DonDonDon

Once upon a time, there was a Belgian comic artist named Georges Prosper Remi, better known by his pen name Hergé. His multi-part adventure series "Tintin" dealt with the adventures of the young reporter Tintin and his dog Snowy. These adventures took them to all corners of the world, where they faced countless challenges and dangers. My Uncle Uli gradually gifted me all the volumes of the series during my childhood, and so many formative years are connected to this reading. Among the several dozen volumes, there is an episode titled "The Cigars of the Pharaoh"; in it, cigars play a role, their bands and boxes adorned with a mysterious symbol, somewhat reminiscent of the sign for Yin and Yang. In one sequence of the story, Tintin enters a secret, vault-like bunker in the desert, where crates containing these cigars are located (at least that's how I remember it), and somehow the whole story captivated me so much that I (as a child!) decided to start collecting cigars. It all began when I was allowed to smell a real cigar in its unlit state and found the scent very pleasant. You should know that at that time, my parents and I lived with my maternal grandparents in one house, and my grandfather (born in 1890) was a gentleman of the old school who, although he never smoked himself, kept guest cigars and cigarettes in his desk. Over time, I gathered a small collection of various cigars, which I obtained partly from my grandfather's guest supply and partly from ceremoniously requested cigars from guests who had brought their own. The adults around me let me be back then. They considered this interest somewhat peculiar but completely harmless, especially since I initially showed no interest in smoking these cigars, which was related to the fact that the smell after lighting was completely different from the one I so appreciated in its unlit state. At some point, I even found a tobacco dealer in the neighborhood where I could buy the cheapest cigars (brand "Handelsgold") with my pocket money, and he had no objections to my story ("they're for my grandpa") and no scruples about selling me the goods as a minor. It was the 1970s, after all, everything was a bit different than today. The end of my collecting passion came when my father, when I was about 12 years old, took me aside and solemnly asked if I wanted to smoke one of those cigars. Despite my knowledge of the less pleasant smell of burning tobacco, I was absolutely thrilled and chose the largest one from my collection. What followed turned into a more or less valuable educational experience, where I wished to give up after half of the cigar, in a rather dizzy state, to which my father remarked that "the best part is at the end." In the end, I threw up in the bushes of our garden, was sick for a day and a half, and my collecting passion was gone. The good news is that my review of "Tabac 28" by Le Labo refers to the time BEFORE this unfortunate end of my cigar affair. The mysterious and wonderful scent that emanated from the tightly rolled dried tobacco leaves, the fantastic wooden boxes with the ornate labels, the miniature bands that resembled little royal coats of arms - all of this comes back to me when I smell Le Labo's "Tabac 28." A great rendition of this theme, the best I have encountered in the perfume world so far. As I heard, the fragrance is supposedly available exclusively in the store in Miami, USA - only in September each year would it be offered for global shipping. A circumstance that fits well with my memories of the mysterious and rare "Cigars of the Pharaoh." Just as the fragrance belongs to the not-so-inexpensive products of the perfume world. So, a lot comes together, doesn't it? I should say that "Tabac 28" would be too monothematic and a bit too sweet for everyday use, but that's all completely okay. A perfume for certain hours, indeed, but above all a wonderful reminder of childhood before it was caught up by the reality of adulthood. Thank you for that.

When I quit smoking, one of the methods that helped me during strong cravings was to bring a full ashtray to my nose and then, very slowly and deliberately, smell it. The scent of cold ash and condensation was so repulsive that the acute urge to smoke was immediately alleviated.

This introduction is admittedly quite misleading for a description of T-Rex. The great dinosaur actually has nothing to do with full ashtrays, except perhaps those that have fallen into a basin full of fresh floral absolute. Tobacco also seems to me to be a rather misplaced olfactory description, so one might ask, what now? I will get to that shortly.

First, I must preface my comments by saying that I experience this creation as an indescribable fascination. It seems that some components have been mixed together that can always be clearly named and categorized when considered individually. However, the result is clearly far more intense than the sum of its parts and something completely different from anything I have encountered so far. I have only experienced such a strong feeling of uncertainty regarding what has been combined here, along with simultaneous enthusiasm and deep emotion, with Stercus, and that was quite a while and several dozen samples ago (Technical note: Stercus is not similar; I mention it only because it occupied my thoughts similarly).

And by now, T-Rex has fully captured me. Really. Today, I thought once again that he is clearly a candidate for a positive review; he deserves it, he is undoubtedly a great one, even if probably only for a few. And as so often before, I removed the cap from my sample and sniffed with pleasure, only to once again get the impression that I can at best inadequately express what my nose perceives in words.

With that in mind, and at the same time as if I had been given the task by an outside person, I sat down again in peace (but really in peace, alone in the room, no appointments, no noises, no disturbances), held the sample to my nose, and breathed in slowly, with flared nostrils, but without "sniffing" ... sober, so to speak, and without intention, haste, or goal. And suddenly, there it was, this metal ashtray, emptied but uncleaned, less as a smell, more as a visual association. And above that, a lot, a whole lot of floral and flower essence, heavy, concentrated, like bunches of lilies in a hermetically sealed incense chamber. That was the image, even though neither cold ash nor lily as such are recognizable. But many nuances from these spheres.

Some readers may now say that I have really struggled to put my feelings and perceptions into words. That’s true. But it had to come out like that. T-Rex, in all its heaviness, ambivalence, and uncompromising nature, has indeed become one of my favorites. And this circle is very, very small. Of course, I undoubtedly have a screw loose, a big one even. But when T-Rex comes on in the morning, it sings songs by Roy Orbison.

What else can I say? Thank you for this fragrance, Zoologist. Someone had a big heart for exotics, even if only for those with money in their pockets. No matter, a sample is always welcome.

A long time ago, it must have been sometime in the early to mid-nineties, I was on Düsseldorf's Königsallee and wanted to quickly stop by the bank. I can't remember if it was Deutsche Bank, Commerzbank, or Sparkasse at the time; it doesn't really matter. In any case, it was a massive branch with a lot of pretentiousness and splendor. And in the foyer stood this, let's say, "installation" - a pedestal or a freestanding block with or without a showcase, I only remember it vaguely. In any case, a perfume was displayed there, a bottle with a spray nozzle. The perfume was an opaque dark brown liquid, and you could either take samples or receive one upon request. And it smelled purely of horse manure; it was truly the essence of a stable, completely unvarnished. The contrast with the bank fascinated me and left an indelible impression. Additionally, I somehow liked this horse perfume. At that time, I wasn't a perfume wearer and had long forgotten the story until it came back to me about three years ago (indelibly, indeed). I began to research and looked for traces and clues about this happening a quarter of a century ago in the bank - all in vain. And so I got to know Parfumo, registered, and as my first official act in the forum, I asked if anyone knew of a scent that smells like a stable. I was kindly advised to rub myself with ammonia or to get close to a horse. Of course, many names were mentioned that I had never heard of: “Stercus,” “Dzing!,” “Lui,” “3.1 Arabian Horse,” “Muscs Koublai Khan,” and many more. There was surely something from “Parfums de Marly” as well. I gradually got to know all these fragrances and many others. Olfactory universes opened up, there were some nose-core splits (Thanks Louis1!), and the stable naturally faded into the background again. Until today (!), just now, frustrated and scared about the upcoming interim exams (regarding my retraining), I stood in front of the “Parfums de Marly” shelf in Leipzig's Karstadt, the best local address for perfume, just to distract myself. I had already had all their fragrances and didn't expect any big surprises, but after extensive testing, I fell in love with “Hamdani” once again. It speaks to me and says very clearly: “Good day, I am a horse. My apples come with caramel, my coat smells like sunshine, and I behave like a flight animal.” Awesome! Hamdani makes me happy for a short time, just as long as the test strip lasts, which isn't very long. I lack the cash for a re-spray, as the 100 ml costs € 215.-, which isn't quite as affordable as I would like. But that's okay, because there's the souk, thank God. In this sense: “The liaison has been rekindled, brought home straight from the lead ring!” ;-)))

First of all, a heartfelt thank you to the active Parfumo user A……, who asked me for a review in exchange for a rare sample of "Dahn Oudh Al Shams." A task that, as it turned out, is definitely not an easy one, because I wouldn't have thought of reviewing this fragrance on my own. It doesn't captivate me enough; somehow, it feels too indecisive. When I hold my nose to the recently used spray head, I clearly and unmistakably smell a freshly fertilized field. ((My lady, on the other hand, smells fruits (!). It's incredible once again how different perceptions can be.)) After spraying it on my skin, I actually catch a whiff of fifteen-year-old Haitian "Barbancourt Rhum," a fine white rum made from sugarcane, for the first ten seconds. Quite astonishing. Then the rum completely disappears, and immediately after that, I get musty wood with overripe fruits, and, at least, a bit of fertilizer on the side. And that’s how it stays. Sometimes the wood comes forward a bit more, sometimes the fruits, sometimes the fertilizer. What they all have in common is a damp warmth. My lady, however, smells insect spray and wood varnish (!). After surprisingly little time, the whole thing weakens, then fades away a bit boringly for my taste and gradually disappears. The mustiness reminds me most of the (intense) must of "Muscs Koublai Khan," although that one is certainly less fruity. And with that, my comparison options are already exhausted. The spray head impression of the "fertilized field" is indeed remarkable and unique in its intensity, but "Dahn Oudh Al Shams" does not pass the test for me. The scent is too indecisive, too unspectacular. If it’s going to go into the fecal-animal corner, then please do it right. However, it was a very interesting experience for me and the first real Arab fragrance to boot. More to come.

When I stumbled upon Parfumo about 12 months ago, I was looking for a scent that reminded me of a horse stable. Since "Douglas" could naturally not help me, I asked here in the forum and immediately received a plethora of fragrances that I had never heard of before, including "Muscs Koublai Khan," "Lui," "Arabian Horse No. 3.1," "Dahn Oud Al Shams," "Oud Assam," and many more. Among the first mentioned was "Stercus," which was mentioned multiple times and immediately piqued my interest due to its apparently highly polarizing properties. I purchased a sample of "Stercus" from an experienced and now beloved Parfumo member, which was to become my first olfactory experience in the niche sector. I still remember my bewilderment well; I was neither attracted nor repelled, rather perplexed, irritated, and astonished. I had never smelled anything like it; strangely, my first association - which I never had again - was the smell of pencil leads from elementary school, somehow woody and austere. "What is this?" I asked myself, and "How does one come up with the idea to compose something like this and declare it as a perfume?" It took many days and several tests for me to realize that the strong but diffuse sensation I had with each test was due to the fact that this fragrance must contain ingredients that were both attractive and repulsive - with "repulsive" not meaning "disgusting," but rather in the sense of "animalistic" or "stern." What I also remember well, simply because the situation regarding a scent was rare for me, was the recurring question of whether I liked it or not. I wavered and searched within myself, and similar to a music album that requires attention and repeated listening until it gradually reveals itself, I eventually discovered that I simply found "Stercus" magnificent. Somehow, it was a very special blend of serious & austere & stern with a hint of allure. This realization (the one of liking) also arose from the fact that I had since been able to compare many other controversial fragrances, several of which were likely composed with similar intentions as "Stercus," but none had yet spoken a language that fascinated and appealed to me/repulsed me as much as that of "Stercus." To this day, I cannot, unlike others who have commented here, decipher what ingredients might be in it. Which is certainly one of the perfumer's intentions. For me, it remains to hope that the production of "Stercus" will not be discontinued in the foreseeable future, as the pricing unfortunately does not allow me to buy a battery of bottles in advance. Which of course serves the exclusivity. Thus, this experience remains a nasal and sensory adventure akin to a passionate yet happy affair that, if one were to try to hold onto it, would lose its vitality and significance. Hats off & thank you, Mr. Gualtieri!