Giorgio is always described as a “big” scent, like many 1980s scent bombs, but it’s not Giorgio’s bigness or boldness that bothers me. I like the perverse Poison by Christian Dior, in small doses, and what some say is Giorgio’s reference scent, Robert Piguet’s Fracas, is as alive as a carnivorous plant. It’s Giorgio’s inorganic obtrusiveness that offends.
I may just be unable to objectively assess Giorgio’s aesthetic merits because there was a time growing up in Texas that I simply could not get away from it. It arrived with every fashion magazine that came in the mail in scent-strip form. (It was, in fact, the very first perfume that advertised itself not only through an image and a tagline, but also by actually smelling up the room.) You couldn’t go to the mall without being inadvertently sprayed with it. And on top of everything, its celebration of “exclusivity” (it’s from Rodeo Drive!) was a bit ridiculous. (If you’ve ever watched soap operas, it’s as if Giorgio is being positioned as the “exotic” European dude who stirs up trouble for the townsfolk in Port Charles.)
Giorgio set the volume way up. Among other loud scents of the decade: Obsession, Poison, Amarige, and so many others. It actually makes sense that by the 1990s, our exhausted noses were proffered androgynous office scents that had wiped off all their fuchsia lipstick and purple eye shadow and retired their sequined evening gowns. Improbably, Giorgio is still available, but to me, it smells as dated as Robin Leach’s sign-off sounds: “Champagne wishes and caviar dreams!”
Top notes: Green note, bergamot, fruit note, orange blossom, aldehyde
Heart notes: Tuberose, gardenia, ylang-ylang, orchid
Base notes: Sandalwood, cedarwood, musk, amber, moss, vanilla
K by Krizia (1981)
Perfumer: Maurice Roucel
Created for designer Mariuccia Mandelli for Krizia, a brand known for designs with bold shoulders, animal imagery, and intricate pleating, K by Krizia is a grand floral chypre that screams ’80s in the best possible way. Like Arpège or Crescendo, K is a creamy floral whose hint of velvety peach adds ripe fruitiness to this already lush perfume.
Top notes: Aldehydes, peach, hyacinth, bergamot, neroli
Heart notes: Jasmine, narcissus, tuberose, rose, lily of the valley, orris, orchid, carnation, orange blossom
Base notes: Sandalwood, vetiver, musk, amber, moss, civet, vanilla, styrax, leather
Kouros by Yves Saint Laurent (1981)
Perfumer: Pierre Bourdon
Anyone who has ever had her nose directly in the armpit of a man who is sweating and not wearing deodorant knows that the sharp, ammonia-like sting can either be pleasurable (say, you like the man) or unpleasurable (you don’t know this man from Adam and he’s raised his arm in front of your face on public transit).
Kouros’s extreme evocation of body odor arrives simultaneously with the scent of men’s cleaning products: fougère aftershave, the Pinaud powder that someone sprinkled on a man’s neck after a haircut, and, for those who despise Kouros, the oft-cited smell of a urinal cake in the men’s bathroom of the club where he ended up. It’s an olfactory deconstruction of the ’80s man, from the moment he “smells,” to the shower he takes, to the aftershave he throws on, to his putting on a leather belt and shoes.
This olfactory slap in the face—bitter, sour, nose-clearingly spicy, and animalic—has to be smelled to be believed. It’s as if Bourdon took Robert Piguet’s Bandit’s training wheels off and decided to ride down the stink highway screaming, “Look, Ma—no hands!” The artemisia in Kouros is some of the bitterest, thorniest, and sharpest I’ve ever encountered in perfume, in spite of friendlier notes of honey, geranium, and bergamot.
Kouros belongs in that rarefied “love it or hate it” Difficult-Smelling Perfumes drawing room where Poison, Angel, and Bandit are smoking cigarettes, drinking scotch, and trading war stories. For those who love Kouros, its incense and woods are wrapped in the Eros implied by the name, which is the Greek word for the white statues of nubile young men that dot Greek islands. And for the others? The following sentiment from a commenter on a perfume forum says it all: “I would rather burn money than buy this fragrance.”
Top notes: Aldehydes, artemisia, bergamot, coriander, clary sage
Heart notes: Geranium, iris, jasmine, carnation, patchouli, vetiver, cinnamon
Base notes: Oakmoss, honey, leather, musk, tonka, civet
Must de Cartier (1981)
Perfumer: Jean-Jacques Diener
In the same way that certain chic people are able to mix stripes with crazy prints, Must de Cartier combines fresh notes with a decadent gourmand base in a daring way that reads as beautiful for some people. For me, it bypassed rational analysis and went straight to my limbic system’s Decider, who nodded her head and said, “Yes, please. More.”
Must’s backstory, as recounted by Michael Edwards in Perfume Legends, is interesting. When Cartier was sending around perfume briefs to perfumers that described their ideal first fragrance, they had in mind two perfumes: a fresh perfume for daytime, and a more-seductive perfume for nighttime, probably in the Oriental family.
They were most interested in the young Givaudan perfumer Jean-Jacques Diener’s brief, so he decided, essentially, to put two fragrances together. Diener said he was inspired by Shalimar’s animalic-vanilla base, but wanted to change the top note from bergamot to galbanum, as he loved the way Aliage’s top notes were constructed. (Aliage is a green “sport scent,” remember!) He also gave it a civet overdose to make it even more animalic than Shalimar. Must’s “cool/warm accord,” according to Edwards, inspired Obsession, Roma by Laura Biagiotti, and Dune, among others.
The early Must eau de toilette was not constructed by Diener. It was supposed to be the “fresh” Cartier fragrance they had originally envisioned, which (rightly) confused the Must-lovers audience, who just expected a less-concentrated version. Cartier scrapped it in 1993 and replaced it with Must de Cartier II. (So if you want to try this odd perfume for yourself, either go to Sephora and spray it on, or get the vintage parfum. The vintage eau de toilette was not a favorite of mine.)
Must’s beguiling rush of galbanum and brightness at the beginning soon evolves into the lush floral, vanillic Oriental that is its true character. It goes from galbanum-pineapple to vanilla-amber-civet in a roller-coaster lurch that might make your stomach feel funny but Must’s intoxicating, animalic/gourmand drydown is 1980s excess at its unapologetic best.
Top notes: Bergamot, aldehyde, lemon, rosewood, green notes, peach
Heart notes: Jasmine, orris, carnation, orchid, ylang-ylang, leather, lily
Base notes: Vanilla, amber, benzoin siam, opopanax, oakmoss, sandalwood, vetiver, musk, civet
Nocturnes de Caron by Caron (1981)
Perfumer: Gerard Lefort
Nocturnes has all the hallmarks of a femme fatale perfume, but its restraint and subtlety mark it as a charming ingénue rather than a dangerous lady. A restrained, balanced, and yet multifaceted floral with a lot going on, Nocturnes de Caron could change the minds of all but the most stubborn haters of the floral category.
A combination of green notes, the freshest facets from florals (such as lily of the valley and rose), with a touch of ripe fruit and mandarin, Nocturnes gets a little curvier and more erotic with the introduction of rounder, fatter notes of vanilla, benzoin, and amber in the drydown, with a veil of powdery orris to blur and soften all the angles and curves.
Nocturnes starts off with an intense and gorgeous contrast between sharp green/fruity notes and the undertow of a voluptuous vanilla/amber base. The richer notes actually seem to rise up to meet the green beginning, only to disappear and rejoin them later after the florals have had their say.
Nocturnes’s spirit reminds me a bit of Ysatis, a lovely floral with a touch of coconut to fatten things up, or YSL’s Y. Its balance is my favorite part, managing to project “fresh and joyful,” with creamy warmth in the base.
As I’m sniffing my slightly sweet, slightly spicy/woody, gorgeously floraled ha
nd, I wonder where all those well-behaved and yet still-interesting florals are now? There are a few contemporary florals that interest me (Frédéric Malle’s Carnal Flower, Mona di Orio’s Carnation), but they’re few and far between. What with all the ouds and exotic notes out there in perfume, it would almost be more subversive to make a truly interesting floral. Or, you could just buy some vintage Nocturnes de Caron.
Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, mandarin, leafy green, fruity note
Heart notes: Lily of the valley, rose, jasmine, cyclamen, lily, orris
Base notes: Vanilla, sandalwood, vetiver, benzoin, musk, amber
Nombre Noir by Shiseido (1981)
Perfumer: Jean-Yves Leroy
If Vent Vert smells like the color green, then Nombre Noir (“Black Number”) smells purple. Jammy, plummy, woody, and rosy, with a specially sourced osmanthus flower and high-powered damascones—molecules that come from Bulgarian rose oil and can impart rosy, fruity, woody, and/or tobacco facets—Nombre Noir was Shiseido’s first Western perfume under the creative direction of Serge Lutens and Yusui Kumai.
In the drydown, the woody-rosy, lipstick-waxiness of Nombre Noir settles into a bed of powdery honey with a not-unpleasant little chemical kick.
Top notes: Aldehydes, coriander, fruity note, bergamot, marjoram, rosewood
Heart notes: Rose, geranium, orris, jasmine, ylang-ylang, carnation, lily of the valley, osmanthus
Base notes: Sandalwood, vetiver, honey, amber, musk, benzoin, tonka
Ombre Rose by Broussard (1981)
Perfumer: Françoise Caron
In Michael Edwards’s Perfume Legends, we learn that Ombre Rose got its start as an old Roure perfume base, with a cosmetic note that smelled like vintage face powder. (Roure was a perfume school started by perfumer Jean Carles that is now a part of Givaudan.) “The fragrance of the original base has a very cosmetic note,” perfumer Pierre Bourdon said of Ombre Rose’s predecessor. “It rings a bell. That’s why it is so successful.” From there, Françoise Caron gave it a huge dose of coumarin (along with vanillin) to create a praline note. Perfumer Pierre Bourdon goes so far as to say that he considers Ombre Rose the first gourmand scent that was ever created.
One defining characteristic of postmodern texts is self-reflexivity—a self-conscious reference within the film, book, poem, or painting, for example, of its constructedness as a text. Ombre Rose is the first instance I’ve encountered in perfume of self-reflexivity; it’s a perfume that reflects on its Perfume-ness. Where Balenciaga’s Fleeting Moment addresses, in its name, perfume’s evanescent nature—its character as a substance that by definition disappears as soon as you encounter it—Ombre Rose calls out perfume as a medium for memory and nostalgia by using, as its base, a vintage perfume formula that smells like vintage face powder.
That reused Roure perfume base was itself being self-reflexive: By reproducing the scent of face powder (rather than a flower or something “natural”), it’s commenting on its own status as a cosmetic, but also on itself as an aesthetic medium. It reflects; it doesn’t merely reproduce. (I wonder if Ralf Schwieger, the nose for Frédéric Malle’s Lipstick Rose, was influenced by Ombre Rose. Lipstick Rose was constructed to smell, in part, like vintage lipstick—some say vintage Chanel, others vintage L’Oréal.)
Angela Sanders of the perfume blog Now Smell This wrote a post once about wit in perfumes. It seems to me that there’s something inherently witty about a perfume that calls attention to the scent of cosmetics, and to women’s relationship to the whole culture of cosmetics: the ritual, the aesthetics, and (let’s face it) the fetishization of it. What could be more fetishy than liking the smell of lipstick or face powder? Maybe wanting to smell it in your perfume and on your skin!
Top notes: Aldehydes, rosewood, geranium
Heart notes: Rose, sandalwood, orris, lily of the valley, cedarwood, vetiver
Base notes: Vanilla, musk, tonka, cinnamon, heliotrope
Sophia by Coty (1981)
There are some perfumes one encounters while sniffing through the twentieth century that don’t entirely fit into the style of that era. It’s as if the perfumer—in the case of Sophia Loren’s namesake perfume, unknown and unsung, as so many perfumers were—didn’t really bother to conform, and just did whatever he or she felt like doing.
Sophia is a little drugstore gem that is considered by many to be the first celebrity fragrance. It could be mistaken today for a $200 bottle of niche perfume, in terms of its quality and complexity. Caught on the cusp of the 1970s and ’80s, Sophia also smells like it could be a Lucien Lelong or Ciro perfume from the 1930s.
Although Sophia initially blooms with fresh, aldehydic florals and citrus notes, it balances its dry, spicy, and incensey qualities with its fresh, sweet ones. The voiceover in Sophia’s television commercial tells us that it is “the most female fragrance you’ll ever experience,” which is essentially meaningless when, thirty years later, one could say that leather, incense, and musk don’t exactly read as feminine.
This 1980 example is another in the genre of perfume ads that touted the newly liberated woman’s dual roles—in the boardroom and the bedroom—the latter role aided by perfume.
Top notes: Aldehyde complex, bergamot, orange, spice oils
Heart notes: Clove, cinnamon bark, jasmine, rose, orris, ylang-ylang, orchid
Base notes: Musk, amber, vetiver, sandalwood, vanilla, benzoin, leather, incense
Drakkar Noir by Guy Laroche (1982)
Perfumer: Pierre Wargyne
As a woman who loves green fragrances, I sidle up pretty quickly to men’s green scents, as they often take greenness to an extreme that happens only rarely in women’s fragrances. In Drakkar Noir’s case, this green is sustained throughout, from the herbaceous top to its piney center, down to its mossy, patchouli base. A hint of spice radiates from its center, but its freshness is its predominant character. From a comparison of notes, the difference between the 1972 Drakkar and its more-popular, ’80s “noir” version is largely the addition of leather and patchouli.
Top notes: Bergamot, artemisia, lemon, rosemary, green note
Heart notes: Cinnamon, cardamom, basil, pine needle
Base notes: Patchouli, moss, cedarwood, leather, amber, sandalwood
Island Gardenia by Jovan (1982)
Soft, subtle, and warm, like a humid gardenia flower midday in some tropical paradise, Island Gardenia is a sturdy little rendition of this voluptuous flower. There’s not a lot of development to it, but gardenia is backed up by tuberose’s wonderful bubblegum and rubber note, with a touch of creamy coconut. For a quick gardenia pick-me-up that didn’t break the bank, Island Gardenia was a wonderful drugstore choice. I can’t vouch for the present-day version.
Top notes: Green notes, coconut, peach, aldehydes
Heart notes: Gardenia, tuberose, jasmine, orange blossom, cyclamen
Base notes: Vanilla, civet, benzoin siam
Le Jardin by Max Factor (1982)
There’s a happy and secure tuberose in Le Jardin, pulling the same tricks it often does in other more-expensive perfumes, but this time, without making a big deal of itself. The momentary menthol plus tuberose combination reminds me of a less-potent version of mentholated tuberose in Serge Lutens’s Tubéreuse Criminelle. Although no one would mistake Le Jardin for Patou’s Joy, this little floral perfume manages to create a good impression on a small budget.
The fruit and green notes of Le Jardin’s opening are aerated by a subtle and charming spearmint note, made even more exotic with tarragon. This green, herbal aspect joins with buttery tuberose and light-green freshness from lily of the valley, and dries down to a powdery woody base with a smidge of spice, moss, sandalwood, and civet.
Le Jardin is a child of the ’70s much more than of the sweet ’80s, and an example of the kind of quality sadly missing from today’s drugstore fragrances.
Top notes: Fruit notes, green notes, bergamot, spearmint, tarragon
Heart notes: Jasmine, tubero
se, cyclamen, lily of the valley, orris, rose, magnolia, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Cedar, sandalwood, moss, musk civet, amber
Amouage Gold by Amouage (1983)
Perfumer: Guy Robert
For their first fragrance, “Go big or go home” seems to have been Amouage’s perfume brief to perfumer Guy Robert, who called this fragrance the “crowning glory” of his career. Jasmine and rose are transformed into the Platonic Ideals of those flowers, casting off any dross, smoothing down their gowns, and flying up to the heavens in a purifying, religious ascension. As Amouage Gold dries down and the florals get more powerful, resinous myrrh warms them, and frankincense adds its cinnamon-like spice. The animal drydown pulls the perfume right back down to earth, with ambergris, civet, and musk melting with resins and florals into an animal/warm skin whisper.
A green aspect subtly merges with its lush, animalic base, and the slight cinnamon/incense of frankincense helps light up this perfume with a golden light from within, making the flowers feel even warmer and more opulent than they already are. Amouge Gold demonstrates the difference between couture versus a run-of-the-mill floral perfume. Seamless, beautiful, sensual, and heavenly.
Notes: Rose, lily of the valley, jasmine, frankincense, myrrh, orris, ambergris, civet, musk, cedarwood, sandalwood
Diva by Ungaro (1983)
Perfumer: Jacques Polge
When I was a teenager in the 1980s, my mother bought me a giant bottle of Diva in the crystal bottle with glass stopper. I would wear it occasionally, but it struck me as inappropriate, the equivalent of a fourteen-year-old in a pleated Emanuel Ungaro evening gown with plunging neckline.
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