Top Notes 
Orange leaf
Red pepper
Normalized Granite
Heart Notes 
Iris
Neroli
Base Notes 
Patchouli
Sandalwood06/12/2025
BlaueWüste1
1 Review
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BlaueWüste1
Very helpful Review
11
Oh là là, my friends… where should I even begin?
I don't even know if I should write this or rather cry into a perfume bottle... So much emotion. So much
Last Wednesday - the bus was full, the mood was low. Gray. Dreary.
I got on line 287 heading downtown. Everything as usual.
But then: la catastrophe olfactive.
At the back of the bus sat a man who smelled like a forgotten festival tent after the rain. A mix of wet dog, fermentation, and the last remnants of hope. People held scarves to their noses. A small child said, “Mama, the bus stinks.” It was… L’apocalypse du nez.
I reached for the only weapon that helps against something like this:
UPERCUT by Bözemann.
Just a spritz - on the wrist, then nonchalantly waved in the air. And what happened next was nothing less than an olfactory miracle.
First - the top note:
Orange leaf and red pepper. Like a fiery sunrise in Tangier. Fresh, spicy, tingling. The air began to come alive. I heard a woman behind me whisper: “Is that Chanel?” I didn’t turn around. I knew - she wasn’t ready for the truth.
Then: the heart note.
Iris and neroli.
A floral ballet right in the heart of the bus. The iris - powdery and elegant, like a silk scarf in the spring wind. And neroli… oh, mon amour, that bittersweet lemon whisper, as if an angel were sighing by a Sicilian orange tree.
People looked around. The elderly lady in front smiled. The bus driver turned off the air conditioning - it was no longer needed.
A teenager took out his AirPods and shouted: “Dude, what smells so classy?!”
I didn’t respond. I let the fragrance speak.
And then, as everything settled - came the base note.
Patchouli and sandalwood.
Warm. Sensual. Like a flirt with a Parisian guitarist at sunset. Deep, mysterious, velvety like a black tuxedo on bare skin. The bus vibrated with nobility. Even the homeless man stood up, murmured “Merci,” and left the bus upright, as if life had embraced him anew.
The people?
Standing ovations.
In the bus.
For UPERCUT.
For Bözemann.
For me.
Conclusion:
Upercut is not just a fragrance. It is a ritual. A triumph. A revolution in a bottle.
For those who don’t want to smell like everyone else - but like a fragrance poem with street cred.
Merci, Bözemann. You are the Jean-Paul Sartre of the plebeian glamour.
élégance brutale
. Last Wednesday - the bus was full, the mood was low. Gray. Dreary.
I got on line 287 heading downtown. Everything as usual.
But then: la catastrophe olfactive.
At the back of the bus sat a man who smelled like a forgotten festival tent after the rain. A mix of wet dog, fermentation, and the last remnants of hope. People held scarves to their noses. A small child said, “Mama, the bus stinks.” It was… L’apocalypse du nez.
I reached for the only weapon that helps against something like this:
UPERCUT by Bözemann.
Just a spritz - on the wrist, then nonchalantly waved in the air. And what happened next was nothing less than an olfactory miracle.
First - the top note:
Orange leaf and red pepper. Like a fiery sunrise in Tangier. Fresh, spicy, tingling. The air began to come alive. I heard a woman behind me whisper: “Is that Chanel?” I didn’t turn around. I knew - she wasn’t ready for the truth.
Then: the heart note.
Iris and neroli.
A floral ballet right in the heart of the bus. The iris - powdery and elegant, like a silk scarf in the spring wind. And neroli… oh, mon amour, that bittersweet lemon whisper, as if an angel were sighing by a Sicilian orange tree.
People looked around. The elderly lady in front smiled. The bus driver turned off the air conditioning - it was no longer needed.
A teenager took out his AirPods and shouted: “Dude, what smells so classy?!”
I didn’t respond. I let the fragrance speak.
And then, as everything settled - came the base note.
Patchouli and sandalwood.
Warm. Sensual. Like a flirt with a Parisian guitarist at sunset. Deep, mysterious, velvety like a black tuxedo on bare skin. The bus vibrated with nobility. Even the homeless man stood up, murmured “Merci,” and left the bus upright, as if life had embraced him anew.
The people?
Standing ovations.
In the bus.
For UPERCUT.
For Bözemann.
For me.
Conclusion:
Upercut is not just a fragrance. It is a ritual. A triumph. A revolution in a bottle.
For those who don’t want to smell like everyone else - but like a fragrance poem with street cred.
Merci, Bözemann. You are the Jean-Paul Sartre of the plebeian glamour.
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