Perfume Review – Serge Lutens Muscs Koublaï Khan: Animal Magnetism

Posted on July 19, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Marlene Dietrich as Catherine the Great in “The Scarlet Empress.”

Catherine the Great on horseback, riding to meet a young Cossack officer at a secret rendezvous where the lovers will tangle under Siberian furs before a roaring fireplace. Henry VIII seducing Anne Boleyn on more piles of fur on a winter’s night at a hunting lodge. The Sun King, Louis XIV, and one of his mistresses at Versailles, a palace redolent with the smell of the human body covered by powdered roses. The memory of riding my horse on a warm day, and the subtle aroma of his lightly musked, heated, muscular neck, mixed with the smell of the leather harness and saddle.

Special, limited-edition, rare bell jar bottle of Muscs Koublai Khan. Source: Serge Lutens Facebook page.

Those tangled thoughts and images are what cross my mind when I wear Muscs Koublaï Khan from Serge Lutens. Muscs Koublaï Khan (or “MKK” as it is often referred to for short) is a fragrance that always conjures up royalty in days long gone, along with fur and the memory of horses. It is an eau de parfum that I’d always wanted to try for very personal reasons. The tale in my family is that one side is a direct, linear descendant from the legendary Genghis Khan, leader of the Mongol hordes and the terror of both the Asiatic and the European plains. I’ve never bothered with genealogy and know nothing of its rules, so who knows how true it is, but I’ve always loved the story. So, a fragrance inspired by Genghis Khan’s grandson, Kublai Khan (or, as Serge Lutens writes it, Koublai Khan)? Clearly, it was something to try.

Regular bell jar of MKK, available for purchase today.

Then, I started reading about the famous Lutens creation — and I stopped in my tracks. Perhaps few fragrances come with such baggage. Horrified reactions abound on the internet, reaching such a crescendo of revulsion that any sane person would hesitate. From tales of crotch sweat, testicular sweat, camel feces, unwashed taxi drivers, and anal odor, to shuddering comments about how it would be socially unacceptable to go out in public reeking of Muscs Koublai Khan, the perfume has one of the most horrifying reputations around. I got a sample months ago but, every time I went to pick it up, I would think about “camel balls,” and I promptly put it back down again.

Imagine my disbelief, then, when I actually tried Muscs Koublai Khan and thought: “this is IT??? What’s all the fuss about?!” More to the point, I loved it. While I would never — ever — recommend MKK to someone just starting their perfume foray into niche brands or to anyone who isn’t a fan of animalic scents, I definitely think people who love musky Orientals and have some perfume experience should ignore the perfume’s reputation and give Muscs Koublai Khan a try.

The 50 ml/1.7 oz bottle of MKK available.

Muscs Koublai Khan is an eau de parfum that was created with Lutens’ favorite perfumer, Christopher Sheldrake, and released in 1998. Though it was originally a Paris Bell Jar exclusive, American perfume buyers can easily find it in a regular 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle that is easily available and sometimes discounted online. In Europe, however, Muscs Koublai Khan is still limited to the Bell Jar format that is exclusive to Serge Lutens’ Paris headquarters, though I did find the smaller bottle available at one French online retailer.

“Le Grand Serge” describes Muscs Koublai Khan on his website as follows:

Valuable furs were spread for the Emperor of China to tread on, muddy boots and all.

Ultra-animalic musks and all kinds of tanned hides make a sensational debut in this fragrance. Pay no attention to their aggressiveness: once on the skin, they retract their claws in favor of padded paws.

Fragrantica classifies Muscs Koublai Khan as a “chypre,” which I think is odd, and says that the notes consist of:

civet, castoreum, cistus labdanum, ambergris, Morrocan rose, cumin, ambrette seed (musk mallow), costus root and patchouli.

Source: imgfave.com. Artist or creator unknown.

Muscs Koublaï Khan opens as sweet amber, mixed with a slightly urinous, very musky edge. It feels just like warm, heated skin that is faintly dappled by a light sweat. The whole thing is sweet, sour, musky, just a little bit fetid, and a tiny bit dirty, all at the same time. But it truly doesn’t smell like stale body odor. A citric rose note, laden with rich, almost syrupy honey, peeps up from the musky amber base. There is just the faintest hint of a floral, rosy, vanillic powder sprinkled on top. Lovely flickers of sweetness come from the patchouli, and it mixes with the mildest, most minute touch of cumin. The whole bouquet sits atop the gorgeously plush, velvety warmth of the castoreum and the sweet nuttiness of the labdanum amber. It’s all sexy as hell, and significantly tamer than I had expected.

Source: narutoforums.com

The ambered base is beautiful. It’s gloriously rich from the ambergris which, like the labdanum, is enriched by the warm plushness of the velvety castoreum, as well as by the naturally sweet muskiness of the ambrette seeds. That said, the ambergris doesn’t smell very concentrated or profound. It lacks the salty, wet, sweet, slightly sweaty muskiness of anything more than just a few drops of ambergris. At times, I wonder if it’s the real thing at all.

Perhaps the best — and, certainly, the most fascinating — part is the slightly urinous note from the civet. I realise that sounds odd and strange, and maybe you just have to be a really obsessed perfumista, but there is some appeal to that sour aroma. Just as really rich, really buttery food needs a dash of acidity to create a balance, so too does really rich perfumery. Here, the civet adds a really well-modulated edge that initially isn’t really like urine, but more like a sweet, little sour, almost vinegary, feline muskiness. To my surprise, it’s not rendered skanky or raunchy by the costus root which can sometimes take on a sharply feral aspect. (I likened its effects in Amouage’s Opus VII to “panther pee.”) Here, there is just the slightest musky dirtiness, perhaps akin to the smell of “dirty hair” that costus sometimes evokes, but it’s far from strong and certainly not over-powering. Still, I imagine that those who hate animalic notes in even the smallest dose will probably keel over from Muscs Koublai Khan’s combination of civet and costus.

“Red Orange Rose Yellow Abstract” by LTPhotographs, Etsy Store. (Link to website embedded within, click on photo.)

Ten minutes into its development, Muscs Koublai Khan radiates an unusual bouquet of richly sweet, lightly vanillic, almost citrusy, powdered rose mixed with the scent of a warm, musky body. The combination of the civet with the powdered rose and the amber keeps triggering thoughts of Bal à Versailles, the legendary scent whose vintage form sought to replicate the scent of aristocrats at Versailles who used strong floral powders to mask their lack of hygiene. It’s often said that courtiers at Louis XIV’s Versailles palace would relieve themselves in corners without the slightest hesitation, and that is another aroma that Bal à Versailles sought to recreate in its nuances. I wish I had a vintage sample to compare to Muscs Koublai Khan, but my memory tells me that Bal à Versailles was a much more extreme, raunchy, dirty, skanky proposition. Muscs Koublai Khan is much better balanced, and far, far less dirty. Furthermore, the urinous note from the civet and costus root is too mild and too sweetened to evoke the same aroma. And, just to be clear, nothing in Muscs Koublai Khan reminded me of a urinal.

Source: Zavvi.com

Twenty minutes in, Muscs Koublai Khan becomes muskier in a more rounded way, taking on a velvety, smooth, deep quality that is as luxurious as it is sensuous. It really feels like the scent of warmed bodies under a cozy, thick, fur blanket. For all the talk about sweat or urinous edges, the thing that Muscs Koublai Khan truly evokes is the scent of skin itself. Not stale, sweaty skin, but skin that is heated and just barely sweaty from perhaps a romp under the sheets. Yes, the perfume has some animalistic tendencies, but nothing about it evokes testicular “ball sweat,” anal secretions, or fecal notes. Just heated bodies intertwined in intimacy.

By the same token, nothing about the cumin note makes me think of unwashed, stale body odor. In fact, the cumin is almost imperceptible on my skin which normally amplifies the note. It’s not even a millimeter like the rancid, wholly intimate, extremely dirty note of unwashed genitalia that it triggered in Vero Profumo‘s Rubj eau de parfum. Nor is it like the stale armpit sweat of Frederic Malle‘s Bigarade Concentrée. Granted, the cumin here is not the pure, dusty spice of something like Parfum d’Empire‘s Ambre Russe, but its muted, emasculated nature and the way it flickers just once in a blue moon in the background is hardly what I was expecting.

Photo: Lydia Roberts, 2011. Source: Tumblr http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/lydia-roberts

Muscs Koublai Khan remains relatively unchanged in its core essence for a large portion of its development. It is a beautifully sweetened rose scent flecked by vanilla powder and a citric, slightly urinous civet note, all atop a gorgeously plush, velvety, rich amber base that radiates the warmth of heated, musky skin. The notes fluctuate in prominence, intensity and strength, but Muscs Koublai Khan on my skin is primarily a musky amber fragrance with rose and vanilla. The civet note waxes and wanes, reaching its highest peak around the middle of the second hour where it definitely feels a little sharper than it did originally. Then, it becomes tamer, softer, and richer, perhaps thanks to the castoreum which casts out its warm tendrils to enrich everything it touches. There is also a subtle leathery undertone to Muscs Koublai Khan which becomes more noticeable at the end of the first hour and which feels a little raw at times. It, too, becomes gentler, sweeter, and warmer after a while, thanks to the amber’s plush embrace.

“Theequus” – photo by David Sinclair, via Crossed Wires Tumblr. (Website link embedded within photo.)

For all that the sophisticated elegance of Muscs Koublai Khan evokes historical figures covered by rich furs, it also calls to mind a more personal memory for me. Something about the overall combination of notes reminds me of riding. If you’ve ever been a horseman, you’ll know the aroma, especially after a gallop in the warm sun. The musky smell of a horse’s warm body, just lightly veiled by sweat, that is sweet but, yet, just a little sour as well. The soft heat of his muscular neck, combined with the faintest whiff of leather from the saddle and harness, all bundled up with a golden muskiness. That aroma is a subtle undertone of Muscs Koublai Khan for a brief time around the 90-minute mark and in an extremely mild form, even though the fragrance bouquet is primarily radiating the sweetest rose, its light touch of vanillic powder, and a plush, ambered base.

The overall combination is far too civilized and sophisticated to evoke the pillaging, raping, filthy brutality of the Mongol hordes. For me, one needs to go down a little later in history to a later Slavic legend, Catherine the Great, whose sensual appetites were almost matched by her passion for the hunt and for refined luxury. Muscs Koublai Khan would have very much suited the Great Catherine from its floral, vanillic rose that is powdered like her face, to the languid, feline heat of warmed bodies intertwined under blankets of the richest Russian furs.

Model, Bregje Heinen, photographed by Jean-François Campos for Flair November 2010.

Perhaps the most surprising change with Muscs Koublai Khan is how the volume quickly decreases to a purring hum. Less than forty minutes into its development, Muscs Koublai Khan seems to get a little blurry around the edges and the sillage drops quite a lot, though its smell is still extremely potent up close, thanks to the civet. At the end of the second hour, the perfume is so airy and lightweight that it feels far weaker than a hardcore oriental eau de parfum. In fact, Muscs Koublai Khan is far sheerer than I had expected. It lacks the opaque, baroque heaviness of Maison Francis Kurkdjian‘s ravishing Absolue Pour Le Soir, another animalic, musky, amber oriental fragrance but one which is, ultimately, night and day apart from Muscs Koublai Khan. Absolue Pour Le Soir is actually much dirtier than Muscs Koublai Khan, not to mention heavily spiced, more floral, and infused with almost as much beautiful sandalwood as it is with musk and amber. Muscs Koublai Khan is tamer, more linear, more muted, and much less complex, though it is beautiful in a very different way and perhaps more refined than the Absolue with its more hardcore, slightly beastly edge.

Muscs Koublai Khan soon starts to take on quite an abstract aura. At the start of the third hour, the fragrance is a soft, nebulous blur of amber, vanilla and quietly animalic musk. The flecks of a citric, civet-infused, and lightly powdered rose start to recede, slowly become less and less noticeable. By the start of the third hour, the rose is largely gone, leaving behind only an ambered, powdered, vanilla musk with a hint of civet. And there Muscs Koublai Khan remains for hours and hours, turning more and more abstract and amorphous. It soon loses the civet, becoming just an musky, powdery, sweet amber fragrance. Though Muscs Koublai Khan’s sillage hovered just above the skin for the second and third hours, its projection drops even more. (That said, I dabbed it on, and, apparently, it’s a very different issue if you spray Muscs Koublai Khan.) Around the sixth hour, the ambery perfume becomes a complete skin scent. By its very end, almost exactly 12.5 hours from its opening, Muscs Koublai Khan is just a hint of a sweetened, musky powder, and nothing more.

I think Muscs Koublai Khan — and the extreme reactions to it — need to be placed in context. For one thing, the average perfume user nowadays is used to a very different sort of musk in perfumery. Clean, white musks abound, and the extent of something ostensibly “dirty” is probably Narcisco Rodriguez‘s musk For Her. Muscs Koublai Khan is a whole different kettle of fish. Perfumes with civet (and even castoreum) are no longer common in perfumery, so people aren’t so exposed to what musk used to be all about when perfumes like Bal à Versailles and its cohorts celebrated the skank provided by civet, castoreum and real Tonkin deer musk. For animal cruelty and ethical reasons, many of those ingredients are no longer used and their scent has to be replicated through vegetal musks like ambrette seeds. I’m glad for that, but it does mean that exposure to a dirty sort of musk — even through vegetal recreation — can trigger a repulsed response in those who expect musk to have the modern, common characteristics of white, laundry-clean freshness.

Muscs Koublai Khan is not a perfume that I would recommend to everyone. Those who are brand new to perfumery may find the civet and musk accords repulsive. Those who are experienced perfumistas, but who feel that even the smallest drop of something animalic in their perfumes renders it unbearably “dirty,” will undoubtedly feel the same way. But those who adore true Orientals and who can appreciate some animalic nuances should absolutely try it. Don’t let Muscs Koublai Khan’s dangerous reputation keep you away. I think you will be like a lot of bloggers who have tried Muscs Koublai Khan and wondered: what is all the Sturm und Drang about?

Take, for example, the review at Pere de Pierre where the blogger clearly was prepared to be blown away by Muscs Koublai Khan’s terrible reputation:

Of all the “bad boy” fragrances, the outlaws, the ones whose whispered descriptions contain the words “unwashed” and “crotch”, often in succession, and sometimes with “of a Mongolian horseman after three days of burning, raping and pillaging” appended, it may be that none has a more salacious reputation than Muscs Koublaï Khän.

Thus, it was with great anticipation that I first pulled the stopper on a sample. Civet and castoreum? Bring it!

The first sniff of the vial seemed promising; yes, there was civet in there.

On application, though, it seemed much like Kiehl’s Musk Oil, a similarity that has been noted by many a reviewer before. A simple floral musk, nothing terrible or even animalic about it.

Fortunately, it did not take long before MKK began to develop, something that Kiehl’s does not ever seem to do, on me anyway.

MKK shuffled its accords and painted scenes with them. However, they were not dramatic, sharply pitched scenes of lust and conquest; they were more like dreamy landscapes with dark clouds scudding through a sky above shifting fields of roses and poppies. Sensual, yes, but more of a lazy Sunday afternoon lovers’ feast than a frenzied, climactic battle. […][¶]

In subsequent wearings, only once did the civet ever really raise its head, and it was glorious; I wouldn’t mind if it did it more often. But mostly, this is a sultry, sometimes even sweet, and floral musk.

Kiehl’s Musk is not the only fragrance to which Musc Koublai Khan has been compared. The other one is Frederic Malle‘s Musc Ravageur. I haven’t tried it yet, but the general consensus seems to be that there are differences. The blogger, The Candy Perfume Boy, did a comparison of the two fragrances, and his section on the Serge Lutens begins with: “I just can’t see what all of the fuss is about.” He found Musc Koublai Khan to be disappointing in its tameness, and not particularly filthy. As a gourmand lover, he far preferred Malle’s Musc Ravageur with its “edible” characteristics. On Fragrantica, one reviewer writes about the Lutens: “it’s similar to Musc Ravageur, but Koublai Khan is rounder and deeper (and more discreet) while MR is more playful and contemporary.”

Speaking of Fragrantica, one commentator clearly shares my experience with horses, writing in a review that I’ve reformatted only for the sake of trying to keep things shorter:

I fell in love with it. [¶] Maybe it will be easier for those of you who are familiar with horses to comprehend what I will try to describe.

First wave, it smelled like a horse with saddle and all that has been running a mile on a sunny summer day. Since I love horses and their smell, well, it didn’t bother me at all. Au contraire. [¶] It was musc and a bit sweet and also a bit “sweaty”. [¶] Then the dry down became very soft and almost powdery, almost buttery. In the middle of the composition I also smelled like hay and kind of what it would smell like when you walk in a wild field in summer.

So for me, that perfum is very comforting. [¶] The funny part is that my husband thinks the same as me when it come to the smell of this perfume. He says that it also smell “very clean”!? [¶] My best friend (women) love the first “snif” then she looked at me with a strange look on her face and she says that she also smell like “pee”?????!!!. And at last my best friend (man) told me it smells like baby powder!!

I think Musc Koublai Khan is all those things: sweetly horse-y (but in a really subtle, muted way), summery, almost clean in the sense that it evokes a person’s skin scent more than body odour, but with slightly urinous nuances, and sufficient powder that a handful of people may think it resembles baby powder towards the end.

The Non-Blonde, however, didn’t smell anything horsey about the fragrance at all. Her review talks about how clean it actually smells, but also cautions about over-application:

If you google Muscs Kublai Khan and dig enough, you would find colorful reviews, mentions of horses, genitalia and horses’ genitalia. Which is where I make the “whatcha talking ’bout?” face.

I cannot argue with the fact MKK smells “raw”, which probably translates to “animalic” for some. I’ve heard rumors of cumin, but I don’t get any at all. Quite the opposite, actually, if we agree that a cumin note in perfume represents the dirty and the sweaty. What I’m getting is actually clean, sweet and warm. The dirty part is not the scent itself, but the warm skin feel it evokes and all the things one might associate with a skin in this state. In his review for Perfume Smellin’ Things, my scent twin Tom called it “clean bodies in compromising positions”, and that’s exactly right.

[…] On my skin it’s a thing of beauty and has nothing to do with the great unwashed. It’s also incredibly strong and persistent, even after the big show of the ultra sweet top notes fades away.

It’s so strong, actually, that anything more than a couple of dabs can get extremely distracting. Over apply and you will keep smelling MKK, thinking about MKK, feeling MKK. It will occupy your thoughts in a NSFW way, so be careful. Another word of warning: Muscs Kublai Khan is meant to be dabbed and not sprayed. I’m saying this as someone who prefers to spray just about anything and regularly decants parfum extracts into mini atomizers. I did the same with MKK and it’s just wrong. You don’t want to cover a lot of skin with this, and spraying releases way too much.

You may think all this gushing and raving is bias from bloggers who are Lutens groupies, but that would not be true. Take the blogger, Pour Monsieur, who says he flat-out hates Lutens fragrances, and finds “them overly complex, pretentious and unwearable.” Yet, he writes that “Muscs Koublai Khan is the one huge exception, and is truly a special scent. It is the best musk fragrance in the world, hands down.” [Emphasis added.] In his review, he explains why:

This is more “body smell” rather than “body odor”.  It reminds me of the smell of sweat on clean, warm, tanned skin.

It’s a complex scent, but not the ego trip of the other Lutens fragrances I’ve tried.  The sense of perfect balance and complexity in Muscs Koublai Khan is amazing, and makes it so comforting to wear.  It smells like there are several different types of musk used in MKK – light, heavy, white, dark, etc..  They’re all unified by soft floral and herbal notes, which add depth to the scent and prevent it from smelling like someone’s asshole. […][¶]

Muscs Koublai Khan is not only the most wearable Serge Lutens perfume I’ve ever smelled.  It’s perhaps the most wearable scent I’ve ever worn, period.  This is a fragrance, more than any other I’ve tried, that absolutely must be worn on skin, and that’s because it smells like skin.  When you wear this, it becomes a part of you, smelling like it’s part of your body.  It’s both extremely masculine and extremely feminine, depending on who’s wearing it, and it melds itself to its wearer.  I can’t imagine Muscs Koublai Khan smelling unsuitable on anybody.  So it’s both daring and suitable for anyone.  Think about what an incredible acheivement that is for a perfumer.

I don’t agree that Muscs Koublai Khan is the most wearable Lutens, but I think many of his other points are true.

I’ve spent all this time covering other people’s assessments of Muscs Koublai Khan’s tameness for a reason. The horror stories don’t always apply, and it’s not just me with my heavy bias towards Orientals and my love for Serge Lutens. Even those who can’t stand Lutens fragrances think this one is special. And I’m definitely not alone in finding all the Sturm und Drang about MKK’s supposed terrors to be very different from the reality on one’s skin. But I cannot repeat enough, this is not a perfume to try if you’re looking for something totally clean and without the slightest bit of animalic edge. Laundry-fresh it is not! And if you’ve never encountered civet or are new to niche perfumery, then you may be in for a shock. In fact, I suspect you’ll think it smells of poo.

However, for those who adore Orientals and have some perfume experience, I beg you not to believe all the stories about Muscs Koublai Khan, and to give it a test sniff. Uncle Serge is completely right when he says: “Pay no attention to [the musks’] aggressiveness: once on the skin, they retract their claws in favor of padded paws.” It’s very true, and that’s why I’d wear Muscs Koublai Khan in a heartbeat if I had a bottle. The perfume has enormous sexiness (the Non-Blonde is right in saying it triggers NSFW thoughts or images), and a sort of fascinating, raw animal magnetism that is simultaneously very refined as well. Muscs Koublai Khan is also totally unisex, and has great longevity. Lastly, for U.S. buyers, it is easily available — and often at a discount, in fact — so there are no accessibility barriers.

So, try it and, when you do, I doubt that you’ll think of the ravaging, filthy Mongol hordes. But your thoughts may not be totally clean, either….

DETAILS:

General Cost & Discounted Sales Prices: Muscs Koublaï Khan is an eau de parfum that comes in two sizes: a 1.7 oz/50 ml size and a larger 2.5 oz/75 ml bell jar version. The retail price for the 1.7 oz size is $140, or €99, with the 75 ml bell jar going for $300 or €140. However, Muscs Koublaï Khan is currently on sale at FragranceX where the 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle is priced at $113.99. The price is also reduced at Parfum1 which sells the 1.7 oz bottle for $126 with a 10%-off coupon for new customers. I don’t know how long these specials will last.

Serge Lutens: you can find Muscs Koublaï Khan in both sizes on the U.S. and International Lutens website (with non-english language options also available).

U.S. sellers: Muscs Koublaï Khan is available in the 50 ml size for $140 at Luckyscent, Barney’s (which also sells the expensive bell jar version), and Aedes.

Outside the U.S.: In Canada, you can find Muscs Koublaï Khan at The Perfume Shoppe for what is US $140, since it is primarily an American business with a Vancouver branch. They also offer some interesting sample or travel options for Lutens perfumes. For Europe and Australia, it gets harder. The perfume seems to be deemed “Limited Edition” for many European vendors, in the sense that MKK was originally a Paris exclusive and limited for sale elsewhere in Europe. So, it has not been easy for me to find online vendors. In the UK, I can’t find Muscs Koublaï Khan listed at Harrods, Harvey Nichols, Liberty or Les Senteurs — shops which normally carry most Lutens fragrances. However, in France, Premiere Avenue sells it for €96 and I believe they ship world-wide, or at least through the Euro zone.

Samples: You can test out Muscs Koublaï Khan by ordering a sample from Surrender to Chance where prices start at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial. There is also a Lutens Sample Set for $18.99 where the vials are also 1/2 ml each, but you get your choice of 5 Lutens Non-Export fragrances (ie, those that are Paris exclusives).

Perfume Review – Serge Lutens Fille En Aiguilles

Posted on July 18, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Pine Forest by Brandt Wemmer. Source: Fineartamerica.com

Imagine Santa Claus in a snowy pine forest. With the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy playing loudly in the background, he decides to cook a gigantic pot of perfumed deliciousness. The elves line up with their ingredients that he, like a mad chef, throws into the pot with a heart laugh: 4 cups of the darkest of pine cone essence, reduced down to a syrup; 4 cups of the darkest brown sugar; 3 cups of dark candied sugar plums and dried fruits that he tosses in, in tune with the addictive rhythms of Tchaikovsky and with a nod to the Nutcracker; 3 cups of smoky frankincense; 1 cup of assorted spices from ginger to cloves and nutmeg; 2 tablespoons of earthy, rooty, dark, foresty vetiver; a dash of ISO E Super; and a hint of almost abstract apple cider. He sets the gigantic pot over a smoker filled with dried pine cones, incense, and perhaps a few cedar chips, then dances around the forest as he awaits for his perfumed distillation of the essence of Christmas.

Photo: Ross. Used with permission.

That is Fille en Aiguilles, perhaps the best pine forest fragrance that I’ve ever smelled — and I’m not one who normally enjoys that note. But what an utterly joyful scent! The best of winter forests combined with the mysterious sweetness of Christmas treats, happy festivities, and excited anticipation. Pine is an extremely difficult scent to pull off in perfumery, as it can easily and quickly lend itself to the aroma of Pine-Sol household disinfectant, cheap car air-fresheners, or unpleasant medicine. I’ve dismissed more than a few extremely expensive, pine-centered fragrances for being over-priced air fresheners, or for evoking Glade plug-ins that I don’t want anywhere near my person. But Fille en Aiguilles is different, and it’s all thanks to the mad wizardry that is the inspired combination of Serge Lutens and the brilliant Christopher Sheldrake.

Fille en Aiguilles. Source: Serge Lutens’ Facebook page.

Filles en Aiguilles is an Eau de Parfum Haute Concentration that was released in 2009. I’m not quite sure what Serge Lutens meant as the inspiration for this fragrance as his website description talks about pine forests and, oddly enough, the beach. (The beach?!) But it’s clearly intended to be a playful, joyful scent, either way, with a winking pun in the name. As Ozmoz explains:

The name of this perfume, for instance, is an inspired pun: ‘Fille en Aiguilles’ means both “Girl in High Heels” and “Girl in Needles” (as in pine needles, one of the ingredients), and it sounds a lot like “Needle & Thread” too. Despite the name, this woody-resinous oriental shaded with frankincense and fruity accents is not just for women: Fille en Aiguilles can easily be worn by men, too, an idea that tickles Serge Lutens’ fancy.

According to Fragrantica, Luckyscent, and Surrender to Chance, the notes in this very unisex perfume consist of:

Pine needles, vetiver, sugary sap, laurel bay leaf, fir balsam [resin], frankincense, candied fruit and spice.

Photo: David Gunter Source: Flickr. (Website link embedded within photo.)

Fille en Aiguilles opens on my skin exactly as described up in the introduction. It’s not a very complicated, morphing, changing scent — which makes it pretty unusual for “Le Grand Serge.” But, oh, does it bring a smile to one’s face. It’s beautifully dark, smoky, sweet, wintery, and so incredibly well-balanced that not a single note ever seems excessive. Even the normally hated ISO E Super seems to fit in, feel wholly appropriate, and actually helps the fragrance. (Yes, I can’t believe I’m saying that, either!)

Sugarplums. Photo: Phil Gyford, Flickr. (Link embedded within photo.)

Fille en Aiguilles is utterly joyous in an inexplicable way, not only because it sums up Christmas, but because it has some tantalizing mystery in that beautiful combination of notes. It radiates like a prism, throwing off different elements at different times. Sometimes, the deep forest rises up to greet you; sometimes, it’s the forest floor with the earthy vetiver mixed with pine cones; often, it’s that deliciously sweet, sticky, brown sugar syrup; and occasionally, it’s the ginger and dark, sweet fruits. At all times, however, the notes are wrapped up in the most gorgeous, dark tendrils of frankincense smoke, like a ribbon around a perfect, glowing, jewel of a Christmas box waiting to be unwrapped.

Photo: StormchaserMike Photograph via Flickr. (Link to website embedded within.)

Fille en Aiguilles never changes profoundly and remains in a consistent, linear line until the end. The only difference is in its strength, as the perfume softens less than an hour into its development and hovers just above the skin. Midway during the third hour, Fille en Aiguilles’ edges blur; it starts to turn almost abstract and amorphous as a sugared, beautifully smoked, spiced, woody scent. You can still detect the pine or fir note if you take a forceful, really big whiff of your arm, but it’s lurking below a general, resinous, sweet, woodiness infused by a spicy, lightly musked warmth. At the start of the sixth hour, Fille en Aiguilles is soft, muted, almost honeyed woodiness, lightly blended with rich, winter spices and imbued with a strong hint of frankincense. In its very end moments, Fille en Aiguilles is just the quietest trace of spiced sweetness. All in all, the fragrance lasted 8.25 on my perfume-consuming skin, with initially moderate sillage that quickly turned quite soft and unobtrusive.

There are a lot of raving, adoring reviews for Fille en Aiguilles out there, but perhaps my favorite comes from EauMG who writes as much about the feel of the fragrance as its lovely scent:

Fille en Aiguilles is the best pine fragrance ever made.

Fille en Aiguilles opens with spiced apple cider, snow on pine trees and a flickering fire. This is an atmosphere; Fille en Aiguilles is a place. It’s a picturesque chalet in the mountains and you’re by the fire looking out the window, watching water droplets roll down fir branches and icicles morph into longer, glistening shapes. You feel the steam of warm apple cider hit your cheeks before you take a sip. The feel of spices and warm liquid roll down the back of your tongue. Comfort in the cold. This is Fille en Aiguilles — spiced gingery cider, pine needles, balsamic sap and warm resins. A crackle from the fire with a little bit of smoke… and a base of warm, cozy musk.

EauMG notes that, on her, Fille en Aiguilles had above-average projection and longevity. And she ends her review by calling the fragrance “a masterpiece.”

Source: high-definition-wallpapers.info

Fragrantica has similar sort of comments, from women and men alike. A vast majority talk about: walks in winter forests, “Christmas in a bottle,” childhood memories, gorgeous dried and sweet fruits, smoky church incense, how it’s one of the best Serge Lutens creations, and/or how it was love at first sniff. A few share my issues with projection, finding Fille en Aiguilles to be so discreet that they eventually had to press their nose right onto their skin and, even then, the scent was extremely soft. A handful of others had problems with duration instead. A couple thought it was too intense, or that it had far too much incense. And about 15 people voted that Fille en Aiguilles bore a strong resemblance to Parfum d’Empire‘s Wazamba. I haven’t tried the latter yet, so I can’t comment, but I should note there are some who say Fille en Aiguilles is nothing like Wazamba.

In the middle of the love-fest, there are some who had a very different experience. Two people found Fille en Aiguilles to be quite harsh and unpleasant; one thought it was very masculine and cold, while the other thought it was astringent and just like Pine-Sol. In contrast, on Luckyscent, a few people explicitly say that Fille en Aiguilles is nothing like Pine-Sol, so clearly, it all depends on one’s skin chemistry, perceptions, and taste.

Photo: Federico Bebber. Source: MyModernMet.com

I think that anyone who loves woody, Christmas-y, wintery scents should try Fille en Aiguilles. So should those who love incense fragrances because, for me, the perfume is as much about the sweet, balsam-infused smoke as it is about the pine or fir trees. Fille en Aiguilles is also wholly unisex with an equal number of men as women loving it. It is very wearable, even to the office if one doesn’t spray on a lot. Even better, Fille en Aiguilles is often quite discounted at some online perfume retailers, making it relatively affordable for such a beautiful, high-quality, niche fragrance. It it an all-year round fragrance? Well, I would wear it in summer, but then I’m someone who goes purely by mood or feel in my perfume selection, and never by seasonality. For most, however, I imagine that Fille en Aiguilles would be limited solely to the winter. But, truly, what an incredibly lovely holiday fragrance it would be. Fille en Aiguilles is more than just cozy, though it is that as well. I think it’s actually quite mysteriously sexy with those dark smoky touches, and the sweet resins mixed with dark, sugared fruits. Try it, and you’ll see. I think the vast majority of you won’t be able to stop sniffing your arm!

DETAILS:

General Cost & Discounted Sales Prices: Fille en Aiguilles is a concentrated eau de parfum that comes in a 1.7 oz/50 ml size and which retails for $140, €99 or £83.00. However, Fille en Aiguilles is currently on sale at FragranceNet where the 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle is priced at $80.91, or $95.19, with an additional 15% OFF with the coupon code RESFT5 and free domestic shipping. Sears sells the perfume by way of a third-party vendor for $91.14 with $6.95 shipping. Fille en Aiguilles is also on sale at Beauty Encounter for $100, and you can Google to find discount codes, eBates codes, or first-time customer discounts for the site as well. Lastly, Parfum1 is selling it for $126 with a 10% discount coupon for first-time customers. I don’t know how long these specials will last.

Serge Lutens: you can find Fille en Aiguilles on the U.S. and International Lutens website, with non-English language options also available for the latter.

U.S. sellers: Fille en Aiguilles is available for $140 at Luckyscent, Barney’s, and Aedes.

Outside the U.S.: In Canada, you can find Fille en Aiguilles at The Perfume Shoppe for what may be CAD$140, but I’m never sure about their currency since it is primarily an American business. They also offer some interesting sample or travel options for Lutens perfumes. In the UK, you can find Fille en Aiguilles at Harrods or Liberty where it costs £83.00 for a 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle. You can also find it at Les Senteurs where that same bottle costs more at £95.00. The site sells samples of Fille en Aiguilles for £3.50. In France, French Sephora sells Fille en Aiguilles for €101.50, while Premiere Avenue sells it for €95, and I believe they ship world-wide, or at least through the Euro zone. In Brussels, you can find Fille en Aiguilles at Senteurs D’Ailleurs. In Australia, it is on sale at the FragranceNet site (I think the Australian version?) for AUD $104.72, instead of what it says is the Australian retail price of AUD $154.02. It is also on sale on the Hot Cosmetics site for AUD $161, instead of supposedly AUD $218. It sold out on the Grays website where the 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle retails for AUD $145, but you can find it at Mecca Cosmetics for AUD $200. For other countries, you can use the Store Locator on the Lutens website.

Samples: You can test out Fille en Aiguilles by ordering a sample from Surrender to Chance where prices start at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial. There is also a Four Lutens Sample Set for $18.99 where the vials are larger at 1 ml each, and you get your choice of 4 Lutens Export fragrances (ie, not those that are Paris exclusives).

Perfume Review – Serge Lutens La Myrrhe: Complicated Beauty

Posted on July 17, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Photo used by permission: Dayle Ann Clavin. Dayle Ann Clavin Studios, photography by request: http://www.dayleannclavin.com/

Photo used by permission: Dayle Ann Clavin. Dayle Ann Clavin Photography, award-winning photography and services at http://www.dayleannclavin.com/

Forgive this fragrance, because it knows not what it does!

That is the express warning and plea given by Serge Lutens at the start of his description of La Myrrhe — and you should listen to him. If there is one thing that is the signature of Serge Lutens fragrances is how dramatically they can change, twisting and turning, turning you almost upside down at times, as if you were on a 100 mile-per-hour carnival ride. La Myrrhe does this perhaps more than most. It sent me plummeting me down to the depths of the abyss with an avalanche of one of my most hated notes in perfumery, before lifting me back up to a state of fascinated admiration where I couldn’t stop sniffing my arm. I’m not quite sure what to make of the complex jumble of emotions triggered by La Myrrhe, but I do know a few things: Serge Lutens wasn’t kidding with that warning; La Myrrhe is a thorny beauty; she has more layers than an onion; and I’m quite awed.

Photo used by permission: Dayle Ann Clavin Studios, photography by request. http://www.dayleannclavin.com/

Photo used by permission: Dayle Ann Clavin Photography, photography by request. http://www.dayleannclavin.com/

La Myrrhe was created by Christopher Sheldrake, and released in 1995. The name translates to “The Myrrh,” which refers to the aromatic resin or sap that comes from a tree. Myrrh has a long, ancient history, not only going back to the Bible where it was supposedly brought as the most precious of gifts by the Three Magi for baby Jesus, but in other ancients religions and cultures as well. It is frequently burned as incense, and its aroma is sometimes nutty but, usually, it’s very soapy, cool and white. On occasion, it can be like licorice. Both of the latter aspects are on full display in Serge Lutens and Christopher Sheldrake’s famous eau de parfum, La Myrrhe. It is one of the famous bell jar “Paris Exclusives,” which means that it not sold world-wide but is generally exclusive to Serge Lutens’ Paris headquarters. That said, it can actually be purchased outside of France, either from Barney’s New York or directly from Serge Lutens’ international and U.S. websites, though it’s always at a big mark-up if you are buying outside of France.

Uncle Serge describes La Myrrhe as follows:

Forgive this fragrance, because it knows not what it does!

You know about myrrh and the Three Kings.
What you don’t know is that, here, myrrh takes on the fragrance of the night. I make it sparkle and fizz like champagne, sustained by a base note of mandarin orange.

Fragrantica classifies La Myrrhe as a “spicy oriental,” and says its mystery notes include:

mandarin, myrrh, lotus, bitter almond, sandalwood, honey, jasmine, amber, musk, various spices and pimento.

Lotus Flower via Wikipedia

La Myrrhe opens on my skin as…. well, as hair spray. The worst kind of hairspray, mixed with extremely expensive soap, and a horrible, unpleasant aroma of cheap acrylic or polyester. I once went to a used-clothing store to find 1960s polyester clothing for a costume party, and there is the exact same undertone to La Myrrhe’s head notes of intense hair spray. It’s all due to the aldehydes which explode on my skin as a tidal wave of cold, soapy bubbles. They’re mixed with the airiest of sheer, gauzy, orange notes and bitter almonds. A disconcerting note of chili pepper flickers in and out, like a red speck in a sea of sheer, frothy whiteness. An oddly aquatic element — presumably from the lotus flower — dances all around, adding a very pastel, liquidy, watery sweetness to the scent and strengthening the olfactory image of hair spray. The notes are all tied together in a bouquet by fresh, clean, white musk.

Source: megashara.com

La Myrrhe smells like the most expensive soap and shampoo around, mixed in with really cheap hairspray — and, yet, it also doesn’t. There is something more at play, despite the chemical, synthetic blur of whiteness underscored by an equally white, soapy touch of myrrh smoke. The most unusual touch for me is that lotus flower which feels almost as if it’s stepped into the wrong play with its aquatic, pastel, sweet undertones.

Source: Wikicommons.

The chilly, icy, frothiness of La Myrrhe is interesting, but the soapy, clean, fresh avalanche of aldehydes is too, too much for me. Aldehydes are my second most despised note of all time, going back to when I was seven and Hermès‘ Caleche almost put me off perfume for life. I cannot handle aldehydes in anything but the smallest amount; and holy mother of God, there a lot of them here! It’s giving me flashbacks to Chanel No. 5 which is well-known for its floral-aldehyde opening — and I cannot stand that legendary favorite, heresy though that may be. Neither the intriguing, beautiful, bitter almond note, nor La Myrrhe’s muted, subtle flickers of ambered sandalwood infused with jasmine in the base, can save this opening for me. In fact, the bitter almond combined with the frothing, white bubbles make me think of cyanide, since it has the smell of bitter almonds and can foam up like bubbles when ingested. To be precise, I keep thinking of the death capsules that Nazis like Goebbels and Goering used to escape justice. Yes, the degree of aldehydes in La Myrrhe makes me think of death in a very clear signal from my (not so) subconscious mind. Have I mentioned just how much I hate aldehyde bombs?

Jasmine via Wikicommons

Like a caterpillar larva stirring in a cocoon, La Myrrhe starts to move and shift quite quickly. Fifteen minutes into La Myrrhe’s development, the delicate, sweet jasmine stirs and starts to become more prominent. Unfortunately, so does the white musk which makes my head hurt a little. The aquatic, floral lotus flower recedes to the background, where it joins the orange note — both hidden under the landslide of white froth. Changes, however, are soon afoot, as the aldehydes begin to slowly, slowly, decrease to much saner levels. Amazingly, less than fifty minutes into La Myrrhe’s development, they’re almost a distant figure in what is now a very different landscape. Now, La Myrrhe is a jasmine, floral fragrance delicately veiled with only a light sprinkling of aldehydes which almost verge on the effervescent.

French Pastis. Source: Art.com

The myrrh has also changed. From a very soapy, white note that almost hinted at cold, churchy smoke, it now takes on a licorice facade. And it’s beautiful. It’s not salty like some black, licorice sweets, but rather cool and completely reminiscent of French Pastis, Greek Ouzo, or absinthe. Maybe it’s because I grew up partially in Europe, but I am extremely fond of the French and Greek national drinks, so I can’t stop sniffing my arm. The myrrh smells exactly like Pastis mixed with water, when it turns into an aromatic, still strongly anisidic, but almost sweet, drink. The milkiness of the note adds to the white visuals from the jasmine, the now quiet soap, the musk, the muted touch of white smoke from myrrh’s other side, and that interesting touch of bitter almonds.

Photo used by permission: Dayle Ann Clavin. Photographic services available at http://www.dayleannclavin.com/

It’s almost as if the visual cues are gently teasing those who saw La Myrrhe’s gorgeous, pale ruby colour and may have thought, “Ah, spicy!” No, it’s not. In fact, La Myrrhe is still a little “bathtastic” — to use the word so perfectly coined by The Scented Hound to describe Chanel‘s jasmine-aldehydic perfume, 1932. Unlike that scent, however, La Myrrhe has actual character. (And, it’s also not boring which is more than I can say for 1932….) Thankfully, baths and bubbles soon become a distant memory.

Shortly after the start of the second hour, La Myrrhe’s final stage begins, and it continues more or less unchanged until the very end. On my skin, La Myrrhe is primarily milky aniseed atop a delicately muted jasmine base that is sweetened by a smooth, almost custardy, but slightly dry, vanilla. It’s really a compulsively sniffable combination. The changes which occur are only one of degree. Around the 90-minute mark, La Myrrhe’s licorice element softens, feeling less like pure Pastis or Ouzo, and more like a floral twist on fennel fronds. I never smell the jasmine in a truly distinct, separate, strongly concrete manner. Instead, it merely transforms the licorice note into something fragrant. It’s as if the delicate, wispy fronds of a fennel bulb have flowered, if that makes any sense.

Vanilla with fennel. Source: foodspotting.com

Underneath, in the base, are the supporting players. There is still a touch of white smoke from the myrrh, now warmed over and sweetened, but it tends to be a somewhat ghostly note that pops up like a Jack in the Box, only to vanish for large stretches of time. A similarly temperamental, ghostly element is the honey which appears from time to time in the background, and which feels like a light drizzle of sweetness on the white accords. And then, there is the beautiful vanilla that makes up a big part of the base elements on my skin. It’s beautiful, feeling simultaneously rich and custardy, frothy and airy. It’s also very well-balanced, especially in conjunction with the myrrh which feels like a touch of green in the rich, delicately sweet, creamy base. Yet, despite the impact of the vanilla and occasional appearance of the honey, I would never call La Myrrhe a gourmand fragrance.

After twisting and turning every which way possible, La Myrrhe is now set in its final incarnation, remaining as a vanilla aniseed with the lightest of floral touches until the very end. It becomes softer and more abstract, until, in its dying moments, it’s nothing more than amorphous, light sweetness. All in all, La Myrrhe lasted exactly 9.5 hours on my skin the first time I tested it, and just under 8.25 hours the second time with a smaller dose. The sillage was always soft after that brutal opening but, even then, its projection was generally moderate. I think it’s definitely not an overpowering fragrance, and would be quite office-appropriate. That said, I have to caution that it may be a very different story if you spray La Myrrhe (as opposed to dabbing), let alone if you sprayed on a lot

La Myrrhe is such a complicated perfume that it seems to straddle many lines. It goes from soapy, clean bubbles and hairspray with aquatic pastel florals and cyanide-like bitter almonds, to taking on Chanel’s signature floral-aldehyde opening, to evoking Mediterranean Pastis/Ouzo, to a frothy, floral aniseed-vanilla confection that is far too dry to be anything like dessert. The opening is brutal, and not just in my aldehyde-hating opinion. Take, for example, The Non-Blonde whose review of La Myrrhe begins with three things she wishes she’d known before trying the fragrance:

Three things I wish I had known before trying La Myrrhe for the very first time:
1. It should not be sprayed. Never ever. Under no circumstances.
2. Aldehydes can be more than just floral or green. They can be spicy.
3. Husbands who don’t like aldehydes will not appreciate them even in a Serge Lutens perfume. Especially not in a moving vehicle.

Other than that? La Myrrhe is gorgeous and even the husband doesn’t complain after the first 30 minutes or so, when the root-beer and spiced honey soda take over and do their thing on my skin.

The first thing I smell if I spritz La Myrrhe is a harsh chemical you could mistake for cheap vintage hairspray (best case) or a pesticide. It really surprised me, since my first couple of La Myrrhe samples were little dab-on vials, so I never experienced this aspect until I got a larger decant. Even when it becomes more perfume-like, this 1995 Serge Lutens perfume is so carbonated and aldehydic it takes up all the air in the room. Luca Turin [sic, Tania Sanchez] compares it favorably to White Linen in his five star review of La Myrrhe. I only argue with the fact Dr. Turin sees the similarity as a positive thing. I used to wear White Linen a lot in the very early 1990s, but today I find it stomach-turning.

Yet, like me, The Non-Blonde had a very different — and entirely more lovely — experience by the end:

La Myrrhe dries down into a soft but determined oriental perfume, laced with honey and amaretto. There’s a little incense there that smells as though it was kept in a wooden box together with precious and rare spices. It has magic and mystery, a little danger of the unknown and a whole lot more sex-appeal than one would expect if they started their relationship with La Myrrhe by spraying it.

Not everyone can move past that beginning, however, no matter how lovely the end or its “sex-appeal.” On Fragrantica, one poor chap — who seems to share my mental association of aldehydes with death — wrote: “The aldehydes are a near-death experience.” Though he found La Myrrhe to improve once “the horror wears off,” he said bluntly, “I just don’t know if I can take the cave train downtown to get there without going blind from the chemicals over and over again. I just don’t know if I’m ready.” And I think that will be true for many people. La Myrrhe is a love it or hate it perfume, and it takes the Lutens level of complicated assertiveness to a whole new level. And, yet, it is also incredibly elegant.

As noted earlier, La Myrrhe bears a close resemblance to Chanel‘s legendary No. 5 in its opening moments. It’s not just me, either. On Fragrantica, a number of people bring up Chanel No. 5 — at least those who are not talking about bubble baths, “Mr. Bubble Bubble Bath,” “the smell of a public restroom with a very powerful pink air freshener,” or “dishwashing detergent bubbles.” (Can you tell how much those aldehydes dominate the opening?!) I think the similarities are very short-lived, however. Chanel No. 5 doesn’t have undercurrents of Ouzo, bitter almonds, and myrrh’s cold, soapy smoke. In addition, the true, vintage Chanel No. 5 is known as much for the sandalwood and civet tones in its base as it is for that opening blast of frothy aldehydes. Finally, as Bois de Jasmin explains so well, La Myrrhe takes the classic aldehydic tradition and up-ends it in a wholly modern manner.

In her five-star review, Bois de Jasmin writes:

The classicism of La Myrrhe (1995) is of misleading nature as it orchestrates its accords in a modern manner. The opalescent white veil of aldehydes that unfolds in the top accord almost hints at the floral waterfalls that are about to cascade softening the chilly breeze. Yet, instead of bergamot, rose, jasmine and ylang ylang of classical aldehydic compositions, La Myrrhe’s icy aldehydes become overlaid with sweet citrus, before falling into the heart spiced with anise. ….

Like other Lutens compositions, where the main note is highlighted and exaggerated (Tubéreuse Criminelle, Cèdre, Bornéo 1834), La Myrrhe brilliantly frames the myrrh by accenting its medicinal licorice tonality with anise notes and its sweetness with honey. […][¶]

Although haunting, La Myrrhe may not be the easiest fragrance to wear as the aldehydic burst paired with the medicinal facets of myrrh left unadorned lacks an expected warm counterpoint. Yet, this very dissonance is what keeps one’s interest while the composition slowly unfolds. Like would be expected of the majority of Serge Lutens’s compositions, its aloof elegance would suit both men and women. It is not a fragrance that has a particular seasonal designation, yet its spicy coldness is associated for me with the first snow and winter chill.

On me, La Myrrhe was never medicinal, and I barely had any citrus orange notes at all, but I agree with much of her assessment. It is a very aloof, chilly, white fragrance at the start, though I think it softens and warms later on. And she is absolutely correct in finding a dissonance when comparing La Myrrhe’s opening to its end. As I’ve said many times before, one of the things I love the most about Serge Lutens fragrances is their complicated nature and how they almost feel like a living thing. Here, the nature of La Myrrhe’s stages — the way they slowly slip and evolve from one thing to the next, and, more importantly, the incredibly sharp contrast between the first and final stages — really evoke the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a gorgeous butterfly.

I think your reaction to La Myrrhe, and whether you can handle the opening, will depend largely on your feelings about “bathtastic” aldehyde bombs. If you enjoy something like Estée Lauder‘s White Linen, then you’ll probably share the admiration and love expressed by the perfume critic, Tania Sanchez. Her five-star review of La Myrrhe in Perfumes: The A-Z Guide reads, in part:

… Open the bottle and fall prey to total surprise. […] Lutens and Sheldrake set the smoky balsamic resin known as myrrh against a radiant, rosy, modern aldehydic floral of incomparable crispness, akin to White Linen. By this unexpected route, the fragrance somehow manages to replicate the thrilling balance of incredible brightness and sweetness that Shalimar once had, before decades of adjustments deepened its voice. La Myrrhe has a pure, clear, unearthly tone with beauty and force, as if the fragrance could sing a clean high C as high as heaven and not show the strain.

Like the Non-Blonde, I don’t think White Linen is anything remotely appealing, let alone an encouraging comparison. In fact, I suspect that Tania Sanchez loves the aldehydic part of La Myrrhe more than the rest of it, while I, in contrast, think it’s something to simply barrel through until you get to the good parts.

That said, I think La Myrrhe could definitely grow on you, and you could get used to that hellacious beginning. In my second test, when I dabbed on much less, I still thought about cyanide pills, death, and hairspray, but I wasn’t quite so ready to stick a fork into my jugular. In fact, if I weren’t engaged in this mad Lutens marathon right now, I’d probably put on more of La Myrrhe, and try it again. I actually love the Pastis and the aniseed-vanilla stages enough to where I’d be willing to just close my eyes and “think of England,” as the old saying goes, until that soapy avalanche does its business and gets out of the way. That says a lot coming from a person who doesn’t own a single fragrance with aldehydes.

So, is La Myrrhe a wearable, versatile fragrance, or just a work of art? For those who adore aldehydes with a passion, probably the former. The soft, warm, deliciously sweet beauty of the final stages makes it much more approachable and easy than its opening would lead one to suspect. For everyone else, however, I don’t know. It would really depend. But I think everyone would agree that La Myrrhe is a work of brilliance. Unfortunately, brilliant art is not always wearable.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: La Myrrhe is an eau de parfum that is part of the Serge Lutens “Paris Exclusives” line, which means it is available only in the larger 2.5 oz/75 ml Bell Jar size. It retails for $300 or €140 for a 75 ml/2.5 oz bottle. You can buy La Myrrhe directly from the U.S. Serge Lutens website or from the International one.

In the U.S.: you can also find La Myrrhe sold exclusively at Barney’s New York store. The website has a notice stating: “This product is only available for purchase at the Madison Avenue Store located at 660 Madison Avenue. The phone number for the Serge Lutens Boutique is (212) 833-2425.”

Personal Shopper Options: Undina of Undina’s Looking Glass reminded me of Shop France Inc run by Suzan, a very reputable, extremely professional, personal shopper who has been used by a number of perfumistas. She will go to France, and buy you perfumes (and other luxury items like Hermès scarves, etc.) that are otherwise hard to find at a reasonable price. Shop France Inc. normally charges a 10% commission on top of the item’s price with 50% being required as a down payment. However, and this is significant, in the case of Lutens Bell Jars, the price is $225 instead. The amount reflects customs taxes that she pays each time, as well as a tiny, extra markup. It’s still cheaper than the $290 (not including tax) for the bell jar via Barney’s or the US Serge Lutens website. Another caveat, however, is that Suzan is limited to only 10 bell jars per trip, via an arrangement with the Lutens house. There is a wait-list for the bell jars, but she goes every 6-8 weeks, so it’s not a ridiculously huge wait, I don’t think. If you have specific questions about the purchase of Lutens bell jars, or anything else, you can contact her at shopfranceinc@yahoo.com. As a side note, I have no affiliation with her, and receive nothing as a result of mentioning her.

Outside the US: In Europe, the price of La Myrrhe is considerably cheaper at €140 from the French Lutens website, the International one, or from their Paris boutique. Other language options are available, though the Euro price for the item won’t change. To the best of my knowledge, the Paris Exclusives are not carried by any department store anywhere, and the only place to get them outside of Barney’s New York boutique is the Paris Serge Lutens store at Les Palais Royal.

Samples: You can order samples of La Myrrhe from Surrender to Chance starting at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial. I actually ordered mine as part of a Five Piece Non-Export Sampler Set, where you can choose 5 Lutens Paris Exclusives for a starting price of $18.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.

Perfume Review- Serge Lutens Ambre Sultan

Posted on July 16, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Serge Lutens tells you up front to expect something different:

This fragrance is not an Oriental, but an Arab and a Lutens. That being the case, don’t expect it to fit in. [Emphasis added.]

Source: Serge Lutens Facebook page.

He’s right. For a large number of people, Ambre Sultan is not a typical amber, and some get a small shock upon first sniffing it. They expect something soft, cozy, sweetly vanillic, and gentle, but end up with a very herbal, almost medicinal, fragrance in the beginning.

I had a different experience, however, and it was a far cry from the “Chinese medicine” or “herbal spice shop” amber that I had expected. Yes, it was there to a minuscule, muted degree, but it lasted less than ten minutes and it was hardly a predominant aspect of the fragrance. Instead, on my skin, Ambre Sultan was primarily a labdanum and beeswax fragrance. It’s very nice, but it’s not the amber of my heart, and I don’t share in the view that it is the best, richest amber fragrance around.

Ambre Sultan, 50 ml bottle.

Ambre Sultan is an eau de parfum that was created with Lutens’ favorite perfumer, Christopher Sheldrake, and that was originally released in 1993 before becoming available worldwide in 2000. The remainder of Serge Lutens’ description quoted up at the top is really key in understanding the perfume, in my opinion:

The point of departure was a scented wax, found in a souk and long forgotten in a wooden box. The amber only became sultanesque after I reworked the composition using cistus, an herb that sticks to the fingers like tar, then added an overtone that nobody had ever dreamed of: vanilla. Why? Because vanilla is sticky, too, and it clung to my memory.

As usual, Uncle Serge provides no notes for the perfume, but Fragrantica says that they consist of:

coriander, bay leaf, oregano, angelica, resins, myrrh, amber, myrtle, sandalwood, patchouli, benzoin and vanilla.

Labdanum compiled into a chunk. Source: Fragrantica

Fragrantica leaves out the most important part: the cistus or labdanum discussed by Serge Lutens. It’s not accurate enough, in my opinion, to just mention “amber” because, to me, labdanum is a whole other creature. The three main resins generally used in oriental fragrances to create the amber smell are: labdanum, ambergris, and benzoins. (Tolu Balsam is another, but it’s not so common.)

Labdanum has a very specific, intense aroma that is nothing like the general, more commercial, easy “amber” mélanges found in many scents. It’s much more masculine with a nutty, toffee, darkly syrupy, sticky, honeyed, sometimes leathery aroma that is almost dirty in nature. It can also be very animalistic on occasion, and frequently musky; in many cases, it can feel almost raw, at least relative to the generic ambers used in some perfumes. Dark brown, verging on black in colour, labdanum is the heart of some of the most-beloved, oriental amber perfumes, from Dior‘s Mitzah and Amouage‘s Opus VI, to Puredistance‘s M and Tom Ford‘s Amber Absolute.

Source: Colourbox.com

The very particular, very unique aroma of labdanum is the opening, middle, and end of Ambre Sultan on my skin. The perfume opens with a very boozy, resinous blast of labdanum with all its nutty, dirty, toffee’d, slightly honeyed, sticky, vaguely leathered undertones. It is accompanied by a subset of the honey note which usually emanates from labdanum and which, here, is all about the beeswax. The overall impression is that cognac, rum, toffee, something almost verging on nutty chocolate, and the beeswax from a large hives of bees all got together for a boozy orgy, resulting in the lovechild that is Ambre Sultan. I absolutely love it.

Source: indiamart.com

All too quickly, however, the perfume loses some of its sticky, resinous sweetness, thanks to the subtle infusion of dried, green herbs. They’re led by bay leaf in particular, and the aroma is initially as strong as one of those over-sized, chef jars that contains hundreds of the dried ingredient. There is the faintest touch of oregano that follows in its trail, but it’s brief and quickly flitters away. Far, far below, in the base, there is a subtle, very muted, tarry note that almost verges on the camphoraceous, but which never quite gets to the eucalyptus point on my skin. Like the oregano, it too quickly disappears. Much more prominent, however, is the subtle smokiness in Ambre Sultan that dances all around the edges. It doesn’t feel like true incense but, rather, like the smell of burning leaves in autumn.

Ancient coins. Source: eBay.

Accompanying it in the background is an unusual musty, earthy, dustiness. It’s a strange note because it really evokes the feel of some ancient artifact or parchment that had been left at the bottom of an old spice drawer for seventy years. It’s as much earthy as it is dusty and, when combined with the strong beeswax vein running through Ambre Sultan, it really and truly evokes what Serge Lutens intended: “a scented wax, found in a souk and long forgotten in a wooden box.”

The quiet dryness of all these notes, along with the extremely muted veil of herbs, helps to ensure that Ambre Sultan’s sticky, resinous character never verges into the cloyingly sweet or the unctuous. Yet, I’m truly surprised by how minor, light and hidden that green veil is on my skin. I don’t get a blast of myrtle with its medicinal, eucalyptus aroma; there is no angelica with its common celery nuances; the bay leaf disappeared in about 5 minutes; and the oregano was never more than a momentary flicker.

Source: honey-center.gr

Instead, Ambre Sultan quickly devolves into a very simple, completely linear, and, ultimately, if I dare say it, somewhat boring combination of labdanum and beeswax. Yes, there are subtle nuances of smokiness and minor muskiness. Yes, there eventually is some vanilla that is faintly powdered and which arises at the very, very end. But, on my skin, Ambre Sultan is just nutty, slightly toffee’d, vaguely honeyed labdanum with its sidekick, the beeswax. It’s like the Lone Ranger and Tonto. They ride side by side for hours on end, with the slightly honeyed beeswax temporarily pulling slightly ahead around the end of the third hour, but it’s mainly just the two of them for most of the journey. No sandalwood, no patchouli, no herbs — nothing.

Source: background-pictures.feedio.net –

The only change in Ambre Sultan is in degree and sillage. Less than one hour into its development, the perfume softens, becoming milder, warmer, and tamer. At the 90-minute mark, Ambre Sultan starts to become blurry at the edges; it feels more like a vaguely nebulous, gauzy bouquet of labdanum and beeswax. It hovers just barely atop the skin, but the sillage decreases even further. Thirty minutes later, at the two-hour mark, Ambre Sultan turns into a complete skin scent. It is becoming increasingly hard to delineate beyond the two main notes that have now blurred together as one. Eventually, however, around the end of the sixth hour, the vanilla and benzoin start to slowly stir in the base, joining the main players in a very muted, hazy form. It’s a lovely, cozy drydown bouquet of sweet, barely resinous, generally amorphous, nutty amber with vanilla, lightly flecked by beeswax. In Ambre Sultan’s final moments, the perfume is nothing more than a faint trace of vanilla with a subtle nuance of powderiness. All in all, it lasted just 7.5 hours.

I liked Ambre Sultan, but I know my lack of exuberance is showing. So, I think it’s really important to put my reactions into a context here. I love massively resinous, spicy amber perfumes, and I’ve tried a lot of them. I think that, perhaps, I had heard a little too much about Ambre Sultan, and that my expectations were a little too high. I also think that my reaction would be very different had I smelled Ambre Sultan at the start of my journey to cover seemingly every amber or amber oriental perfume around. Had I done so, I would probably have been more blown away. As it is, I fear Ambre Sultan is getting the shaft by being compared to other fragrances I’ve tried that are considerably more intense, be it Tom Ford‘s Amber Absolute, or the stunningly rich, dense, concentrated Profumum line of Ambra Aurea and Fiore d’Ambra. By my personal, admittedly peculiar, and distorted standards of richness, I find Ambre Sultan to be light, airy, and safe. I realise that a lot of people consider it to be one of the richest, spiciest ambers around. But then, they also say that about Parfum d’Empire‘s Ambre Russe, too — and I thought that one was so sheer and anorexic that it might as well be an eau de toilette. So, clearly, I have a very different measuring stick than most.

Yet, despite my admittedly uncommon views on what constitutes richness versus lightness, I’m not completely alone in finding Ambre Sultan to be tamer than anticipated. Olfactoria’s Travels had the same reaction, and her review encapsulates many of my feelings about the perfume:

Usually, light or subtle are not adjectives one would immediately associate with a Lutens creation. And not that Ambre Sultan is either of these traits, but it is way less than what I was expecting in volume.

I thought an amber fragrance from our dear Serge would blast me clean out of my boots, to put it mildly. What I got was a purring kitten, sleeping in my lap, spreading its warmth, not a roaring tiger that is out to have me for dinner.

Ambre Sultan is a gorgeous perfume, an amber to love, an amber to cherish, an amber perfect in its execution, but it does not pack a punch like Annick Goutal Ambre Fetiche, Armani Privé Ambre Orient, Parfums d’Empire Ambre Russe or Tom Ford’s Amber Absolute, it is a lot subtler and lower in volume.

I would not make that much of a fuss, were it not a Serge Lutens perfume. You just come to expect certain things and when they are not met, there is a kind of disappointment, that is not necessarily rational or justified. But it is there nonetheless. […][¶]

Things would be different had I come from the other side. Never having smelled an amber scent like the ones mentioned above, would probably have resulted in a different view.

Despite that initial disappointment, Olfactoria (or Birgit) grew to love the scent, finding it “erotic” and “deeply sexy.”

I part ways with her there. I find Ambre Sultan to be cozy and safe, verging a little on the uninteresting, given the way that it manifested itself on my skin. It’s surprisingly boring and linear for a Lutens, too. But perhaps my heart is simply too taken by Profumum’s Ambra Aurea with its gloriously different focus on pure ambergris — in the most enormous, expensive quantities imaginable — resulting in a smoky, sultry, endlessly smooth, insanely concentrated fragrance that I couldn’t get out of my head. (I cannot wait for my 30 ml decant to arrive!)

Still, if you’re new to amber, please don’t let me stop you from trying Ambre Sultan. It’s a great amber fragrance that is surely bound to be very satisfyingly rich for you. As the perfume critic, Tania Sanchez, writes in her four-star review in Perfumes: the A-Z Guide, Ambre Sultan essentially pioneered the way for all the amber fragrances which later ensued. It started the trend when it was originally released in 1993, and has been hotly copied ever since. As she says, “[w]hat distinguishes Ambre Sultan in this now-crowded arena is a high dose of fantastic dried-herb smells, which give it, in the top, a dusty, salty, outdoor air, before the more familiar vanillic-balsam plot takes over.”

My only word of caution — and it is a strong one, indeed — pertains to those distinguishing herbs. My skin amplifies base notes, so I didn’t get a lot of the herbal blast at the top, but you should expect it unless your skin is like mine. Some people really cannot stand the bay leaf, while others struggle with the oregano, or find the overall combination to evoke medicinal images. For example, on one Basenotes thread, some of the negative reviews consist of the following:

I was very excited to try this fragrance…. applied some on my wrist and took a sniff!!! oh oh! I don’t like this one that much… this smells like the Chinese medicine that my mom used to give me as a kid when I have an upset stomach… this smells like coriander with some Chinese herbal medicine.

I like the ambre basenotes but not the kitchen spices in the opening.

Yeah I feel the same way. It smells like awkward mint. Like eating a weird foreign dish full of spices and then chewing gum. Bleh

I actually hate this fragrance, it turned me off to amber for a while..the herbal was more than I could stand and after a few hours I actually felt sick. About the most unpleasant experience I’ve had with a fragrance.

Those comments are in the minority, however, as many, many people adore Ambre Sultan. There are extremely positive reviews in that same thread, as there are on Fragrantica where some gush in all-caps about their love for Ambre Sultan, or write:

If I can only have one perfume, this will be it. The opening is quite strong but then as it dies down, a warm comforting amber cocoons your surrounding.

Normally I have no desire to sit in the smoke direction by a campfire. But this fire has the most amazing smoke. The wood on the fire is pure sandalwood. An amazing hot, smoky, spicy perfume. Makes me quite warm. Check me in as part of the harem of Ambre Sultan’s Palace.

If I close my eyes I envision myself in an exotic bazaar, the air filled with heavy incense, spices, and herbs and after thoughts of men’s colognes. Ambre Sultan, fit for a king, worn by a woman.

There are many more in that same vein. As I said, Ambre Sultan is one of the most popular amber fragrances around. But, if herbs are not your cup of tea, then you can always try to hunt down Tom Ford’s now discontinued Amber Absolute or his new Sahara Noir (which I found to be incredibly similar to Amber Absolute on my skin, only with oud.) Or, if you want the glory that is true ambergris (as opposed to labdanum or just regular, plain “amber”), then try Profumum’s Ambra Aurea, and be prepared to have your socks knocked off. No herbs, no spices, no complications — and it leaves all the others in the dust, in my admittedly biased opinion.

Still, if you want a different take on ambers, give Uncle Serge’s pioneering vision a chance. You may enjoy his soft, fragrant, herbal trip to a Moroccan souk.

DETAILS:

General Cost & Sales Prices: Ambre Sultan is an eau de parfum that usually comes in a 1.7 oz/50 ml size, though a larger 2.5 oz/75 ml bell jar version is also available from some limited vendors, and Serge Lutens also has a refill option of 2 x 30 ml sprays. The retail price for the usual, common 1.7 oz size is $120, €82 or £69.00, with the bell jar going for $280 or €125. However, Ambre Sultan is currently on sale as the “Deal of the Week” at FragranceNet where the 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle is priced at $81.19, with an additional 15% OFF with the coupon code RESFT5 and free domestic shipping. Oddly enough, Fragrancenet sells the same perfume through Sears for $68.75 with $6.25 shipping. Ambre Sultan is also on sale at FragranceX for $96.22, and 99Perfume for $100.99. I don’t know how long these specials will last.

Serge Lutens: you can find Ambre Sultan in both sizes on the U.S. and French Lutens website, with other language options also available. There is also the extra option not seen elsewhere of Travel Refills where 2 x 30 ml sprays of Ambre Sultan are sold for a total of $135 or €90.

U.S. sellers: Ambre Sultan is available in the 50 ml size for $120 at Luckyscent, Barney’s (which also sells the expensive bell jar version), Aedes, Parfum 1, and Penny Lane.

Outside the U.S.: In Canada, you can find Ambre Sultan at The Perfume Shoppe for what may be CAD$110, but I’m never sure about their currency since it is primarily an American business. They also offer some interesting sample or travel options for Lutens perfumes. In the UK, you can find Ambre Sultan at Harrods or Liberty where it costs £69.00 for a 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle. You can also find it at Les Senteurs (or perhaps just at their Elizabeth Street shop) where that same bottle costs more at £79.00. The site sells samples of Ambre Sultan for £3.50. In France, Premiere Avenue sells it for €79 and I believe they ship world-wide, or at least through the Euro zone. In Italy, you can find Ambre Sultan at Essenza Nobile for €78. In Australia, it is sold out on the Grays website where the 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle retails for AUD $109.50, but you can find it at CosmeticsNow for AUD$126.95. For other countries, you can use the Store Locator on the Lutens website.

Samples: You can test out Ambre Sultan by ordering a sample from Surrender to Chance where prices start at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial. There is also a Four Lutens Sample Set for $18.99 where the vials are larger at 1 ml each, and you get your choice of 4 Lutens Export fragrances (ie, not those that are Paris exclusives).