Tea-time lingerie.
A splash of milky Earl Grey bergamot with a bit of fresh fruit on the side–a flirty opening that quickly gets shy, retreating to a hand-span off the skin, cologne weight–but it lasts for over half the day with a constant tease of voluptuous florals and bit of wood inside clothing.
There’s a brilliant stilted sexiness to it that’s hard to explain, kind of like art house porn that’s been edited to a PG-13 rating.
I might hang onto this one for a while.
*
More tea.
After the whomp on the head with several big trees–and a few apple bruises–the resins of the previous editions swing in, but they’re much tamer now.
The bleach, musk and pee have been cleaned up with cider and polished with more frankincense, and the woods lounge just inside personal space for a long hot afternoon.
He’s still a cheeky monkey, but at least there’s no feces being flung anymore.
*
Another monkey edition:
Nocturnal short order cook.
Remember the guy who was the night closer at that blue-plate-special Cajun joint?
He was quiet and always smelled like dish soap, the étouffée spice mix–made of dried green herbs and woody thyme–and the dusting sugar that went on the beignets. No-one ever saw him in the daylight, but everybody liked him.
Black Widow has almost no projection and lasts as long as a dinner break.
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New Orleans native Fats Domino revamped Junker’s Blues into The Fat Man–which became the first rock and roll single to sell a million copies–here’s a version of the original by Hugh Laurie.
An after-the-gym scent with rolled up French cuff manners and an odd but soothing undercurrent of stomach antacid tablets.
Opens with sweet limes and and warm spice, then settles to a hand span off the body with a nice mess of gentian–herbal, bitter, sweet–almost medicinal and a little mysterious–bolstered by a faint green brush of patchouli and vetiver.
Very sniffy on the skin for a comforting 4-5 hours.
Wear on Taco Tuesday.
*
A soothing Tuesday song.
Oooh, this is heavenly.
Cinnamon and cedar and so warm, like standing before a brazier of burning hardwood, and sweet–but not cuddly, the honey is spread with a sharp rose knife.
I get a lot of Youth Dew vibes–that rich spicy heat–but Crimson Rocks is wilder, more elemental.
The lack of amber or balsamics on the bottom give an amazing desert mirage feel, elusive and light, like dusty spice in evening sun–
Lasts all night, growing sweeter and softer, just a breath on the skin left in the morning.
The guy said “You should get that,” and I might, when the price of eggs becomes reasonable again.
*
I do love Joan Jett, but daaamn this is good.
Amouage’s take on Citizen Kane opens with sharp resins with melancholy undertones, then shifts to burning dried rosebuds (see what they did there?) and more aged frankincense.
Sadly, these heart notes leave one wanting more–the myrrh plot twist is so well known that there’s no surprise of cleverness to the sandalwood at the end–and the fleeting sweetness of vanilla at the bottom gives only the sense that love was never found.
*
“The Union Forever” is The White Stripes’ take on the same movie, but “The Same Boy You’ve Always Known” is my favorite song on that album at the moment. Here’s a live version-
New leather boots and I love it, but I wished it lasted longer.
Goes on stiff with big fresh leather, tanned with green herbs, and a little vanilla ice cream polish–then softens down with resins and frankincense and cedar to the skin, over the course of two hours.
*
Carlos Santana and Gavin Rossdale covering T. Rex’s Get It On.
“Long Covid” is a thing.
I’m getting better, just more slowly than I thought. It’s been 10 months, now.
(The guy hasn’t got his taste back properly, and says the sky looks pinker than it should.)
The waves of exhaustion come and go, with joint pain popping up in odd places–a ghost in the machine–and shrouding sensations that make me doubt my nose and my playlists.
Sometimes my most beloved songs seem flat, the blues going gray.
I took a break from the sniff tests for a few months, nervous that my receptors were too scarred to function properly.
I’ve found comfort in my old favorites–Tank Battle has been a constant through this two-steps-forward-one-step-back recovery–spraying more, pressing my nose deeper into my skin, rejoicing at the familiar notes in the muted performance.
Not all have stayed the same, though.
Poe’s Tobacco–which used to be an autumn go-to, with apples and amber and tea–now seems more summery, orchard blossoms and sun in trees, and maybe some jasmine I wasn’t aware of before.
The tobac still gives it depth, but the woods lean more floral now, and less toward books in shadowy corners. I’m sad about it, that the niche-but-accessible cleverness has worn off.
A nice, easy to find vintage–but not quite as offbeat and fun as I remember.
I hope it’s just me.
*
A haunting rendition that still rings true.
Half the price of Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille–and smells like it.
Edit – 3/5/23
Less a jazz club and more a seedy casino that hasn’t had the upholstery changed since before the indoor smoking ban and serves cheap house bourbon. The gift shop sells chocolate covered mint cream candies that actually aren’t bad.
*
Ms Ella F., at a club in Berlin, messes up the lyrics and turns it into one of the best jazz improv moments ever.
A jasmine bomb with a 2 mile blast radius.
Pull the candy orange peel pin and white flowers go nuclear, a dense gardenia fog with ambery woods fallout underneath, that flattens every other scent in the vicinity.
Brilliant and a little frightening.
Wear in winter with an open carry permit.
*
kira a. gold 