To reacquaint myself with the authentic Indian Mysore sandalwood extract in order to write this piece just an hour or two ago I gave myself one tiny spray of vintage Guerlain Samsara parfum. Just a small dot or two on the top of my left hand, by far the most natural sandalwood-based perfume in my collection (the original formula contained a massive 20% pure essential oil when it debuted) and a smell that you just don’t really get to smell firsthand in perfumery anymore. Head to head with some eau de parfum on my right, at first the pure perfume seems verging on odourless – compact and demure, without all the hairspray fuss and glamour of the other concentrations, no throw. But this is a sandalwood perfume that really, really enjoys to takes its time: where the eau de parfum concentration is now a delicately balanced, if still very strong, blend of jasmine, iris and sandalwood, the parfum, on me, in its full, later stages, is just the latter. Sandalwood as I like it: creamy, dense, sun-filled, languourous – slow, like liquid gold.

The original Mysore sandalwood essential oil, extracted from trees that were overharvested to the virtual point of extinction and therefore placed under protection by the Indian government, is unlike any other perfume component, in its sheer richness and glint; its anchoring, full-bodied self-confidence, and its laconic, sexual grounding. And while this is not my favourite perfume heart or base note by any stretch – I much prefer vetiver, patchouli, even cedarwood – there is something very ‘splayed open’ and courtesanish, to me, about sandalwood (it doesn’t leave much to the imagination) – it is also very easy to imagine how the trees, the wood and its inimitable aroma could have played such an important role in South Asian culture across millennia, in the form of wooden carvings, temple structures, in euphorical aphrodisia, and as an essential and founding component of Oriental incense.

Although I am not a person who likes ‘woody’ perfumes in general – to me they can feel like being trapped in my own funeral casket, too moisture sucking and weighty, enclosing and solidifying rather than languid and free (like flowers, which are always opening and reaching out towards the light), there are, on occasion, days when I do find myself more in the mood for the more form-fitting strength of this kind of perfume, particularly in winter, when I might use a Bois De Santal body cream that Brie sent me (probably the best sandalwood I have ever smelled; so sweet and spiced and eternally lasting), layered with vintage Shiseido Feminité Du Bois parfum, a divinely beautiful perfume that to me smells as though there must be some natural sandalwood extract buried beneath all that beguiling Moroccan Atlas Cedar, the plum and the spices and niggling base notes of vanilla that linger in the most dignified and elegant manner on the skin for hours.

Other sandalwood perfumes I quite enjoy the smell of are the quite classicist Santal Noble by Maitre Parfumeur Et Gantier, Sandalo by Santa Maria Novella – which has an inspired note of thyme that cuts through the length of its duration – Narcisse Noir by Caron, which I ultimately consider a sandalwood perfume, and Serge Lutens’ collection of sandalwood perfumes, Santal Mysore, Bois De Santal and the last of his sandalwood creations, Santal Majuscule, with its calmly stupefying rose and cacao (although if I am absolutely honest I never entirely really believed in the quality of the sandalwood in that perfume; for me, the Australian or ‘East Indian sandalwood’ just never quite cuts the mustard; too thin and flat and unmysterious. Even if I do find true Mysore sandalwood to be a little too forceful and straight in its blatantly carnal message, I nevertheless still do feel that there is always, underneath, also something timeless and soulful about it that appeals to the heart muscle and soul).

When I was in my early twenties I got through several bottles of the exquisitely pleasing Sandalwood by Crabtree & Evelyn – my ultimate sandalwood and favourite of this genre for all time. If you could still buy this light, rosy, powdery, sunlit composition that was as dreamy and clean as a sunset on a beach then I most definitely would: in fact just writing about it here makes me crave the stuff quite badly – but they discontinued it a very long time ago. Does anyone reading this remember it as fondly as I do? I know I used to find that perfume so calming and soothing – soapy and talcy but also quite enveloping and sensuous… I think this is how I basically enjoy sandalwood best, in the desert-wind lightness of say, L’Artisan Parfumeur’s L’Eau du Navigateur, or else full on oriental and packed with exotica, like Lorenzo Villoresi’s Alamut, a 1001 Arabian-inspired sandalwood that is the holy grail perfume of a Japanese friend of mine and which she smells perfectly gorgeous in (she is also the person who I give all my boisé sample bottles I receive to: as a fan of as-woody-as-you-can-get perfumes like Diptyque’s very literal Asian wooden temple Tam Dao or Comme Des Garçons Kyoto as well as Ex Nihilo’s Bois d’Hiver (2015), a very woody sandalwoody/cypriol scent that she adored so much she brought herself a full bottle from Harrods that summer when the small sample bottle ran out); as the most fiercely independent person I have ever known, Junko smells brilliantly contained in this style of perfumery; a mode of fragrance I personally just can’t get with on my own skin, but which I like to experience closehand as long as I am on the other side of the table).

There is something about Javanol, the synthetic molecule now regularly used in contemporary cutting edge perfumery as a substitute (or, to be honest, now actually preferred by the majority of people to the original, natural, sandalwood oil), that is addictive, sexy and in your face. Many of the scents that Junko has in her collection – aside the aforementioned Alamut, which I do think smells best on her – do contain Javanol (or Polysantol, the creamier variant) and if I hadn’t already found immediate recipients for the two new Escentric Molecules perfume based entirely around this note that I am writing about now here and that I received in the post from a friend, I would most definitely have given them to her as well.

Javanol smells fashionable, current. Sexy, in an urban vacuum kind of way; endocrinic, a bit pheremonal; ‘woody’, but in no way connected to nature or the outdoors. There is a no-nonsense, ‘get to it’ aura around this odour molecule – which is extremely potent and which I am really very sensitive to (if I even imagine I can detect an even hint of the stuff in the base of a perfume, it is what the Americans refer to as a ‘deal breaker’ – this happened with Guerlain’s expensive Spiriteuse Double Vanille and Tonka Impériale, both of which I had full bottle of but became detached from when I realized there might be something there , just hiding in the very base tones, though in truth it could quite easily just been a tiny smidgen of my even greater bête noire, ambroxan).

What Javanol does have, though, to its credit, is a certain dryness; a ‘stripped’ quality, and a strange, oxygenated freshness that is a million miles from the sweaty, almost indecently kama sutraness of the original, and natural, odour material; a Tindr or Grindr social media network hook up down the back alley behind a club instead of an elaborately staged, contortionist’s nightmare on an ancient bed of bleeding roses leading to procreation and a dancing Bollywood finale. It is the smell of the present, of what the new sex smells like, the new genders, the sloughing off of labels and traditions, and Geza Schoen, the perfumer of the very popular Molecule line, does an interesting job here of dressing and disguising the essential element at the heart of both of these fragrances – the Javanol, here, there, always waiting to take pronouncement – and presenting two very contrasting perfumes that go very different routes until they reach similar, inevitable conclusions.

Molecule 04 is very simple and futuristic; airy, almost invisible, citrus-like, with the familiar, fat-free glimpse of ‘woodsy’ featured from beneath, like a lemon-pip trapped inside an ice cube. I immediately thought of my neighbour’s daughter Aiko, who is never averse to a gender-subverting scent or two, and sure enough, she took to it straight away. ‘Nice’, she said, as she surveyed the scent on her wrists. It smells clean, fresh, laundered but wordlessly flirtatious and aura-constructing; a masculine/feminine conglomeration that smells quite hip but understated. Intelligent, quite fashionista.

Escentric 04, a very different beast entirely, was snapped up upon smelling it, somewhat to my surprise, by my other half. He always loves the pepper notes, especially a rambunctiously bracing, nose-tingly top note of pink pepper (he is always shoving whole poivres roses into salads as well, so you crunch down on their dried, crunchy stimulation when you are expecting the smoothness of avocado), and this perfume has a very pleasing initial pepper profusion that grabbed him, when he sampled the bottle, right from the get go. The D also has an inclination for anything rhubarby; berry -like; non-banal fruity that isn’t too sweet, and the fruit-salad accord of this perfume (very, very far from the candy cane syrup of the ethymaltol ‘gourmands’; there is something quite stark and Teutonic about the way that the barbed fruit notes are handled) is a heftier, more fun-packed Javanol perfume that forms a fetching complement to the far more transparent and subtle Molecule: a big boost to the senses of hedione and floral notes (rose, osmanthus, orris) that smell as red and pink and indomitable as its packaging.

Boxy, uncluttered, and of the moment, later – quite a lot later, Escentric 04 dies down to the much more predictable, more instinctual basenotes of pure Javanol, musk, and Ambroxan. Just that smell. Potently. Essentially, therefore, what you put on, is not what you end up with here. D goes out for the evening: spruced, and sprayed happily all over with a new burst of hedgerow, colour-blocked charm. He comes home, hours later, and the whole room is quickly fit to bursting – obliviously on his part – completely, with the inglorious, but involuntarily riveting – and for me, quite conflictingly sexual – smell of pounding, synthetic woods on human flesh.


Filed under Sandalwood


  1. MrsDalloway

    I do like sandalwood. Used to put the essential oil in my bath at Cambridge when you still could – 1996? – and have a small bottle of Via del Profumo Mysore sandalwood attar. Vintage Calèche pdt is nice and sandaly as you said. I hate the overdone modern synthetics though – Stash, Jovoy Private Label, ugh.

    Hope you are very soon able to have nights out too.

    • I will admit I am getting frustrated and worried I have injured myself in some way.

      • What is the Via Del Profumo like? I have heard good things about that line.

        As for the bath, I have done the same thing with sandalwood oil, but spiritually I am not in tune with it. Too fatty and uninhibited. It is the perfumery id writ large. I have to have it sublimated.

        Vetiver, on the other hand…I have a woollen blanket right now in the kitchen that is covered, or rather poured and dabbed, with viscous, tarry vetiver oil and I just adore it. It gets better and better with time and scents the whole room. I find it sensual but still mysterious.

      • MrsDalloway

        Hope they can reassure you at the checkup next week. It isn’t worse since the moth incident?

        Most of the Via del Profumos I’ve tried aren’t my style but they’re very well made – incense, resins, indolic jasmine, proper oakmoss. I love Milano Caffè, which is coffee, cocoa and a bit of spice. The opening is a heavenly blast of the first two. I prefer Anima Dulcis as an overall experience, as it lasts longer and gets better all the time, but they’re different enough and both worth owning. I’ve a couple more VdPs on my try list – the iris sounds great if ruinous. The Mysore sandalwood attar is literally Mysore EO diluted to be worn as a perfume, so wouldn’t be your thing.

      • Mmm, they sound quite tempting..

        As for the moth incident, I do wonder.

  2. Crabtree and Evelyn’s Sandalwood cologne was my signature scent all through college and nursing school and on into the mid-eighties. Everyone knew where I was by my sandalwood scent trail. I bathed in this. My first bottle cost $12.50 and was a splash bottle. It was my wedding scent. I was never without it. Of course, I was distraught when it was discontinued. I remember writing letters to the company begging them to bring it back. A few years back, I found a bottle on eBay for $100. It is now in my daughter’s possession because she fell for it harder than I expected. She wears it when she misses me. I am thrilled to know you loved it too, Neil.

  3. datura5750

    I went through bottles of the Crabtree & Evelyn, and still have a vintage one stashed away, the newer one was a faint but faithful echo of the original. How I wish we could time travel…

  4. Oh, this!: “a Tindr or Grindr social media network hook up down the back alley behind a club instead of an elaborately staged, contortionist’s nightmare on an ancient bed of bleeding roses leading to procreation and a dancing Bollywood finale.”

    And this!: “D goes out for the evening: spruced, and sprayed happily all over with a new burst of hedgerow, colour-blocked charm. He comes home, hours later, and the whole room is quickly fit to bursting – obliviously on his part – completely, with the inglorious, but involuntarily riveting – and for me, quite conflictingly sexual – smell of pounding, synthetic woods on human flesh.”

    Among others.

    I would love to smell all the notorious, much-used modern synthetics, straight-up, individually. I don’t know where Javanol ends and Ambroxan begins. I would like to know the specific culprits that ruin certain — and many — compositions for me, such as Tonka Impériale. I just cannot live in any kind of proximity to them. That harshness and aggression to my nose is more indigestible than the raunchiest natural civet or castoreum.

    This reminds me of the new EdP formulation of Chanel Bois des Iles. I have no idea what Polge has put in it, but whatever pseudo-sandalwood molecules he’s used are the height on one-note, unwavering, insistent-but-boring — and endless, hours and hours of it at the same volume — soulless linearity. On one hand, it’s amazing that finally we have a modern BdI that doesn’t disappear in two hours. But jeez. It’s so far removed from that glorious, complex and fascinating thing that was the real Ernest Beaux McCoy: one of the saddest examples of how far things have gone sideways. And yet, a lot of people love the new one. Have you tried it? Is it Javanol? It couldn’t be natural sandalwood . . . Again, I would love to know what’s in things these days. I wish perfumers would share that with us. It wouldn’t take away the mystery of scent; that comes from another source entirely. But it might explain a lot.

    • I am genuinely shocked to hear that that vile note has been put in Bois Des Isles, and pleased that you completely understand my own complete intolerance. Tonka Imperiale became unpleasant for me after an hour or two- I found that mixing it with a bit of vintage Shalimar made it work out alright, but the end was just deadening.

      • I hope you will try some of the new EdPs and let us know your thoughts.
        Trust you and your knees are doing well, Neil. Or . . .?

  5. Joan

    Good evening
    As a old fan of the Mysore Sandalwood by Crabtree & Evelyn, I was wondering if in 2021, you would be aware of any perfume close to this one?
    Appreciate a lot your feedback

    • Sadly, I have never smelled anything with that precise combination of powdery and clean, yet with that gorgeous sandalwood pulsating underneath. So lovely. If I ever do, though, I will mention it on here.

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