Top Notes 
Bay rum
Bergamot
Orange
Heart Notes 
Coriander
White thyme
Galbanum
Base Notes 
Benzoin
Frankincense
Tobacco leaf
Vanilla
Axiomatic
149 Reviews
Translated · Show original
Axiomatic
Top Review
32
Equatorial Baptism
What such an amber-colored bottle can cause, one should let the genie out of the bottle unexpectedly, yes, yes…
Behind the golden decoration - inspired by Arts and Crafts - along with a matching floral adorned cap, lies more than just a fragrance.
A hipster lad named Ricki Hall collaborated in 2016 with Captain Fawcett’s to hurl a hard-hitting spice grenade into the fragrance world amidst the Ambroxan hysteria.
The wonder water opens with a strong bay leaf in the old tradition. Very bitter and natural, not for the faint of heart. Light hesperidic notes accompany the alcoholic herb - the orange can be discerned a bit better - but really only as quiet extras.
Yes, those familiar with old Gent’s Scents from the real old school will nod in agreement here.
Boy, this distillate means business!
Fleetingly, the opening makes way for the defining heart of the fragrance. And here it gets hearty!
Coriander seeds roar awake several sea monsters with clove. Yes, it’s a true tsunami wave of bright spices.
Interesting is the galbanum here, quite green and reminiscent of the 1970s. What a delight!
At some point, thyme also appears in the background and plays the bass guitar.
This accord is stunning, one surely remembers it whether they like it or not.
In the last third, a sweet resinous tobacco makes itself known, but never overwhelming. You have to make an effort to perceive it.
And here it gets interesting, the scent ends for my trained nose in typical Anglo-Saxon musk. Slightly dull, slightly comfortably sexy. But I’d rather remain silent about that.
Our sprat of a novice knows practically nothing about this. He is slowly practicing the applied shaving philosophy of the tough guys. Only a few bluish bottles adorn the shelf of his bathroom mirror.
For he wants to finally treat himself to a proper shave with a traditional blade today. But practice makes perfect; and our shy hero has unfortunately not yet progressed beyond signing up as an apprentice.
Well, and so an awkward hand movement leads to one of those traditional cuts that give the life spirits a brief excursion out of the body.
Pale as chalk, he crouches under the sink and perceives everything only very vaguely.
Percy Fawcett: Man overboard!
Henry Costin: Devil, I see him! Port side astern!
PF: Go, go! Lifebuoy and rope!
HC: Percy, I have him! Quick, he’s bleeding!
PF: Good heavens, shark fin starboard ahead!
PF: Henry! Get him up!
HC: That was close!
PF: Well, the wound on his cheek isn’t too deep. Lucky!
HC: He could have given us a crab sandwich! Devil!
PF: Henry!
The dinghy is tossed back and forth by the choppy sea. The two explorers bring the rather pale shaving novice below deck.
Motionless, he lies soaking wet on a bunk.
Quickly, after drying him off with a towel, they slip a dry Victorian nightgown over him, while his wet, wrung-out clothes hang over a chair.
PF: Strange, he’s exuding something bluish. Just look, Henry, even his breath is blue!
HC: Devil! It smells strange too. Like from the laboratories of the Royal Institute of Chemistry. Nasty stuff!
PF: He’s going to take us down! Come on, heat up the little stove!
He seems possessed!
Corporal Costin gets the small heating source glowing, while Lieutenant-Colonel Fawcett disinfects the wound on the cheek of the unconscious one with a strong shot of Bay Rum.
And the pale land rat turns like an oyster to lemon!
HC: Percy, not so rough!
PF: It’s fine, at these latitudes, only fire can fight fire. This lad seems to be bewitched.
HC: Devil, this will be an equatorial baptism!
Worried about the rambling shipwrecked man, the two prepare everything for exorcising evil spirits.
A copper pan is placed on the hot stove with coriander seeds, a few cloves, and crumbled galbanum from Persia.
In no time, the room fills with the ethereal oils of the ingredients.
PF: Henry, just don’t let it burn! That’s enough, pass the pan over!
HC: Devil, my lungs are burning!
PF: So my boy, now we will smoke out all the evil from you.
With sweeping movements, Captain Fawcett circles the choking patient with the pan.
PF: Henry, get the bucket ready, it’s about to happen!
No sooner said than done, the half-dead begins to spit out blue artistic liquids, quite vigorously.
The bucket fills quickly and must be emptied outside overboard.
Just a slight cough and color returns to the novice’s face.
HC: Devil! What was that? Smells bad, reminds me of whale vomit.
PF: No idea, the slimy stuff had blocked his lungs. Now he can smell everything again.
HC: Fantastic, my dear, fantastic!
Where did you get this knowledge?
PF: My brother Edward is a skilled master of the occult. He is friends with a certain Helena Blavatsky.
When I was stationed in Ceylon, I could better understand his knowledge with that of the locals and their spices.
HC: Devil, you’re quite the worldly one, my best!
PF: No hasty conclusions, dear Henry.
Whether the procedure was successful remains to be seen.
Come on, let’s wake him up.
HC: Hey, hey Captain!
Our sprat of a land rat slowly comes to and straightens up in the bathroom.
He still has a slight redness on his cheek, but he smells like a bright spice market.
Next to the blue flacons, which he now eyes suspiciously, lies a bottle ship - more of a dinghy - and a card with an address and a password.
At work, his colleagues affectionately tease him as an Indian lucky charm, but he remains steadfast. And slowly the spotters remember real spices, just as nature intended. But he does not reveal the source of his successful adventure.
He takes a few days off and heads to the mysterious harbor on the windy coast.
With a pounding heart, he stands before the address on the card, a rather untrustworthy dive.
After knocking on the door, a spyhole opens and he states the password.
And just like that, he disappears into the flounder room!
Grouper Ole yells from the regulars' table:
“Captain, newcomer!
The sprat has survived the equatorial baptism!
The round is on me!”
And the newcomer gets to choose a song. Down by the sea by Men at Work lets the scent beautifully fade away…
Postscript.
Many thanks to Admiral Scentennial.
He has stranded the magical bottle on the home shore of the storyteller.
Behind the golden decoration - inspired by Arts and Crafts - along with a matching floral adorned cap, lies more than just a fragrance.
A hipster lad named Ricki Hall collaborated in 2016 with Captain Fawcett’s to hurl a hard-hitting spice grenade into the fragrance world amidst the Ambroxan hysteria.
The wonder water opens with a strong bay leaf in the old tradition. Very bitter and natural, not for the faint of heart. Light hesperidic notes accompany the alcoholic herb - the orange can be discerned a bit better - but really only as quiet extras.
Yes, those familiar with old Gent’s Scents from the real old school will nod in agreement here.
Boy, this distillate means business!
Fleetingly, the opening makes way for the defining heart of the fragrance. And here it gets hearty!
Coriander seeds roar awake several sea monsters with clove. Yes, it’s a true tsunami wave of bright spices.
Interesting is the galbanum here, quite green and reminiscent of the 1970s. What a delight!
At some point, thyme also appears in the background and plays the bass guitar.
This accord is stunning, one surely remembers it whether they like it or not.
In the last third, a sweet resinous tobacco makes itself known, but never overwhelming. You have to make an effort to perceive it.
And here it gets interesting, the scent ends for my trained nose in typical Anglo-Saxon musk. Slightly dull, slightly comfortably sexy. But I’d rather remain silent about that.
Our sprat of a novice knows practically nothing about this. He is slowly practicing the applied shaving philosophy of the tough guys. Only a few bluish bottles adorn the shelf of his bathroom mirror.
For he wants to finally treat himself to a proper shave with a traditional blade today. But practice makes perfect; and our shy hero has unfortunately not yet progressed beyond signing up as an apprentice.
Well, and so an awkward hand movement leads to one of those traditional cuts that give the life spirits a brief excursion out of the body.
Pale as chalk, he crouches under the sink and perceives everything only very vaguely.
Percy Fawcett: Man overboard!
Henry Costin: Devil, I see him! Port side astern!
PF: Go, go! Lifebuoy and rope!
HC: Percy, I have him! Quick, he’s bleeding!
PF: Good heavens, shark fin starboard ahead!
PF: Henry! Get him up!
HC: That was close!
PF: Well, the wound on his cheek isn’t too deep. Lucky!
HC: He could have given us a crab sandwich! Devil!
PF: Henry!
The dinghy is tossed back and forth by the choppy sea. The two explorers bring the rather pale shaving novice below deck.
Motionless, he lies soaking wet on a bunk.
Quickly, after drying him off with a towel, they slip a dry Victorian nightgown over him, while his wet, wrung-out clothes hang over a chair.
PF: Strange, he’s exuding something bluish. Just look, Henry, even his breath is blue!
HC: Devil! It smells strange too. Like from the laboratories of the Royal Institute of Chemistry. Nasty stuff!
PF: He’s going to take us down! Come on, heat up the little stove!
He seems possessed!
Corporal Costin gets the small heating source glowing, while Lieutenant-Colonel Fawcett disinfects the wound on the cheek of the unconscious one with a strong shot of Bay Rum.
And the pale land rat turns like an oyster to lemon!
HC: Percy, not so rough!
PF: It’s fine, at these latitudes, only fire can fight fire. This lad seems to be bewitched.
HC: Devil, this will be an equatorial baptism!
Worried about the rambling shipwrecked man, the two prepare everything for exorcising evil spirits.
A copper pan is placed on the hot stove with coriander seeds, a few cloves, and crumbled galbanum from Persia.
In no time, the room fills with the ethereal oils of the ingredients.
PF: Henry, just don’t let it burn! That’s enough, pass the pan over!
HC: Devil, my lungs are burning!
PF: So my boy, now we will smoke out all the evil from you.
With sweeping movements, Captain Fawcett circles the choking patient with the pan.
PF: Henry, get the bucket ready, it’s about to happen!
No sooner said than done, the half-dead begins to spit out blue artistic liquids, quite vigorously.
The bucket fills quickly and must be emptied outside overboard.
Just a slight cough and color returns to the novice’s face.
HC: Devil! What was that? Smells bad, reminds me of whale vomit.
PF: No idea, the slimy stuff had blocked his lungs. Now he can smell everything again.
HC: Fantastic, my dear, fantastic!
Where did you get this knowledge?
PF: My brother Edward is a skilled master of the occult. He is friends with a certain Helena Blavatsky.
When I was stationed in Ceylon, I could better understand his knowledge with that of the locals and their spices.
HC: Devil, you’re quite the worldly one, my best!
PF: No hasty conclusions, dear Henry.
Whether the procedure was successful remains to be seen.
Come on, let’s wake him up.
HC: Hey, hey Captain!
Our sprat of a land rat slowly comes to and straightens up in the bathroom.
He still has a slight redness on his cheek, but he smells like a bright spice market.
Next to the blue flacons, which he now eyes suspiciously, lies a bottle ship - more of a dinghy - and a card with an address and a password.
At work, his colleagues affectionately tease him as an Indian lucky charm, but he remains steadfast. And slowly the spotters remember real spices, just as nature intended. But he does not reveal the source of his successful adventure.
He takes a few days off and heads to the mysterious harbor on the windy coast.
With a pounding heart, he stands before the address on the card, a rather untrustworthy dive.
After knocking on the door, a spyhole opens and he states the password.
And just like that, he disappears into the flounder room!
Grouper Ole yells from the regulars' table:
“Captain, newcomer!
The sprat has survived the equatorial baptism!
The round is on me!”
And the newcomer gets to choose a song. Down by the sea by Men at Work lets the scent beautifully fade away…
Postscript.
Many thanks to Admiral Scentennial.
He has stranded the magical bottle on the home shore of the storyteller.
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