Juushika

In the vial: Strange to say, but it's almost a morpher. I get something masculine, then a hint of chocolate, then smoke, then a cologne/floral touch. On me: Opens up as smoke and fuzzy musk, a deep warm scent. Then there's a hint of oleander and an encroaching generic floral perfume/cologne—and it never goes away. The cologne deepens out into something more masculine, refined, and dark, but it's at its heart a traditional drugstore scent, and stays that way indefinitely. Throw is low. Verdict: Disappointed would be putting it mildly. There's a lot of promise in the vial, where I can smell almost all of the notes, but on the skin this is cologne all the way. It's a better cologne than I usually get from BPAL, but still nothing desirable or special. I may try this on fabric, to see if the vial complexity will sustain. But so far, Batty is headed to swaps. 2018 update: 7 years have done this some good. The chocolate has gained a stronger voice, and reminds me of The Seekim (cacao absolute, hay, black pepper, patchouli, and incense ash), a non-foodie, complicated cocoa which is spiced and dry. But Batty's cologne remains forefront, more overtly perfumey and masculine than The Seekim. "If Fred Astaire was a werebat" is a spot-on fit now.

In the vial: A sweet, cool, slightly damp scent that doesn't quite strike me as coconut, but could be milk, or coconut milk. On me: Immediately on the skin there's a burst of buttery sweetness, not too thick, distinctly sweet. I find it difficult to describe what the scent matures into, and I think that's because I've never smelled shea butter—because this could well be it. It's a fleshy, full-bodied, palpable white scent, creamy, buttery, and sweetened but not foody; it stays on the safe side of cloying but is strangely oppressive. A white, milky scent seems like it should be faint, but this is anything but: throw if fairly low, but the scent itself is potent and powerful, intimating, like drowning in cream. I can't comment on wear-length—I'll wash it off instead. Verdict: There's something here that I just can't tolerate—Obatala seems to do all the right things, but it overpowers and intimidates me with an unexpected smothering blanket of opaque, sweet, buttery milk. I've tested this twice now, and each time been surprised at the intensity and strangeness, and been forced to wash it off. This is definitely one for the swaps.

2010 version. In the vial: A cologne/aquatic take on snow, with a touch of backing florals. On the skin: Potent, headache-inducing drugstore cologne as it hits the skin, but that dies off in drydown. I get a surprising amount of florals from Jólasveinar. They're cool florals, leaning towards masculine, a touch outdoorsy. For the first half of wear the sweetness of the pastries nudges the scent towards traditional; as the sweetness dies down the florals persist, snow-touched but full bodied, primarily orchid. The coolness occasionally presents as cologney and aquatic, and fails to be convincing as a result. Throw is moderate low, wear-length is moderate low. Verdict: On one hand, pine is one of my death notes and, while others get it, it doesn't show up on my skin--a welcome reprieve. On the other, all I really get from Jólasveinar is florals. Occasionally they're wintery outdoor florals, and their lean towards masculine/neutral is refreshing, but for the most part they're not particularly interesting or unique, and there's not enough of the other notes—dirt and moss would be particularly welcome—to balance them out. This is a scent for the swap pile.

In the vial: A dry white scent withI'd sweara touch of vetiver. On me: Black musk as it hits the skin, dry and sharp as pepper. There may be some patchouli here, but it really feels like vetiverperhaps the myrrh is just that dark. Dries down to a dry, harsh, incredibly beautiful scent. I still get black pepper and vetiver, but that may be a reflection of the scent's texture rather than its notes. The black musk is potent, but pristinely dark rather than animalistic. It's a surprisingly straightforward and stable scent, but its bold harshness is far from simplistic. The catch is that it fades to a white pepper-ish pale dry spice within 1.5 hours, and is all but gone by 2.5 hours. Scent-color is smoky monochrome. Throw is moderate, and wear length is short. Verdict: I'm not sure what magic makes Dance of Death so beautiful in the midst of its intense harshnessthis isn't an innocuousness, palatable scent, but it is striking, proud, and intensely lovely. It's a disappointment then that it has such a short wear-length, but the fact that the scent is so stablewith a straightforward drydown and no real morphingmay be its saving grace, because it could easily be reapplied. I still prefer scents with more staying power, so I may not reach for this often. But I will keep it around.

In the vial: Spicy dragon's blood. On me: Primarily herbal. There's an occasional touch of hot dry spice, probably cinnamon, and an even rarer hint of sweetness, but this is herbs overall: potent, dry, mildly bitter. Hardly indistinct, but not particularly robust either, and doesn't much morph or grow once it hits the skin. Scent-color is a dusty green. Throw is low. Verdict: French Love does just about nothing for me, but then out of the vial I don't get any of the dragon's blood, etc. as reported by others. Nor am I particularly attached to this scent's intended purpose. I washed it off, and won't keep my imp.

In the vial: Pale woods with a hint of greenery. On me: The greenery amps when it hits the skin—not a fresh green, but not quite rotten or choking either; it's living, thriving, ancient plants—and during drydown, this reminds me of Oblivion sans saffron: old, living greenery, calm but powerful, not quite oppressive but occasionally threatening. Post-drydown, moss comes to the forefront with an almost fuzzy texture and sweater-like warmth. This ends up as a warm, soft, barely powdery and even less sweet scent of mossy golden wood which is lovely on the whole—but there are still hints of something bitter and threatening on the edges, which taints the scent but brings it closer to its inspiration. Scent color is a luminescent olive green. Throw is moderate low. Verdict: For better or worse I get nothing black or rotting here, but that doesn't mean that The Twisted Oak Tree completely abandons its dark inspiration. I wonder if it should, though. The moss-heavy, golden woods final stage of this blend is often gorgeous and comforting while maintaining adhering to its wild, organic origins, but the bitterness that haunts the edges never quite settles out and, frankly, it's disconcerting. An interesting scent, and one I'm glad to have tried; I'll test it again to see if my opinions change, but for now I think this errs just on the wrong side of unwearable. Certainly an intriguing blend, though.

In the vial: Floral, mostly lily. Potent, but pale. On me: Oppressive fleshy mostly-white florals, with just a touch of death rosethis is a pink/white version, not a screaming red, but rose tends to be a universal death note on my skin. There may be a touch of sandalwood and/or frankincense in the background, giving this some incense-variety spice. With wear the rose amps, no surprise here. It's still a pink/white rose, a lesser of evils compared to the atrocity that red rose becomes on my skin, but nonetheless it verges on single note. With the touch of incense spice in the background, it's reminiscent of Lucy's Kiss. Verdict: Seraphim isn't to my taste to begin with, but it would never work on me given my skin's enormous ability to amp rose notes. I washed this off and obviously don't need it.

In the vial: It's hard to say, but to be honest I think I mostly get citrus—there's other details and notes underneath, busy but unnameable; mostly it's bergamont and neroli. On me: The patchouli and vetiver are the easiest to pick out at first, but they're not alone—they're potent notes I know and can easily recognize, but the rest of the list is mixed up beneath them. After a minute the incense comes in, warming up the scent, and that's the heart of The Caterpillar: smoky, dark, resinous, but not particularly overwhelming, a warm and smooth blend of patchouli/vetiver/incense classics. The other notes are there, but they pop up one at a time, unevenly, each combining well with the base scent but no more than one or two ever appearing at a time such that this never becomes a single unified blend. There's a mossy herbal, and then a surprisingly and pleasantly potent carnation, and then something a bit perfumey (jasmine? I doubt it's iris) with a powdery edge, and then there's something sweeter and fruitier (perhaps the neroli/bergamont again), and then more carnation, and a continuing random parade of the other notes come one by one. A master morpher indeed. Throw is moderate. Verdict: It's hard to say. Each of the facets works well on my skin, with the occasional exception of the jasmine (as florals aren't my style, and this one goes a little grandma's soap on me). Some, like the carnation, are quite good—carnation likes to get swallowed by other notes on my skin, but here its a rich spicy-sweetness and absolutely fantastic. I'm fond of the heart notes, and they combine well —they're less headshoppy on me than they seem to be on others, and also remarkably smooth and calm despite their tendency towards potency. But I like to know what I'm getting out of a scent, and The Caterpillar never does decide. Its rotation of notes is unusual and surprisingly successful, but I don't know if I'd be able to wear it with any regularity. I'll hang onto my imp and test again.

In the vial: Hay and perfumer's alcohol. On me: Perfume on application—it's that sort of nondescript perfumey scent that's mostly perfumer's alcohol, but not entirely so; it's also very light. The scent warms post-drydown, but remains thin: golden, warm, but I wouldn't say hot; retaining an airy perfumery quality that tries to mimic winds but doesn't entirely succeed. Long into the wear length the scent becomes fainter but more polished, losing much of that perfuminess and gaining something of an amber base note with a barely sweet edge. All in all a strange scent—it's almost but not quite a single note, but that single note is more of an impression than a scent. It's an apt but not perfect echo of its inspiration: the wind-blown hay fields are there, but they're not scorched. Throw is low. Wear length is moderate. Verdict: I don't get the harshness that others get, and thank goodness for that. I'm not overly fond of the scent's various similarities to commercial perfume, but I do like it's late, toned-down stage. This is one to test again (and in large quantities) to finalize my impression. So far I'm intrigued but not quite satisfied, in part because of the similarities to commercial perfume, in part because I wish the scent had the punch of its description—instead it's faint, if more palatable.

In the vial: A sweet fruit—I feel like I should be able to name it, but can't. On me: The fruit gets fuller and riper—almost to the point of overripe fermentation—on application. There's some apple in there, but I think there's other fruit(s) that I don't find as easy to recognize; all in all, a pinky-red golden full scent with just a touch of cinnamon, more in powdery texture than explicit scent. During drydown the cinnamon amps—there's clove in there too, and maybe some patchouli; it's darker than I was expecting, and continues to amp until it becomes a dry, potent, dark, warm spice over the memory of a ripe red apple. It's not sweet, too pure-spice to be foody, bold but absolutely lovely if you want to curl up in some spice. A few hours into wear, however, the fruits reemerge and grow dominant—apple, and perhaps some peach, almost overripe, making for a seasonally-inclined scent which I find much less appealing. This scent is potent, with a strong throw and long wear length, so the fruit stage sticks around for some time. Scent-color is vivid red. Verdict: I didn't have particularly high hopes, but the dry spices in the middle of Block Buster were almost perfect, rich and dry and hot and potent, at its best absolutely divine. I'd be won over, but for the fact that the fruit eventually reemerges—and while cinnamon apple is pleasant, it's too much a change from the pure spices and a little too seasonal; it might work better as a room scent, and I don't particularly want it on my skin. As a result, Block Buster was ultimately a personal disappointment (although it makes me eager for a pure spice blend). But for whatever it's worth, I got a lot of work done the day I tested the scent—more along the lines of overcoming internal procrastination than working around external obstacles, but still a powerful blend for a productive day.

In the vial: Thin, white, powdery—almost an absence of scent. On me: The lily is predominant when first applied, but then some warmth comes up behind it—a powdery sort of warmth, white musk and white pepper and maybe just a touch of mandarin, with woods providing a little body. It's a thin scent, a barely sweet, clean floral sprinkled with white powder; there are occasional spikes, the pale spiciness and phantom heat of white pepper, which keep it from tending towards baby powder. As it wears, pepper becomes predominant, atop lily, touched with white musk. All in all a pale floral, but without the airiness or fleshiness that I usually associate with that scent family. Scent-color is opaque white. Throw is moderately low. Verdict: Grandmother of Ghosts is much better than I expected—I'm not a fan of most florals, but the other notes keep the lily dry rather than oppressive, and the scent's pale whiteness is elusive but gently intriguing. Nonetheless, this is far from my style and I find the scent's overall inaccessability (a more more than subtle, a little too ghostly) somewhat offputting. I'll trade this away.

In the vial: Tropical, but darker than just fruits or florals. On me: It goes on perfumey—the airiness of the breezes combine with the fruits and florals for a department store, spray-on scent. Thankfully, it loses that perfumey quality on drydown. What emerges is dark tropical fruits, familiar insofar as it fits nicely into BPAL's catalog of tropical scents, but its darkness makes it unique. It's not quite greenery, but rather the shadows cast by jungle branches: depth, darkness, almost like cocoa without being too similar to Xiuhtecuhtli, cutting the airiness and brightness of the tropical fruits and flowers. The scent is still quite sweet, but not cloying or sharp. I don't get much amber in its own right, but it may contribute to the general well-roundedness of the scent. Scent-color is a dusky, dark pink. Throw is fairly low, but that may be because I applied very little. Wearlength is moderate long. Verdict: To my great surprise, I rather like this. Tropicals aren't my style, but this one is—well, not exactly toned down, but smooth, round, shaded. It's a very full scent without being overpowering, its sweetness makes it palatable, and its dark tropics have great individuality. I still don't think it's a scent I would wear, in the end, because however lovely it's still not my style. But it's an interesting one to try. (On the other hand, I also tried this many years ago, as a frimp to my first BPAL order, but didn't review it at the time. If I remember correctly, it was brighter and more generic tropical fruity floral to my untrained nose, and I had no particular love for it.)

In the vial: Floral. There's a white floral in here, but on the whole it's a mixed, sweet, strong floral with a hint of soap. On me: This is familiar but I can't name it, probably because florals aren't my strength. But there's probably some rose in here, because this is a pink, moderately fleshy floral. It's not as cloying as drugstore perfume, but does remind me of Glade by way of BPAL: a mixed and well-rounded, but absolutely unabashed, almost pure floral. It's on the sweet side without going sharp, and has the fullness that I associate with fruity-florals without any actual fruit. There may be a hint of herbs—just enough to counteract the floral tendency towards a cloying airiness. I don't get soap, but again this is a more natural take on a scent that might be added to soap. As potent as the florals are, they're surprisingly likable; I amp rose horrendously, so I may get more of it than others, but to my surprise it hasn't reached death note levels. Scent-color is somewhere between opaque white and amaranth. Throw is moderate low, but I only applied a dot. Wearlength is better than short, but I'll wash it off soon. Verdict: This is more than entirely not my styleit's not a scent I want to wear or to smell or to ever encounter, if I can help it. But for all that, Come to Me is surprisingly pleasant. It has all the hallmarks of a potent, unabashed mixed floral, the sort of thing I'd expect in an air freshener or soap, without the offensive chemical haze that usually comes with them. I never need to wear it again, but it wasn't bad to test.

In the vial: Vetiver. On me: It warms on the skin—some fire joins the char, and the scent grows broader and smoother. The other note is probably musk—sometimes it has the warmth of red, but it also exhibits the cuddly and mildly villanic nature that brown has on my skin. With wear, the scent balances more and more towards musk. Vetiver still touches it with some warmth and smoky shadow, but this is largely a rich, warm, sensuous musk, just barely fuzzy, spiked with a mild sweetness that resembles brown sugar. Whatever the exact notes, it's gorgeous on my skin. Scent color is somewhere between auburn and burnt umber. Wear length is moderate to long, but the throw dies down to low after the first few hours. Verdict: I love it—but that's mostly because I love musk and vetiver. In itself, Fire of Love isn't a particularly unique scent—it begins as mostly vetiver, ends as mostly musk, and doesn't have a strong independent identity. But musk in particular is fantastic on my skin, and this is a lovely all-rounder in that category: smooth, warm, barely sweet, cuddly but sensuous, straight up but beautiful musk. It reminds me to wear musk more often, but it isn't a must-have musk in its own right simply because it's not unique. Still, this is the only wearable Conjure Bag that I've ever tried and as such a fantastic surprise and, however, unoriginal, still lovely.

In the vial: Primarily vetiver, but there's something under it which is smoother and more colorful. On me: This goes on as something golden, smooth and subtle, and slightly sweet. Drydown offers up almost nothing but a hint of background smoke. It takes a few minutes for this scent to perk up again, but when it does it's vetiver and citrus. The vetiver is surprisingly smooth, a wisp of saturated, savory smoke; the citrus is similar to orange oil (rather than blossom or flesh). The two aspects don't quite mesh—for a while they each appear and disappear, less like a morphing scent and more like two separate perfumes; with time they begin to find more overlap, but it takes hours for them to become consistent and by then the scent has slipped into the background. It's yellow-bright and smoky black-brown, and certainly strange, but Devil's Claw never quite melds into a united scent—the two aspects are desperate in both character and presence in the blend. The throw wavers and spikes, averaging out at moderate; wear-length is long, but throw dies down near the end. Verdict: This is one of the better vetivers I've ever smelled—it's almost creamy-smooth, thick but mild, never harsh, half sensual and utterly delightful. It's also one of the best orange citruses I've ever tried—they tend to pale out on my skin, but this one is thick, vivid, and satisfying. But the fact that those two aspects never quite merge into a single scent is a disappointment—it feels unbalanced and unfinished. If they did, would I like this? I think so: the dimorphous golden shadow that lingers near the end is beautiful and unique, but too subtle and too long in coming. On the whole, Devils' Claw is more weird than wearable. I find myself unexpectedly pleased by what it tries to do, but what it achieves isn't quite good enough.

In the vial: Sharp, slightly astringent herbal—or perhaps tea, which isn't a note I'm good at recognizing for itself. On me: The Dormouse is a full of notes I don't recognize and therefore find hard to describe—so bear with me. If someone told me this was tea, herbs, and peony, I'd believe them; what I get is a clean herbal scent that's not fresh or crisp, nor powdery or dry—it's more like a tincture. Magikfanfic wrote, "The tea and the herbs combine effortlessly to form a very light green/light brown scent, the way I picture of cup of herbal tea after having been brewed," which is a better description than I can come up with, save that the color is a bit more intense to my nose. There's a citric sharpness in the background, and a bit of floral body and sweetness up front. The overall scent is surprisingly familiar, but that may just be because my roommate wears it. Post-drydown it settles to a low throw, but isn't shy at skin-level. Not sure about wear length, as I plan to wash this off. Verdict: This isn't at all a scent for me because tea just isn't my thing, but it's fine on someone else. It holds a pleasant balance between being likable and retaining a unique personality, and it's a scent I easily and immediately recognize after just one test. I just don't need any.

In the vial: A sweetish woody floral, a touch powdery around the edges, and perhaps there's some fruit in there--that's probably the coconut. On me: The scent grows muskier when it hits the skin--it's a pale, light musk, but adds body and texture to the other notes. There's a flash of coconut, but the scent rounds out within a few minutes into a fuzzy, gentle, but surprisingly full-bodied woodiness. There's a hint of many other things--a touch of floral and coconut flesh, and of pale furry muskiness--but you have to seek those out; the whole of the scent is a smooth, brown, gently fuzzy woodiness; it's warm and slightly shadowed, overwhelming on no fronts but still possessing a distinct sense of self. Wear-length is only moderate, though, and there's an overall subdued sense to the scent and its throw. Verdict: I think it bothers me, a little, when a scent is this hard to pin down--I can appreciate the subtlety, but for personal wear I prefer a scent I can grasp on to. On that note, Black Pearl is intriguing and has a surprisingly strong character for something so unusual and subdued, but some of its quietude makes me nervous. It's one I'll have to test again before I know quite what I think of it, but this is a good start and an interesting experiment.

The Gnostic goddess of Wisdom. A solemn, deeply profound draught of lavender, soft musks, star jasmine, black rose, delphinium, and gentle spice. In the vial: Lavender, but not the herbal or dry lavender I'm used to--there's something almost ... minty? clean aquatic? maybe light citrus? here. In the background, a bare hint of musk/spice. On me: A fougère as it hits the skin: clean and aquatic lavender, perfumey but not feminine. The scent rounds out in drydown, with the other florals peaking their heads up and just a hint of musky spice to ground the scent. And then there was rose. Most rose goes screaming single note on my skin; this black rose is a bit deeper and doesn't have the fleshy tropical sharpness of red rose at its worst, indeed it might almost be pleasant--but it crowds out all the other notes and I get just rose rose rose from the five-minute mark onward. Verdict: As I don't think Sophia is supposed to be rose rose rose, and as I've no need of another oil that's just rose rose rose (even if this is a better rose than usual, and piques some casual interest in a well-rounded black rose scent--if such a thing could exist on my skin), this obviously isn't for me. I'll scrub it off and rehome my imp.

In the vial: Basically, I have no idea. Green but not fresh, herbal but not dusty, perhaps there's a bit of moss and a touch of fruit in there. It's a clean, faint, but not indistinct scent, and it's so far outside my realm of experience that it's hard for me to describe. On me: Fruit and herbs on application, but the combination is surprisingly non-foody. The herbs amp with wear--I think it's a combination of moss and lavender that I'm getting, which is dry but not dusty, herbal but not medicinal, almost a clean scent. There are fruits in here which give the scent body, but they're primarily light citrus; they have no bite, but nor are they the juicy, sweet and/or robust fruits I expect in fruity/floral blends. It's a surprisingly dry scent despite the fruits; not very vivid, for all the color and variation in the notes; it sure is unusual, though, and distinct, and difficult to describe. This is something of a desaturated, mattified version of a fruity floral, with a heavy helping of lavender. There's nothing of the chocolate peppermint, to my nose. After about two hours it fades to just herbal lavender backed by some fruit; soon after it all but disappears. Scent-color is reminiscent of a watercolor painting. Throw is fairly low. Verdict: This is almost as strange and unique as I was expecting, in part because of the contradictory notes, in part because it's a twisted mimic of more traditional scents--but I still feel like I'm missing something. It isn't quite vivid enough to live up to its description, and lacks punch. It also doesn't last long, which adds to the sense of disappointment. Regardless, this just isn't a scent for me.

In the vial: Dark, and a bit herbal, with a berry chaser. It's an organic scent, but refined--very much a perfume. On me: The fruitiness expands when it hits the skin, and for a little while this comes together perfectly, each note fleshed out but the sum beautifully melded and balanced. It'd a dark, woodsy, rich berry scent--the greenery adds shade and depth instead of sharpness, and there's no medicinal herbiness; the musk adds depth, too, tempering the berry so that it doesn't go candy-sweet. And that berry juicy red berry is bold and beautiful beneath its shades. The scent is full-bodied but not cloying, instead achieving its depth via darkness. Unfortunately, as it wears the berry continues to amp, ending up a little too strong with just a touch of that back of the throat sugar-sharpness. Instead of dark woodsy rich berry this becomes berry with a hint of woods, and more's the pity. Scent-color is a smokey red with a green shift; throw is strong without being overpowering, and wear-length is impressive: the scent lasts twelve hours easy, and whiffs of it lingers even longer. Verdict: It's almost a pity that goes through a perfectly balanced stage before the berry gets too loud, because that balance is divine--powerful but not cloying, unique, vivid, shadowed, and gorgeous. So while Bewitched's final stage is decent and I applaud its impressive longevity, it's a disappointment by comparison. The vivid berry hidden in the briars of the wood is a jewel of a scent; berry with a touch of darkness is too familiar, and not nearly as desirable. I like it well enough, but not half as much as I like what this scent could be and what it briefly is; all said, no, I don't need it.

Black tea leaf, invigorating wasabi extract, sweetened by honey. In the vial: A fairly generic masculine soap. The wasabi influence is there, but hardly as spicy as I was expecting. On me: During the drydown, the soapiness dissipates and the spiciness comes out. In the throw, this is lovely but hard to describe: it's spicy, dry, semi-powdery but not stodgy, reminding me more of wasabi powder than fresh wasabi; it smells almost like the autumn leaves in A Blade of Grass, but with a lighter/greener hue. It's gorgeous but a touch elusive. At skin level, the spice and honey are both more obvious: the spice almost pricks the nose, but the honey smooths it; it's a mild, pale honey, filling out the scent but fairly subtle in its own right, and in no way sweet or thick. Occasional hints of cologne/soap/generic light man-smell linger, but in bulk this is spice and honey. With any other spice it'd be pretty traditional, but wasabi is cleaner, greener, and wholly original. I don't recognize any tea, but it's not a note I'm good at picking out. Scent-color and -texture both remind me of the pale powdery green of (dyed) wasabi powder; throw and wear-length are both moderate to low. Verdict: Nostrum Remedium is not quite what I was expecting from the description, and (thank goodness) morphs dramatically from vial to skin, but I think I like it. It's unique without being big and bold, warm and spicy while maintaining a sparse cleanliness, and subtle without being tame. I'm glad I had the chance to try it--I think it's a scent that has to be smelled, not described. That said, I don't think it's enough my style that I need it.

A frimp from the Lab which I'd not have tried any other way—mixed fruits aren't my thing. In the vial: Fruit on top, and that woody, musky-weird base down below. On me: Unique fruity and gardenia perfumey. The fruit is mixed but not indistinct—it's primarily watermelon but I get a hint of mandarin's brightness and a bit more blackberry over time, and it's colorful but not overpoweringly sweet or bright. The gardenia come and goes, and it caries with it an airiness that I often get from florals. I don't get much of the base, which (especially when the gardenia is present) makes the scent a smidgen ungrounded, but I think the lack of "musky-weird"ness benefits the scent. This is a summery, fruity (with a touch of floral) scent that has more character than I usually get from that scent family: watermelon is a unique base, the mixed fruits provide variety, and like most of the Mad Tea Party scents this has plenty of character. Verdict: I generally dislike fruity florals, but 'Tis the Voice of the Lobster is unique enough that I find it surprisingly pleasant and successful. Nonetheless, it's not even remotely my style. I washed it off and won't keep it, but I wouldn't mind smelling it one someone else.

In the vial: There's some darkness and depth in the background, but mostly this is just a fruity red, slightly tart pomegranate. On me: A complex, shadowed, stunning pomegranate. Breaking down the notes in this is hard—they are so smoothly blended. Mostly I get opium and vetiver, a smooth and slightly smoky scent that adds substantial darkness; there's not much bite or spice, but the other notes (spices and carnation, mostly) add substantial nuance. Pomegranate stars above it all, and it makes for a jewel of a scent, pigmented but not too bright; the other notes provide so much shade and character, and ground the pomegranate so it doesn't go candy-like or grow too strong. The tartness and boldness of the pomegranate grows during wear, and I think the neroli contributes to give it some sharpness; the throw sometimes verges on candy-red. On the whole, though, the darkness keeps the scent well grounded, and I suspect aging will help preserve that. Scent-color is a deep, dark red; throw is moderate/strong dying down to moderate/low, and wearlength is moderate. Verdict: Pomegranate V reminds me of the dark fruit/carnation combination of Bathsheba (although pom works much better on me than plum) and even more of the dark, subtle fruits in Queen of Clubs. It's a rich indulgent scent, shadowed and secretive but never shy, warm and red, and so beautiful. It's subtlety in boldness, and, well, I'm impressed. Every now and then the pomegranate gets a little out of hand, which is my only compliant—and I think aging will temper it. All in all, I'm thrilled to have a bottle. This is beautiful.

In the vial: Parchment, maybe wax, but mostly a familiar, thick mustiness that I can't quite name. It's ... not that pleasant, actually. On me: This musty scent is so familiar—but I still can't pin it down. I think I got the same sort of impression from the early stages of Chaos Theory VI: Amber 100, so maybe that's it—but it's hardly a useful comparison.There's dust, must, wax, and maybe some leather here; much of that unpleasant mustiness fades during drydown but not all, and what remains is smoky candles in an old library: warm beeswax, dusty parchment, a touch of smoke, but an undercurrent of a fuggy unaired back room. It made the room I was in smell quietly fantastic, bookish and beautiful, but on my skin the mustiness never fades away quite enough. Throw and wearlength are moderate to low. Verdict: I want to like this so badly, and it has some aspects which I could love—but again, that mustiness kills it. I don't get the cologne that others report, and it is pretty similar to the notes and inspiration, but it goes a little bit wrong and I don't know if I can get past that. I'll hold on to my bottle for now, and retest later. ETA: A year has tamed this scent somewhat: it remains musty in its early stages, but that fades after drydown. What it leaves behind is a sheaf of parchment, a wide and mellow creamy scent, dark but not particularly complex, Lurid Library's broader cousin. I love Lurid Library, but I also like its delicacy, its sense of individual pages being turned; Philologus is similar enough to be redundant, but not as nice. I'll finally trade it away.

In the vial: A warm, red, thick, dark, slightly spicy scent, not quite foody—I warrant all the notes are here, but beyond the currant I mostly get impressions rather than precise notes. On me: Have I ever taken such copious notes for a BPAL review? I think not. The primary constant with Lawn Gnome was change—that, and the list of notes. They're all there: vibrant red currant, sometimes dark and rich, sometimes tart and candied; cream and molasses, smooth and thick and slightly sweet in a warm, not-entirely-foody way; earthy, dirty, slightly spicy moss and patchouli. But the balance between them is constantly changing. Sometimes it's a rich red scent, pigmented as berries but smooth as cream, with a surprisingly spicy kick. Sometimes it's a red sticky candy with some earthiness to balance it out. Sometimes it's smooth and sweet, tinted with currant and grounded by moss but mostly a vanillic cream. The scent that stuck around on my shirt cuffs was a bright candy currant with plenty of smoothness and character, but on the skin I got something different from Lawn Gnome every twenty minutes or so—a master morpher, without ever dropping or picking up a new note. Scent-color is red; throw is medium to strong and wearlength is long. Verdict: The candy red moments of Lawn Gnome were just a little too sharp and strongly currant for me, but on the whole the various remixes of this scent were enjoyable—unique, vibrant, and pleasant to the nose. But the lack of stability irked me. I like to know what I'm getting out of a scent. Morphers are fine if I know their strange and wild paths, but this skipped all over the place and never settled down. I want to like it, and sometimes do, but I don't think this is one that I'll often reach for.