Axiomatic

A noble vetiver is offered here according to the molecular, polyphonic art of Geza Schön.
Playful green-violet shades dress it up in a sophisticated way.
A composition with a sense of space, Venetian ambient sound in a bottle.
And where cool breezes blow, a warm cloak comforts.

The strange lion in the coat of arms smiles at me.
Will he break the chains and swing his sword nobly in St. Mark's Square?

Hiss!

A photorealistic cardamom enters the stage and reveals every facet of its green. Sweetly bright, coarsely dignified and humanizing.
I have rarely smelled this spice so present.

Even during the opening, the main motif of the mature vetiver can be heard very gently from the second row as a warm backdrop. But it would be too early and a shame to skip this prelude.

For a delicately powdery bergamot, adhering to the strict movement requirements of the Baroque, raises its fragile voice.

Not a minute later, fresh, sharp tones counter her plea. And not overbearing, no, from another row of the stage. Nobly combative ginger with warm pepper.
What a diverse round dance in the top note!
If it were the main accord, there would be no objections, quite the opposite.

And suddenly you are in the middle of the main part.
Delicately floral and earthily dry, the rhizome of iris with these very soft violet speckles of violet.
Is the exquisite blossom of the iris being recreated here?
If it is, then it stands out from a border of lily of the valley.
At least the jasmine will remain rather spring-like, preventing the too powdery and heavy life of the iris. Very green, tart vetiver skilfully frames the picture and conceals the floral, pushing it away slightly.

Geza dresses the tart grass in a very sophisticated way.
He lets it mature in old barrique barrels so that it absorbs the essence of high-quality brandy, possibly Armagnac. But only the restrained, refined dose of it, which mediates between light and shade.
What a relay!
This gives the grass a mature, dignified and deliberate appearance.
The cozy cinnamon with the woods provides the right framework, a wonderful counterpoint to the bright citrusy floral notes.

The interpretation of moss in the base is also a delight.
Geza has mastered sensitivity here, as he does not embed this grandiose composition in a conventional fougère base.
His moss is not soapy, no, the lichen adapts to the white flowers. Slightly dry, green and a touch sour, as it thrives on branches.

Amazing that the vanilla is kept dark, tart and almost like a glaze.
A relief to have used only a little of it to round off the woods.
This keeps the focus on the vetiver, which could not be more precious.

And there they are, all the characters of this opera seria on the stage, their fragrance impressions blossoming again and again according to a strict division. Because the further along the fragrance progression, the more colorful the overall picture.
Exquisite polyphony!

Chapeau, dear Geza!
It is understandable that a complex fragrance of this size would not be possible without molecular help.
As a master in dealing with said technical support, you create great things!
Used in a targeted manner according to strict quality criteria, the interplay of natural and synthetic components in your creation conjures up a true work of art.
Praise also for the almost Swiss precision of the temporal transitions of the notes and the stage-ready spatiality.
A bow on my part!

I have already enjoyed the scent a few times to Antonio Vivaldi's opera "Farnace".
In its plot, the situation seems hopeless. Farnace, King of Pontus on the Black Sea, sees no way out of the enemy siege other than the death of his family. A hateful mother-in-law even plots to eliminate her own daughter.
But the king's clever and loving sister, Selinda, will change fate for the better.

Vivaldi's spatial sound in particular fits as an allegory to the course of the fragrance.

Many thanks to Kokusai for the generous bottling. So I was able to find a familiar approach to the fragrance.
"X for Men | Clive Christian" is wonderful to wear and enjoy.

Dihydromyrcenol or 2,6-dimethyl-7-octen-2-ol.
This miracle molecule of the 1980s is said to smell fresh, bitter, clean, like lavender, coriander seeds and citrus fruits and characterizes the present fragrance.

Boy, has this particle hit the fragrance and household world since then.

But seriously, who is going to enjoy reading through a bone-dry chemistry lesson in order to better understand the polymerization of the molecule - viscosity tendency, decreasing odour and its avoidance through suitable inhibitors?
There is more than enough free information on the net for this, dear noses.

And aren't slanted lines sometimes easier to digest?

I mean, when I read through the OVP of this little water, my inner piano strings are struck with the hammer of a scary movie.

It reads as follows:
"Crisp mountain air and wide open spaces captured in a distinctive fragrance for men.
Aspen cologne for men - live it in Aspen."

Not even an exclamation mark is used as a symbolic imperative.
Boy, does that sound inspired and gripping.
Yawn...
The fragrance could be quite fun, it's all about that certain kick.
Well, then I'll follow the manufacturer's request in my own way!

Hiss!

Boy, it gets minty fresh here for a moment, a little citrusy too.
But the miracle molecule is not long in coming and colors the top note a surreal green.
Difficult to describe, perhaps more comprehensible in the heart note.

Because this is where the concentrated power of "support" is revealed.
I can't help but detect a small hint of calone in the vetiver. This grass smells greenish "fruity".
Incidentally, this fruity impression also extends the life of the lemon, rather than that of the bergamot.

The lavender, however, is transported to another dimension.

The herb takes on several shades at once:
fresh, green-herbaceous, citrusy, bright and clean.

As if you were standing in front of a chitinous superplant, so clear and real that you see it as if in a 3D film, but cannot grasp it.

What makes up the scent within the molecule family are the sweetly ethereal spruces. They conjure up the actual ski resort with fresh snow and a cloudless sky in the bottle.
Quite freshly wooded, but never dark.

Striking oakmoss, which is somewhat dry here and slightly salty spiced by ambergris.
This is how Aspen, Colorado and the Pacific coast of California shifts.

The main impression will therefore remain woody fresh, neo-lavendery, slightly citrusy and mossy salty for hours and will also end that way.

The bottle is very well designed for the price.
Forest green glass, copper-colored lid matching the metallic cap of the atomizer with green nozzle.
Inexpensive does not necessarily mean unimaginative.

The Aspen coat of arms with the eponymous aspen tree also adorns the front of the octagonal bottle.

Aspen, what a wonderful ski resort in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.
Sometime in the 1970s, this small but beautiful town was sung about and culturally adopted by the counter-movement of folk musicians a la John Denver. Said singer moved there.
At that time, a so-called moral decay set in, at least according to the virtual town chronicle.
(Dirty things probably happened, something for exciting synapses!)

In concrete terms, however, the community remained one of the most exclusive ski resorts in the USA.

So how does a Fougère from 1989 fit in here?

If it is the spruce in the fragrance, then I wonder why everything is kept so surreal.
Well, in the wake of Drakkar Noir, Green Irish Tweed and Cool Water, a cheap edition had to be created for the people with the miracle molecule. Like a dime novel with country music for real men with a distinctive moustache.

Wait, moustache, ski resort, moral decay, 1980s.
Hmm...
I've got it!
All the ingredients for a proper 1980s slasher!

The expendable characters, the two-dimensional characters whose slaughter is only meant to emphasize the reprehensible dark side of the slasher, are quickly identified.

Mint-Jeff, Bergamot-Chad, Vetiver-Dick, Oakmoss-Casey and Lavender-Al.

Our butcher of the fragrance progression wears a ski mask and a bold sweatshirt labeled "Dihydromyrcenol".

Oh yes, soundtrack from 1989: The Jesus and Mary Chain - Head On.

Death track, here I come!

Hiss!

Mint Jeff and Bergamot Chad are still having problems on the ski lift.
On wobbly legs, they try to get the right momentum from the spitting lift chair.
Their breath is quite green and citrusy fresh.

But before they can even reach the ski slope...

Slit!

Oh no, oh woe, their bodies colored in surreal shades of green, no more wriggling!
And that in broad daylight!

Meanwhile, a nasty figure hides behind the spruce trees...

Meanwhile, Vetiver-Dick is flirting on the slope and wants to do one of those sour somersaults on the ramp.
Lavender-Al is not only a little more coolly sober, he smells the surreal last sign of life from his missing friends.
Something's not right here, he thinks...

All this leaves Vetiver-Dick cold, he's here in Aspen to have fun.
Not only Lavender-Al, but also Oakmoss-Casey are now pretty sure that something is getting out of hand.
Their warning calls bounce off Vetiver-Dick.

He takes a running start, keeps the ramp in his sights, accelerates and takes off with both skis!

Wow, what a jump!

But dear Dicky, there's a funny ski mask waiting between the spruces for you to land...

Slit!

His moustache wags a little as he breathes out his last vital breath. And again surreally colored green...

At this point, Oakmoss Casey and Lavender Al panic; they were still able to catch the murderer disappearing into the spruce grove.

Oakmoss-Casey is once again as pale as chalk and unable to think clearly.
Lavender-Al tries to encourage him, they would make it out of here alive and soapy as always.

But Oakmoss-Casey is so confused by the surreal smell of his dead buddies that he takes a wrong turn on the raging ski descent to the valley and can't see the wood for the trees.
A surreal branch overgrown with moss lichen will also be the last thing he sees on earth.

Slit!

Last man standing Lavender-Al must face the murderer, who is not long in coming.
The two face each other in a clearing.

And then the ski mask falls!

What?
The little brother of Lavender-Al?
The one they put in an asylum to hide his greenish deformity from others?

He starts with the usual slasher enlightenment of the 1980s, even for the very snoozy.

"You were always Dad's favorite, nobody wanted or loved me.
You always shone with good grades, showed nobility and sincerity.
And me?
My dark resentment turned me green and I had to be given away like a defective car!
But let me tell you, the seeds of evil run in the family.
It only takes the right moment to transform you.
Did you think our father was above it all?
He, the Paco Rabanne, that scoundrel, had the germinating molecule in his heart, only he skillfully hid it!
But he sent me to a clinic in Ireland when he recognized my change.
I hated you even more for it, because you were allowed to have friends and fun!
And now I've taken them away from you, you're nothing without them!"

A scuffle ensues, the inevitable disposal of the meanie with the randomly passing snowplow.
Unfortunately, our lavender hero gets some of the greenish snow.

And in the distance, the Greyhound bus to California waits with a New West advertising sign.

Lavender Al's gaze darkens...

This water is like a tightrope walk along the female and male olfactory habits of past decades.
Deceptive in its statement of what this chypre wants to be until it supposedly changes for good.
And this is also the danger of the fragrance.
Because nothing is as it seems.

Hiss.

What can I say?
in 1980, Caron was able to grandiosely preserve the tradition of the house and greet it with magnificent hesperides.
And there are plenty of them to be found; the information in the fragrance pyramid is correct here.
As there are:
Very concentrated bergamot, bright lemon and a wonderfully fruity mandarin.
They are all lifted into the air in the house style with playful aldehydes, while casting shadows on the rather tart green herbs.

The basil reminds me of many a fine men's refresher and is made even more striking by the clary sage.

The sweetly resinous base throbs softly like a silent heart that wants to point out the development
But nobody listens to the warning.
Typical, one is blinded by the drama of Parisian elegance.
Ah, the catwalk of the beautiful!

A floral gauze of blossoms, like the muslin in the preliminary designs of a dress in haute couture, drapes the initial herbs without wanting to change much.
As if the flowers were still stuck in the stage of ideas.

And it is precisely at this point that an accord makes itself felt that was to cause a sensation at Dior in 1980:
Garden carnation, jasmine and cedar together with basil.
Jules struts confidently through the picture, the vain rooster.
Here, however, Lude has to lose some of his bluster and allow himself to be tamed by softer flowers.
But it still seductively charms with a very Mediterranean thyme, killer grin included.
The warmth at this point in the fragrance is congenial, pure carnal lust throbs here!
You almost want to plead: Just a moment, please stay!
Just the little death...
Sorry, I'm drifting off.
Incorrigible!

Unfortunately, our little Juliet has done the math without the flowers.
And so they cover up the macker more and more. He takes a crash course in draping à la toile from the tailors of the high house of fine tailoring.
Monsieur practises his mannerisms.

Gerard Lefort took advantage of the fact that some orchids smell.
This rare blossom has a rosy, vanilla scent and he indulgently lets it take the lead in the fragrance's progression.
It goes in the direction of leathery resins.

And before we know it, we have left the Marais district in Paris and are now in one of the fine boutiques on Avenue Montaigne.

The noble base of the fragrance smells exquisitely bien comme il faut.
A few brushstrokes of oakmoss, a shade of vanilla resins here, a hint of cosmopolitan patchouli there.
Plus high-quality leather, soft and supple.
The ambergris creates the "je ne sais quoi gesture" here and rounds off in a delightfully beguiling way.
The fine lady is a sight to behold, costume, canotier and Kelly bag fit like a glove.
Now off to the obligatory see-and-be-seen at Café Flore on the other side of the Seine. Shoo shoo!

But, but, the danger of the fragrance is only now becoming apparent.

Because the base is not as clear-cut as the previous course.
There is something tartly boyish about the lovely resins.

Well, it's not quite that hearty.
Nevertheless, some of the thyme will get into Madame's head and make her more resolute.

But anyone expecting our annoyed beauty standing at the cab rank on Avenue Montaigne in a melodramatic loss of control will unfortunately be disappointed.
Well, I mean, she's not exactly going to clear her throat and spit in the street because there's no cab in sight.
And if someone snatches the means of transportation from under her nose, she's certainly not going to let her inner construction worker hang out.
Phrases like:
"Va te faire BIEB! Sale fils de BIEB!"
will not pass her neatly made-up lips easily.

Such a:
"Espèce d'imbécile!"
would be in there, though.
I mean, it's human.
It happens to everyone and even in the best families.

Well, what would it be like with Julchen?
Thanks to the flowers and resins, things get dicey here, downright dangerous.

He, the king of the Trou d'Enfer in the darkest and most notorious alley in the Marais, might be tempted to make the following faux pas in the company of his mackers after a few sprays.

"Écoute mon vieux, pas des clopes ce soir!"
I'm ordering one of these lovely Religieuses with my café crème today. Or would you prefer the excellent macarons à la double Framboise Virginie?"

Well, well, Julchen will have some explaining to do with his half-silkies when he is nursed back up and woken from anesthesia.
I mean, in the emergency room, the hearts of those scoundrels will surely soften when they take a closer look at their oeuvre in the glaring light, their leader's bruises on gloriously soft resins.

And who knows?
Perhaps this little water from Caron will have a civilizing effect?

As the saying goes, packs fight, packs get along.
Even in the city of love.

There we have it!
Another one of those mysterious fragrances that initially scare you off with a good slap in the face, only to reveal a noble composition afterwards.

This desert prince does not make it easy for me, his world seems strange and closed to me at first.

Not that I should admit defeat with this kind of animalism.
No, quite the opposite, here the house once again proves its best quality.
It is this incredibly dry and dusty atmosphere that made me despair at first.

Here is another attempt.

Hiss!

What a strange opening!
Earthy patchouli sets the coordinates, the dusty desert welcomes you.
And immediately, natural papyrus scrolls are spread out to tell a story from the Emirates. One that describes the rapid structural development and expensive motorization despite the adherence to traditions.

The scent becomes drier and drier, I can literally smell the desert sand.

Or is it a lemon citron?
This citrusy fruit seems trapped, constricted by earthy and woody notes.
The ruthlessness of the seraglio.

The desert prince slowly approaches me in his immaculate white robe.
Olive green eyes, stern gaze, like this olive note amidst the woods.
Perhaps he masterfully defeats a falcon on his leather-protected forearm.

And the prince smells quite masculine under the bright sun, thanks to cumin and saffron.
But he wouldn't be a nobleman if the jasmine didn't exude this floral, virile elegance.
So he has mastered the cleanliness required on the Arabian Peninsula.

His homeland underwent a colossal transformation.
Buildings that surpass themselves in height with the help of what is technically possible, literally built on sand.
And I can sense this in the scent.
The dusty sand leaves room for a slightly metallic note, sourly infiltrated by vetiver.
The steel frame of the skyscrapers.
The interior design of these modern palaces of the skies is dignifiedly woody, austere and purist. Several types of wood were carpentered by master craftsmen.

The freedom-loving citrus fruit is also held captive here. Thanks to Elemi, her whimpers echo in the expensive alcoves as she searches in vain for an escape.

She is drugged with smoky hashish. Not over the top, no, well-dosed and skillful, so that no one here drifts off indecently.
The subtle intoxication as a substitute for insight.
This is how he tries to calm his conscience, because giving in would be a sign of weakness.

I do not overstretch his hospitality and would like to say goodbye.
The image of citrine captivity is too much for me.

Well-mannered, he drives me to the special-class international airport in his tailor-made twelve-cylinder vehicle from Maranello.
An oily note in the base tells me about the engineering achievement from Italy, the engine of his white sports car leaves nothing to be desired.

And so we say goodbye.
He is spicy and dry with an elegant wooden posture and commanding olive-green eyes.
I am stirred by the contrasts of sandy, built-up oases and the pain of citrus fruit.

Salam, dear prince!

Rudi is celebrating his tenth anniversary this year.
Well then, cheers to the jubilarian!

Rudi, you seem to receive nothing but praise, you fine Gewürztraminer, you!

And then I come along and spoil your party.
I'm sorry, my boy, but this time I'll have to give up the thirteenth fairy.

I'm not sure if your creator, Antonio Alessandria, knows his way around the Rhine.
But the way he serves up this unmistakable wine note suggests that Rüdesheim in the Rheingau has hosted him before.

Dear Rudi, then I'll order us a good drop!

Zisch!

Please excuse me if I can't stop swaying, but it's customary here in the Rheingau.

"I had something to drink
It must have been a strange wine
Because I passed out
And down by the Rhine I had to go small"

Boy, I hope I don't get kidney stones in Nierstein on the left bank of the Rhine from this!

What on earth is being served here?
This wine note with the "dried fruit" exactly reproduces the smells of a wine tavern in my area.
From the fruity, sour barrels to the fallen wine glasses or guests at the table.
Because as soon as the spilt grape juice starts to dry, it becomes thicker, stickier, stickier.
I tell you, you don't want to run your hand over it!

I see the birthday girl likes to wear leather.
But exactly the kind of rough leather jacket that makes you look like a rascal.
Well, if a proper pub brawl was imminent, the ruddy girl would know how to defend herself.

But why can't the obligatory saffron be missing here?
And immortelle to boot?

Well, how can I put it...

So, dear Rudi, if some of the Gewürztraminer ends up on your leather jacket during the frenzy of the party and saffron and immortelle toast each other, then you should get some fresh air very quickly or head straight for the toilet.

At least it turned my stomach!

This sweet, sticky note with the charm of sticking plaster and nicely spiced with curry is not only bad for the leather.
Somehow a number of digestive juices are presented to me in a medically correct way.

But, but, who's going to go limp here?
Come on, one more and then off to the washroom!

This delightfully old-fashioned rose soap is waiting there to make your skin smell flowery again.
Ah, rose and saffron, what a legend.

Because it says that you should never - and I mean never - blaspheme about it.
Otherwise, yes, otherwise, Caroline Reiber in the flesh would appear to you in your sleep from distant Bavaria.
And then you'd be swaying in three-four time until the end of time!

Oh, you know what Rudi?
I continue to enjoy your tenth birthday.
Let yourself be duly celebrated and praised, you seem to deserve it.

In the meantime, I volunteer to be booked at the local police station to sober up.

Salute!