Nevermore Frapin 2014

As a garden owner, I discovered my love for roses relatively late. On one hand, I found the whole fuss of rose cultivation to be stuffy and too time-consuming, but on the other hand, I have always been fascinated by old and English rose varieties, particularly English gardens, and I definitely wanted to try it all out. And so, at some point, they moved into my garden, bearing illustrious names like “Ghislain de Feligonde,” “Graham Thomas,” “Bobby James,” “Rose de Resht,” and so on, and they have since been gently spreading through the branches.

It was only natural that as a fragrance-obsessed rose lover, I set out to find “the” rose scent for myself, and to get straight to the point, the search is temporarily over. I encountered very different scents along the way, whether it was the (on my skin) insanely intense tobacco-laden Ultra-HD rose from Kandahar by Andy Tauer, the (on my skin) summer-sweaty Hubba Bubba rose from Lumière noire homme by MFK, or the (on my skin) staid, maidenly it-smells-like-the-inside-of-a-aunt-Gertrud's-handbag rose from Lyric Man by Amouage, to name a few. I had almost given up hope.

Things changed with “Nevermore,” and I happened to find the corresponding rose in my garden, at the back, between the currant bushes. There, the sun creates a windless spot of heat during the midday hours in high summer, and in the evening, when the heat has subsided, one finds a half-shaded twilight world under the leafy trees in front of the yews. There, the purplish pom-poms float by the hundreds above the dull green foliage during the main bloom. Over the years, it has grown into a stately two-meter-wide thicket and has sunk its roots into the blackish humus of the compost heap, which is now hardly reachable without getting scratched up by its fine, numerous, and thin thorns. In the twilight, the slightly malty, dark, herbaceous-earthy scent is most perceptible. Approaching the surprisingly small, cheerfully looking balls with their tiny, very dense, and numerous petals, the scent becomes even clearer in its herbaceous clarity. One perceives something dark, spicy; this scent is not at all sweet, nothing morning-dew-drenched-silvery or golden-vanilla-sun-drenched like some other roses in the garden. The Rose de Resht, the old Persian damask rose, which is among the oldest roses in the world and has traditionally been used alongside a few other roses to obtain the precious flower oil, looks completely different from how it smells.

And this damask rose forms the dark heart of Nevermore, a wonderful, unusual rose scent that I can easily imagine on both men and women, although I would rather say it suits a man, but definitely a rogue or gangster, regardless of whether male or female…

The scent starts harmlessly, clearly as a bright, airy rose scent. But after a short time, the picture darkens; I notice gunpowder from pepper and nutmeg and a hefty portion of saffron in the base, and then the initially friendly scent strongly drifts into a jagged, slightly bitter underlying mood. The saffron, it must really be larger quantities of it, presents me with the greatest challenge; this minimally sour, bitter, slightly medicinal and leathery aroma forms the counterpoint to the actual rose scent in Nevermore. And at the latest at this point, the Sunday stroll is over. We are now in the midst of a bank robbery, or better said, the heist of the stagecoach. Although it is not a vintage scent, these images from the past come over me, elegant, good-looking ne'er-do-wells in tailored suits with guns. Swords, rapiers, eye patches. Mack the knife. Al Capone. Smoking Colts. Jamie Lannister. A money-or-your-life rose.

Nevermore is going into my collection of weapons, that much I can already say.