Perfumer's delight -- some BPAL reviews.
Thanks to aiglet -- can you say 'pusher', boys and girls? I knew you could -- I have recently joined the Cult of BPAL, the slavish followers of the wonderous offerings from the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. (If you've managed to miss it so far, the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab makes perfume oils. But not just perfume oils. No, these are uber-geek perfume oils. Ever wanted to smell like cake? Or a Tortuga hooker? Or Thursday afternoon fifteen minutes after a heavy rain, just before the ice cream truck drives by? Yeah. They can arrange it.)
The nice thing about the Lab is that it's actually pretty cheap, thanks to a sampler system called 'imp's ears', which allows people to buy tiny tester tubes of pure perfume oil for three bucks a pop. So people drop a few bucks on imps, wind up with scents they don't like as much as they'd hoped, and resell them to the BPAL community, either on the forums or via LJ. You can frequently find 'starter lots' of imps for twenty bucks, and if even one scent works for you, it'll be enough. You're hooked. Like the rest of us, you're screwed.
On the plus side, the Lab always uses lube.
So, having tried a bunch of oils, some good, some bad, I've decided to tell you what I think of them. Aren't you lucky? Please, hold the applause...and bring on the perfume!
Anubis.
What the Lab says: He Who Counts the Hearts, Jackal Ruler of the Bows, He Who Is In the Place of Embalming. Jackal-headed guardian, protector and psychopomp of Egypt’s dead, he guides souls to the underworld and holds steady the scales upon which the deceased’s heart is weighed against Ma’at’s Feather of Truth. He is the creator and master of funereal rites, He Who Opens the Mouth of the Dead, and is the sentinel that watches over the sanctity of tombs and the virtue and privacy of his charges. His scent is a blend of holy myrrh, storax, balsam, and embalming herbs.
What I say: In the bottle, this smells like balsam and embalming fluid. Sadly, I find this incredibly pleasant, if very sharp and sort of 'why, hello there, I will now steal your sheep and devour your children'. It's a very in-your-face kind of a smell, and it isn't fading at all. Being an experimental sort, I smeared it on my wrists, and chafed to activate the oil.
On my skin, the 'I live here now' aspect just became stronger. Jackals are something I associate with firestrike, and this was a very firestrike scent: it walked in, informed me that I'd missed it, flopped down on the couch, and stole the remote control. On the plus side, it was still willing to make out with me on commercial breaks. The various spices woke up as the oil dried, becoming a sweet, spicy, funereal mix of many good things. It smelled of trysts in the Egyptology wing of the British Museum, running through dark tombs to get away from hidden curses, and walking a little faster, because the Mummy's after you.
In terms of staying power, this may well be the world's all-time winner. I put it on, wore it all day, went to bed, and woke up smelling of Anubis. Apparently, once you invite a jackal into your home, it doesn't want to leave.
Who knew?
My score: 8 out of 10.
Eat Me.
What the Lab says: Three white cakes, vanilla, and red and black currants. (The lab also quotes a large block of text from 'Alice in Wonderland', but I do not precisely feel the need to do the same. Cake. We get it. Mmmmm, cake.)
What I say: Mmmmm, cake. In the bottle, it smells sugary and a little bit tart, which my nose promptly tries to claim is lemon, except for the part where it doesn't quite smell like lemon (probably because it's not lemon, it's currants), which means that I just...keep...sniffing. It's hard to stop sniffing for long enough to actually put the stuff on.
On my skin, it quickly settles from simply smelling sweet and sugary and maybe-cake, into actually and completely smelling like cake. White cake, with vanilla frosting, and currants mixed in. My nose kept trying to confuse them for lemons during the dry-down process, until suddenly, wham, everything clicked over and it was hell-oooooooo, currant-y goodness. It's absolutely divine. I would eat this cake. Maybe that's why the oil has a 'dude, don't consume' disclaimer on the Lab's website, because I can totally see someone getting swept up in the heat of the moment, and just chugging away. It's sweet and subtle and utterly enchanting.
In terms of staying power, alas, Eat Me doesn't score all that well. The best part of it lasts about two to two and a half hours, and then fades into a distant, somewhat worn-out combination of vanilla and slightly stale cake. There are no currants left to speak of. This makes me sad.
My score: 6 out of 10. It would be higher, but it fades too fast.
March Hare.
What the Lab says: A twisted teatime tart: apricot and sweet clove.
What I say: In the bottle, this smells of fruit and spices. Generic fruit, generic 'tasty things being made in the kitchen' spices. It's pleasant, but not all that exciting, and doesn't really do much to make me yearn to put it on. This is, in retrospect, really, really funny.
On my skin, the first thing this does is turn into pure, unadulterated awesome. The fruit flickers rapidly through the choices, finally settling on something that smells like a ripe, crisp pear (all their apricot notes turn into pear on me; we have no idea why, and I'm not complaining). The spice, meanwhile, morphs into an entirely complimentary sort of sweet pepper, which is close enough to the sweet clove that it's supposed to be for government work. It's a sweet, spicy mixture, it's making gingersnaps in a pear cider bottling plant, it's naughty and nice at the very same time, and I am pretty much in love. Have been since the second it hit my skin. This was the first full-sized bottle I bought.
In terms of staying power, March Hare is on the better side of good -- it lasts and lasts and lasts (although it isn't muscling in on Anubis's territory just yet). Better still, it stays balanced while it's lasting, retaining both fruit and spice. Total bliss.
My score: 9 out of 10.
Ultraviolet.
What the Lab says: Electrifying, mechanized and chilly -- the scent of crushed blooms strewn on cold metal. Lush violet and neroli spiked hard with eucalyptus and a sliver of mint.
What I say: Even in the bottle, Ultraviolet delivers. Literally. Uncorked, this stuff just plain smells cold. It's a rich, deep floral with an undertone of frost, sustained by the eucalyptus. It's a little menthol-y, but the flowers drown that out well enough to make it virtually an afterthought. I can't smell the neroli at all, just the violets, but really, who cares?
On my skin, the first thing I get is a rush of cold cold COLD, one that's intense enough to actually fool the brain and make me shiver, just a little bit. Luckily, this doesn't last long, as the flowers don't care for being oppressed, and so rise up to strike their oppressors dooooown. Thrill as the violets come trampling to the forefront, hauling the scent of snow and frost and cold winter nights along with them. It winds up smelling like some impossible fairy tale of violets that bloom on glacial slopes, young girls with flowers in their hair, dancing in the snow, and quests set by malicious fairy godmothers. I am enchanted.
In terms of staying power, Ultraviolet lasts a good long time, although it thaws as the hours go by, becoming warmer and warmer, while the flowers endure. It never becomes unpleasant or less than distinctive, which is a true joy.
My score: 8 out of 10.
Penny Dreadful.
What the Lab says: Also called Gallows Literature. A dime novel rife with melodrama, horror, madness and cruelty; a ten cent analogy of vice and virtue in conflict. Soft perfume evocative of noir heroines over rich red grave loam.
What I say: In the bottle, this is pure faded roses, a little bit worn-out, a little bit dried, a little uncertain of their welcome. It's almost a hesitant rose, like it thinks you'll just use it, then toss it out with cab fare when the sun comes up. This is not a rose that has been treated terribly kindly by the world; it has reason to be wary of a stranger.
On my skin, the rose comes first, warming up rapidly as it reacts to my body chemistry. It never loses that slightly faded 'I have been left to wither on the stalk, but dammit, I can still be beautiful' air, which is part of its appeal. And then? Then the loam -- or should I say, 'the dirt' -- shows up. Suddenly, the roses are bracketed by and rooted in sweet, freshly-turned earth, like a new-dug grave. These are graveyard roses, they're the corsage on a hitchhiking ghost who never made it to her own prom, they're rose petals scattered around a tombstone. I am wearing Rose Marshall's favourite perfume, and it smells awesome on me.
In terms of staying power, Penny Dreadful lasts almost as long as Anubis, and doesn't start to fade until the end, when the roses gradually wisp away, leaving just the loam behind, until even that fades out, and there is nothing.
My score: 9 out of 10 -- I am in love all over again.
Yay, perfume!
The nice thing about the Lab is that it's actually pretty cheap, thanks to a sampler system called 'imp's ears', which allows people to buy tiny tester tubes of pure perfume oil for three bucks a pop. So people drop a few bucks on imps, wind up with scents they don't like as much as they'd hoped, and resell them to the BPAL community, either on the forums or via LJ. You can frequently find 'starter lots' of imps for twenty bucks, and if even one scent works for you, it'll be enough. You're hooked. Like the rest of us, you're screwed.
On the plus side, the Lab always uses lube.
So, having tried a bunch of oils, some good, some bad, I've decided to tell you what I think of them. Aren't you lucky? Please, hold the applause...and bring on the perfume!
Anubis.
What the Lab says: He Who Counts the Hearts, Jackal Ruler of the Bows, He Who Is In the Place of Embalming. Jackal-headed guardian, protector and psychopomp of Egypt’s dead, he guides souls to the underworld and holds steady the scales upon which the deceased’s heart is weighed against Ma’at’s Feather of Truth. He is the creator and master of funereal rites, He Who Opens the Mouth of the Dead, and is the sentinel that watches over the sanctity of tombs and the virtue and privacy of his charges. His scent is a blend of holy myrrh, storax, balsam, and embalming herbs.
What I say: In the bottle, this smells like balsam and embalming fluid. Sadly, I find this incredibly pleasant, if very sharp and sort of 'why, hello there, I will now steal your sheep and devour your children'. It's a very in-your-face kind of a smell, and it isn't fading at all. Being an experimental sort, I smeared it on my wrists, and chafed to activate the oil.
On my skin, the 'I live here now' aspect just became stronger. Jackals are something I associate with firestrike, and this was a very firestrike scent: it walked in, informed me that I'd missed it, flopped down on the couch, and stole the remote control. On the plus side, it was still willing to make out with me on commercial breaks. The various spices woke up as the oil dried, becoming a sweet, spicy, funereal mix of many good things. It smelled of trysts in the Egyptology wing of the British Museum, running through dark tombs to get away from hidden curses, and walking a little faster, because the Mummy's after you.
In terms of staying power, this may well be the world's all-time winner. I put it on, wore it all day, went to bed, and woke up smelling of Anubis. Apparently, once you invite a jackal into your home, it doesn't want to leave.
Who knew?
My score: 8 out of 10.
Eat Me.
What the Lab says: Three white cakes, vanilla, and red and black currants. (The lab also quotes a large block of text from 'Alice in Wonderland', but I do not precisely feel the need to do the same. Cake. We get it. Mmmmm, cake.)
What I say: Mmmmm, cake. In the bottle, it smells sugary and a little bit tart, which my nose promptly tries to claim is lemon, except for the part where it doesn't quite smell like lemon (probably because it's not lemon, it's currants), which means that I just...keep...sniffing. It's hard to stop sniffing for long enough to actually put the stuff on.
On my skin, it quickly settles from simply smelling sweet and sugary and maybe-cake, into actually and completely smelling like cake. White cake, with vanilla frosting, and currants mixed in. My nose kept trying to confuse them for lemons during the dry-down process, until suddenly, wham, everything clicked over and it was hell-oooooooo, currant-y goodness. It's absolutely divine. I would eat this cake. Maybe that's why the oil has a 'dude, don't consume' disclaimer on the Lab's website, because I can totally see someone getting swept up in the heat of the moment, and just chugging away. It's sweet and subtle and utterly enchanting.
In terms of staying power, alas, Eat Me doesn't score all that well. The best part of it lasts about two to two and a half hours, and then fades into a distant, somewhat worn-out combination of vanilla and slightly stale cake. There are no currants left to speak of. This makes me sad.
My score: 6 out of 10. It would be higher, but it fades too fast.
March Hare.
What the Lab says: A twisted teatime tart: apricot and sweet clove.
What I say: In the bottle, this smells of fruit and spices. Generic fruit, generic 'tasty things being made in the kitchen' spices. It's pleasant, but not all that exciting, and doesn't really do much to make me yearn to put it on. This is, in retrospect, really, really funny.
On my skin, the first thing this does is turn into pure, unadulterated awesome. The fruit flickers rapidly through the choices, finally settling on something that smells like a ripe, crisp pear (all their apricot notes turn into pear on me; we have no idea why, and I'm not complaining). The spice, meanwhile, morphs into an entirely complimentary sort of sweet pepper, which is close enough to the sweet clove that it's supposed to be for government work. It's a sweet, spicy mixture, it's making gingersnaps in a pear cider bottling plant, it's naughty and nice at the very same time, and I am pretty much in love. Have been since the second it hit my skin. This was the first full-sized bottle I bought.
In terms of staying power, March Hare is on the better side of good -- it lasts and lasts and lasts (although it isn't muscling in on Anubis's territory just yet). Better still, it stays balanced while it's lasting, retaining both fruit and spice. Total bliss.
My score: 9 out of 10.
Ultraviolet.
What the Lab says: Electrifying, mechanized and chilly -- the scent of crushed blooms strewn on cold metal. Lush violet and neroli spiked hard with eucalyptus and a sliver of mint.
What I say: Even in the bottle, Ultraviolet delivers. Literally. Uncorked, this stuff just plain smells cold. It's a rich, deep floral with an undertone of frost, sustained by the eucalyptus. It's a little menthol-y, but the flowers drown that out well enough to make it virtually an afterthought. I can't smell the neroli at all, just the violets, but really, who cares?
On my skin, the first thing I get is a rush of cold cold COLD, one that's intense enough to actually fool the brain and make me shiver, just a little bit. Luckily, this doesn't last long, as the flowers don't care for being oppressed, and so rise up to strike their oppressors dooooown. Thrill as the violets come trampling to the forefront, hauling the scent of snow and frost and cold winter nights along with them. It winds up smelling like some impossible fairy tale of violets that bloom on glacial slopes, young girls with flowers in their hair, dancing in the snow, and quests set by malicious fairy godmothers. I am enchanted.
In terms of staying power, Ultraviolet lasts a good long time, although it thaws as the hours go by, becoming warmer and warmer, while the flowers endure. It never becomes unpleasant or less than distinctive, which is a true joy.
My score: 8 out of 10.
Penny Dreadful.
What the Lab says: Also called Gallows Literature. A dime novel rife with melodrama, horror, madness and cruelty; a ten cent analogy of vice and virtue in conflict. Soft perfume evocative of noir heroines over rich red grave loam.
What I say: In the bottle, this is pure faded roses, a little bit worn-out, a little bit dried, a little uncertain of their welcome. It's almost a hesitant rose, like it thinks you'll just use it, then toss it out with cab fare when the sun comes up. This is not a rose that has been treated terribly kindly by the world; it has reason to be wary of a stranger.
On my skin, the rose comes first, warming up rapidly as it reacts to my body chemistry. It never loses that slightly faded 'I have been left to wither on the stalk, but dammit, I can still be beautiful' air, which is part of its appeal. And then? Then the loam -- or should I say, 'the dirt' -- shows up. Suddenly, the roses are bracketed by and rooted in sweet, freshly-turned earth, like a new-dug grave. These are graveyard roses, they're the corsage on a hitchhiking ghost who never made it to her own prom, they're rose petals scattered around a tombstone. I am wearing Rose Marshall's favourite perfume, and it smells awesome on me.
In terms of staying power, Penny Dreadful lasts almost as long as Anubis, and doesn't start to fade until the end, when the roses gradually wisp away, leaving just the loam behind, until even that fades out, and there is nothing.
My score: 9 out of 10 -- I am in love all over again.
Yay, perfume!