Profumo

Roberto Greco strikes again!

'Oeillers', 'Porter sa Peau' and now 'Rauque' - each one not only more beautiful than the last, but also more interesting. Anyone whose faith in the innovative capacity and finesse of perfumery threatens to vanish in the face of the swelling tide of monotonous aroma chemical concoctions should take a sniff here (Rubini, Pekji and a few others are also worth a try) - a cure is not only possible, it's guaranteed!

At first I was a little skeptical about 'Rauque'. Corticchiato and Flores-Roux, who were responsible for the two predecessors, were among my favorite perfumers anyway, but Sheldrake was not one of them. Well, his work with Serge Lutens is certainly very good, but it doesn't suit me. I often find it too dense and too oily, I miss the space, the air between the individual facets. This, in turn, was reliably provided by my colleague Jacques Polge: aldehydic fluffiness, exquisite but sparing details, clear lines, in other words - elegance à la Chanel!
I didn't find Sheldrake's signature here, at least his Lutens signature, but I didn't find any others either.

So now 'Rauque', and I have to say: yes, there is something of my own, something that seems to be rooted in my own work - in Chanel's haute couture turned fragrance as well as in Serge Lutens' sometimes overloaded orientalism. However, 'Rauque' moves well away from these two poles, gaining its own profile and finding a fragrance language that I would place more among the early works of Malle or the old Carons than in the aforementioned houses.

'Rauque' reminds me of one Malle fragrance in particular, Ropion's wonderful 'Une Fleur de Cassie', whose central note, the cassia blossom, also known as 'sweet acacia' or 'Vachellia farnesiana' and belonging to the mimosa subgroup, is similarly prominent in 'Rauque'. However, the two perfumers stage the not overly sweet, slightly woody or rather hay-like scent of acacia in distinctly different ways. While Ropion develops the bouquet with rose and jasmine in a rather floral way and with a subtle indolic quality and ultimately lets it fade away on a finely polished base of sandalwood with a subtle hint of vanilla, Sheldrake brings a few more protagonists on board, so that 'Rauque' is initially dominated by the aroma of sweet acacia, but nowhere near as persistent as in the case of 'Une Fleur de Cassie'.
The typical wet-green aspects of the violet leaf soon join in, followed by the dark floral tone of the narcissus, whose fragrance trail likes to sail along with a frivolous stink, but fortunately does not pick up too much speed here, but rather introduces the transition to a base that maneuvers the fragrance peu à peau in a completely different direction: away from the floral-hay-green banter, towards the sonorous, almost endlessly humming dark-toned amber aroma, which dominates the course of the fragrance all in all at least as much as the initial acacia accord.
Although osmanthus, myrrh and mushrooms also play their part in the fragrance, they form more of a background chorus, whose fruity, resinous and earthy facets seem to dance on the unfolding ambrarome base before they are completely drowned out by it.

Ambrarome - wow, what a material!
I've never really stumbled across it before, at least not consciously. Ambermax, yes, I knew that, the sensual warm amber note on steroids, so to speak, or Ambrocenide, the popular fully synthetic sweet woody note that young men love to bathe in, not to mention Ambroxan, the mega-booster of modern perfumery.
But Ambrarome?

What I smell: balsamic-resinous amber, and not in short supply, but there is something else, something more. Animal notes are clearly evident, but also somehow the idea of dark, aromatic tobacco, smoky tea, old wood, now and again something salty - a real kaleidoscope!
If I hadn't already been working with real gray ambergris, this base could have been sold to me as a successful replacement for the mythical and rare whale substance. But no, Ambrarome is not a real substitute, rather an approximation, a kind of translation into the foreground, even voluminous, warmer, more sensual, more animalic than the original substance, which is comparatively more restrained, quieter and more enigmatic. Ambrarome does not come close to the sophistication of real ambergris, but it is more present and has significantly more power: a muscular ambergris in an amber coat, so to speak.

It is also interesting to note how old this fragrance base is: in 1926, the young Hubert Fraysse developed it together with his brother Georges for their own company Synarome as a replacement for the sinfully expensive gray ambergris, which is subject to natural fluctuations in both quality and quantity. Similar motives eventually led to the introduction of other bases such as Muscarome, Animalis and Cuir HF, fragrance building blocks that are still frequently used today.
The central component of Ambrarome is labdanum, or rather its extracted ethyl ester, which elicits leathery, smoky and spicy aspects from the resin of the rockrose. Synarome is silent about other components of the base, but gas chromatography tests have probably been able to detect civettone, as well as small amounts of indole and skatole
Well, you can smell it. But, it smells good, and how!
In contrast to Ambergris, whose animalic facet seems rather shimmering and barely tangible, it is quite tangible here, but tame. No comparison to Animalis hits like 'Kouros', 'Figment Man' or the first version of Dior's 'Leather Oud'.

However, as much as Ambrarome dominates the base, a fine leather note is still able to assert itself. A leather note that is more reminiscent of the good old birchwood-tarred Cuirs de Russie than of modern, clean, saffron-spicy Cuirs such as Barrois' 'B683'.

The references to fragrances from 'the good old days' are quite numerous. Yet 'Rauque' is far from being a mere nostalgic fragrance. Rather, it cleverly transposes an aura of the past into the present, using familiar means but in a new tonality. Martin Fuhs has achieved something similar with Grauton's 'Pour Homme', although I would label 'Rauque' less decidedly as 'Pour Homme' and would not assign it so clearly to a specific fragrance era. Rather, the fragrance sails much further back in time, with borrowings from the 20s, 30s and 40s, along with a clear twist towards the 70s.

The bottle in the colors Kalamata olive violet brown and olive oil green, which correspond perfectly with the fragrance, is also quite retro. The lettering and bottle design are skillfully inspired by the 60s/early 70s and art deco. That has style!

Keyword 'style', who could wear this fragrance? First of all: anyone, or rather everyone, where do we live: down with the gender barriers! But it would perhaps suit a 'Lauren Bacall' or a 'Georgette Dee' type particularly well - not slick, but rather charming beauties. Yes, and definitely with the obligatory cigarette and the 'voix rauque', the husky voice that gives some people that certain wickedly erotic je-ne-sais-quoi

Oh no, me - although I don't smoke (anymore) and am anything but this 'type' - of course it suits me best of all!

There are always these phases when I am downright tired of fragrances, my interest in the countless new releases wanes and my attention can fortunately turn to other things that are at least as important to me.
But sooner or later, sooner or later, a representative of his guild will reliably come around the corner to pull me out of my olfactory lethargy and remind me how exciting and thrilling the world of fragrance can be, and how nice it is to still be able to "burn" for it.

But it doesn't necessarily have to be a new discovery: I can also be ignited by a fragrance that I have already sniffed out a long time ago, which I may not have noticed at first, or another of its peers stole the show, or I simply wasn't ready for it yet and had to take a detour via fragrance X and fragrance Y, or it was simply chance that brought the sample back into my hands - sometimes it takes a few encounters for it to click!

Two years ago, I found "Yes, Please" quite nice, but apparently not nice enough for it to 'pick me up'.
At the time, I received a whole sample set of Ömer's new fragrance series, which I found quite challenging on the whole, but not uninteresting. As well as: Ömer İpekçi can't make uninteresting fragrances, at least I don't know any! But none of them really knocked me off my feet.
First of all.

The sample set moved on, but a few months later I had "Flesh" under my nose again and was thrilled, completely. A few months later again, this time it was "Yes, Please", and I thought: Wow, what a great fragrance! How could I have missed it so much before?"

I'm afraid the whole series - the perfumer calls it his "Reset Collection" - tends to be overlooked, because unlike his previous works, the new ones are certainly bulkier, more discordant, less 'catchy'.
Even if they reveal Ömer's artistic potency even more clearly than his first works, they are less Puccini and more Schönberg, in other words: less catchy, and yes, also less trivial. Not that his first works were trivial, no (Puccini is not trivial either, at least most of the time), but the one or other olfactory aria was faster and easier to decipher: rose and amber, for example, intonate the all-too-familiar oriental sound; patchouli, cistus and rooty vetiver the dark earth theme; ambergris, mastic, lavender and a chorus of herbs sing of the Mediterranean coastlines. It is all somehow familiar and locatable, but still idiosyncratic and strong enough to reveal its own signature.

But "Yes, Please", "Purpl", "Flesh" and "Blacklight"?
Well, "Blacklight" is still reasonably easy to understand: the scent is cool, oscillating between bright aldehydes and deep black, leathery smoke, it quite plausibly reflects black light turned into fragrance. And "Flesh"? Well, the musky powder, iris and ambrette: the familiar peau theme, but what on earth is the bucket of wall paint for? finally, "Purpl" with vinyl, sweat and strawberries - what the f*ck?! And now this shake of cognac, pear and grapefruit, garnished with peppery rose and surrounded by an indefinable stink that almost makes me gag.
Not "Yes, Please" - "No, Thanks"!!!

What is that?
Animalic admixtures are usually hidden between the base notes: a little fecal civet here, a hint of leathery castoreum there, a hint of dirty, horny musk perhaps. But this one doesn't smell like an animal and is more or less thrown in the door, just like that, 'in your face', patsch!

Well, I have no idea. The few comments that can be found on this fragrance tend to poke around in the fog. The Szechuan pepper? The combination of grapefruit, pear and cognac? Or a nasty musk combination after all?
In any case, it's tired.
But somehow not unpleasant.
From test to test - this bizarre intro captivates me more and more - the ruffled nasal hairs actually begin to relax slowly, and after a while, I suddenly even find this disruptive note, this party crasher of an otherwise quite harmonious, rosy-fruity coexistence, attractive!
Rarely has retesting a fragrance several times taught me better. In fact, I have to say that it has only gradually taught me the true nature of this work. Which brings me back to Schönberg, who is also not immediately accessible, who you have to listen deeply to again and again, just as you shouldn't trust your first impression here, but rather smell deeply into it again and again.

Today, I no longer find this disturbing note disturbing at all, quite the opposite - I would miss it if it were suddenly no longer there. No, it has to be there, it needs it. Perhaps the fragrance would simply be too harmless without it. In any case, with it, it not only gains excitement, but also delicacy, an unexpectedly attractive appeal that would make me answer the question: more of it? immediately: yes, please!

Later, this disharmonious initial accord morphs visibly into a conciliatory, flattering multi-sound of fruity accents, held in a beautiful balance between sweet and sour, a floral presence, without any florist's stickiness or ashy-sweet indolic, a distinctly boozy impression, cloudy with fine streaks of incense, discreetly flavored with vanilla.
However, a distant echo of the initial 'stench' remains until the end, weakening but present enough to maintain the tension and appeal.

By the way, Ömer recommends:

"For your first time, I highly recommend putting on a sweet song and overspraying the fragrance. Even if you are normally a skeptical jerk."

Me, a skeptical jerk?
No, definitely not.
Therefore, yes please, more of this!

cravache', German: Reitgerte, came 1963 as the first men's fragrance
of the house of Piguet on the market. Although the old Cellier classic blinked
'Bandit' years earlier already towards unisex, but ultimately did not completely bend
on this then still quite undescribed terrain. 'Cravache' but
now served the comparatively narrow canon of fragrances, the traditional
masculine fragrance language described: fresh-herbaceous citrus, herbaceous-aromatic
Lavender, coarse leather, fixed with neat oakmoss, from a discreet,
unsweet floral breeze ventilated.

That sounds now more crashing and ruckus than he
actually was - after all, he wanted to be a fragrant leather whip - but
'Cravache' remained in the habitus yet a real gentleman: reserved,
unobtrusive, the optionally with 'Fracas', 'Bandit' or 'Baghari' scented
Lady at any time and everywhere the precedence. The time of the space-blasting
Scent gods 'Antaeus' and 'Kouros', which began to oppose the primacy of feminine fragrance sovereignty
began to resist, was then still far from dawned, and so lined up
the few masculine representatives of their kind still naturally behind the
often large-caliber sprawling fragrant ladies.
Nowadays, we are long since stronger and more offensive men's fragrances
not to mention unisex fragrances, so that we once representatives
of this genre, they are now called 'Eau Sauvage', 'Habit Rouge', 'Monsieur de
Givenchy' or just 'Cravache', rather perceive as printed Leisetreter, in
Recognition of their cavalier restraint.
Those were just still fragrances with manners!

When the house of Piguet in the 70s of the
Bedeutungslosigkeit dawned and finally the perfume production
stopped, it was also around 'Cravache' happened - it disappeared for many
Years. Only 'Bandit' and 'Fracas', the big sisters, it was reserved
to keep the Piguet flag flying high: a US-American group had acquired the rights to the old fragrances
Rights to the old fragrances acquired and limited to the established, still
attractive war horses limited.
Only in 2007, in the course of a revitalization of the brand it came
also to a re-introduction of Piguet's first men's fragrance, but in
considerably revised form: the flowers disappeared completely, as well as the
leathery nuances and also the agrumen intro was plucked vigorously. Was supplemented the
such skeletonized Cravache concept, however, with a
tidy portion of nutmeg, aromatic sage and a bunch of sweet grass.

The new 'Cravache' came now with somewhat more Wumms therefore,
exuded with its spicy-muscat-nutty Fougère aura now but rather conservative
Solidity, because lederchypriges Draufgängertum (which it before also not
possessed, but under the facade of well-behaved at least hinted).
Why the riding crop, or according to another reading: leather whip,
was so completely stripped, was always a mystery to me, especially since the new
'Cravache' with its braven Biederkeit altogether more old-fashioned smelled than his
44 years older predecessor of the same name. Had Piguet possibly the mare
left her from the Cellier icons 'Fracas' and 'Bandit', over 'Futur'
to 'Oud' (almost) always possessed?

16 years later, a new 'Cravache' now replaces the so
completely leather- and flowerless descendant of the original 'Cravache' - this time in
EdP concentration and with again seriously changed recipe.
First: the leather is back! And yes, even a few
Blossoms. But who thinks now, the good old Chypre with the concise
citrus opening, the spicy, but also floral heart and
the woody-leathery, moist-mossy base is resurrected, which is
warned: this is not so.
At least not in the sense of a detailed reconstruction.
The original fragrance concept apparently served merely as a template for a new,
rather free, the preferences of modern perfumery committed
Interpretation. Thus, the leathery effect is typical of the time in the interplay with
earthy iris rhizomes and saffron created, while the dry-floral facets
of iris, combined with a touch of jasmine, the flower bouquet re
define. No entrance into the current recipe found, however, the dark
Rose of the original 'Cravache'.
The agrumen opening, on the other hand, was again somewhat stronger
accentuated, but less in the style of a brightly shining citrus freshness,
but rather by the complex bitter to green nuances of the
Bergamot and petitgrain characterized, complemented by fruity hints of
Bitter orange and tangerine.
Remained is the central, the fragrance characterizing
herbaceous lavender accord, from a good dose of sage and a pinch
Nutmeg aromatisiert, which in contrast to the 2007 edition, however, no
supporting role plays more.
In the base, finally, is the Chypre-Charkter of the
Orignial fragrance now almost completely disappeared, after he 2007 already rather
drifted in the powdery-moosige Fougère direction. There he is now fully
arrived, or already again a piece beyond it on a sweet-spicy,
woody-ambriertes, almost oriental terrain arrived.

Basically, it behaves with the new 'Cravache' a little
as with the perfume of 'Eau Sauvage': the spirit of the original fragrance is indeed
somehow still there, but paraphrased to such an extent that it is barely recognizable.
The once slender Chypre structures, which in both cases a good
Portion oakmoss served as fixative, were decades later mighty with
Cashmeran pimped and woody-ambrig plumped up,
so that they unfold towards the base a vanilla-like sweet-woody volume, which -
at least in the case of 'Eau Sauvage Parfum' - especially with younger
Generations reliably enthusiasm ignites.
Let's see if that will work with 'Cravache Eau de Parfum' also
will work, the plants are in any case there.
A small, but not entirely insignificant difference to
'Eau Sauvage Parfum' but there is: the new 'Cravache' is still
recognizable 'Cravache', just in a more fashionable outfit and completely different
Proportions: more voluminous, more androgynous, more synthetic, yes, and in some ways
more digital. For although I still smell the spirited central lavender note that
already distinguished the two predecessor Cravaches, I have the feeling in the
latest edition to get served the digitized version.
Bad is not, no, it's just different and I have
still get used to it.

But one thing I already know: I will the new
'Cravache' certainly wear more often than the previous version of the fragrance,
which was simply too conservative for me, too much stock exchange floor, and which the
sinewy leather-chyprige masculinity of the original fragrance went off. The new is missing
they are just as, replaced by a digitized and genderfluid modernity,
with which I can make friends but interestingly quite well.

I have smelled this combination of gasoline and oud notes before.
Shortly after I had sprayed 'Nuvolari' for the first time I also knew where: at Kilian's 'Pure Oud'. Unfortunately, I no longer have the sample of Kilian's scent (would probably be too old anyway), so a direct comparison is no longer possible, but I remember that it created a similar image in my imagination. At the time, I saw Sean Connery as an oil-smeared mechanic with a whiskey in his hand.
Well, in the case of 'Nuvolari' I'll leave out the whiskey, and it doesn't have to be Sean Connery anymore, but the oil-smeared cleavage of a car mechanic will do.
Or rather, let's say: the setting during a pit stop, when scurrying mechanics change the tires of a hot-running race car at lightning speed.
Not that I have experienced such a real, no, but an idea of this particular olfactory situation is able to give me the fragrance credible: Oil and gasoline vapors, red-hot metal, stewing rubber, and anno 1935 (the year in which the "Flying Mantuan", Tazio Nuvolari, won the 'Grand Prix of Germany' on the Nürburgring) probably also still sweat-damp leather.

Actually, I'm not interested in car racing the bean, quite the opposite: I would hardly know a sport that I found more stupid. As a passionate bicycle and if necessary train driver, who has never made a driver's license out of conviction, I bring so of no understanding at all for this Boliden Gerase and Geröhre on that I should disregard a fragrance, which tries to approach this nonsense olfactorily actually just as.
But far from it, I can not: 'Nuvolari' smells just too good!

Alone this prelude! This voluminous-dark blooming of leathery, oily, smoky and subtly animalic facets, interspersed with fresh, peppery-aromatic streaks - this is simply stunning and somehow reminded me of the moment when I first smelled 'Tabac Blond' by Caron. That said, the similarities between the two fragrances are manageable. But it is this aura that I find again here, this leathery-smoky triumph, this rich volume.

Cristiano Canali is simply a magician.
Apart from Antonio Gardoni's creations, it's his that I've been most impatiently awaiting for a long time.
When I then saw recently in a film sequence shot at the last Pitti Fragranze, that the small from Mantua originating fragrance label Rubini has launched after years again a new fragrance, and this as before the other two from the pen of Canali, there was no hesitation more - he had to get here, just so and untested, because Canali can not disappoint me, just as little Gardoni.
And he did not.

'Nuvolari' may not be as innovative as 'Fundamental', not as daring and polarizing as 'Tambour Sacré', but the fragrance is on the same high artistic level. Well, in terms of leather, smoke and oud we have truly been sufficiently supplied in recent years, but the combination with metallic notes, with gasoline, machine oil and tar is quite idiosyncratic. Similarly idiosyncratic as, for example, 'Type Writer' by Parfumerie Particulière, which 'Nuvolari' reminds me of as well, only that the Rubini fragrance always remains a perfume, while 'Type Writer' only becomes one in the base. Before that, it is actually for me only a conditionally wearable industrial smell.
Nuvolari' is also remotely reminiscent of Montale's 'Aoud Cuir d'Arabie', but only concerning the staging of the oud, which here smells similarly smoky-leathery, but fortunately only subcutaneously animalic pulses, while it really hits me in the pit of my stomach at Montale.
Canali manages to tame it halfway, but still lets it off the leash. And so it forms on the one hand the linchpin of the olfactory action, but fortunately does not push itself unduly into the foreground, lines up, also lets others shine. Regarding the inspiration for this fragrance - the racing legend Tazio Nuvolari and his triumph at the Nürburgring, with an Alfa Romeo that was actually hopelessly inferior to the German Silver Arrows - in this context, the complex olfactory palette of the incense wood finds a truly convincing environment.

Like a spider in a web, Canali locates the oud in his formula, but does not allow the web less importance. Or to put it another way: the oud stands, as it were, for the engine of the Alfa Romeo. But there is also the metal of the chassis, the leather of the seats, the rubber tires on the asphalt, the cutting sharp wind - all this is 'Nuvolari'.
Thanks to the perfumer, the aptly named 'Extrait de Course' sticks to this narrative, and does not turn in the base towards a conciliatory balsamic-soft, sweet-oriental melange. No, even if another fear opponent on my part (in addition to the oud) appears here, I must admit, also has here no less its raison d'être: Ambroxan.

If the oud takes over the part of the engine, the Ambroxan comes to the task of lubricating oil: it keeps the store running, lets the energies flow and emulsifies the recalcitrant components. That leathery-smoky nuances and ambroxan are wonderfully combinable, I could already experience recently with Piguet's 'Bandit Suprême', and now here. The amber substitute from the lab actually makes the notes blossom, taking away the overly harsh, edgy without completely blurring it. Also, the so-typical, slightly synthetic sweetness of this molecule, which I usually find unpleasant, doesn't bother me at all here. No, that is somehow already everything right so, that should be so!

Speaking of typical:
Typical for the Rubini design are yes also the two stencil-like shells, which protect the bottle, but not completely enclose. Are they at Fundamental from a light plaster-like material, at 'Tambour Sacré' from dark wood, was chosen for 'Nuvolari' an anthracite-colored asphalt shell, held together by a wide rubber band reminiscent of a V-belt. So here too, everything wonderfully stringent thought out, elaborated and convincingly implemented.

In his reply e-mail wrote me the owner of Rubini, Andrea Rubini:

"Since 2015, Rubini channels my passion with a daring vision for high perfumery and genuine research with no fears for new paths, working only with the best raw materials and without time pressures.
My friend, the perfumer Cristiano Canali, is helping me to realize the dream."

I find, this claim implement the two absolutely convincing.

Actually, 'Albatros' combines a few things I've been tired of for years: a watery-ozone prelude in the style of the copied-to-death 'Cool Water', a rose that can be safely counted among the usual - and tiring - suspects (is there actually a fragrance without a rose anymore?), a pineapple, which I inevitably associate with 'Aventus' (Satan give way!), and a double pack of cedar, which instantly reminds me of 'Terre d'Hermès', which I have encountered over the years to such an extent that I can literally "no longer smell it".

Oddly enough, I still like 'Albatross'.
But something resists in me against it.
If I spray the fragrance on, I fluctuate instantly between horror and enthusiasm. Had I not liked the previous fragrance 'Orlo' from the Versi series so incredibly well, would not again Anne-Sophie Behaghel responsible for the new, she who created not only the fantastic 'Orlo', but the no less great 'Le Mat' for the same brand, or also 'Lacrima' and 'Phantasma' for Liquides Imaginaires, all these advance laurels would not have spoken for 'Albatros' - I would not have ordered the fragrance 'blind' under any circumstances, certainly not in the knowledge of the notes that are supposed to characterize it.

But, the signs were good for the sympathetic bird, because who does not like him, this heartwarming clumsy king of the sea airs, this "rois de l'azur" or "prince des nuées", as Baudelaire calls him?!
In addition, I got the opportunity to acquire him in advance, so that I let all resolutions my already much too extensive collection not to further enlarge, once again drive.

I could have been warned.
With Aquatik I do myself namely heavy, very heavy. This is probably due to the already mentioned 'Cool Water' & Co. overkill, which reverberates to this day even in the remotest corners of the functional perfumery.
On top of that, I bought a fragrance some time ago without testing it beforehand (for the same reasons as with 'Albatros', only this time the brand is called Parfumerie Particuliere), namely 'The Saint Mariner'.
When I had this fragrance then on the skin, I was somewhat stunned: Dihydromyrcenol, but so full, plus a good portion of rosemary and fresh, green-gum-like vetiver. Everything was right, everything had its place and its justification, was perfectly calibrated and blended - and yet smelled so incredibly ordinary.
Since I still find it hard to believe that from a house, which after all gave birth to 'Black Tar', and which also managed the rest quite decently, such a banal fragrance comes, I have made it a habit to spray me this strange work for weeks now and then. There must be something to 'Saint Mariner', that the owners of this company, which after all calls itself a 'special' perfumery, have found him worthy of decorating their own portfolio!
But what?

I think I'm slowly getting behind it.
And actually 'Albatross' has helped me.

Some of the 'Saint Mariner' DNA can be found in 'Albatross'.
Fortunately, however, a little more. If the Saint Mariner is a thoroughly ozonic-maritime fragrance, the 'rois de l'azur' adds floral, fruity and woody facets to the seemingly related construct. And it does so in a way that is breathtakingly skillful - everything flows seamlessly into one another, despite the richness of contrast: the distinctly aquatic-salty, ozonic opening, which washes over a bouquet of roses and a sliced unripe pineapple with surging spray, and reverberates in a silvery-bright, almost mineral cedar accord, to which some cashmere wood and a hint of musk add body.

It is interesting that the roses, and likewise the pineapple in the heart so not at all smell like rose and the typical fruit nuances. Rather, their aromas merge with the maritime waves to an idiosyncratic metallic-bitter melange, which initially irritated me a bit, because it did not meet my expectations of the scent of a rose and a pineapple so at all.
Mendittorosa points in a footnote as follows to the special nature of this rose accord: "The rose accord is a composition of various natural and synthetic rose notes, which was developed by Anne Sophie Behaghel for Albatros."
Aha.
I assume, since a synthetic component has already been so explicitly referred to here, that it could possibly be rose oxide, which in itself brings a metallic facet. In any case, in the interplay with the ozonic aquatic develops a rather exciting power center in the heart of the fragrance, from which the bird with its overlong wings receives proper lift and which lets him glide long and leisurely.
This pair of opposites is what makes the fragrance fly: salty aquatics here and fruity accented rose there, and under the wings a forest of cedars, or as in the poem: the wooden planks of a ship.

I must say, the longer I spend with 'Albatross', the more I like it, and my initial skepticism visibly begins to give way to a growing admiration for this amazing fragrance.
It doesn't quite reach the exceptional quality of its predecessor 'Orlo' for my sensation, but at least almost. In any case, it is more interesting to me than the somewhat arbitrary 'Ithaka', the first fragrance from the Versi series, which in itself is also not bad, but has far less personality and sophistication.
And Anne-Sophie Behaghel gives a bit of satisfaction to the harried albatross from Baudelaire's poem here: namely, her albatross is not teased by a ship's crew who caught him earlier, and who now make fun of his drooping wings and awkward gait, he who just moments before was plowing so loftily through the air. No, her albatross may fly unimpeded, like the poet in the poem who is friendly to the storm and laughs at the archer.

So much for the inspiration from Baudelaire's poetry, which - I think - was successfully implemented.

Since I have now apparently actually reconciled with the disturbing Aquatik, I should perhaps give the holy sailor yet another chance.
I think I'll do that.