jasmine

I tried this once before without reviewing it, and had the same first reaction: "I don’t like it!" A moment later, that passes, but there is a blast of some too-heavy floral at the beginning that makes me immediately quail. After a couple seconds pass, this becomes a rich, flowing, imperious blend of flower, resin, and musk. It’s a dark orange scent to me, but I don’t mean that it smells like oranges. Something about it seems very physical, not in the sense of a shove, but in the sense of secretions and hormones. Considering its stated purpose, I note that I don’t find it sexually appealing in the slightest -- but this is supposed to affect the audience, not the wearer, so... I dunno. As a scent, it doesn’t do anything for me, but I suppose the proper way to test this one would be to try it on human guinea pigs. I refuse to post the results of any laboratory tests, though, so... yeah, that’s it for this review.

Initially, this is a savagely elegant blend of pale florals. It doesn’t smell at all like ice or asphalt, which is rather a relief. (When my decant order came, I spent some time staring at this one and wondering, “Asphalt? Why on earth did I order a scent that claims to smell like asphalt?”) Picking the florals apart is difficult. I would wager on lily, and I suspect orchid, but aside from that... I’m really quite lost. This is one of the more perfumey blends that Black Phoenix has created, and I might disapprove if it didn’t smell so incredibly sophisticated. This is haughty, aloof, and intensely perfumey without being generic in the slightest. Definitely a scent for me to remember in the future for formal occasions.

The bright woodiness of this scent when I first applied it surprised me. Fresh on my wrist, this is a bright, warm, woody smell with citrus oils tossed lightly into the blend. Given the various possibilities for what "calamus" means (I love Wikipedia), I suspect that this is calamus the palm, and that might explain the woodiness. The lemon and bergamot are easiest to pick out; the rest is a pleasant tangle of scent underneath, left by the fading woodiness. Half of the scent is a warm purple-brown, but the zingy yellow on top gives it life without making it confusing. This is a really neat fragrance. Given a bit of time, the aspects of the scent start blending together. Something has started smelling a bit "cleaning fluid" about it, but I can’t really pick out which portion is the offender. The fig has showed up, and it gives a low, fuzzy body to the entire thing. Now this is bergamot balanced on fig, each in equal proportion. Hmm. It’s not offensive, but it doesn’t particularly appeal to me. I would have liked this a lot if the initial woodiness had stayed.

Just off the wand, this is a blast of entirely familiar sweetness -- caramel appels and cotton candy and maybe the hint of elephant ears all wrapped into one. It smells like Food Vendor Line at the fair. I really like it. After a few minutes, it dries and fades, unfortunately. What it fades into isn’t quite as edible -- the cotton candy is gone, and the caramel that remains is a slinky, dark brown caramel instead of the innocent light caramel on apples. The sweetness starts ebbing as well, leaving a slightly smoky scent behind. I dislike smoke in my perfume. This solo caramel scent reminds me a bit of Drink Me, which went very hostile and aggressive on me, and a bit of Miskatonic University, which had a similar now-you-smell-smoke now-you-don’t attitude on me. It doesn’t smell as aggressively sugary as Drink Me, though, and so I am inclined to forgive. I’m going to have to compare this to Miskatonic University, because it really reminds me more of that scent the longer I wear it. I suspect the two are quite similar in composition, although Midway does not have the same endurance as Miskatonic University did.

Sweet! I mean this not in the sense of an exclamation of happiness, but in the sense that the scent is sweet. It isn’t a honeyed sweetness, or a sugared sweetness, but like the aroma from a cup of pear juice. The name and the lab description are a swing and a miss for me when combined with this scent. After a bit, I can pick out the sandalwood and the musk, I still smell something fruitlike among the florals on top. I like the results. Ode on Melancholy is, perhaps, a bit generic... but not unpleasant in its genericness.

Based on the name, I expected a heavy, overpowering smell, and I was braced for the same, but instead this is the smell of the spaces between the stars: light, delicate, soft, and irreproachably lovely. The myrrh really warms the jasmine. (To play with synesthetic imagery, this smell is misty white over soft brown.) There’s a hint of something sweet and fruitlike hovering through the fragrance, but I can’t be more specific than that. The delicacy of the scent remains distinct even as the jasmine comes through. At this point, the spaciousness of the smell is fading, but I don’t mind. This was interesting and elegant.

Very herbal upon first application, but a low-pitched herbal instead of a high-pitched one. Dark yellow-green instead of light yellow-green. Not floral at all... seems like the stems of these plants instead of the flowers. I’m very puzzled. Given a bit of time, the jasmine starts coming out, surrounded by a smell like broken plant stems. I thought this would be more peaceful and floral than it is. Later, the lavender arrives. The jasmine isn’t overpowering my wrist, which is a nice change, but the resulting scent -- lavender, jasmine, and plant stems -- is sort of pale and murky. It’s subtle enough to avoid being annoying, but it doesn’t call to me. It’s pretty, but in a bland, muddy way. Oh well.

Freshly applied, this is a swirling, lightly minty aquatic. It’s minty and sweet without explicitly naming a mint to my nose. I’m surprised by the entire effect. The truth is, this is lovely. It’s alien and weird... weird enough that it could be an Arkham scent... but has a certain beauty. Interpreted as color, this is overwhelmingly aquamarine -- not a dark aqua, but a transparent one with light shining through it. It is also very, very strong. The area in which I am sitting smells entirely and solely of Undertow. And while it is distinctive and beautiful, it is an unappealing beauty -- too cold, too blue, and far too loud. A particular temperament might find this to be an unusual, fascinating signature scent. Sounds lovely... on someone else. I can find it artful without ever wanting to wear it again. ...I had to wash my elbow halfway through dinner because I just couldn’t stand this scent any more swirling around my breaded fish. Far, far too loud. It didn’t wash off in a simple washing, but it muted down a bit, which made it tolerable. I will scrub it raw in a hot shower and hope it goes away.

Very fruity when first applied, with a hint of sourness. A peachy smell manifests immediately... which would be great on someone else, I suspect, but my skin (I have rapidly learned) does not accommodate peach scent well. On me, it promptly starts smelling like dubious fruit syrup. Hrmm. The syrupiness of it peters down, but it’s still not a convincing peach. Instead, it’s sort of sweaty and overripe. How unlovely. Checking the notes, I discover that there is no peach. Undeniably and unaccountably, it still smells like peach... in fact, it smells almost exactly like Imp, with more syrup and less pastry. Since I got this imp straight from the Lab, it can’t be contamination, so I got nothin’ to explain this. I give up.

When first applied, this is a surprisingly high, antiseptic smell. It is very strongly aquatic -- not all the way into fishy, but gracing the edge, like fresh seaweed wrapped around fish and then taken away again and smelled on its own. There’s nothing unfresh about it, but it’s very unexpected. The antiseptic fades down, but inevitably, there’s something off about it. I don’t think it’s actually a fishy scent... it just seems wrong. There’s a current of cold blue-green under the misty antiseptic that is actively repellent. As it settles down, it becomes less offensive, but it isn’t appealing.

First applied, this is an incredibly, incredibly masculine scent -- the kind that sends some inner part of me fleeing into the distance wailing, “argh, my wrist smells like guy!” However, having tried it on myself (and deliberately, even) well... these things are expected and I should cope with them. When wet, there’s a hint of rose... but it’s not girly rose, because it’s coiled up in a spiny, spicy leather mix. This is a low, rough scent, less the highwayman from Noyes and more a scratchy-faced villain crouching in the bushes and waiting to prey on the passersby. Given some more time to settle, this becomes a spiny vegetative blend with a rose caught at the center. The leather fades out, and the spiciness settles down, reducing the raging masculinity somewhat. Actually, this is calming down overall. I had been afraid that this would stay hard and rough, but it’s turning into a burry, dark green scent (vetiver, definitely) to which I don’t object. As the jasmine wakes up, this becomes, weirdly enough, masculine jasmine. (I don’t think I knew that was possible!) It’s still a bit masculine for me to wear, but it’s pleasingly masculine, and the scent grows on me further the longer it stays. Interesting. Later, this develops into something I could even wear, given the right mood -- it’s a dark green, growly, unisex jasmine. Bizarre, but nice.

At the first touch across my skin, Haunted manifests as a soft, surprisingly creamy scent. There’s a faint touch of citrus, but only a very subtle touch; more dominant is the creamy, slightly sugared scent. This isn’t foody, per se, but it reminds me of the scent of a lemon cream -- that sweet, subtle allure. Definitely vanilla here in addition to the lemon. This is also a pretty unisex scent at this stage, and it might be venturing more toward masculine than feminine. ...and I know that pretty much contradicts everything the lab description says. I know it, but I also know that it’s what I was smelling. It really isn’t a thick scent at all... it’s a light, creamy, slightly sugared scent. Also, I know by now what black musk does on my skin, and this isn’t doing it. The thing is, though, that this is a good scent. It’s subtle, unisex, gently tasty, and just generally nice. It may not be doing what it’s supposed to be doing (to the point where I wondered if the bottle was mislabelled for a while), and it really doesn’t fit the name worth anything, but it’s doing something very good, and therefore I have no complaints.

Extremely high-pitched in first application. I expected something sultry and crimson. This isn’t red; this is hot screaming magenta, a blaze of fierce, false color. Something in the upper range strikes me as painfully fake-smelling... like there’s a floral with a side chopped off it instead of coming through true. This really does not smell like true rose. Ugh. The longer this lasts, the less real it becomes. It’s like a spritz of air freshener. This is a serious miss on my skin. As time passes, it eventually becomes a pale pink rose... but I pass on pastels. It’s really not for me.

This is a wooded smell as it lies wet on my wris. There’s a hint of wetter vegetation about it, but it’s really not a floral. Some thin, high floral drifts above the wood, but the wood is indubitably dominant. The lower floral manifests slowly, but when it blooms, it blooms beautifully. The lilac has no real power, and it glimmers out as quickly as it came, but the wood and the roses blend into a calm, majestic, august creature. There’s nothing spooky about this to me. It is graceful and serene, with the hint of disapproval held in abeyance. This is indubitably not a young rose: that first floral breath has faded away, and now this seems like a middle-aged scent, or even a grandmotherly one. I wait, and the wood starts to fade away, but that leaves the scent seeming unbalanced -- as if the scent had been flowers piled on a log, and now, although the log has been removed, the piled flowers still hang above where the log ought to be. It loses its commanding presence as the wood fades, leaving a malformed rose-ness behind that just doesn’t impress. What a pity.

At first, this is a thin scent, shadowy purple, hazy. I would suspect violets if the description didn’t deny them, but it doesn’t go bad on me the way that violets seem to do. This is a scent for dreaming. It reminds me a bit of Tarot: the Moon, but it doesn’t have the Moon’s white floral. The name suits it perfectly. This is a drifty, dreamy, shadowy scent. It makes my nose feel fuzzy at its point of greatest waxing, but now it has settled and subdued a bit further. The purple goes away, given a bit more time. It’s not an unpretty scent. It is, in its own way, quite seductive. But I find it to be perfectly named... which makes me not want to wear this scent. This is through sloth’s seduction and out the other side... a point where not only is nothing being accomplished, but where that’s all right, and it’s all right if nothing is ever accomplished again, because everything is lazy and slow and beautiful. This reaction is quite a burden to place on a scent, since, at the end of the day, it’s just a floral blend, and a muted, shadowy scent at that. It is, however, an exquisitely evocative scent... and what it evokes in me is something that I generally want to avoid. Wear with caution.

Ladon is my favorite BPAL scent, period (thus far -- always more to try!) and the appleiness is part of what makes me adore it. (I have a great apple weakness.) Two others where I pick up apple (though not exclusively, just as a combined note:) The Voodoo oil Block Buster goes cinnamon and apple cider on many people, though more cinnamon than apple cider. On the current YULE LEs, Knecht Ruprecht has a sneaking hint of apple too, which is part of what makes it lovely.

Before anything else, I have to say that this painting doesn't appeal to me in the slightest. I recognize that it's a work by a great master, but Lucretia is badly proportioned to the extent of being malformed, and the symbolism, while perfectly visible, strikes me as overly obvious and graceless. However, I am not a student of German painters, and perhaps I fail to appreciate Lucretia properly. (I would much have preferred to smell a Lab interpretation of his Adam and Eve or his Praying Hands.) The reason why I mention this is that, if this is a valid interpretation of the painting, it's perfectly possible that I won't like it anyway. Moving along.... There's something antiseptic about this oil. It's a hint of thin, faint citrus above the rest of the scent. Beneath the citrus, given a few seconds to settle, Lucretia is a melange of scent, a complex combination of various notes in which it is difficult to pick out any given element. Everything in the lab's note list seems to be present save the musk, which I can't find at all at this early point. With my disclaimer at the top, it is unsurprising that this scent doesn't strike a chord with me. However, as time passes, the resulting scent doesn't seem to fit the painting. Like the picture, the scent isn't pretty, but the picture still possesses a fleshly aspect -- it is, after all, the scene of a suicide. This scent is far too frail and narrow to suffice. It needs a recognition of physicality and a sense of surrounding darkness. The one part that seems right: like Lucretia's expression, this scent seems wary and withdrawn. It isn't subtle -- it has a medium throw -- but the scent is not welcoming in the slightest, just as the painted figure is not. While the scent Lucretia isn't actively repellent, it doesn't have any appeal to me, either. I don't plan to wear this again.

Initially applied, this is a high-pitched, complex scent that is not overly shrill. The flowers are there, but they are not typically floral; instead, all elements layer together in a striking fashion. This is artful and precise. Given a moment, this becomes a distinctly woody smell, yet the flowers still drift over it. Picking out elements is virtually impossible for me. When I compare the scent to the painting, it fits well enough; I can see how the one inspired the other. The scent is that of the brightnesses in the painting, the blocks of yellow and the solitary figure, rather than the scent of the darkness surrounding. The water is present, a flow of aquatic notes, but this isn't a gloomy scent. It inspires calm, yet not serenity -- it lacks the stasis of serenity. This is grace -- calm in motion. I'm really starting to see why the Salon scents are worth consideration. This is the third Salon scent I've tried, and every one so far has had a complex grandeur that I haven't really experienced in the general catalogue. None of them have seemed particularly like "me", but they've all impressed me nonetheless.

At first, this is a dark, winy scent, and then a cocoa note floods instantly through it, followed by smoke. This is the Death of Sardanapal (or Sardanapalus, if you prefer the Greek) made into scent. I'm stunned by how well the scent matches the inspiration. This scent doesn't contain the helplessness of the concubines or the fear of the horse. What it contains is Sardanapal's gaze, his intense languor, the chaotic, murderous storm of activity surrounding him, and the hues of the painting -- the darknesses and the reds, most of all. The cocoa was present for only a second before vanishing. Now, traces of something high-pitched and mintlike float above plumes of smokiness and always the wine, which is a true, dark, dry red with no trace of falseness to it. Resins flow between the smoke and the wine. This is a highly physical scent. At one moment, I think it might be too smoky and masculine for a woman; at the next, I think it might be too honeyed and feminine for a man -- I truly can't decide. The one thing I am sure of is that this fragrance has complexity, presence, power, and charisma. It isn't sexual, but it is sensual -- in the meaning "of the senses" -- and it is overwhelmingly magnetic. It demands reaction and response, yet may not deign to produce any of its own. Well done. What more can I say?

This is an extraordinarily sharp smell on the wand -- highly herbal and green, with a trace of something citrusy. When it touches my skin, I detect cut grass. Given some time on my wrist, an unobtrusive floral (narcissus?) saunters through the sharp, complex scent, but it isn't interested in overpowering the blend. This smells complex and vegetative enough to be a Rappacini blend, but it doesn't have the unpleasantness that Mandrake or Sundew do -- it's just attractive enough to be a perfume instead of a disaster. As a perfume, however, it is highly unusual. This is almost entirely upper notes on my skin, with nothing lower to balance them, as the cedar is barely detectable. It's a pale yellow smell of crushed vegetation; it hints at floralness, but doesn't seem like a floral. Without smelling soapy in the slightest, it smells clean and fresh, like a cold dawn along wildflowers. It strikes me as feminine -- an arch, elegant feminine that carries a certain magnetism despite a lack of warmth. Given time, it fades into a greenish-yellow blend that retains its freshness while losing some of its complexity. Now, it's more like midmorning sun across a field than like the dawn. I don't think the scent is much of a match for the painting, but it has a charm all its own. This scent has the distinctiveness and the complexity to make a good signature scent for someone else. On the whole, I don't see myself wearing Orpheus on a routine basis, but I might pick it up on days when I feel poetic or particularly independent. One last addendum: after six hours or so, when I thought this scent had basically worn off, I washed my arms. Bizarrely, something about this process -- the water? the friction? an eerie confluence with Dove? -- re-awoke Orpheus in a new form as a woody, resinous scent. It doesn't smell half bad in this form, either, but... that is incredibly, incredibly strange.

When I apply it, I find this scent is spiced, but cold. I tend to have phoenix associations with the Tarot Death card, and they're not present here -- or, at least, not in the resurrection phase. This is definitely more of the falling phoenix than the rising one. After a bit, it stops being quite so cold. Now, it's a harsh, spicy scent that I wouldn't choose as a perfume... definitely a dark odor. There's something incensy, and I think there's a trace of plum in here because I recognize a touch of the funkiness that plum normally does on my skin. The result isn't outright unpleasant, but it's certainly not pleasant. Now I think I have some sort of wood, but not pine or cedar... cyprus, I might hazard. It's just a layer under the incensy, spicy smell. Imagery: this suggests fires and sticks of incense burning in memory of the dead. Side note: by this point, this scent has gone quite masculine. There are some scents that I smell and think, "Hmm, not much on me, but I'd love smelling it on someone else." This isn't one of them. For me, this "Death" seems like it should have gone somewhere in the Funereal Oils category instead of the Tarot blends. Instead of being transitional and transformational, it seems permanent. Your mileage may vary.

Immediately after application, this is a brisk, sharp scent with a bit of fruit underlying a melange of spice and a bit of floral drifting over it. It's exceedingly complex, but the spice is dominant as a fiery fuzz in the nose. (On a side note to those with sensitive skin: something in this blend immediately made my elbow react. My skin is often picky, but it's going all to tiny red spots over this application. It didn't hurt; it just became colorful, and the color lasted fifteen minutes or so. Consider yourselves warned.) I think there's dragon's-blood resin in this, but it's not a full, blossomed dragon's-blood resin -- something thinner, a bit more gold than red. Beyond that, placing notes is very hard, particularly as the fruit and floral have dried up on me. It's just a wash of faintly sweet spice. Now the sweetness fades, and it's only spicy. I can detect some wood now -- cedar, perhaps? It grows more difficult to detect, but it stays that way, a low, woody blend topped with dragon's blood, for quite some time. I can't say this is a badly done scent. I can see it capturing the spirit of its name. I just can't say that I want to smell like this.

This is more subdued and green than I expected. I think there might be verbena in it -- some note in there is green and has a trace of citrusiness all at the same time. It's not loud, though... not at all. It has a warmth that I did expect. Time passes. I still don't know what I'm smelling -- it's layered green stuff, with citrus. There's some white floral, but not very much. People are mentioning dragon's blood resin, but I'm not really getting it. I think I sense clove, instead... something faintly spicy. The green citrus is backing off. The dragon's blood (yes, it seems to be dragon's blood after all) is coming forward. Whatever's in here, it is either very responsive to skin chemistry, or it is very metamorphic. I would never have guessed that the initial scent would turn into this one. (I sniffed the wand again to double-check, and it doesn't smell a thing like dragon's blood -- still high-pitched and green! Bizarre.) After half an hour, it fades away to almost nothing, but then it comes back after another half hour. At that point, dragon's blood is the strongest scent in it, and possibly some other spice, though I can't identify it. The greenery, citrus, and floral have all split town. At all points, I've liked this scent, despite its chaotic tendencies. I'm sure I will wear it again.

Anise! And lots of it. It's an invigorating, exhilarating scent. This is spicy and slightly herbal without being green or foody in the slightest. I really like it. It doesn't seem overly metamorphic on my skin, which I approve of. It's just a lasting, confident anise blend. More cinnamony, now, and I find myself hesitating. Between the last paragraph and this one, I paused and read some reviews, and I see lots of people all cheering the cinnamon. Was it cinnamon all along (misidentified by the olfactory-verbal gap) or has it subtly metamorphosed? I go back and smell the wand again. It's definitely, really anise on the wand, and it's definitely, really cinnamon on my wrist. (This teaches me not to second-guess myself. Of course, since the blends vary a bit from one to another, it's perfectly possible that I just got the anise oddball.) Eventually, it mutes down into a soft, subtle, warm blend, and then it starts fading away (marking a lifespan of about four hours). I really liked it while it lasted.

This is strong on the wand, but as soon as it touches my skin, it fades away to almost nothing within seconds. I appplied a bit more out of puzzlement only to have the same thing happen. Grand Guignol is shy on me. That's weird. In addition to being shy, it smells wrong -- a bit overjuicy, like a rotting apricot, except that the rotting apricot is itself artificial. If the muddle coalesces into a fruit scent, I'll be impressed, but what I've got right now is frankly pretty awful. Given a bit of time, Grand Guignol starts to blossom on my skin, and the result is completely unappealing -- a distinctly "off" fruitness. I recognize it's supposed to smell like alcohol, but it doesn't. It just smells like fake fruit. Now it's really coming out on my skin. (This is what I get for a double application.) The waves of fake, slightly earthy fruit surround me. I will suffer for a while and see if it gets better. It doesn't. On my skin chemistry, this is a complete failure. After two hours or so, it starts to fade away again, and good riddance.