FvSpee

Leather fragrances are, as my old loyal readers know, not my specialty. However, since Ford's OL has now fallen into my lap, here are my 2 cents on it.

OL presents itself as a rather uninnovative, very mainstream fruity-synthetic leather scent that has been swimming along with the leather fragrances of the last 15 years, even though neither Him nor other berries are listed in the fragrance pyramid.

At first sniff, the fragrance surprisingly appeals to me quite well. It is definitely wearable for the broad masses and suitable for a variety of occasions.

Upon closer inspection, I pleasantly notice the light, yet distinctive cardamom freshness, which has mysteriously been hardly mentioned in previous reviews. I love cardamom as a kitchen spice and occasionally in fragrances as well. It gives OL a certain cheeky edge, which, had this idea been further developed, could have excellently broken the pseudo-elitist, massively gold-chained, and leasing Ferrari-like basic habitus of the scent ironically. However, this (from my perspective) opportunity was missed, as the synthetic commonalities increasingly obscure the overall picture.

I must admit that I may not be qualified to appreciate this Ford objectively. It starts with the fact that TF is certainly somewhat distant from me in terms of brand image, even though I have already given a 9 (not a Porsche 9) to a Ford here. Additionally, I can't relate to the images that this scent apparently serially evokes. Of the approximately 7000 perceived reviews here, 6500 deal with cars (of which 5500 are about Porsches and Ferraris), and of the remaining 500, 400 are about motorcycles and motorcycle jackets. Far behind are leather sofas. Why not horses or bicycle saddles, hand or foot shoes, whips, bondage gear, or old footballs?

Lastly, for me, the name always belongs to the fragrance. Ombré, meaning shaded, I find firstly misleading, as OL comes across very linear and devoid of subtlety, and secondly linguistically unpleasant, as a French adjective is unmotivatedly welded to an English noun, like some pluvieux weather.

That this fragrance is not named after Viscount Halifax, Viceroy of India, proponent of appeasement policy towards Hitler, and Churchill's ambassador in Washington is probably obvious. However, I would bet all my Canadian souvenirs, including the moose T-shirts, that Lehmann was also not thinking of the big city in Nova Scotia, especially since no oranges bloom up there in the rough north.

The last Lehmann, may Buddha bless him, was, as the whispers go in Berlin, a passionate Floridist, and thus he liked to name his citrus fragrances after Floridian cities and regions. This is evident with Miami and Key West, but Naples is certainly not anglicized after Naples, Italy, but rather after the 20,000-inhabitant town Naples, FL. Even with the Lehmann Springfield, which I adore and is a bit older, I believe a location in Bay County is not far-fetched. And with Halifax, a true citrus gem, I am even sure that Halifax Area / Daytona Beach stood for the name of the fragrance.

Halifax is one of Lehmann's last creations; unfortunately, I didn't get to try it during his lifetime and have now ordered a small bottle from the Neo-Lehmanns. I was truly not disappointed. Halifax is a Lehmann as it should be: Straight, wearable, special, linear, and with a Duracell-like longevity.

I perceive the fragrance as related to Springfield, and that is a huge compliment coming from me. Because Springfield is one of my favorite Lehmanns and one of my favorite fragrances overall. It features a striking, radiant citrus at the forefront; however, behind it lie earthy and spicy, almost animalistic depths, with the consequences described in my review of that fragrance.

At first sniff, Halifax impressed me as a scent brother of Springfield; I felt the overall character to be quite similar. As I continued to sniff, and after having put the two fragrances to a double non-blind test against each other, I stand by that, but I also see significant physiological differences between the brothers.

The citrus of Halifax is distinctly neroli-dominated. I would almost go so far as to say that Halifax is the most beautiful neroli fragrance that comes to mind, even more beautiful than Lehmann's monoflor (or monofruct) of that name. Almost equally prominent, I perceive orange blossom, and this also comes across wonderfully radiant (and non-fluffy), although perhaps not as brilliantly as in my "tenner" Azemour les Orangers. The rounding green notes are definitely brighter than in Springfield, and in place of the trace-elemental, abyssal animalic that gives Springfield a barely perceptible erotic note, Halifax features light, hard, precise, precious woody notes.

In summary, a highly summery, very masculine, well-lasting and projecting, exceedingly self-confidently bright neroli fragrance with light green and wonderfully integrated slightly woody notes. The 9 that I award is tight but thoroughly justified. Springfield, which I once raised from 8.5 to 9, I might now rather rate at 9.5.

The miracle has indeed happened: The Lehmann perfume manufactory on Kantstraße in Berlin, a highly original Prussian contribution to the world fragrance heritage, is back. Mr. Lehmann, the somewhat older but by no means frail last family heir of the business, passed away unexpectedly about a year ago, just before the 100th anniversary of the company, and certainly before the succession question was resolved. The quirky little shop was closed down, and I know no one who expected a reopening.

However, it seems that a motivated team of businesspeople and fragrance specialists, who respect the Lehmann legacy and operate somewhat mysteriously in the background, has come together to continue the brand and its offerings. What has been seen so far inspires unreserved optimism: The name "Harry Lehmann" remains, the historically grown fragrance assortment is being taken over, and the tradition of bottling in simple flacons of various desired sizes is being continued. Changes have been and will be made where I would have recommended them to the old Mr. Lehmann, who apparently was not a gifted businessman: terminating unfavorable licensing agreements, establishing a fully functional online shop, moderate price increases, and a careful decluttering of the shop (with the discontinuation of the iconic but ultimately unsuitable artificial flower department).

The fragrance assortment of the "new Harry Lehmann" is therefore almost the same as that which was offered at the time of the old Mr. Lehmann's death. However, two newcomers stand out, both in name: "HL 22" and "HL 33". At least with "HL 22", it is clearly a new creation and not a traditional Lehmann fragrance. For not only was there no fragrance of this name as of 2022/2023, but the new Lehmann website also promotes the scent as "born from the first perfumes created by Harry Lehmann." This seems to imply that this fragrance was somehow experimentally blended from the formulas of the earliest Lehmann originals (it is not specified whether from those still marketed or already discontinued, or from which ones at all).

The number 22 seems to refer less to the year 1922 (although the company's advertising cautiously alludes to the Roaring Twenties) and more to the ominous (and similarly ominously continued by the new owners) Lehmann numbering system. The fragrance is designated as No. 22 - I suspect that the numbering sequence is essentially chronological, but that numbers freed up by the discontinuation of fragrances have been and will be reassigned - and I would bet that this was also the case here.

I find the fragrance itself difficult to grasp and describe, especially since I cannot connect it to any prior reviews. Upon spraying, it initially impresses as demanding and harsh, bordering on dissonance, coming across as deep and underlying; its color, for me, is a deep purple. If I had to isolate individual notes, which is generally not my strength, I would associate fruity tones (leaning towards dark fig) and sinister spices.

After at most half an hour, the scene calms down noticeably, the fragrance becomes rounder and more pleasant, but remains dense and full-bodied (without being overwhelming). I would tend to deny floral and aldehydic notes (so much for the topic of the 20s); regarding flowers, I might not completely rule out dark, heavy hints of rose or hyacinth.

While the fragrance temperature fluctuates around the zero line between cautious coolness and earthy, unobtrusive warmth, and the fragrance remains compact, almost opaque in texture, appearance, and feel, earthy-brown notes emerge, which could plausibly be explained by the notes of angelica root and woods that are noted here at Parfumo (by whoever has sniffed them), although I do not perceive HL 22 as predominantly woody.

Later on, a cheeky minty note (with stevia sweetness) tickles my nose, reminding me of another numbered fragrance from Lehmann, namely the anniversary 90, and a gourmand note oscillating between bitter chocolate gingerbread and spiced speculoos joins in.

All in all, an exciting, absolutely not failed experiment and a beautiful scent, which, according to the unanimous vote of Ms. Spee and the reviewer, is worth testing for both men and women, even if it does not have what it takes to immediately become my favorite Lehmann.

Tsar is a green-herbaceous, robust-soapy, if not downright core-soapy, maximally masculine fresh fragrance that has been complexly (and skillfully) enhanced by lush floral embellishments from the eighties and a rich, almost sweetly turning base note. Thus, it does not present itself as a trivial Irish Moss variation on a rainy sheep pasture, but rather as a distinctly time-bound, independent total work of art.

At first, Tsar slams a crystalline, brutal fresh note in your face, gathering the coldest, hardest tones from citrus, green, spicy (and a bit aquatic) notes. It's like a blast of clinking ice in midsummer. For this, I would attribute the notes of Artemisia, Neroli, Bergamot, Neroli, and, already from the heart note, Pine, Pepper, and definitely, definitely the very massive, creaky shot of Juniper.

But after just five minutes, the thing reorganizes itself and becomes softer, gentler, smoother, and a bit typically furry for the time, without ever losing the herbal freshness of the beginning (which does not happen even until the end). You can now more clearly sense the fougère notes of Oakmoss (or whatever it has been substituted with). And, but I only manage to realize this now after five years of testing and smelling experience, a wonderfully subtle, finely spun dance of powdery Lavender and herbaceous Tarragon. I first got to know and love this combination in the much more ascetic, minimalist Scottish scent "1445." Here, I find it again, wrapped in a lush variety of other notes.

Floral notes also join in now, but by no means as prominently as their multitude in the pyramid would suggest. I hardly perceive Rose and Geranium at all, at most as generic providers of weight and depth. The fact that the fragrance seems human and friendly to me, that I like to wear it quite often, may (besides the discreetly dosed Jasmine) be due to the Lily of the Valley, the signature flower of Frau von Spee, which I enjoy smelling not only on her but also in my own fragrances.

The not endlessly, but still long-lasting base note is not highly original (except perhaps for the coconut), but offers in clean composition everything that a full-bearded men's cuddle base requires, from various woods to leather and musk, to tonka and patchouli for the sweet nuances.

* * *

I consider the naming to be a misstep. The fragrance is called Tsar, one of the two common English transcriptions of the term for the former monarch of Russia, alongside Czar. However, the fragrance evokes neither aristocratic courtly nor Eastern Russian vibes for me; perhaps aside from a very slight proximity to imagined Siberian pine forests. The Tsars rarely resided there (more likely the exiles), and besides, Lily of the Valley probably did not grow ubiquitously there, and Tonka beans not at all. I therefore assess the title as a lack of creativity, in which a label was attached to the fragrance that somehow always works for scents: emperors, kings, princesses, and countesses sell. The phenomenon that fragrances are comparatively rarely named after masons, bakers, hairdressers, architects, mechatronics engineers, or hotel staff* but are inflatedly named after empresses and counts has already been described by others.

For reasons that should be clear after reading the first part of the review, I might have named the fragrance after Mick Brisgau, the "Last Cop" from the eponymous TV crime series that I enjoy.

* thick electricians do appear though

* * *

I bought the fragrance about 4 years ago as a clearance item at TKMax, 50 ml for perhaps 19 or 29.99 euros. It is still half full. I will not minimalize it away. While it is not one of my favorite fragrances, I like it and can wear it (although more in summer than in winter) for almost any mood, in any weather, and for any occasion. And it has proven to be a good investment. After the production was discontinued, some absurd prices are being called for it online, which suggests that there are some true enthusiasts who were caught off guard by the production stop.

My more than six-month abstinence from this forum had a whole range of reasons. One of them is that I am currently testing almost no fragrances anymore. I find myself in a phase where I enjoy the nearly 100 fragrances in my collection and, on this occasion, gently reduce the collection when I notice that I hardly wear a perfume.

Such a period of reflection is quite advisable (not so much for the perfumeries, perhaps not so much for this forum either), it takes some pressure off the kettle, grounds you, and creates clarity.

For me, one such newly gained clarity is that Duchaufour is a perfumer before whom I kneel as an artist (I find almost all of his fragrances incredibly fascinating, some I consider breathtaking, genius scent masterpieces, solid "tens"), but whom I do not enjoy wearing. Therefore, if I should ever fall into a rapturous fever while testing that creates a desire for possession: I will resist or perhaps only obtain a decant. With the firm knowledge that I won't even finish it, but will ultimately swap or gift it away.

Tycoon, Trayee, Jubilation XXV Man are examples of Duchaufour's fragrances that make me shudder, which I fortunately never bought. Timbuktu, Dzongka, and Rappelle-Toi are also fascinating but were not for me (I forced myself to use up my decant of Rappelle-Toi). I did buy Kyoto and Avignon and I do use them. But both very rarely.

Chypre Palatin fully belongs in this category. I was under the spell of this fragrance for years, circling around it..., and now I am saying goodbye to the rest of the decant in my swap box. It is a powerful, opulent scent on the edge of the Chypre genre, with hardly any of its lighter, playfully floral side, very precious, very golden, very majestic. A colleague, who has little knowledge of fragrances, was reminded of the classic "Opium" (women's version) from the 70s; at first, that seemed absurd to me, but upon closer reflection, this Chypre has something bell-bottomed-oriental about it, and the fragrance pyramids also show a few interesting similarities. There is no question that the performance of this fragrance in terms of longevity and projection is extraordinary. At this table, everything is done in a big way, not in a small way, and if this dish is too rich for someone (which is not far from the truth), they eventually wish it off the table but must keep feasting and indulging.

The name of the fragrance seems to me, here the Francophones may enlighten me, ambiguous. It probably does not mean "Palace Chypre," even if one intuitively thinks that as a half-educated French speaker like me, and even if it fits this almost baroque Chypre. I believe there are three possible interpretations: "Palatin Chypre" (after the hill in Rome), "Pfalz Chypre" (which can refer both to the region of origin of the Saumagen and more generally to an imperial palace), or "Palate Chypre," an intriguing interpretation for this tincture that certainly also lounges into the gourmand territory.