Frankcrummit

I took an initial dislike to this fragrance. "Open day at the funeral parlour; relentlessly depressing" was my original Statement. This was in part a reaction to the perfume's opening notes which are reminiscent of mothballs or embrocation: something musty, dusty and beginning to decay. I put the bottle aside, then tried to sell it on, without success.

So today I took it out of its box again and sprayed a little on my wrist. A little is all you need by the way: unlike other MF fragrances I've tried, this one has enduring sillage. I persevered through the initial medicinal phase, recalling its similarity to Santa Maria Novella's Marescialla. Then I began to be persuaded by the emerging patchouli note ( a sour, rather than chocolatey patchouli), that perhaps the fragrance is worth a second chance.

It's not sweet, it's not churchy, it's not sexy, but nevertheless it demands attention. It invites you into its own mystery.

I can imagine using it, sparingly, during the winter months, as I sit and read by the fire. It's a contemplative rather than active scent, with a persistently melancholy feel: like emptying the wardrobe of a recently-deceased friend or relative, being reminded of their presence and absence in equal measure.

Three weeks after writing the words above, I sold the fragrance on, without regret and finally laid its ghost to rest.

I am incense-obsessed and have worked my way though a whole series of rivals for the Crown.

I own a whole string of incense-based fragrances with a churchy/liturgical base:

Histoires de Parfum's Encens Roi, with its initial peppery kick and realistic smoking olibanum.

Heeley's Cardinal, promising a Pontifical High Mass, but delivering an aldehydic fling.

WienerBlut's Ex Voto, upliftingly liturgical to begin, but with similarly disappointing longevity.

Bois 1920's Scuro, worthy of an honourable mention, with its sweet hits of lemon, jasmine and pine, but which, like the others, fades all too soon.

Only Sorcinelli's LAVS, with its overtones of suede sofas and melancholy monsignors, endures beyond the first hour of wearing ... and his Contre Bombarde 32 and the recent Sacreste des Arbres remain my favourites of his, precisely because they provide more than just the solemn dryness of a Vatican sacristy.

Now they are joined by Jorum Studio's Boswellia Scotia, which at first seems to have little to distinguish itself from the others, though it does have slightly more longevity.

I'm guessing that it is the quality of the Hojari green incense at the heart of this fragrance which anchors it successfully. There is the same High-Church nostalgia at first sampling, but as it dries down the distinctively woody notes of sandalwood and pine carry the nose from the sanctuary into the forest. Finally a strong element of Cypriol comes into play, fusing vetiver and peppery notes together, to shift the fragrance decisively from contemplative to active mode. I intend to wear this, not only to induce a fireside reverie, but also to accompany me on bracing autumnal walks.

I salute Euan McCall's achievement here, not least in delivering quality and longevity in one very attractive package, but I maintain my personal fealty to the undoubted sovereign of incense-based fragrances: beyond the sacristy door, Fueguia 1833's La Luna is herby-copal-and-amyris heaven.

Hilde Soliani is the Queen of quirky gourmands, but here she is in a more contemplative mood, winding her way though the fig orchard and past the rose trees to spend a few minutes of stillness at the garden's heart.

Like Maria Candida Gentile in Sideris and Giuseppe Imprezzabile in L'Oblio, she is at pains to capture the subtle, lingering aspect of floral and woody notes, rather than a photorealistic recreation of the plants in full bloom. It's a late summer remnant , an autumnal memory of what has filled the garden in previous months, a zephyr on the evening air.

All of which is rather florid way of saying this fragrance has minimal longevity and only slight sillage, so is best enjoyed, - as it was created,- in the snatched moments of peace and quiet which privacy allow.

This is the third Meo Fusciuni fragrance I have sampled and the first I have reviewed in any depth.

Rites de Passage was easily dismissed: a short-lived blast of spicy incense, nice for a post-shower pick-me-up but far too transient to carry through the day. Narcotico held out more hope, but its relentlessly downbeat notes of treacly resin and soured patchouli proved so off-putting that I am now selling that bottle on.

Little Song is a different story. First impressions were disappointing : " a hint of something rather stale and stifling." But now that I am wearing the fragrance on my skin and the fragrance warms up, I am warming to it in equal measure.

There is the slightest whiff of pepper at the start, but the coffee note soon asserts itself thereafter. It's not the strong bottom-of-the-cup Arabica of Annette Neuffer or Fueguia 1833 (both of which I heartily recommend to coffee-lovers), but rather the scent of freshly-ground coffee beans in an Italian cafe. In that sense it is all about anticipatory pleasure: a coffee to start the day, to be followed by further adventures as the day unfolds. The coffee shifts into the lightest and mellowest of tobacco notes around which hints of rose and grass waft invitingly, like a late-summer stroll through an Italian garden.

I'm not an expert nose, but I know what I like and in this fragrance Giuseppe Imprezzabile has produced a fragrance with a high proportion of natural ingredients that linger long enough to banish my earlier disappointment with his work.

Bravo, Giuseppe!

Previous reviews and the perfumer's hype would have you believe that this fragrance is an evocation of the wide open spaces of Patagonia: a whale, washed up on the beach, the rolling grasslands, etc. etc.

Don't believe a word of it. This is a plunge into an underground milongas (or tango bar) in a barrio deep on the southern edge of Buenos Aires. There is a smooth hardwood floor, polished with use. Hair oil and human sweat have soaked into the very walls. As you enter, the sultry evening air, laden with jacaranda, is replaced by a well-matured fug of ancient tobacco, coffee and human musk.

It's perfume, but not as we know it. Leave behind your expectations of humpback whales and gauchos riding the pampas. This is a celebration of urban Argentina and the enclosed spaces where a passionate people gather to dance.