doomsday_disco

Treat this as more of an impression than a review since I'm reviewing the scent and not the intent.

The Burning Light is mostly about the orange, apricot, and ginger on me, backed by the incense. The ginger with the other notes is making this veer medicinal on me, sadly. 

I'm going to stick with Holiday Survival Juice for a joyful, uplifting TAL blend.

I received a tester of this in a decant order.

This is mostly about the leather on me, and it's a strong black leather. I also get some rubberiness from it, which I agree is probably from the leather combining with the ink. The dusty pages are present, but I'm not getting any beeswax or any sweetness from this whatsoever. And that strong leather really could have used some beeswax goodness along with it! Maybe it's just my skin running away with the leather?

I'm glad that I was able to try it, but I wouldn't reach for this over sweet book scents like Jólabókaflóð or Picture Books in Winter.

I'm also getting An Evening With the Spirits vibe from this one. It has the same sort of eerie coolness as some of those scents.

I decided to try it because I wanted to try at least one scent from The Yellow Wallpaper collection, and this one seemed like it would be the most accessible (plus, y'know, it contains lavender  ). This is indeed accessible, with the plaster dust being pretty tame and kind of lending a powdery make-up or classic perfume vibe in the background. However, the standout notes to me are the iris (which is somehow not as sharp and screechy as usual) and the musky ambergris. I've tried this a few times now, and the lavender and vanilla husk aren't really distinct on me, and I'm not getting anything rose-y from this, either.

While this isn't something I need a bottle of, I'm glad the iris wasn't extremely rude to me (despite being a main player), and that this wasn't heavy on the plaster. If you like iris and are looking for a scent with An Evening With the Spirits sort of feel, though, this might be up your alley.

A 2023 Halloween concoction which maybe should’ve been a Yule all along! Wooly and witchy, fuzzy and scuzzy, long green fingers tipped with ruby-red nails: raw wool, sweet oakmoss, and cranberry brandy.

The whistle cries. Cheek pressed to the cool glass, breath fogging faintly as orchards and riverbanks blur past in watercolor hues. The air fills with rose creme and warm pastries from the dining car.

Night falls. The train glides along the darkened coast, and lights shimmer in the distance like earthbound stars. Burnt sugar amber, polished French oakwood, cacao fleur, blushing peony, and cashmere musk.

A bitterly cold, bone-white chypre; austere polar musk, vegan ambergris, and white tea combine to make a genteel, frigid perfume as bright and sharp as the first crack of glacial ice.

A fatal temptation: vanilla bean paste, allspice, ground almond accord, cinnamon sugar, golden caster sugar, and a dusting of icing sugar.

A bloodless scent stitched together like delicate antique lace, with a hint of powdered violet, plum brandy, and gleaming aldehydes.

A whiff of seasonal dread, candied and cursed; the perfect gourmand perfume for holiday melancholics. A dense, boozy thud of brandied plum, candied citrus peel, dried cherries, sherry, blackened clove and nutmeg, ambered dust, moth-eaten burgundy velvet curtains, and a tiny plume of smoke from recently-spent matchsticks.

An aromatic panel of gingerbread conveniently drilled at hip-height, smutted up with patchouli and boozy brown musk.

Slushy white mint, vanilla cream, lemon drops, grapefruit, and yuzu!

Then she summoned a huntsman and said to him, “Take Snow-White out into the woods. I never want to see her again. Kill her, and as proof that she is dead bring her lungs and her liver back to me.”

The huntsman obeyed and took Snow-White into the woods. He took out his hunting knife and was about to stab it into her innocent heart when she began to cry, saying, “Oh, dear huntsman, let me live. I will run into the wild woods and never come back.”

Because she was so beautiful the huntsman took pity on her, and he said, “Run away, you poor child.”

Mercy interrupting violence: well-worn leather shadowed by pine boughs, moss-slick bark, bloodroot and steel, and a tremble of wild apple.

(Review thread creator note: This is a new Yule scent. If you're looking to review the 2018 release of The Huntsman, which was a Tarot scent, please click here.)

A BPAL favorite since 2005, affectionately nicknamed ‘The Devil’s Bake Sale.’

A BPAL favorite since 2005, affectionately nicknamed ‘The Devil’s Bake Sale.’

(Review thread creator note: If you're reviewing the 2018 Sugar Cookie Hair Gloss, please use the thread linked here. That hair gloss features a different sugar cookie scent!)

Strawberry preserves twisting through clouds of pink cotton candy and marshmallow fluff.

A chilly, bright scent: flurries of virgin snow, crisp winter wind and the faintest breath of night-blooming flowers.

We have resurrected Black Phoenix Trading Post’s sensual 2009 masterpiece. Red rose buds, with amber, clove, tonka, Indian musk, fir, and tobacco.

I don’t know if all kids love Krampus, but mine sure does. She first met him a decade ago at Dark Delicacies, where he was portrayed by our dear friend, Bill Rude. She loves Krampus so much that we took her to the Gnigl Krampuslauf in Salzburg in 2017. Her intention to join the Los Angeles Krampuslauf as a wee Krampus was curtailed by the pandemic, but hope springs eternal.

Kids love horror. They’re attracted to the strange, the uncanny, the mysterious. This is why they love characters like Krampus, despite the threat of being scooped up into a bag and tossed into a river.

Kids embrace horror. They always have. Children understand that the world is stitched together with shadows, and that sometimes the shadows have teeth. They’re drawn to the strange, the uncanny, the impossible; they see the edges where reality blurs. Horror is not a trespass for them, but a playground: a place where the monstrous becomes knowable, where fear becomes understanding. Terror tales are a ritualized fear, safely cocooned in myth. This is why they love figures like Krampus, even with his clanking chains and sacks full of disobedient little souls. To a child, Krampus is not simply a morality lesson or a grim parental warning – he’s a symbol of freedom, of things that are wild, dark, and uncontrolled.

Children instinctively know that monsters serve a purpose, that they give shape to anxieties too formless to name. They let kids practice both bravery and defiance, and they teach kids that though the world can be frightening and unpredictable, they can traverse its tangled forests and survive the darkness. I believe that children also know in the deepest part of their mythic, dreaming souls that monsters protect, challenge, and guide. Sometimes, the monster under the bed is the only one who truly understands you.

Kids love Krampus, not in spite of his menace, but because of it. His is the shadow that makes the light shine brighter, and the rattle of his chains reminds them that stories, both light and dark, belong to them.

A playdate with monsters: crimson musk stirred into molten sugar, ruby pomegranate syrup, tart cherries, a dusting of clove-spun candyfloss, and a drizzle of warm vanilla resin.

In dramatic contrast to the soft innocence of Snow White and the dew-kissed freshness of her sister, Rose Red, this is a blood red, voluptuous rose, velvet-petaled, at the height of bloom. Haughty and imperious, vain, yet incomparably lovely to the eye, but thick with thorns of jealousy, pride and hatred.

According to some authors, myrrh is the produce of a tree that grows in the same forests as the incense-tree, though most say that they grow in different places: but the fact is that myrrh grows in many parts of Arabia, as will be seen when we come to speak of the several varieties of it. A sort that is highly esteemed is brought from the islands also, and the Sabæi even cross the sea to procure it in the country of the Troglodytæ. It is grown also by being transplanted, and when thus cultivated is greatly preferred to that which is grown in the forests. The plant is greatly improved by raking and baring the roots; indeed, the cooler the roots are kept, the better it is.

– Pliny the Elder

Kataf myrrh, smoked sandalwood, and vanilla bean.

This scent is a traditional Roman Catholic sacramental incense, most often used during a Solemn Mass. Traditionally, five tears of this incense, each encased individually in wax that has been fashioned into the shape of a nail, are inserted into the paschal candle. This, of course, represents the Five Wounds of Our Risen Savior. Symbolically, the burning of the incense signifies spiritual fervor, the fragrance itself inspires virtue, and the rising smoke carries our prayers to God.

I will wash my hands among the innocent; and will compass thy altar, O Lord: That I may hear the voice of thy praise: and tell of all thy wondrous works. I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of thy house; and the place where thy glory dwelleth. Take not away my soul, O God, with the wicked: nor my life with bloody men: In whose hands are iniquities: their right hand is filled with gifts.

But as for me, I have walked in my innocence: redeem me, and have mercy on me. My foot hath stood in the direct way: in the churches I will bless thee, O Lord.

In Roman Catholic tradition, the Christmas season begins liturgically on Christmas Eve, though it is forbidden to celebrate the Christmas Mass before midnight. The most devout attend Midnight Mass, celebrating both the Eucharist and the drama of the Nativity.

Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium.

Et in unum Dominum Iesum Christum, Filium Dei unigenitum, et ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula. Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero, genitum non factum, consubstantialem Patri; per quem omnia facta sunt. Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de caelis. Et incarnatus est de Spiritu Sancto ex Maria Virgine, et homo factus est. Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est, et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas, et ascendit in caelum, sedet ad dexteram Patris. Et iterum venturus est cum gloria, iudicare vivos et mortuos, cuius regni non erit finis.

Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur: qui locutus est per prophetas. Et unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum, et vitam venturi saeculi. Amen.

In former times, when they had fewer opportunities of selling it, they used to gather the frankincense only once a year; but at the present day, as there is a much greater demand for it, there is a second crop as well. The first, and what we may call the natural, vintage, takes place about the rising of the Dog-star, a period when the heat is most intense; on which occasion they cut the tree where the bark appears to be the fullest of juice, and extremely thin, from being distended to the greatest extent. The incision thus made is gradually extended, but nothing is removed; the consequence of which is, that an unctuous foam oozes forth, which gradually coagulates and thickens. When the nature of the locality requires it, this juice is received upon mats of palm-leaves, though in some places the space around the tree is made hard by being well rammed down for the purpose. The frankincense that is gathered after the former method, is in the purest state, though that which falls on the ground is the heaviest in weight: that which adheres to the tree is pared off with an iron instrument, which accounts for its being found mingled with pieces of bark.

– Pliny the Elder

Frankincense, terebinth, and Italian bergamot.

A festive and urgently mammalian response to inclement weather: a pair of blushing musks daubed with French lavender, flecks of fresh snow, and trickles of chilled champagne.

Alas my love you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
For I have loved you so long
Delighting in your company.
Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight.
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my lady Greensleeves?
Alas my love that you should own
A heart of wanton vanity
So I must laddie think alone
Upon your insincerity.

A sorrowful 16th-century love ballad reimagined as a yuletide hymn: heavy bolts of oakmoss-colored velvet, a heart of gold weeping sticky tears of balsam.

A frost-edged nave of stone, where stained glass glimmers with the light from prayer-lofted votives. Spirals of incense drift through the chill winter air, mingling with the solemn drip of beeswax from altar candles. Cedar pews gleam under centuries of prayer, and the air hums with hushed devotion.