Did the dodo go extinct because they actually smelled like this? Recent studies of their oversized beaks have suggested they had an acute sense of smell–were they so offended by their own species, they refused to mate?
Zoologist’s Dodo smells like screeching black currant cat pee, cheap body spray over unwashed teenager, and fresh basil. For way too long.
Eventually settles to fruit salad with herb dressing tinged with feather musk–but unlike Snowy Owl, it’s not cute downy fluff, it’s molting fowl.
This dude lives in a cedar log cabin with a wood burning stove and scary dead animals, fresh enough that they still smell like fur and musk, on the wall. He’s unforgettable, and orris-root-sweet when you get to know him, but way too alpha-male for me.
A golden oldie from 1962–and proof that ladies of a certain age can still hold their own–classy, fun and sexy.
(Elizabeth Taylor wore it!)
Opens with lovely roses and neroli, then gets almost fruity with the creamiest jasmine ever. After it warms up with sweet benzoin and balsam, civet slinks in with vanilla and stays within arms reach for days.
That same year saw the release of Joan Baez In Concert, with this song that caught the ears of Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.
On first blind sniff, I get an earthy animalic lemon with some smoky cedar resin. It’s marvelous, almost like wet oil paints–complex and changing with a hint of sweetness. Even my cat got nosy.
So I looked up the description, and discovered it’s pure labdanum. Rock-rose, and that’s all. The designer apparently doesn’t like it, so he made a solifleur in an attempt at immersion therapy.
Labdanum is at the heart of two of my favorites by LUSH, Tank Battle and Rentless, grounding the clove and the aniseed. On its own, it becomes airier, balsamic and musky, and decadent.
Projects at arms length for an hour, and on the skin for three more.
“How many times, good God, have I not wished it were possible to attack the sun, to deprive the universe of it, or to use it to set the world ablaze –” Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, The 120 Days of Sodom
No. Just. No. This does not smell like some sexy anthropomorphic Furry wet dream musk, this smells like road kill during rutting season. Shrieking tire residue and terrified mammal anal gland excretion.
It won’t scrub off. My skin still smells like turtle pee and tarmac and rot-gut bourbon. I am not okay. My cat is not okay.