Perfumer: Richard Fraysse.
Countains: petitgrain, mandarin, cedar leaves, clove, sandal, vetiver, cedarwood, musk.
Grotesque.
A vampire or a serial killer (like Dexter) parfum.
This is the most unpleasant juice I ever tried (nothing to do with the sublime Secretions Magnifiques).This is really weird and unique on its own pugnenty. Nasty.
A vampire or a serial killer (like Dexter) parfum.
This is the most unpleasant juice I ever tried (nothing to do with the sublime Secretions Magnifiques).This is really weird and unique on its own pugnenty. Nasty.
To my nose the mixture of petitgrain, cloves, a hidden geranium note and also incense, results as a distinctive, terrible odor of metallic blood.
L’anarchiste opens quite unsettled. There’s a uncommon floral burst of orange blossom splashed by sweet mandarin. It’s actually not bad at all this, but the worst part is about to come.
After three seconds, the perfume goes dark, pitch black. It only reamin a gothic aura of strange bronze-metallic cloves. This is the only way I can describe it.
It’s actually odd but appealing. Not bad. Unpleasant but acceptable.
After three seconds, the perfume goes dark, pitch black. It only reamin a gothic aura of strange bronze-metallic cloves. This is the only way I can describe it.
It’s actually odd but appealing. Not bad. Unpleasant but acceptable.
30mt after apply. The sillage is monster and I can hardly breath. I have an instant headache.
The whole scent is getting just about pure blood: Sticky, unpleasant dried metallic blood.
The petitgrain stys around giving a sweet twist that make the formula even more disgusting.
No cedar, no vetiver, nothing organic. Just an unsettled aroma of bronze and blood.
There’s a flash inside my head: London. 1925. A lady has just been brutally murdered on the streets. Her body lies in the dirty wet pavement. She has been stabbed to death with a bronze knife that remains fixed in her stomach.
She had on the right hand a bouquet of petitgrain, that now is all over the place next to her body.
She lies on her own blood, wile its forming a purple puddle in the greasy soil.
This is horrible.
Terrible, terrible.
I can enjoy "different scents", but this one has just cross the line so far.
There’s a flash inside my head: London. 1925. A lady has just been brutally murdered on the streets. Her body lies in the dirty wet pavement. She has been stabbed to death with a bronze knife that remains fixed in her stomach.
She had on the right hand a bouquet of petitgrain, that now is all over the place next to her body.
She lies on her own blood, wile its forming a purple puddle in the greasy soil.
This is horrible.
Terrible, terrible.
I can enjoy "different scents", but this one has just cross the line so far.
Argh!
The dry down gets much more settled but unbalanced, unpleasant still, with hint of musk.
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