Profumo

After the flight through the fragrant darkness, we now arrive in an olfactory idyll. Brightness, calm and harmony instead of all kinds of sharp spice and conflicting contrasts. Even the Rubini-typical hard shells that enclose the bottle promise hand-smoothing smoothness in white-pink and light blue pastel after the scratchiness of 'Hyperion'.

But be careful, even more careful: what escapes from this spray head is still Rubini! In other words, this house, or rather the responsible duo Andrea Rubini/Cristiano Canali, cannot launch a trivial, run-of-the-mill fragrance that simply wants to smell good, balanced, round, soulful and soft. No, this fragrance, idyllic or not, is also a Rubini fragrance, a typical one, through and through.

The selection of notes alone made me shudder at first: Coconut, champaca, mandarin, musk, vanilla...brrrrrrrr. Not that I think these notes are terrible - I also like the smell of sun cream from time to time, which reminds me of sunny, hot childhood days at the lake. But what the fuck has got into Rubini that they're backing this worn-out horse?

Well, they're not the only ones. Sunscreen fragrances, or those inspired by lido scenarios in general, are pretty 'in' right now. Miguel Matos has already explored this theme several times, as has Arquiste, more recently Marlou and now Rubini.

But first of all: there is nothing aquatic about this fragrance, nothing at all. And yet the aforementioned notes convey the image of a sunny Caribbean beach, albeit not as strikingly as one might think. Something disturbs this stale idyll: leathery, light-smoky, tart-fruity and green aromas waft across, and no, it's not a group of bikers smoking a joint and butchering a pineapple. This is where we leave the idyllic Caribbean and head east, to Asian climes and a teahouse surrounded by osmanthus bushes in full bloom.

The complex fragrance profile of this flower forms something like the key note in 'Idilios': in addition to the floral, leathery, fruity and smoky nuances characterize this profile, but not in the way we are used to here in Europe, but somehow modulated. Just as a lychee does not taste like a plum, but somehow still has similarities, the osmanthus blossom only smells remotely like a peach, not quite as juicy, comparably sweet, but with less fruit acids, and the leathery facets that the peach skin also brings with it are given a strangely physical, almost fleshy impression here, slightly smoky to boot - a somewhat bizarre mixture, but one that smells damn good, in my opinion anyway!

Looking at the staging of the osmanthus blossom alone, 'Idilios' reminds me of 'Cuir de Chine' by Les Indémodables, where this leathery physicality was wonderfully emphasized. Here, however, it is not quite so obvious, but it is still present and gives the idyllic fragrance scenario exactly the spin it needs to avoid becoming sleepy.

Green tea with its straw-dry, also subtly smoky nuances is another important player on this fragrance stage, contrasting the floral and fruity sweetness and keeping it largely in check, so that 'Idilios' comes with a certain basic sweetness, but does not appear particularly sweet at all in perception - at least not to me.

A hint of vanilla and the finest light musk round the whole thing off at the bottom, without getting too oriental or animalic. Throughout the course of the fragrance, the action remains focused on the center. Osmanthus and green tea form the axis around which everything is grouped: the Caribbean intro as well as the cozy, semi-oriental finish.

What also characterizes this fragrance is a slightly synthetic impression reminiscent of lacquer paint, which somehow seems to permeate everything. It doesn't bother me, quite the opposite. Similar to the physicality of the Osamanthus flower, it gives the fragrance exactly the tension it needs to remain exciting, to make the wearer sniff at themselves again and again, to get to the bottom of what is developing in such a multi-layered and contradictory way. And it is this lacquer note in combination with osmanthus that reminds me of one of my favorite fragrances, 'Flesh' by Pekji, which, however, manages without the Caribbean intro and also develops in a much more animalistic way as it progresses.

All in all, I think that Andrea Rubini and Cristiano Canali have once again created an extremely successful and interesting fragrance that fits wonderfully into the extraordinary range of Rubini fragrances. All of them have a strong character, but are nevertheless linked by a family bond. A bond that is characterized by a certain stylish originality, a consistently high level and brilliant craftsmanship.

Bravo, keep it up!!!

And please don't fall into the breathlessness of other houses that once started so promisingly only to flounder to death in arbitrariness.

Per favore, signor Canali e signor Rubini, continuate cosi!

Few fragrance manufacturers inspire me as much as the small northern Italian house Rubini. But beware, the creations of this label are anything but pleasing. Complex, sometimes unwieldy, they come up with unusual accords and defy all conventional fragrance categories. Anyone who wants to place them in the familiar coordinate system with generic terms such as chypre/fougère/oriental is likely to fail. But that's exactly what makes them special: independence full of character.
That you have to work for it.

You might ask why fragrances have to be worked for if they just need to smell good. And fortunately, many do, a lot of them in fact!
For example: one sniff of Chanel's 'Bois des Îles' and the fragrance world should be fine. What more do you need? You want to kneel down.
But that's not how the Rubinis are knitted. Premature olfactory orgasms? Out of the question. Instead, curling noses. Brittle and buttoned-up, they are stingy with their charms, keeping a low profile. Sometimes leading you astray, only gradually revealing their true nature.

If the last two, 'Nuvolari' and 'Odenaturae', were more accessible, this one is definitely not. Alongside 'Tambour Sacré', 'Hyperion' is possibly even the most difficult, certainly the least pleasing fragrance of the house. Not that it is without its charming sides, it certainly has them! Nevertheless, even I, who greatly appreciate the works of Andrea Rubini and Cristiano Canali, was irritated at first.

Seriously: an incense fragrance with plastic-like undertones, biting spiciness, latently threatening animalism, along with diffuse aquatics - really? Didn't we already have that?
'Copal Azur', 'Bleu Turqoise', 'Squid', and now this questionable combination of cool, sacred smoke, salty spray and all sorts of washed up flotsam again?
Well, why not, the aforementioned are quite tame companions compared to the olfactory challenge called 'Hyperion'.

The key note that unfolds immediately is still the most harmless: incense. In combination with tart, fruity yuzu, peppery notes and complex juniper spice, an opening develops that reminds me of another Canali fragrance, 'Tiger' by Zoologist. There, instead of yuzu, kumquat successfully provides the necessary counterpart (like the peach in 'Mitsouko'). But what follows - at least for my nose - is a task called Ambergris.
When the fragrance was presented at a trade fair in early 2024, the ambergris was still missing because the desired tincture had not yet arrived at that time. Now that it has been added to the composition, I'm pretty sure it has made a significant difference to the result.
Whether for the better? Who knows. The ambergris is tricky. It can smell good, but it doesn't have to. Its fragrance profile is completely disparate. In recent years, Antoine Lie has given it a fitting showcase for Les Indémodables and Eris Parfums. They reveal the multi-layered olfactory kaleidoscope of gray ambergris: from dry wood to warm skin, from salty-watery notes to unfathomably deep animalic notes, from earthy aromas to shimmering ozonics. The Frenchman was able to harmoniously complement this diffuse interplay of notes, even with daring accents such as cocoa ('Mxxx.') or immortelle ('Ambre Suprême'). The Italian Canali, on the other hand, takes a different approach. Instead of framing the various accents, Canali lets them exist. Not out of inability, but because he wants to.
And this is where Hyperion comes into play, son of Uranos (heaven) and Gaia (earth), Titan of Light. His name means "guardian from above" or "the one who goes up", following the Greek syllables 'hyper' and 'iôn'. Mr. Rubini and Mr. Canali recommend this gentleman, who has always been enthroned high above, as a spiritual companion should you ("in search of yourself, to discover the infinite within you") ever entertain the idea of whirring around in the vastness of space.

Aha.

Hyperion as a kind of Virgil, who once led Dante into the underworld, now fragrantly taking us by the hand in heaven.
Well, every perfume today needs its story, and it should be as 'fancy' as possible.
As a gift.

For me, the fragrance is almost like a rougher 'Squid', but without a marine connection, which is largely absent here. The aquatic part, although present, is rather dry, or rather: dried up, like spray on sun-warmed rock. And instead of a synthetic ambrox sound, the real ambergris club, erotic smut included. Dark, sensual radiance instead of polished artificiality.
But here, too, there is that hint of plastic, although I find it less chemical, somehow 'rougher'. Sweet accents, on the other hand, are less obvious, even when an amber-patchouli accord bathes the evening sky of the fragrance in a fine red. No, no vanilla and benzoin far and wide - and that suits me!
With the help of a framework of cool smoke and ambergris, accentuated with fruity, spicy and woody notes, this fragrance is intended to lift us into Hyperion's fragrant heaven.

Does it work?
Well, as is so often the case, a resounding: no.

Those who are able to engage with it will perhaps be able to understand Rubini's claim to have imagined the scents of the universe, "(...) the feeling of emptiness, of absolute peace and the infinite reverberation of an unfathomable cosmos".
Those who don't will still be able to experience a reasonably successful smoky, ambery fragrance here, although there have been many without a unique selling point.
I place myself somewhere in between. The claims seem a little pretentious to me, but I somehow take it from the Rubinis that this is their most ambitious work to date.

The creators could have played it safe and pulled out all the stops with the fragrance organ: Ambroxan and Woody Amber, the warhorses of modern perfumery that have been ridden to death, for example. They would have been sure of success, as would the noses of connoisseurs.
But the feedback is likely to be mixed: On the one hand, recognition for the olfactory artistry (it's a Canali fragrance and the man can do something!) and the courage to consistently pursue their own sometimes unwieldy, offbeat, possibly somewhat academic path. On the other hand, head-shaking, even rejection due to the lack of complaisance and frilly ingratiation.

It's a bit like comparing Puccini with Schönberg. Of course, it lacks the enchantment, the familiar catchiness, which I am happy to do without in favor of the magnetism that the music of the 12-toner is able to exert on me.
I had a very similar experience with 'Hyperion'. The longer I sniffed the fragrance, which at first seemed quite uninspiring, the deeper I reached into spheres of fragrance that could hardly be more stimulating.

Hats off to Rubini and please keep it up!

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.