Aldehydes and Vintage: My Love-Hate Relationship

by Marla, the Nerd Girl What exactly is an aldehyde? And what makes a perfume, vintage or new, aldehydic? Aldehydes are organic compounds that contain a carbonyl group that’s bonded to a hydrogen atom; the general formula is RCHO. They can be naturally derived (from citrus peels or clary sage, for example), or completely synthetic. Formaldehyde is a lower-weight aldehyde, and, as we all remember from high school biology class, has a truly disgusting odor. Paraldehyde is a hypnotic drug. Big, fat aldehydes, however, can smell really good. At least to some people. Turns out different people perceive perfumery aldehydes differently (shock!) and what smells delightfully effervescent and fruity to some can smell like burnt wax and diesel fuel to others. So if Chanel No. 5 smells repulsive to you, don’t blame yourself, it’s just your DNA…. There’s been a resurgence in aldehydic perfumes. An aldehydic perfume is one where certain aldehydes (those with a particular “waxy/fatty/rosy/fruity” character) take center stage, as in No. 5, White Linen, or Femme. Many of the perfumes of the 50s and 60s were Aldehydic Extremes. Now I’m seeing some indie perfumers, like Andy Tauer and Laurie Erickson, highlight these aldehydes in perfumes like Miriam and Nostalgie with a lighter touch and a deft hand, and I’m very pleased. Aldehydics tend to make us feel a little more “dressed up”. They are (generally!) perceived as mature, upscale, sophisticated notes. You don’t wear aldehydics with unwashed hair, in an old jogging suit, schlepping the kids around in the SUV, or digging trenches in the backyard. They are “little black dress” perfumes, and are usually regarded as special. I know that my 50s/60s vintage perfumes will find their moment on those rare occasions I go to a concert, opera, or special dinner with my DH. When I wear them, someone near me will certainly comment, “My, don’t you smell posh!” When I’m not in the mood, they smell too sharp to me, too firmly tethered to a bygone era, and I pass them by with a wrinkled nose. Then a month or so goes by and I just want to smell like the aptly named Ma Griffe (My Claw), Bakir, or Replique again! It’s a love-hate relationship I particularly relish, and so I’m glad to see these lovely gems, the aldehydes, in modern settings, crafted by artists I respect. My modern aldehydic faves are Champagne du Bois (Sonoma Scent Studio), Serge Lutens’ La Myrrhe, and Shiseido’s original Zen (the black bottle, just reissued and as good as ever). And I’m dying to try Miriam and Nostalgie. How do you feel about aldehydics, old and new? And which are your favorites?

Love the sinner.. My Sin by Lanvin

By Tom A very generous friend sent me a package of treasures that I will be examining over the next few months. The reason for the length of time examining them? They are all beautiful vintage scents that warrant a more introspective view than modern ones. Nothing against modern scents; there is something about vintage that sometimes makes me need to get into the mindset. Angela at Now Smell This called My Sin "demanding" while Gaia, the Non-Blonde was reminded of her Grandmother (a woman I would like to go back in time and meet), It reminded me of an experience I had driving a vintage T-Bird my friend owned. The T-Bird was a car that you capital "D" drove: one minute of being inattentive and you could be across three lanes of traffic. My Sin is something you capital "W" wear: it's serious perfume. It's not winking, it's not "retro" and it's in no way frivolous. It's from the time when you went to a store like Bergdorfs and the dresses were modeled for you on live "mannequins" and tailored to you, three fittings minimum. Meeting the girls for lunch meant hose, gloves and a hat, which pretty much was the way you'd pick up the morning paper, which of course you wouldn't do. If there was such a thing as Bravo at the time you'd rather die than be a "Housewife" on it. How does My Sin smell? Rich. Aldehydes and flowers open it and they're rich and heavy as a sable coat. There's also a shocking bit of civet in there: the eponymous "Sin" made olfactory, which gets more and more sinful until the drydown, which is close to the skin and whispers of past indiscretions. My Sin was discontinued in 1988. A lady named Irma Shortell has the rights to the name and markets a version of that I have not smelled. If you've smelled the new one of better yet both, please chime in. Oh, and it you're wondering whether I'd wear this? Sure. Like I'd wear spaghetti straps and taffeta...

An Unexpected Pleasure: Vintage Wind Song by Prince Matchabelli (1952)

By Donna I had a rather humbling experience recently. Someone I know in the perfume community decided to put some of his extensive collection up for auction on eBay. I was a complete neophyte, never having used eBay, since I was wary of scammers and buying from “stores” that may or not be on the level. However, knowing what his collection was like I signed up and eagerly went to his page to place a bid. Surely there was something in that stash I could afford, right? Why, look at that, something I love under 20 bucks, and bidding is slow, I might score it for under 30, let me just – hey! Who outbid me by twice as much with only three seconds to go? Rinse and repeat a few more times with several more bottles, and pretty soon I knew I could not run with the big dogs. The blood was in the water and the sharks were circling. The scents were all of quite recent origin and from prestige niche houses, what was I thinking? Now I realize it was a blessing in disguise, because once I was done licking my wounds I thought I might as well look around and see what else was on there from other sellers. I had a list of things I had been meaning to look for anyway, and they were not all that much in demand as far as I knew. I vowed to do business only with sellers that had a long history and high approval ratings, and off I went. A few months ago I had read a delicious description of vintage Wind Song, the classic drugstore standard from Prince Matchabelli, and how it compared to the current version. It stuck in my mind, because Wind Song came out only a few years before I was born –which meant that the “vintage” was my contemporary, and that’s what I would have smelled as a child in the cosmetics aisle of my beloved Woolworth’s store. I had only smelled the modern version a few times and found it wanting in the same way so many reformulated fragrances are; a bit sharp and also simple, though far better than many so-called designer fragrances that cost far more. I had never worn it when I was younger but I did find it pleasing and I liked it on other people, and I have to think that my early positive experience with it was in fact because it as the original. So I did a quick search and up it popped, the original juice in an adorable little glass crown-shaped bottle – for five bucks and a “Buy Now” option! Wow, could that be for real? It looked legitimate, as I had researched the bottles, and the new one is taller and more columnar. The first Matchabelli scents were color-coded by scent and bottled in the puffy glass crown containers (yes, the Prince really was a prince) and later versions were plastic but in the same style, until the switch to the current design. So I took the plunge and bought it. When it arrived it was a glass bottle, which was a good sign. I opened it up and noted that it had the original seal. It smelled very good and so familiar, and the funky little lunch counter and notions department of Woolworth’s floated into my mind. I loved that place, now long gone, so it was a pleasing association. (Prince Matchabelli is also associated in my mind with one of the funniest lines ever from The Sopranos, but that’s just me.) I splashed a generous amount on my arm and went about my day. It was a fresh, aldehydic and slightly soapy floral, so familiar yet not so, since so many years had passed. A hint of spicy carnation added interest at the opening, but over time it had softened, and the fragrance was very round and gentle. I had already put another, stronger perfume on earlier, so I did not expect it to assert itself very much, but it did indeed, catching my attention every so often, and it was lovely as it settled in. Hours later, when I went to bed, I laid my head on my arm and –wow, what was that? A radiant accord of neroli and mandarin had fused with my skin and was glowing with the burnished depth of amber and sandalwood. I could hardly believe that the innocent little ingénue I had applied earlier in the day had turned into a temptress by night. The more I smelled it the more enamored I was. Another application with no competition confirmed its qualities. Many years ago a very dear friend who wore nothing but Wind Song told me that she had thought of trying another perfume, but her husband would not hear of it – he was crazy about Wind Song and bought her a new bottle every year. At the time I thought maybe she should branch out anyway, just to try something else, but after my revelation I know exactly why he loved her in Wind Song. It’s just like the slogan goes: “I can’t seem to forget you” – a truly romantic fragrance. From Fragrantica, the composition is as follows: Top notes are coriander, orange leaf, mandarin orange, tarragon, neroli, bergamot and lemon; heart notes are cloves, carnation, orris root, jasmine, ylang-ylang, rose and Brazilian rosewood; base notes are sandalwood, amber, musk, benzoin, vetiver and cedar. The newer formula is much sharper on top than mine, but I don’t know how much of that is the natural breakdown of the top notes and what can be attributed to a reformulation. However, most of these notes are easily discernible in the vintage, so it has probably not been bowdlerized as much as some older scents have when they are reworked. It’s the wonderful drydown that really sets it apart; I had no idea what a beautiful symphony of orange essence this perfume was. I will wear it with pride, right alongside the pricier perfumes in my collection. It has earned its place. Image credit: 1959 Wind Song ad via shopstyle.com. This bottle looks very much like mine, isn’t it adorable?

Germaine Monteil Bakir: Perfume Review

Germaine Monteil's 1975 oriental wonder, Bakir is a rich tapestry of golds, reds and russets. The citrusy-spicy-aldehydic top notes are an explosion of ripe brightness that slowly darkens into the carmine velvet of the floral heart, in which the creaminess of rose and ylang-ylang are juxtaposed with the fiery piquancy of carnation enhanced by cloves. Darker still is the ambery, incensey, earthy base, where myrrh, amber and bezoin continue the theme of languid softness, while moss and ptachouli play for the opposite team, enhancing the sharper, spicier side of Bakir. The exuberant richness of colors is muted in my vintage sample, but I feel that the patina of time ages the scent beautifully, bringing a touch of wistful elegance to what was prevously unabashed decadance. Bakir can be found on ebay. Again, many thanks to L for introducing me to yet another vintage gem. Image is by Ellen Von Unwerth

Forgotten Chypres: 7e Sense by Sonya Rykiel and Gianni Versace

The best of the late 1970s-early 1980s, 7e Sense and Gianni Versace offer a glimpse into a subversive, glamorous and elegant world...a world that is a mix of Francoise Sagan and Anais Nin, nonchalant and intense, lightheartedly promiscuous and heartbreakingly erotic. Sonya Rykiel's 1979 creation, 7e Sense is a play of sparkle and darkness, of overripe sweetness and sharp spiciness. The lighter side of 7e Sense is composed of bubbly aldehydes, of tingly piquancy of coriander and carnation, of the seeming innocence of jasmine and narcissus. The dark side is represented by sinfully luscious prunes (the note I adore in perfume), peach and honey, by the languid ylang and the indolent rose. The two lines run through the composition, sometimes parallel, sometimes intertwining, with the second one eventually taking over and ultimately finding its closure in a lush, animalic, fantastically sexy, nocturnal base of amber, musk, civet, patchouli and castoreum. Brooding and smoldering under its deceptively calm surface, 7e Sense is one of the most sensual fragrances I have encountered. Gianni Versace's original scent, dating to 1982, has less of the heavy-lidded tragic feel of 7e Sense and all of its sweet sexiness. Brightly aldehydic and fresh in the top notes, Gianni Versace quickly morphs into the most sophisticated candy of a scent, with honeyed flowers, in particular, the creamy, almost fruity smelling tuberose and gardenia, lending it the feel of leisurely playfulness. In the drydown, the sweet leitmotif is carried on by myrrh and amber. The near-childishness is balanced there by oh so grown up leather and oakmoss. Blithe and seductive, a perfect scent to wear when re-reading Un Certain Sourire. Both can be found on ebay. Many thanks to L for allowing me to get to know these two obscure gems! Images, Charlotte Rampling at the Hotel Nord Pinus II and Charlotte Rampling as Venus in Furs, by Helmut Newton, are from style.com.