You’ve Changed

A familiar scenario took place chez The Scentimentalist last night: a new bottle of scent was brandished—an oldie and, yes, a goodie. Its cap was tugged off roughly in nostalgic anticipation; expectant alveoli quieted and at the ready.

Spritz! And in for a sniff, for that first moment of nasal recall.

But—oh!—that wasn’t First! At least, not the First I remembered. Since when did its voluminous jasmine note smell so grimly diluted, its narcissus accord like the daffodils going mouldy in the vase by my fireplace?

A vexing tale, but true. And one that, over the past few years, has afflicted The Scentimentalist’s nostrils with deadening frequency. For First, like so many other landmark scents, has been ‘reformulated’—nay, adulterated, readers!

This phenomenon has been hastened by a plethora of factors, most of which have been dwelled on in more detail and with a good deal more erudition than here. Certainly, the IFRA Code of Practice with its attendant standards and regulations has proved a prime mover in this regard, notably in the run-up to 2010. Most galling have been its steely (but by no means new) restrictions on oakmoss; hence, perfume websites now abound with articles bewailing this injustice—in some cases, with very good cause.

In a great many instances, it is the harsh realities of ‘the bottom line’ that have been a driving force behind reformulation, with costly—and often diminishing—components being steadily replaced by infinitely cheaper, and yet very serviceable, synthetic substitutes.

The letter of the law has also prevailed, with many reconfigurations emerging from the banning of substances, natural or otherwise, including those identified as irritants or allergens, or as unsustainable or demanding environmental protection.

In the case of vintage Rive Gauche, it was arguably Tom Ford’s ego that was sufficient to tweak this perfume masterwork—but why, and for whom? Once unimpeachable and now unspeakable, afficionados are advised to check the detail on the packaging: if the name ‘Rive Gauche’ is flanked by two small, black squares, then you know you’ve got a bottle of the new—and less glorious—juice.

Sticking with YSL, perhaps the news that has created the most disquiet in perfume fora this year is the desecration (for it can only be described as such) of Opium. Presumably in a bid to deflate its late Seventies big-hair credentials, YSL has seen fit to render it altogether ‘lighter’, with a reported note (—oh, the horror!) of ‘rubber bands’ …

So where does all this leave the guileless and unlucky shopper, who—like The Scentimentalist—seeks out a beloved scent that one has worn without interruption, or perhaps wore just a few years hitherto, or even several decades before, only to find that it is now little more than a simulacrum?

Well, to start, it should be accepted that, invariably, there will be tears (cf. The Scentimentalist and the new Diorissimo, Joy and No. 19). This may, in certain instances, evolve into unbridled, impotent rage (cf. The Scentimentalist and the newer Tabac Blond and Cristalle). Meanwhile, in the very best-case scenario, mere confusion and hapless bewilderment will reign (cf. The Scentimentalist and Ysatis, Oscar de la Renta and Habanita).

Or then, you could just go with it. Shit happens. And change—we frequently find—can be scary.

Contrariwise, you could remind yourself that, for many great scents things are not all bad, and that there’s still some solid stuff to be had. To wit, though the beast that is Bandit has now changed more times than you’ve changed your own pantaloons, what exists on the shelves at this time is pretty tolerable, ditto Mitsouko.

And then, of course, there’s one final suggestion (though you may, like The Scentimentalist, end up living in perfumed penury): get your ass quick sticks onto ebay and snap up every old-formulation bottle IN EXISTENCE!

What are your reformulation woes? Share them here, with The Scentimentalist.

And thanks to Michael Fowler's mummy (once, but sadly no longer, a devoted wearer of Opium) for inspiring this post.

Halston Couture: Le Chypre, C’est Chic

One night, at a disco on the outskirts of ’Frisco, I was cruising with my favourite gang ...

Sound familiar?

It’s the opening line to He’s The Greatest Dancer, the 1979 anthem by Sister Sledge, backed and produced by pioneering disco outfit, Chic. A squelchy-bassed eulogy to a ‘champion of dance whose moves will put you in a trance’, to an unnamed ‘crème de la crème’ of the dance floor, dressed – unforgettably – in Halston, Gucci, Fiorucci.

The Scentimentalist has always regretted being born too late for disco, and has sought determinedly (and successfully) to make up for this ever since. Much of her adolescence (from the mid-to-late 1980s) was spent gyrating beneath glitter balls and frugging to Donna Summer and Sylvester. And, on reflection, little in this scenario has evolved even to this day.

Yet, in spite of relishing the ‘disco sound’ of at least a decade earlier, when it came to wearing perfume The Scentimentalist of the ʾ80s was resolutely of her era: not for her the pull of Charlie, Rive Gauche or Charles of the Ritz. Rather, she – like most of her sheep-like peers – was flirting timorously with Paris, Poison and Ysatis, to be succeeded finally by Coco and Calvin Klein’s Obsession.

Little did she know that, in as late as 1988, two bodacious (and borderline anachronistic) chypres were sashaying through the dry ice and onto the perfume scene: Estee Lauder’s Knowing ­ ­– which, typically, came in with a multinational bang – and Halston’s gloriously louche chypre throwback, Couture, which – on British shores at least – scarcely registered a whimper.

A chance encounter two years ago with a 4ml vial of the latter transported The Scentimentalist, for the first time, to an olfactory Studio 54. This – so much more than Halston’s wildly successful 1975 eponymous scent – appeared to conjure up the glamour and sleek chic of the Halston epoch.

With its amber-tempered patchouli and its languorous mossy base, Couture is the very Ultrasuede of chypres; it is Bianca Jagger, boldly astride a white horse. A scent that drapes the skin then clings ʾtil dawn, it is iconically enrobed in its Elsa Peretti bottle, half funky sterling silver and half round-hipped, frosted glass, and with its infamous angular neck that proved such a headache for its manufacturers.

The irony, of course, is that Couture was created some four years after Halston had been fired from his own company (his already disordered directorship was compounded by drug addiction). Hence, this scent is a strange, but fabulous, pastiche of a cultural moment when the jet-set and Beautiful People swayed in syncopated glitziness and descended into irreversible, hedonistic decline.

Given that this scent has been discontinued for many years now, hardcore fans of chypres should snap Couture up wherever they may find it. Mercifully, it still appears on the occasional discounter's website and is rarely overpriced. Seductive and sophisticated beyond the capacity of most contemporary perfumes, what is certain to The Scentimentalist is that, as with Sister Sledge's 'Greatest Dancer', when in Halston Couture, you’ll never leave the disco alone.

What perfume did you wear to the disco? Share your memories here with The Scentimentalist.

Cacharel Anaïs Anaïs: Never As Good As the First Time

I had been itching to get my hands on her for ages.

If ever Mum went out, I’d steal in, to cop a feel. To prise her open and press her nozzle, to roll her coolness, to feel her weight.

Time and again, she left her tale-telling residue behind: on my hands, on my nose. My wretched fumblings exposed.

Treachery, trespass. How do I get you alone?

I wasn’t yet thirteen; far too young for ladies’ ways. In my room, I’d mash up rose petals and chalk to a scented tincture. Family holidays to St Ives supplied Devon Violets, a nuclear, lime-jelly green set off with a purple faux-satin bow. Rancid Avon cast-offs coloured umber in the glare of my window.

Yet, all the desperate while, my loyal girl’s heart beat a loving tattoo–for her, for the doubly dubbed … Anaïs Anaïs.

What a romance ours was! She was an armful–a profusion–of the whitest, most spirituous flowers. She was a beauty of the finest pre-Raphaelite proportions. She was Alphonse Mucha women hazily captured through gossamer gauze. She was lilies in pastel shades, she was semi-opaque. She was young. She was feminine.

She was also doing the rounds with just about every other girl of my age, not to mention my own dear mother and then–the shame!–my poor, mild-mannered Gran. She rolled capriciously from palm to palm, she clung without compunction to a million necks.

By the time I had been deemed of sufficient maturity to partake freely of Anaïs Anaïs, her ubiquity had–for me–become a phenomenon beyond the pale. I quickly tired of her. She soured. I dumped her ass for a bottle ofYsatis.

Yesterday, I caught a quick glimpse of Anaïs Anaïs in the window of my local Superdrug. Cryogenically preserved; a tawdry, heart-breaking £12.95.

I wanted to smell her again–just once! She was my first. Had she changed? Had I? Nostalgic desire. I cogitated: Could we ever relive the magic?

I asked the check-out girl to retrieve her from her ignominious top-shelf exile. My request was met with a grimace, a look of jaded, adolescent incredulity: Are you for real? You want to smell that old shit?

I just want to try it, I fudged (as though that were my very first time). She tried to convince me with steely resistance that, she was sorry, but there was no tester.

Oh, yes there is, I pressed. I was taller than her. I could see it up there, behind that box, there, at the back.

She made a conspicuous display of lugging over a recalcitrant footstool. She sprayed the back of my hand. I wordlessly fled. I found a nearby, desolate alleyway, and stopped.

Only then would I take her to my heart again …

Anaïs Anaïs. She wasn’t unlovely. She was full-on, top-heavy, lily-loaded, pugnacious. I was embarrassed to say that I found her loud–sharp, even–and, frankly, dispiritingly one-dimensional. She was also far less romantic and whimsical than I recalled, though (to her dubious credit) her unsubtle tenacity meant that, for a 'floral bouquet', she certainly went the distance.

Soon sated and deflated, I slunk back to my business and other chores. The day wore on. I tried honourably to memorialise my first love, but the thrill was gone. Anaïs Anaïs and her sillage had faded; she expired just as my memory of ever desiring her was expunged.

Do you remember your first scent like you remember your first love? Share your secrets here, with The Scentimentalist.