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01/19/2024
Axiomatic
21 Reviews
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Axiomatic
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43
The indomitable man
1987
This magical year reflected the quintessence of the decade.
Goals that had been set were achieved.
A complete penetration of fashion dictates reached its zenith.
Several social groups indulged in brand fetishism, the manufacturer's label enjoyed greater respect than the actual item of clothing. Sometimes people deliberately wore such a label loosely sewn onto the sleeve of their suit jacket; sexily out of place on the button placket of their jeans, it attracted curious glances in the hope that the corresponding underpants had been photographed somewhere in a glossy magazine. A guarantee for fashionable togetherness.
By the end of the decade, the prevailing trends would only change marginally, shoulder pads couldn't get any wider and pleated pants couldn't get any more amphoratic.
Oh yes, the big stock market crash in October of that year was to mark the beginning of protracted financial crises.
The pleasant distraction was provided by the pleasing plastic pop section in the ears, preferably in a crystal-clear dance-leg maxi version.
A Rick Astley like that made the hips of the masses swing, he would never give you up, never. For sure!
Everything went like clockwork.
And then he came, the third of the bunch.
Whoosh!
An ironic opening by Fougère that has washed itself out.
The bergamot is gagged by that ill-famed lavender gang. A mess and over the Jordan!
The incomparable distinguishing mark of that gang, the dreaded slider cap on mugwort, makes you break out in a cold sweat.
This is where it gets serious!
Hanseatically sober, that slightly dusty dark juniper berry blends in with the tart green of the gang.
Add a little thyme and the masculine tour de force is ready, quite protein-rich.
Uncomfortable looks and nervous twitching.
The rather English musk proves that you are not a child of sadness. It sits lasciviously on a wooden bench with an invitingly comfortable patchouli glaze.
The longing backseat in lilting, popular songs has had its day here.
Grow up for once!
But the heart is not given lightly, after all, the hedonistic spirit of the times sets certain limits.
A rose slumbers in the mineral-crunchy moss, only to open up to serious - ergo rare - approaches.
It only reveals its slightly fruity splendor when allowed access to its guarded intimacy, dazzlingly countered by patchouli, slightly incense-like. Light and dark notes, rich in contrast.
The noble heart of the third man.
Silent glances often say more than loud posturing.
Because this fragrance composition is characterized by a certain understatement.
What appears to be quite fresh from the color liquid, it really doesn't get any greener, turns out to be an increasingly darker humanizing fougère, which carries the classic rose-patchouli theme at its heart like a witch's board.
The good Pierre Bourdon conjured up a fragrance that could not better caricature and capture the zeitgeist.
You want bourgeois neo-conformism, here you go, you have something to enjoy! Because those tart, almost bitter herbs, the built-in physicality and the ghostly rose will make you freeze that practiced smile - refreshed today thanks to social networks - and gasp for air, soapy moss base or not!
The narrator carried the third man in the right place at the right time.
When he turned the corner, he celebrated the congenially throbbing interpretation of a fougère all the more confirmed.
The stinker was available to buy in white packaging, quite inconspicuous.
And to match, a musical antidote also appeared in white, New Order 1987 Substance.
Killing two birds with one stone!
One of the writer's fondest shopping memories.
And should this rebellious creature ever leave the dance floor feeling misunderstood and out of place, there was a little consolation.
Because someone also understood the scent and the change from Joy Division to New Order.
And Ceremony simply went with mugwort, juniper and musk for what felt like an eternity.
So he created a place on the fringes where it was good to stay.
Because others can get down, the lavender taught him.
And that's what counts.
This magical year reflected the quintessence of the decade.
Goals that had been set were achieved.
A complete penetration of fashion dictates reached its zenith.
Several social groups indulged in brand fetishism, the manufacturer's label enjoyed greater respect than the actual item of clothing. Sometimes people deliberately wore such a label loosely sewn onto the sleeve of their suit jacket; sexily out of place on the button placket of their jeans, it attracted curious glances in the hope that the corresponding underpants had been photographed somewhere in a glossy magazine. A guarantee for fashionable togetherness.
By the end of the decade, the prevailing trends would only change marginally, shoulder pads couldn't get any wider and pleated pants couldn't get any more amphoratic.
Oh yes, the big stock market crash in October of that year was to mark the beginning of protracted financial crises.
The pleasant distraction was provided by the pleasing plastic pop section in the ears, preferably in a crystal-clear dance-leg maxi version.
A Rick Astley like that made the hips of the masses swing, he would never give you up, never. For sure!
Everything went like clockwork.
And then he came, the third of the bunch.
Whoosh!
An ironic opening by Fougère that has washed itself out.
The bergamot is gagged by that ill-famed lavender gang. A mess and over the Jordan!
The incomparable distinguishing mark of that gang, the dreaded slider cap on mugwort, makes you break out in a cold sweat.
This is where it gets serious!
Hanseatically sober, that slightly dusty dark juniper berry blends in with the tart green of the gang.
Add a little thyme and the masculine tour de force is ready, quite protein-rich.
Uncomfortable looks and nervous twitching.
The rather English musk proves that you are not a child of sadness. It sits lasciviously on a wooden bench with an invitingly comfortable patchouli glaze.
The longing backseat in lilting, popular songs has had its day here.
Grow up for once!
But the heart is not given lightly, after all, the hedonistic spirit of the times sets certain limits.
A rose slumbers in the mineral-crunchy moss, only to open up to serious - ergo rare - approaches.
It only reveals its slightly fruity splendor when allowed access to its guarded intimacy, dazzlingly countered by patchouli, slightly incense-like. Light and dark notes, rich in contrast.
The noble heart of the third man.
Silent glances often say more than loud posturing.
Because this fragrance composition is characterized by a certain understatement.
What appears to be quite fresh from the color liquid, it really doesn't get any greener, turns out to be an increasingly darker humanizing fougère, which carries the classic rose-patchouli theme at its heart like a witch's board.
The good Pierre Bourdon conjured up a fragrance that could not better caricature and capture the zeitgeist.
You want bourgeois neo-conformism, here you go, you have something to enjoy! Because those tart, almost bitter herbs, the built-in physicality and the ghostly rose will make you freeze that practiced smile - refreshed today thanks to social networks - and gasp for air, soapy moss base or not!
The narrator carried the third man in the right place at the right time.
When he turned the corner, he celebrated the congenially throbbing interpretation of a fougère all the more confirmed.
The stinker was available to buy in white packaging, quite inconspicuous.
And to match, a musical antidote also appeared in white, New Order 1987 Substance.
Killing two birds with one stone!
One of the writer's fondest shopping memories.
And should this rebellious creature ever leave the dance floor feeling misunderstood and out of place, there was a little consolation.
Because someone also understood the scent and the change from Joy Division to New Order.
And Ceremony simply went with mugwort, juniper and musk for what felt like an eternity.
So he created a place on the fringes where it was good to stay.
Because others can get down, the lavender taught him.
And that's what counts.
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