Muscs Koublai Khan. Prrrrrrr. Some say eeeek, but then there are two sorts of people in the world when you think about it; those who embrace their own biology, and those who find our mammalian reality discomforting and even repugnant. The latter haven't been backward in coming forward in regard to that repugnance, which annoys me; as with Miel de Bois, Muscs Koublai Khan has been unfairly and rather childishly slated as some kind of stinky poopoo monster. I stand firmly in the former camp; it's not that there's nothing funky about a hot day on a crowded bus, but I just can't throw out the baby with the bathwater- the smell of an agreeable member of my own species delights my sensibilities. The memory of someone with skin that smelled of gently-warmed beeswax, a buttery, rolled-gold scent that rose from his hair and neck when he sat in the sun and loitered in his clothing like some sort of plush phantom; more beautiful to me than any champaca absolute. My partner's sweat is redolent of his indelibly personalized masculinity and I would not be without that intimate reminder. So yes, to cut that shit short- I am a musk-rat. A skank bunny. A pit-sniffer. And I love Muscs Koublai Khan.
Which is ironic, really, since I don't find it animalic. If I was looking forward to smelling like three hours with two guys in a yurt, I found only traces of any glandular/mustelid element, and am by no means anosmic in that direction. MKK opens in a brief kick of sharp, vaporous aromatics that soon loft its buxom substance into a surprisingly modest projection. The minky civet, castoneum, cistus and ambergis unfurl together, worked into something fat, silky and deeply luxurious, slapped hard and flushed pink by the rose notes and lazy, recessive patchouli.
Some find only skunk after this point; I think they might be sniffing too hard at the wrist, mistaking the skin scent for the sillage in its sophisticated and quite divergent actuality, but here we come to something everyone should know about perfume- your skin is no passive receptor. If you're a hottie, a sweater, one of those dewy, slightly moistened creatures, expect MKK to turn dirty and head for the stables. My own personal upholstery converts the darkest, rankest raunch to powder puff faster than you can say doh I was hoping for sex, strongly favouring the pink, silvery fur aspect of musk and the grubbier flowers; thus I am treated to rosy/lolly/fox collar rather than any triple X throwdown. Quel dommage.
Another quarter of an hour passes before something almost arcane occurs, the compound sweetness morphing to almost exactly resemble the scent of batik application, sere notes of scorched cotton and hot wax supported by the increasingly ghostly musk. This accord rolls slowly onto its side to reveal what is to me the hidden heart of MKK- a whispered, mythic analogue of a lover's scent, memorialized, hung with flowers, framed in the doting, mote-flecked gold of a late summer afternoon, incarnate at long last, but private and intimate. All the best fumes have this quality of intimacy, of personal relevance; the ability to move and remind, and MKK is the queen of them all in that respect.
I'm finding it difficult to imagine a more unisex scent and perhaps this will provide a clearer picture of its comprehensive organic affinities. I get four to five decent hours before it settles down and closes its eyes, but it lingers for weeks on your clothing. Don't let anyone talk you out of Muscs Koublai Khan. Its beauty is a rarity in commercial perfumery- a substance verging on the personal. If you can appreciate McQueen's Kingdom, Kiel's Musk and some of Serge's dirty girls like El Attarine or even Arabie, you'll be wondering what all the hot fuss was about.
Images my own- please do not reproduce.
Which is ironic, really, since I don't find it animalic. If I was looking forward to smelling like three hours with two guys in a yurt, I found only traces of any glandular/mustelid element, and am by no means anosmic in that direction. MKK opens in a brief kick of sharp, vaporous aromatics that soon loft its buxom substance into a surprisingly modest projection. The minky civet, castoneum, cistus and ambergis unfurl together, worked into something fat, silky and deeply luxurious, slapped hard and flushed pink by the rose notes and lazy, recessive patchouli.
Some find only skunk after this point; I think they might be sniffing too hard at the wrist, mistaking the skin scent for the sillage in its sophisticated and quite divergent actuality, but here we come to something everyone should know about perfume- your skin is no passive receptor. If you're a hottie, a sweater, one of those dewy, slightly moistened creatures, expect MKK to turn dirty and head for the stables. My own personal upholstery converts the darkest, rankest raunch to powder puff faster than you can say doh I was hoping for sex, strongly favouring the pink, silvery fur aspect of musk and the grubbier flowers; thus I am treated to rosy/lolly/fox collar rather than any triple X throwdown. Quel dommage.
Another quarter of an hour passes before something almost arcane occurs, the compound sweetness morphing to almost exactly resemble the scent of batik application, sere notes of scorched cotton and hot wax supported by the increasingly ghostly musk. This accord rolls slowly onto its side to reveal what is to me the hidden heart of MKK- a whispered, mythic analogue of a lover's scent, memorialized, hung with flowers, framed in the doting, mote-flecked gold of a late summer afternoon, incarnate at long last, but private and intimate. All the best fumes have this quality of intimacy, of personal relevance; the ability to move and remind, and MKK is the queen of them all in that respect.
I'm finding it difficult to imagine a more unisex scent and perhaps this will provide a clearer picture of its comprehensive organic affinities. I get four to five decent hours before it settles down and closes its eyes, but it lingers for weeks on your clothing. Don't let anyone talk you out of Muscs Koublai Khan. Its beauty is a rarity in commercial perfumery- a substance verging on the personal. If you can appreciate McQueen's Kingdom, Kiel's Musk and some of Serge's dirty girls like El Attarine or even Arabie, you'll be wondering what all the hot fuss was about.
Images my own- please do not reproduce.
Muscs Koublai Khan- 50 ml edp. | HOUSE Serge Lutens/ Christopher Sheldrake STYLE/FLAVOUR Musk/Oriental. Unisex. DATE OF ISSUE 1998 LISTED NOTES Civet, cistus labdanum, ambergris, Moroccan rose, cumin, ambrette seed, costus root, patchouli. ENVIRONMENTAL STATEMENT none. |
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