joy, Shocking, Chanel No.5, Shalimar, etc., and civet, deer musk and ambergris were commonplace in fragrance.

Today, these classics are often disparaged as urinous, fecal and "old lady," in part due to the change in preference of the average nose in favor of the clean, the fresh and the unrelentingly sweet. In addition, many of the old natural fixatives have been replaced by synthetics, such as Ambrox, Cashmeran and Iso E Super, which is a positive development from an animal lover's standpoint, but a blow to fans of the classic carnal notes. Ambergris, being a cruelty-free byproduct of sperm whale digestion, is the exception to the animal rights crusade against cruel natural notes, and it is the substance that renders AE so glorious.

AE was discontinued several years ago, so information on its notes is scarce and contradictory. According to my humble nose, it opens with a great vintage bergamot note accompanied by the green and mysterious angelica. Sources can't seem to agree on the florals present in AE, which is reasonable, given that they only serve to soften the dryness of the incense and aren't featured prominently. As a result, AE resides comfortably in unisex territory, making it a fitting tribute to a woman who looked as elegant in a tuxedo as a ball gown. The highlight of AE (for me) is the sensuality imparted by the ambergris, which is a little salty, a little greasy -- like anyone would be if they just rolled out of bed. The interesting combo of the rather ascetic incense and the carnal ambergris brings to mind a courtesan like Madame Du Barry at High Mass.

In a likelihood, AE was pulled from the Creed line due to the shortage of whale excrement washing up on the beach as opposed to the IFRA's Reign of Terror, so props to Creed for refusing to compromise this perfume. If you dislike the Creed line and haven't tried this one, you might be pleasantly surprised, as it is radically different from the other Creed feminines. AE wears close to the skin but is quite long lasting. Well worth a sniff if you happen to come across it on eBay or in an antique shop.

Like many fragrances that were launched in the 1980s, Lou Lou is one outsized perfume. However, while Giorgio, Poison and Coco conjure up images of Supermodel Glamazons and big-haired women in power suits, Lou Lou is better suited to the kind of crop-haired gamine you'd see in New Wave music videos wearing fingerless lace gloves and black tights. She isn't a bombshell, nor is Lou Lou a particularly sexy perfume. Rather, it is a narcotically heavy, sweet concoction with a strange edginess.

Lou Lou opens with a powdery-sweet accord that includes iris, violet, cinnamon and plum, and is rescued from mere saccharine prettiness by a bit of acrid cassia funk, smoky incense and anise. Similarly, the white floral heart of tuberose, orange blossom and ylang ylang gets a strange twist from the plastic doll scent of heliotrope.

Unfortunately, the current formulation of Lou Lou seems to have left most of its base notes back in the 80s. Although the drydown should feature benzoin, musk and sandalwood, all I can smell is a hulking FrankenVanilla that swallows everything else and makes me want to scrub. What started as a dark fairytale has become a trip to Dunkin Donuts...poor Lou Lou. :(