Duftrebellen
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Duftrebellen
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The truck among the truck perfumes
Nasomatto's Black Afgano is undoubtedly one of the strongest perfumes in the world - and not without reason. As a perfume extract, it is stronger than ordinary perfumes and takes a unique scent route with dark green tones in the top note as well as cannabis. With tobacco, resins and woods in the heart note, the fragrance takes on an even deeper character while agarwood and incense in the base note solidify it in a very unique way.
The durability and sillage of this fragrance is as brute and powerful as a 40 ton truck on the A1 direction towards Buxtehude Kreppelbach. Everyone notices him already hundreds of meters away, no one comes past him and once set in motion stops him nothing and no one more.
This fragrance is the truck among the fragrances.
Two sprays already hold days on you and over a week on your clothes. Even after showering you smell this dark and mysterious essence. For me, without a doubt, the strongest perfume in the world and an eternal placeholder in the top 5 of my best fragrances.
Good smell.
A.
The durability and sillage of this fragrance is as brute and powerful as a 40 ton truck on the A1 direction towards Buxtehude Kreppelbach. Everyone notices him already hundreds of meters away, no one comes past him and once set in motion stops him nothing and no one more.
This fragrance is the truck among the fragrances.
Two sprays already hold days on you and over a week on your clothes. Even after showering you smell this dark and mysterious essence. For me, without a doubt, the strongest perfume in the world and an eternal placeholder in the top 5 of my best fragrances.
Good smell.
A.
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The Black Church
"On your horses!" Yells our guide. We're saddling up for Transylvania. An area of great lands for us all. An area we will conquer. Pastures and deciduous forests dominate the landscape. Rich flower meadows characterize the scenery. A beautiful idyll for us and our cause.
We ride and ride, we camp and eat. We have fun, but are always anxious to get what's coming to us.
After some time we move on, smelling more and more the lovely flowers in the wide meadows of this land. More and more we are offered what will soon be ours. Sultan Mehmed is sure of his cause and we even more so. I am glad to be one of his horsemen who are trying with all their fighting power to bring about peace under our Prophet Mohammed.
Roses, Jasmine, Tuberose...All these glorious scents, in combination with our horses, the fresh woods, grass - Deadly combined with the cold steel of our armor, swords and arrows. A conglomeration of smells we will never forget.
The only thing missing is the sweet taste of victory.
Not far now to the city walls. This Vlad is said to be a cruel ruler who must be stopped. We are his death.
At last we are here. We will camp at the foot of a hill and thus lay siege to this tyrant. Our attack will not last long. I'll eat something with my comrades.
It's getting dark.
I wake up to nothing but screams, metallic clanking, and smell fire. I immediately grab my scimitar, put on my harness by necessity and jump out of the tent.
Before me dark figures, in the light of the torches I do not see whether friend or foe.
I see only in the corner of my eye a club or cudgel rushing towards me.
Darkness.
When I wake up I feel 7 years of pain, concentrated in one spot in my abdomen. Panicked, I look around. Thick spears everywhere. Posts. Stakes. Sharpened. Not sharpened. Blood, guts, whimpering all around me. I hang in the air. Beside me, my comrades. I'm alive - still.
The sweet smell of victory. Not for us. Just the bitter, metallic taste of blood in our mouths. Death has come to take us. Not this tyrant. But us, who only wanted to smell the sweet smell of flowers, to reap the fruits of our labour. To ride our beloved horses in the wide meadows. This earth will not be ours. It will only be watered with our blood.
I just wanted to be a little richer than the others. I just wanted to have a little more than what was needed to live. I wanted to write stories and legends with my friends & comrades.
But all I have left is just this wooden post.
Here, hovering above it all, I at least see this cruel bastard himself losing his head. Pickled in honey, he is offered to our Sultan. O, thou sweet and bitter taste of retribution. Everyone gets what he deserves. One more, the other less.
Bury me and my comrades in the Black Church. There we will stand the test of time. And our history will hopefully be the breeding ground for all those who wish to conquer this cursed land. With all its riches and the tragic story of our downfall.
We ride and ride, we camp and eat. We have fun, but are always anxious to get what's coming to us.
After some time we move on, smelling more and more the lovely flowers in the wide meadows of this land. More and more we are offered what will soon be ours. Sultan Mehmed is sure of his cause and we even more so. I am glad to be one of his horsemen who are trying with all their fighting power to bring about peace under our Prophet Mohammed.
Roses, Jasmine, Tuberose...All these glorious scents, in combination with our horses, the fresh woods, grass - Deadly combined with the cold steel of our armor, swords and arrows. A conglomeration of smells we will never forget.
The only thing missing is the sweet taste of victory.
Not far now to the city walls. This Vlad is said to be a cruel ruler who must be stopped. We are his death.
At last we are here. We will camp at the foot of a hill and thus lay siege to this tyrant. Our attack will not last long. I'll eat something with my comrades.
It's getting dark.
I wake up to nothing but screams, metallic clanking, and smell fire. I immediately grab my scimitar, put on my harness by necessity and jump out of the tent.
Before me dark figures, in the light of the torches I do not see whether friend or foe.
I see only in the corner of my eye a club or cudgel rushing towards me.
Darkness.
When I wake up I feel 7 years of pain, concentrated in one spot in my abdomen. Panicked, I look around. Thick spears everywhere. Posts. Stakes. Sharpened. Not sharpened. Blood, guts, whimpering all around me. I hang in the air. Beside me, my comrades. I'm alive - still.
The sweet smell of victory. Not for us. Just the bitter, metallic taste of blood in our mouths. Death has come to take us. Not this tyrant. But us, who only wanted to smell the sweet smell of flowers, to reap the fruits of our labour. To ride our beloved horses in the wide meadows. This earth will not be ours. It will only be watered with our blood.
I just wanted to be a little richer than the others. I just wanted to have a little more than what was needed to live. I wanted to write stories and legends with my friends & comrades.
But all I have left is just this wooden post.
Here, hovering above it all, I at least see this cruel bastard himself losing his head. Pickled in honey, he is offered to our Sultan. O, thou sweet and bitter taste of retribution. Everyone gets what he deserves. One more, the other less.
Bury me and my comrades in the Black Church. There we will stand the test of time. And our history will hopefully be the breeding ground for all those who wish to conquer this cursed land. With all its riches and the tragic story of our downfall.
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An evening in London, in the 18th century - alcohol, smoke & wooden chairs
The 18th century in London. A little evening walk along the rugged streets, whose potholes are soaked with thousands of small puddles, in which people like to jump and fall.
I, the upstart of a penniless father and a strumpet, have but the one escape in my dreary and wretched life: Gin.
With a few pennies in my mittens, clutched as if they were my children, I rush straight to my favored tavern after my work is done. The door slams open, my breath catching for a split second.
Smoke, alcohol, sweat, a hint of the animalistic, buried beneath the wooden floor that has seen many a dirty boot and cold winter.
I greet the noses I know, including the boozy ragamuffins who, just like me, try to escape this life every night. The mood is loud, deceptive, and only dear alcohol is able to catch the bitter note in the air and lay its acrid note over it.
I sit down at my regular seat on old Harry. That's what I call my trusty but aging wooden chair, whose legs have more nicks in them than those knocked into the front door by some commotion or other.
I say yes, this shed has seen as many stories as I have words in my vocabulary to call my own.
There is no one at my table yet, nor do I want visitors today. I want to be alone with myself. Alone with my thoughts, which revolve around the stuffiness of life.
I order myself a gin. There's nothing like gin. Gin is the root of all happiness and after just 2-3 drinks, I've arrived in a world where all the clocks are at 12. All the lights shine through the windows. All people are silent.
Finally, I have it. I set the bottle on my table, open the stopper, and savor the aroma of juniper, pepper, citrus notes, and the secret ingredient that makes my breath catch one more time.
The aromas mingle with this old, gloomy and noisy tavern. Should I pour into my glass? Or drink straight from the bottle? - The decision is easy.
I put the bottle on, drink in the morning, drink in the evening, drink at noon, I drink and drink. Forget my worries, forget my anger, I forget everything but you - my gin golden to me.
On this my chair I sit, the bottle empty, the ceiling radiant, the surroundings loud and quiet. I try to order my thoughts, but still they escape my mind - I shout, I laugh, I cry, every single moment of my thought world spreads out in this tavern.
Slowly the eyes close. Slowly the voices fade away. Slowly I slip away from this world.
When I wake up, I am lying on the wooden floor I know. A woman is standing over me and I just don't want to have this unbearable headache anymore. I feel dizzy. I can barely breathe.
The woman standing there is holding baby clothes out to me. I don't really understand her voice, she just says something about baby, money, gin.... And I remember that I too hold my pennies like a baby.
This is my life. This is my downfall.
I, the upstart of a penniless father and a strumpet, have but the one escape in my dreary and wretched life: Gin.
With a few pennies in my mittens, clutched as if they were my children, I rush straight to my favored tavern after my work is done. The door slams open, my breath catching for a split second.
Smoke, alcohol, sweat, a hint of the animalistic, buried beneath the wooden floor that has seen many a dirty boot and cold winter.
I greet the noses I know, including the boozy ragamuffins who, just like me, try to escape this life every night. The mood is loud, deceptive, and only dear alcohol is able to catch the bitter note in the air and lay its acrid note over it.
I sit down at my regular seat on old Harry. That's what I call my trusty but aging wooden chair, whose legs have more nicks in them than those knocked into the front door by some commotion or other.
I say yes, this shed has seen as many stories as I have words in my vocabulary to call my own.
There is no one at my table yet, nor do I want visitors today. I want to be alone with myself. Alone with my thoughts, which revolve around the stuffiness of life.
I order myself a gin. There's nothing like gin. Gin is the root of all happiness and after just 2-3 drinks, I've arrived in a world where all the clocks are at 12. All the lights shine through the windows. All people are silent.
Finally, I have it. I set the bottle on my table, open the stopper, and savor the aroma of juniper, pepper, citrus notes, and the secret ingredient that makes my breath catch one more time.
The aromas mingle with this old, gloomy and noisy tavern. Should I pour into my glass? Or drink straight from the bottle? - The decision is easy.
I put the bottle on, drink in the morning, drink in the evening, drink at noon, I drink and drink. Forget my worries, forget my anger, I forget everything but you - my gin golden to me.
On this my chair I sit, the bottle empty, the ceiling radiant, the surroundings loud and quiet. I try to order my thoughts, but still they escape my mind - I shout, I laugh, I cry, every single moment of my thought world spreads out in this tavern.
Slowly the eyes close. Slowly the voices fade away. Slowly I slip away from this world.
When I wake up, I am lying on the wooden floor I know. A woman is standing over me and I just don't want to have this unbearable headache anymore. I feel dizzy. I can barely breathe.
The woman standing there is holding baby clothes out to me. I don't really understand her voice, she just says something about baby, money, gin.... And I remember that I too hold my pennies like a baby.
This is my life. This is my downfall.
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Of old book pages, mustiness, excrement & decay
Inconspicuous rises the outer facade of a library shrouded in mist. The architecture suggests the middle of the 19th century. Slowly but steadily, the inexperienced young man climbs the stairs - 20 steps later he finds himself at the gateway to the entrance. An old entrance gate, decorated with countless scratches, bears witness to a long and merciless time. Stories engraved with fingernails, pointed tools, or even knives & scissors suggest that this library has endured for centuries and will continue to endure for millennia to come.
The young boy opens the gate with a shaky but deliberate swing and finds torn, loose book pages fluttering lightly in the breeze of a broken window before his feet, only confirming what the front gate had announced: Impermanence, trying with all its might to overcome death.
Trapped in this juggernaut of dust, excrement of long-dead animals, and an air of bitter, fever-inducing atmosphere that makes one's breath catch again and again and again, the boy looks around.
Gasping from this barely endurable animality, he keeps finding the one tunnel between the smell that keeps him going straight. In search of the unknown. In search of something he has always dreamed of, but burrowing through countless clouds never had the opportunity to reach for.
A passion, a sense of happiness - none of it is tangible in this old library. He continues to rummage through old parchments with characters he is unable to understand. But still he is fascinated by these letters, handed down in incomprehensible language. The smell that comes to him each time he leafs through them promises nothing but this frailty of the past. That which once was tempts him to pause. To transport the moment of the past into the here and now. He tosses the rolls of parchment to the floor. The sweet, musty smell that is stirred up slowly creeps up his nose. A feeling comes over him. A feeling he has been trying to find over and over again. A spark of light, a hint of bliss - A flash in his brain twists that makes him grin.
Trapped inside himself in a building that connects the past, the now, and the future, he now knows, "I'm home."
-
An excellent fragrance that beautifully depicts the scenery of an old abandoned library in all its musty, leathery, animalic & dusty facets. Civet provides the animalic - in combination with the woods - excremental character, which is by no means bad, but fits nicely into the overall concept. Frankincense provides a certain stuffiness that makes me think of rooms full of dust and mustiness. The highlight, however, is all the other scents that work in tandem to tell a story of old books, brickwork and loneliness. Truly the best library scent that will knock my beloved Memoirs of a Trespasser off its throne.
Heavy and unforgiving, the scent settles on the skin and provides a true spectacle for daydreamers and those who want to become one - you just have to go for it.
The young boy opens the gate with a shaky but deliberate swing and finds torn, loose book pages fluttering lightly in the breeze of a broken window before his feet, only confirming what the front gate had announced: Impermanence, trying with all its might to overcome death.
Trapped in this juggernaut of dust, excrement of long-dead animals, and an air of bitter, fever-inducing atmosphere that makes one's breath catch again and again and again, the boy looks around.
Gasping from this barely endurable animality, he keeps finding the one tunnel between the smell that keeps him going straight. In search of the unknown. In search of something he has always dreamed of, but burrowing through countless clouds never had the opportunity to reach for.
A passion, a sense of happiness - none of it is tangible in this old library. He continues to rummage through old parchments with characters he is unable to understand. But still he is fascinated by these letters, handed down in incomprehensible language. The smell that comes to him each time he leafs through them promises nothing but this frailty of the past. That which once was tempts him to pause. To transport the moment of the past into the here and now. He tosses the rolls of parchment to the floor. The sweet, musty smell that is stirred up slowly creeps up his nose. A feeling comes over him. A feeling he has been trying to find over and over again. A spark of light, a hint of bliss - A flash in his brain twists that makes him grin.
Trapped inside himself in a building that connects the past, the now, and the future, he now knows, "I'm home."
-
An excellent fragrance that beautifully depicts the scenery of an old abandoned library in all its musty, leathery, animalic & dusty facets. Civet provides the animalic - in combination with the woods - excremental character, which is by no means bad, but fits nicely into the overall concept. Frankincense provides a certain stuffiness that makes me think of rooms full of dust and mustiness. The highlight, however, is all the other scents that work in tandem to tell a story of old books, brickwork and loneliness. Truly the best library scent that will knock my beloved Memoirs of a Trespasser off its throne.
Heavy and unforgiving, the scent settles on the skin and provides a true spectacle for daydreamers and those who want to become one - you just have to go for it.
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Schrödinger's perfume
Intro:
A little hype has already arisen around the latest creation of Nasomatto. The witty announcement video by perfumer Alessandro Gualtieri has also contributed to the fact that the fragrance is probably intended as a homage to the super villains "Fantômas". Since this character is obviously up to no good, but probably sees himself as a genius, the same contrast can be found in the "Fantomas" fragrance
Scent:
The first time you spray it on, you are immediately struck down by a watermelon. Later in the process this impression remains. And even after 2 days this watermelon still smells. Done
No, this scent is not that simple after all. Why a watermelon, I wonder? - It doesn't make any sense.
But apparently the scent impressions of other people are different: My brother says Fantomas smells fresh, summery, not bad at all. My friend (chemist) describes him in such a way that he smells very strongly of chemical substances. Not in a good sense. - I perceive the scent as a straight watermelon, which has been refined a bit with patchouli and a pinch of sandalwood. This somewhat dark, chocolaty note, which I associate with patchouli, unfolds quite present in the heart note, without the perfume losing any of its synthetic fruitiness.
A really unusual fragrance, which has never been smelled or produced in this way before, in my opinion - 11 points on the unique point scale.
Flacon & Packaging:
The outer packaging is wrapped in a red sleeve and is only open at the top and bottom. This is very reminiscent of the lid of the bottle, where the wood that makes up the lid can be seen at the top and bottom. It is wrapped in a silver-coloured foil which is very good at taking fingerprints ;)
The packaging - after the sleeve has been removed - is quite colourful and reminds of comics of the 60s or 70s. The concept of the super villain is also well met here.
The flacon is typical for Nasomatto and has a very beautiful rectangular shape. Nothing new here. Furthermore, a smaller cap is included, so that you can take the flacon comfortably on trips.
Conclusion:
I'm stuck between chairs with this smell: On the one hand, it's really interesting and reflects the concept of an impossible scent, but which somehow has something, super. I really like this synthetic watermelon, which later becomes somehow chocolaty.
But on the other hand, the fragrance gets on your nerves after a while and always brings out nuances that seem a bit unround, if not "disgusting".
I will definitely resell the fragrance and get a bottling. Smelling the atomizer now and then is enough for me to "enjoy" this smell. But I don't want it on myself, because it doesn't give me enough. And 50% of those around me will surely thank me for it.
A little hype has already arisen around the latest creation of Nasomatto. The witty announcement video by perfumer Alessandro Gualtieri has also contributed to the fact that the fragrance is probably intended as a homage to the super villains "Fantômas". Since this character is obviously up to no good, but probably sees himself as a genius, the same contrast can be found in the "Fantomas" fragrance
Scent:
The first time you spray it on, you are immediately struck down by a watermelon. Later in the process this impression remains. And even after 2 days this watermelon still smells. Done
No, this scent is not that simple after all. Why a watermelon, I wonder? - It doesn't make any sense.
But apparently the scent impressions of other people are different: My brother says Fantomas smells fresh, summery, not bad at all. My friend (chemist) describes him in such a way that he smells very strongly of chemical substances. Not in a good sense. - I perceive the scent as a straight watermelon, which has been refined a bit with patchouli and a pinch of sandalwood. This somewhat dark, chocolaty note, which I associate with patchouli, unfolds quite present in the heart note, without the perfume losing any of its synthetic fruitiness.
A really unusual fragrance, which has never been smelled or produced in this way before, in my opinion - 11 points on the unique point scale.
Flacon & Packaging:
The outer packaging is wrapped in a red sleeve and is only open at the top and bottom. This is very reminiscent of the lid of the bottle, where the wood that makes up the lid can be seen at the top and bottom. It is wrapped in a silver-coloured foil which is very good at taking fingerprints ;)
The packaging - after the sleeve has been removed - is quite colourful and reminds of comics of the 60s or 70s. The concept of the super villain is also well met here.
The flacon is typical for Nasomatto and has a very beautiful rectangular shape. Nothing new here. Furthermore, a smaller cap is included, so that you can take the flacon comfortably on trips.
Conclusion:
I'm stuck between chairs with this smell: On the one hand, it's really interesting and reflects the concept of an impossible scent, but which somehow has something, super. I really like this synthetic watermelon, which later becomes somehow chocolaty.
But on the other hand, the fragrance gets on your nerves after a while and always brings out nuances that seem a bit unround, if not "disgusting".
I will definitely resell the fragrance and get a bottling. Smelling the atomizer now and then is enough for me to "enjoy" this smell. But I don't want it on myself, because it doesn't give me enough. And 50% of those around me will surely thank me for it.
4 Comments
