PeteRalon007
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PeteRalon007
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The heavy hitter
Background: Perfumos send me samples, I then test the perfumes sent without any knowledge and describe my response - that of an inexperienced dilettante.
Heissa, what comes flying out of the bottle? A spicy blend of incense, balsam, wood and resins. Then resin and incense again, I get it now! I'm not sniffy after all! The juice is dark and if I had sprayed it on my white shirt collar, I would have received a loud warning from my dear wife today. The scent is at least as loud, now spreading a sour magma note that makes me suspect it is probably intended for ritual cremations under the open night sky. Indoors, it would certainly be an olfactory knockout. Alternatively, perhaps a coronation ceremony of West Saxon dukes after a battle against the invading Normans. However, even after hours, the scent remains pithy and spicy throughout the room. So it has something archaic, something brutal, animalistic. But there are also subtle nuances, like a minimal florality in the background, which meanders delicately between the loud tones, nonchalantly sweet.
The venomous look on my spouse's face ignites my latent malice and I ask what she would call the perfume. The answer, in Leipzig Saxon, follows on the heels: "Wuchtbrumme." This is followed by a question from my daughter, who has joined me, asking what a Wuchtbrumme is. I wish you good luck explaining it, because I feel the same way about this high-quality but complicated masterpiece of perfumery.
Heissa, what comes flying out of the bottle? A spicy blend of incense, balsam, wood and resins. Then resin and incense again, I get it now! I'm not sniffy after all! The juice is dark and if I had sprayed it on my white shirt collar, I would have received a loud warning from my dear wife today. The scent is at least as loud, now spreading a sour magma note that makes me suspect it is probably intended for ritual cremations under the open night sky. Indoors, it would certainly be an olfactory knockout. Alternatively, perhaps a coronation ceremony of West Saxon dukes after a battle against the invading Normans. However, even after hours, the scent remains pithy and spicy throughout the room. So it has something archaic, something brutal, animalistic. But there are also subtle nuances, like a minimal florality in the background, which meanders delicately between the loud tones, nonchalantly sweet.
The venomous look on my spouse's face ignites my latent malice and I ask what she would call the perfume. The answer, in Leipzig Saxon, follows on the heels: "Wuchtbrumme." This is followed by a question from my daughter, who has joined me, asking what a Wuchtbrumme is. I wish you good luck explaining it, because I feel the same way about this high-quality but complicated masterpiece of perfumery.
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Fantomas' thick stalk
Background: Perfumos send me samples, I then test the perfumes sent without any knowledge and describe my response - that of an inexperienced dilettante.
Rarely have I been so fooled by a fragrance as this one. As soon as the fragrance notes appear, they seem to have disappeared again. Sweet and spicy resin? No!? Yes it is, ooah! Oud? Nope. Yes!
I'm starting to sound like the dorky Louis de Funes on his hunt for the eloquent arch-villain and gentleman Fantomas. Then I think I catch a whiff of oud and sweet rose. After sniffing: gone again. Then later something balsamic and woody, as soon as I think about it... Spices are there again. What is this? My facial expressions are slowly but surely deforming into a kind of facial carnival, as if a bulldozer had rolled over my big uncle. My nose probably needs an MOT.
"Are you OK?" my daughter asks and when I hold the fragrance strip out to her, I just shrug my shoulders and ask if I've sprayed anything on it yet. Zack, soapy resins and patchouli are quietly back. There even seems to be something floral on board. Reminds me vaguely of the silence you miss out on because you're frantically chasing a mirage. Smells a bit like the Thar desert in India, border region to Pakistan. Dry, spicy, cute!
Rarely have I been so fooled by a fragrance as this one. As soon as the fragrance notes appear, they seem to have disappeared again. Sweet and spicy resin? No!? Yes it is, ooah! Oud? Nope. Yes!
I'm starting to sound like the dorky Louis de Funes on his hunt for the eloquent arch-villain and gentleman Fantomas. Then I think I catch a whiff of oud and sweet rose. After sniffing: gone again. Then later something balsamic and woody, as soon as I think about it... Spices are there again. What is this? My facial expressions are slowly but surely deforming into a kind of facial carnival, as if a bulldozer had rolled over my big uncle. My nose probably needs an MOT.
"Are you OK?" my daughter asks and when I hold the fragrance strip out to her, I just shrug my shoulders and ask if I've sprayed anything on it yet. Zack, soapy resins and patchouli are quietly back. There even seems to be something floral on board. Reminds me vaguely of the silence you miss out on because you're frantically chasing a mirage. Smells a bit like the Thar desert in India, border region to Pakistan. Dry, spicy, cute!
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Fine wines
Oh, rose and oud. A memory from the 90s immediately flashes through my mind. That commercial with Günter Pfitzmann, when he smiled slyly and whistled schnapps-filled chocolate-nut pralines while miming the great gourmand. "Uuuuuummmhh. Noble drops!" was then the order of the day. From then on, Grandma regularly gave them to me for holidays. Wonderful.
The rose initially comes across as somewhat metallic and above all alcoholic and fresh, with a minimally sweet, pungent oud note accompanying the opening. Is there saffron in it? Well, I like it already. Then it becomes a little rounder, spicier, darker and quieter. Some of the shrillness disappears, the oud becomes woodier. A bit as if Günter Pfitzmann had transformed himself into Sean Connery. A minimal alcoholic trace remains and I think of a floral martini, shaken, not stirred.
Then the rose actually becomes a little rubbery, as you would expect from condoms, in case you've ever held one in your hand. I have to smile because my cerebellum is now trying to talk my cerebrum out of the munching Pfitzmann with rubbers in his hand. But it doesn't work. Mercy!
The next morning, the strip smells as intense as ever. Galimard knows durability, I'll take no chances. Similar to Montale, Black Aoud, only here the rose takes on a different, more complex character. The finish is sandalwood, a classic. Just like grandma's rose perfume.
The rose initially comes across as somewhat metallic and above all alcoholic and fresh, with a minimally sweet, pungent oud note accompanying the opening. Is there saffron in it? Well, I like it already. Then it becomes a little rounder, spicier, darker and quieter. Some of the shrillness disappears, the oud becomes woodier. A bit as if Günter Pfitzmann had transformed himself into Sean Connery. A minimal alcoholic trace remains and I think of a floral martini, shaken, not stirred.
Then the rose actually becomes a little rubbery, as you would expect from condoms, in case you've ever held one in your hand. I have to smile because my cerebellum is now trying to talk my cerebrum out of the munching Pfitzmann with rubbers in his hand. But it doesn't work. Mercy!
The next morning, the strip smells as intense as ever. Galimard knows durability, I'll take no chances. Similar to Montale, Black Aoud, only here the rose takes on a different, more complex character. The finish is sandalwood, a classic. Just like grandma's rose perfume.
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Signature for mountain trolls
Background: Perfumos send me samples, I then test the perfumes sent without any knowledge and describe my response - that of an inexperienced dilettante.
At the tender age of 16, the absurd idea that I should learn a trade sprang from my confused mind. The following 3 years as an apprentice glazier were the most horrible of my life so far. In winter, carrying 40-kilo windows up to the 6th floor of a building shell at minus 8 degrees; as soon as they were installed and the draught had stopped, I was off to the next draughty building site... I probably needed that to be able to appreciate my work as a couples therapist in every respect today. And to have empathy with people from the building site.
What I really remember: the smell of freshly set cement. Of freshly plastered plasterboard and sweeping dust in the shell.
And that's exactly what this blind sample in front of me smells like. Actually, it just smells like that and otherwise like a mud hut in Africa, in keeping with the motto of all conceptual artists: it's art, but it could be done away with.
I can still feel the peevish breath of my hyperactive and yet completely obdurate boss on the back of my neck as I crouch on the floor of the shell and sniff at the fresh screed and can hear his wooden eyes twist in their sunken sockets. "You have to do something!" comes out of his throat. Let someone tell me, this perfume doesn't trigger anything.
Now we ask the experts for applied nonsense science again (2.5 & 5): Small: "Smells tomish.". Big: "Mud kitchen". Then comes the following addition on the way to kindergarten: "The stone biter can take that!" (character in Michael Ende's Neverending Story). Let me suggest it. Signature fragrances for mountain trolls. Market niche discovered.
At the tender age of 16, the absurd idea that I should learn a trade sprang from my confused mind. The following 3 years as an apprentice glazier were the most horrible of my life so far. In winter, carrying 40-kilo windows up to the 6th floor of a building shell at minus 8 degrees; as soon as they were installed and the draught had stopped, I was off to the next draughty building site... I probably needed that to be able to appreciate my work as a couples therapist in every respect today. And to have empathy with people from the building site.
What I really remember: the smell of freshly set cement. Of freshly plastered plasterboard and sweeping dust in the shell.
And that's exactly what this blind sample in front of me smells like. Actually, it just smells like that and otherwise like a mud hut in Africa, in keeping with the motto of all conceptual artists: it's art, but it could be done away with.
I can still feel the peevish breath of my hyperactive and yet completely obdurate boss on the back of my neck as I crouch on the floor of the shell and sniff at the fresh screed and can hear his wooden eyes twist in their sunken sockets. "You have to do something!" comes out of his throat. Let someone tell me, this perfume doesn't trigger anything.
Now we ask the experts for applied nonsense science again (2.5 & 5): Small: "Smells tomish.". Big: "Mud kitchen". Then comes the following addition on the way to kindergarten: "The stone biter can take that!" (character in Michael Ende's Neverending Story). Let me suggest it. Signature fragrances for mountain trolls. Market niche discovered.
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Return to the living incense
Background: Perfumos send me samples, I then test the perfumes sent without any knowledge and describe my response - that of an inexperienced dilettante.
Imagine you are surrounded by incense. You have no chance of escaping its animalistic claws and from now on it will always be with you. In front of you, behind you, next to you, wherever you run... It's already there, oozing out of every bottle and mercilessly misting around you as if it's trying to drive away the Incarnate One himself.
Ok, I'm exaggerating a little. But the incense present here really does twist my mind. Frankincense is not just frankincense, there are brands such as "Sauna", "Soldering Grease", "Eau de Pipi Miaou", "Gothic", "Yoga" and "Fruit". But the little fruit here really let the beast out in the opening. Fir balsam could still be in there. Fortunately, it later becomes milder and sweeter (honey or vanilla?) until, in the act of drying down, it becomes a spicy, pithy melange from the joyful, resinous jungle of Germania. Somehow I can hardly imagine it on a woman, unless she occasionally strangles unfriendly gentlemen with her braids, like the animalistic Princess Swawa of Denmark. But maybe I don't have enough imagination!
And the opinion of the ducal expert (5)?
Thumbs down without a word! What a scathing verdict from the beetle-crunching blonde from the Saxon undergrowth for such a high-quality perfume. In my opinion, wrongly so, as it has a rustic, archaic charm.
Imagine you are surrounded by incense. You have no chance of escaping its animalistic claws and from now on it will always be with you. In front of you, behind you, next to you, wherever you run... It's already there, oozing out of every bottle and mercilessly misting around you as if it's trying to drive away the Incarnate One himself.
Ok, I'm exaggerating a little. But the incense present here really does twist my mind. Frankincense is not just frankincense, there are brands such as "Sauna", "Soldering Grease", "Eau de Pipi Miaou", "Gothic", "Yoga" and "Fruit". But the little fruit here really let the beast out in the opening. Fir balsam could still be in there. Fortunately, it later becomes milder and sweeter (honey or vanilla?) until, in the act of drying down, it becomes a spicy, pithy melange from the joyful, resinous jungle of Germania. Somehow I can hardly imagine it on a woman, unless she occasionally strangles unfriendly gentlemen with her braids, like the animalistic Princess Swawa of Denmark. But maybe I don't have enough imagination!
And the opinion of the ducal expert (5)?
Thumbs down without a word! What a scathing verdict from the beetle-crunching blonde from the Saxon undergrowth for such a high-quality perfume. In my opinion, wrongly so, as it has a rustic, archaic charm.
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