My distaste for lemon perfumes is well known. The Jo Malones and the Etros and the Guerlains are alike in their artlessness, their awfulness, their echoes of the janitorial closet.
Vetyver perfumes tend to be concotions of a lemony citrus that drench and drown all echoes of botancial vetyver's tall, waving, wild grasses. Vétyver Oriental by Serge Lutens, on the other hand, is a wonderful example of how an ingenious perfumer can reinvent a supposed staple and make a perfume so new that its first unbelievable cloud burst from the bottle briefly changes the whole world.
The deep, dark, and decidedly uncitrusy VO propels you to Java, Haiti, and Indonesia, where vetyver's native plants grow. VO starts in the sunlight, and then moves into the darkness down along the narrow leaves and strands to the completely black earth underground where the white, yellow and brown roots twist and splay among worms and bugs like in a David Lynch film.
This is an expertly crafted perfume of Island muck and musk and fine Parisian chocolate and guaic and sandalwood. This is the scent for the traveller who came from home to bring back spoils but never left paradise, his fine English china and candlesticks broken up in the mud behind his new home of thatch; weird new herbs drying from the bamboo rafters.
This is a vetyver with the lemon left out, a vetyver created in the dark. It comes over you stealthily but is suddenly hot and all over you all at once--it places its long warm welcome fingers over your eyes, and asks Guess Who?
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