Drunk pine cones and combat boots, but comforting. This is that big guy at the bonfire who wrapped me up inside his motorcycle jacket to keep me warm, and whispered dreadful jokes in my ear all night long, and I’ll always be a little in love with him.
Fills the room then eases into personal space for the entire night, and lingers on the skin the next.
Rhinoceros was a supergroup experiment by Electra Records in 1969. There’s a good stampede in the middle of this one–
Tank Battle’s older sibling who drinks too much and swears a lot, and I’m obsessed.
A shot of benzoin bourbon out of the bottle and a heavy draw of labdanum smoke, and then slides easy into creamy tuberose. Sweet and lazy, it lingers close for the evening, a faint breath of patchouli keeping it just a little dirty.
Sexy as hell.
The opening of this is fun–I love when musicians tune onstage.
Opens with party-girl peaches, so alcoholic they need rehab. Once they dry up, they give off morning after fumes of vanilla and stale sandalwood breath.
Oddly, it’s very enjoyable on clothes–a splash of apricot brandy musk that lasts til laundry day–but on my skin it’s soured pear custard, so I’ll keep it for a scarf scent.
My little mini was from the first release in 1995. (The name changed to plain Burberry on the next pressing.) Edwyn Collins came out with A Girl Like You the same year. I like this updated reggae femme version a lot.
Opens with a sheer boozy rose that I’d love if it were louder–then I’m glad it isn’t as it settles into a discordant vanilla.
Slowly eases into a generic auto-tuned amber that isn’t horrible on the on skin but is irritatingly musty (and tenacious) on cotton.
The top note is so pretty, but the rest of it just doesn’t hold up.
I’ve a sneaky that more attention was paid to the packaging than the contents.
This song came out in 2003, too. It’s got a bit more substance than fashion.
Mint juleps–sugary booze and spearmint–with a solid wood note on the bottom.
Becomes a skin scent quickly, but lingers louder on clothes.
It’s got some of the XY gene of Eros and Bleu de Chanel, but with an organic softness that makes me nostalgic for the head shop that sold the best handmade candles and always played B.B. King albums.
The scent might be too simple to represent the complex history of the barrelhouses of the South that gave birth to the blues–but there’s an earthy sweetness to it that I’d enjoy on a guy with a good voice.
This is quite well done. They’ve bottled the charred oak distillery spirit, complete with caramel syrup and age-softened musk.
Doesn’t last terribly long, but it’s reasonably priced, so have another shot.
I would find this one sexy on a guy, too–especially the older silver fox with good vintage.
This laid-back Nirvana cover sounds like it’s had a good whiskey on the rocks.
Bat is entertaining, but makes me feel like I’m in a nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough.
“The species Chiroptera wakes in his cave, rife with mineral dirt, dust and a trace of smoke, hungry for the tropical fruits of his diet. Bananas and figs sustain him for several hours, but eventually rain hinders his foraging, and he must find refuge in the green forest floor, hiding under his own leathery wings in the woody undergrowth until it passes.”
This weird little song was in the soundtrack for Batman & Robin and might be the best thing about that whole movie.
Gorgeous. Violets and blueberries and dark Halloween magic. Vampires wear this stuff.
Sapphire potion water, a hint of smoke, a toast of witch booze.
Sugared black currants and leather and spruce, a soft animalic purr.
Bitter chocolate tempers the sweetness and brings out the violet leaf.
Ends with a short puff of bourbon pipe tobacco and clean velvet musk, but clings to clothes all night long,
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.
Remember that green gum that looked like pillows that squirted sugar syrup when you first chewed it?
Saint Julep is the sparkliest perfume I’ve ever sniffed. It’s that Turkish iced tea that knocks your drunk off at four in the morning, the half an Adderall you saved for finals week. The mint itches on your skin, keeping you awake, jeering at the insomniacs who are too tired to enjoy the starlight, and then kisses you in the morning with still-fresh breath.