impolight

:::MAGUS::: At this year’s Bat’s Day Black Market, some kind-hearted Labbie tossed a ticklish handful of Frimps into the bag along with the order. Magus winked up at his new admirer from the fragrant deeps and insinuated that a long and meaningful relationship lay ahead. Upon the return home there was researching to be done. Scansion ground to an abrupt halt at mention of the High John Essence because it wasn’t something overtly familiar. Freshly illuminated from the divulgences proffered by folklore and Hoodoo sources, intrigue waxes afresh… From the Imp: Whoah. Wholly unprepared for that. On one hand, sure Magus is swollen with power… However on the other, this is something that teases from the periphery of a (much abused) memory from somewhere around elementary school; this is magically spicy chicle mingling with 5th grade Bridgette’s wearing one of her mom’s expensive skin creams to school and resting her bare forearm against yours in the darkened school auditorium while they showed “The Dark Crystal”… We were not allowed to play outside in so much rain, you see… There are other mischievous childhood hints here too; uncooked and multi-hued macaroni noodles, arts n’ crafts paste, sweet breakfast cereals, Tootsie rolls??? Ok, this reached the bonafide, creeped-the-eff-out phase. A note most ready for cognition seems to be the Cedar, but this is a nice, glass-eyed, plushy Cedar. There is also a gentle spiciness that could be either the Frankincense or the Galangal. Who bloody knows, this could be the High John Essence readying me for the nut-house for daring ignorance. The good thing about sitting alone in a room to write these is that there’s nobody around to look at you uneasily when you cackle. Illinition: This one has zero morph on the skin. Mere amplification of all notes in this blend. Again with the crazy. There is a strong urge to go a-leaping into the shower and scrub this one off. Not at all because it is in any way unpleasant, on the contrary this is very nostalgic. In this case it is simply too much like being trapped in a bad dream in a haunted house as a 5th grader. Magus has new found respect from this reviewer. Lots of big, bad juju in this one. Not for me, but a 4 out of 5 would be modest. Thank you, BPAL.

:::DANCE OF DEATH::: As if the description for this one weren’t rendered eerily enough, then comes the trick of a freshly cracked bottle top laying waste to the nose. This potent little jewel joined the hoarded hordes thanks to a much anticipated expedition to Bat’s Day MMXII. Somehow, this was one of the formulas that had been unjustly breezed over during the countless and obsessive perusals of the General Catalogue. The likelihood is that because of there being a mere quartet of notes included in this particular formula, it was underestimated. The mistake was that simplicity does not equal a lack of sophistication. Dance of Death is a complex and richly layered aromatic adventure. From the Bottle: This is very much like a focused spotlight being very slowly turned up on a pitch-black stage in an otherwise empty theater. Revealed in the beam is a gleaming skeleton. She wears a ruffled dress and dark, auburn ringlets cascade from beneath her Easter bonnet. In her lap, she clutches a bouquet of immortally fresh blooms. From the dark wood of the floorboards curls a ghostly plume of dust. There is an exotic kind of bitterness present which would suggest either the Myrrh or the influence of a diabolically skilled poisoner. Complimenting this is a sticky, black sweetness that positively purrs in the nose… Black Musk is worth every second of unholy adoration in this formula. This is one of the best examples of highlighting the virtues of this particular note to date, certainly. The Patchouli is almost tropical; tautly muscled with a fine sheen of perspiration that has only now trickled, enticing the eye. This is a perverted picnic; a tangle of limbs in the hot, velvety shade behind glossy green leaves, a slow grind of a pubic bone on a sweat-slicked thigh, crushed berries passed from mouth to mouth… On the Skin: Red, ripe reeling! Dance of Death waxes more intoxicating with every breath. At this phase, Dance of Death becomes strangely war-like, with the war happening between exotic eroticism and classical refinement. Dance of Death is a statue of some excruciatingly voluptuous Goddess carved from shining red wood, wearing garlands of lush, rare blooms, and guarded by a hive dripping with narcotic honey. Dance of Death is an immaculate chamber in a Victorian manse in which an ornate bronze bowl has been filled to overflowing with potpourri that is at once lascivious and holy. If Dance of Death is the jewel-like crumbles of some faraway incense resin, then the epidermis is the smoldering coal. It is not at all difficult to imagine that wisps of smoke are almost visible with this fragrance. Walk into a room and watch heads rotate in your direction… Expressions on the faces of the inhabitants is sure to be priceless; “What on earth is that smell and why does it have to go away someday?” On Her, Dance of Death is that slow, vampiric, hip-hypnosis belly-dance immortalized on celluloid. On Him, Dance of Death is climaxing to birdsong underneath the summery sky that’s rapidly phasing from lilac to violet. Don’t let this one get away. Dance of Death gets a 5 out of 5.

:::SÉANCE::: This Imps Ear was saved for last based on the title alone. There is a special shelf reserved for the gas lit goodies that evoke a cozy kind of bygone, “Golden Days” atmosphere. Oh sure, not everybody got to be decked out in monacles, top hats, and ostrich plumes. On the contrary, things like the feel of rain-slicked, chilly cobbles through thinly soled shoes would have likely been intimately more familiar. Isn’t it lovely, though, how morbid fascinations never really go out of style? From the Imp: The Rose in Séance is rich, velvety and achingly beautiful. The Roses heads are very much like a man’s heart; fist-sized and blood-red. Their perfume is at the height of potency; deep, swirling, and intoxicatingly sweet. The best has been immortalized here. In an hour, these same red Roses would have been dethroned by decay. The Lab’s Rosewood has always been a thing of incredible beauty. Indeed, a superior wood-type note would be extraordinarily difficult to come by. The Rosewood in Séance is a thing of luxury. Here is the paneling that lets a person feel that they have willingly gone into a parlor where they have a very good chance of seeing past the veil. This Rosewood smells just like the realm a person could expect to hear disembodied voices, be reunited with a love lost, or feel a fleeting and ethereal touch. On the Skin: Here the mysticism really starts to gain momentum. The formerly retiring Hazel wood has lent glints of gold and green to the Rose’s resplendent red and the Rosewood’s ruddy rouge. It is really difficult to stop snuffling wristward. Séance is a perfect descriptor for this particular formula because of its otherworldly qualities. This fragrance can take you away from yourself. Séance makes everything in this room near and dear. This is the moment that should last forever and, someday, may very well be. Séance is another brilliant fragrance created by The Lab. This would be well worth a 5 ml. purchase. No medium required to see this one in the future. Séance gets a 5 out of 5.

::: DELIRIUM ::: Whisked away on puffs of paroxysm? Stranger things have happened. It is difficult to get a lucid fix on this one with all the things that can be associated with or invoked by the very word ‘Delirium’. Perhaps this is the point, yes? Since this one hails from Bewitching Brews then it would be reasonable to expect something of a truly altered state. Doesn’t that happen with all of these anyway? The notes listed are simple and pretty enough. While this one was likely formulated with Her in mind, specifically, it would potentially have an ebullient affect on whomever was fortunate enough to wear a dazzling dollop. One would have the capacity to transcend time and space. Delirium threatens whimsical legerdemain. Delirium invites everyone to wade right on in. From the Ear: Craziness. At first impression, one is tempted to think that this would work better if one’s brain were a different shape. Lupine, maybe. All three of the notes are definite simultaneously. These haven’t exactly blended yet. All three are as distinct as they are perfect. If this was a jigsaw puzzle, all three of these would complete the puzzle perfectly… the only problem is that there is only one hole in which to fit. Delirium is a specter chuckling in the sizzling rays of summer. This is the way that your head spins as you swing higher and higher, your feet almost kissing leaf and bough; laughter is better than any kind of crazy shade and it’s multicoloured. The rope might be burning your hands, but that’s just another part of a very good, almost magical day. Embrocation: Hello, amperage! This is the olfactory equivalent of an unexpected magnesium flare in a coal mine. The Rose and the Lemon are positively operatic and yet the Apple has swollen; stolen the show as it rides into the spotlight astride a lion. Delirium is outrageously good! The expectation was that this was going to be overtly feminine and that it would have to be admired vicariously from somewhere in the periphery. Happily, this is not at all the case! Delirium is bright and fresh; bestowing the wearer with confidence, allure, and radiating power. Admittedly, there was a brief moment where this one had a passing resemblance to something along the lines of Fruit-Loops, but that moment passed quickly and the more gorgeous elements quickly overwhelmed the imagination. Delirium is in the same fragrance family as Whitechapel and Villain (IMHO). This is something you would want to wear when you hope to capture attention. Delirium manages to be inspiring and innovative while being classic at trhe same time. Delirium is an excellent fragrance for Him or Her. This one is well worth of a 5 ml. purchase. Thank you very much to all the wonderful contributors at Black Phoenix Alchemy labs! 5 out of 5 for delirium.

:::WANTON::: Feminine sexuality is a deliciously wonderful thing. A conversation or narration could go on and on for days and never even come close to rubbing against the surface, let alone scratching it. There is a great deal of intrigue in determining just how this is going to be interpreted and communicated via the Lab. From the Imp: It is very hard to keep the eyes open. Eyelids flutter shut at high shutter-speed. From flickering, candlelit corners comes breathy alto moans and sighs of the libidinous persuasion. A glittery black snake is draped over your shoulders and tickling your hair. There are angel-hair strands of silk tracing, lightly, the contours of the body unclothed. Here there be tremors. Skin shines and the breath comes fast. This is bold, brash, and effervescently drunk. Sticky-sweet kisses and expertly placed hands are in plentitude. Wanton smells windswept and untamed. This is hunger tangled in damp blushes and laughing flames. While there are obvious floral elements, it is not at all overdone or exaggerated. The combination of Sandalwood and Patchouli are truly remarkable here. Wanton has all the earmarks of exoticism and spiritual power. Wanton smells rich, decadent and luxurious. It smells very, very alive. Wanton is a sanguine marriage of a purr and a roar. The Flattered Flesh: The Attar of Rose is gorgeous! Wanton is a perfect and fantastic blend! Palmarosa isn’t something familiar, but, from what was found on Google, rationally explains what is going on at the pulse-points… The overall character is still quite floral, but there is a subtle and distinctive grassiness the snakes its way through the other elements and binds then intricately together as though on a loom. Here is the shameless bewitching of a bare midriff belly-dancing, syrupy slow… a Polynesian skirt slit from hip to toe. This is the harmony of hive and hill under the blazing gaze of a quasar-eyed queen. This is love, lip-service, and death by being tantrically tongue tied (ahem.) Wanton is all things delicious. Easy 4.5 out of 5.

::: MAIDEN ::: This one promises prettiness. The Lab’s version of White Tea is consistently guilty of transfixing the hapless snout, so the goodness will be abundant. The concern with the Rose is only that it results, consistently, in smelling like grandma. Grandma is very much beloved, but the desire to leave the insinuation of doilies and little glass jars filled with hard candies in your wake hasn’t fully developed here. Carnations work well for Him or Her, but as this one has been dubbed, “Maiden” the guess is that this will be a frill-ride through a stuffy, pink abusement park. From the Imp: How very strange. The Carnation is conspicuous and very realistic; there is, even, the greens of stem and leaf that you can pick up from a one of those black buckets hoisted out of a refrigerated room at the florist’s. That’s not the strange part. The strange part is the Apples. True, no mention was made in the notes listed, but here they are; shining, sparkling, encrusted in pink sugar, and draped in candyfloss. Still no temptation to wear this one, at this stage, but different than what was expected. What an intriguing room fragrance this would make. On the Skin: Again with the weird. This would be a very close floral relative of The Sea Foams Milk from Märchen. Thankfully, it’s the Carnation that really pops in Maiden. It is wonderfully spicy and floral; very reminiscent of the real deal. If Maiden were to smell like it does after it has been applied to the skin, it would be an awesome room fragrance. While the candy thingy is pretty darned interesting, it would be more of a gift idea for somebody that’s enamored of the pink sparklies. Maiden is a pretty good fragrance for Her.

::: JABBERWOCKY ::: A Carrollian cuddle-beastie personified by BPAL! Yippee! Though a fanged and fiery ferocity, there is more predator than prey when it comes to the thrill of the chase… The poor thing wouldn’t stand a chance in the face the rabid desire to be gazed upon, stroked, and cuddled against the neck whilst being addressed in a perfectly ridiculous sing-song baby voice. The dignity of the whole bloody affair would be immortalized in the glittering beauty as translated by The Lab. The formula seems deceptively simple; a humble holy trinity of tantalization, a bright and bonny bouquet of blazing brass knuckles. Rest assured, there is no such thing as simple in the Wonderland that is BPAL. At worst, this won’t be harmonious with everyone’s body chemistry and snarky comments will ensue, but there’s always room of the Society of Snide in the cheap seats. Days are more than just sunshiny when one starts off with stunning smells. A day can be a quivering kiss cart-wheeling inside a Catherine-wheel! From the Imp: Ok… Took WAY too big of a whiff from point-blank range and the result was an almost Antarctic implosion of every last sinus cavity. This is some seriously magnified Menthol. Do not picture a cute Koala chewing a delicate gobful of a long, green leaf. Picture a slightly deranged giantess denuding Australian acreage in a giggling attempt at creating a dainty nosegay for her love… you. She is the sensitive type, so it isn’t long before she picks up on your dismay. In an effort to remedy your disquiet, she has taken a quick jaunt to the wilds of Alaska and snatched up an armload of evergreen forest along with a couple of polar bears, squalling in terror, for good measure. Oh, and by the way, here’s an Orange. This is really good stuff at the beginning, however manly. Jabberwocky is swear-words, fire-water, and spark-spitting cutlery. Jabberwocky is affectionate in a lumberjackian kind of way. This probably wouldn’t suit the purposes of a person trying to generate a mysterious and subtle kind of atmospheric. Jabberwocky would probably be more adept at quieting down the ambient conversational buzz and drawing everybody’s eyes the way that a neodymium magnet draws a few dozen ball bearings across the top of a coffee table. This has got a come-hither wither. On the Skin: Jabberwocky maintains a manly and medicinal air; continues with the whole bracing and assertive number. The Eucalyptus appears to have either evaporated or been assimilated almost completely by the skin. It’s still there in the background, but has waxed camera-shy in the awe inspiring presence of the Orange and Pine… Jabberwocky seems almost Christmasy at first. Were there a bit more spice incorporated into this ( Cloves or Cinnamon, say) it would blend right in with some of the other Yules; complete with a shiny red ribbon wrapped ‘round its neck. The more that Jabberwocky wears, the more it seems like it is ideally suited for pairing nicely with Macassar and moustache wax. Tally-ho! The spirit of adventure still lives, looming large. Jabberwocky is valiant, gallant, and thrumming with talent. Believe in the beastie! Jabberwocky is car crashes, crazy-eyed king fu, saddle-sores, sweat, stubble, and lightning-rod lip-gloss. Jabberwocky could be worn with ease by Him or Her, but seems much more at home in the world of walking-sticks and fisticuffs. Jabberwocky is jolly-good stuff! 4 out of 5 for Jabberwocky

:::BEER FROM THE MARSH WOMAN’S BREWERY::: As much as a person might be inclined to have an adventurous spirit, to try new things, to be open-minded, there’s something spectacularly splendid about the Frimps that arrive alongside beloved bottles in those boxes sealed with that erotichromatic orange tape… Beer from the Marsh Woman’s Brewery probably had the tendency to get passed over because the first thought went along the lines of, ‘Gee, who’d wanna smell like something SuperBowl-ish slopped down the front of a sweat shirt?’ NOT this guy… BPAL has the supernatural ability to lay waste to misconception and paranoia more often than not. The time is nigh to fill a fabled flagon; to sip, slurp, and soak in some sorceress’s something psychedelic and sudsy. One must remember that cynicism is for sissies and celibates. Allowing one’s suspension of disbelief, one’s sense of wonder to fall into disrepair can only be bad on days that end in “y”. From the Imp: Unabashedly unexpected. Beer from the Marsh Woman’s brewery smells… Healthy. Where there should have been fizzies and flowers, something dark, dank, and fortified has erupted. In a good way. Ok, sure, there is definitely the Celery thing that keeps capturing the imaginations of a good portion of the reviewers; the same thing that does the big time haunting of Szepasszony from the Diabolus category. Beer from the Marsh Woman’s Brewery smells like an enchanted and amped up juice bar: here lies all the nuts and twigs and fistfuls of wholesome grasses torn straight from the earth and tossed into the squalling contraption without bothering to shake the soil from their roots first. Already, one gets the distinctive impression that their digestive system is about to be terrifyingly stimulated. That 17 mile run through the woodlands with the pollens swirling through shafts of sunlight is mere child’s play. The blood has been cleansed. The muscles, how they quiver! Nostrils flare, this is the breath of life, yes sir! (More Carob, damn you!) This is mayhem, moxie, and might. This is intriguingly good stuff thus far… a decidedly nice surprise. Epidermically Annointed: Votes and verdict dictates that Beer form the Marsh Woman’s Brewery is, indeed, Szepasszony’s evil, fraternal twin; you know, the dude with the dreadlocks. Likes mudding. Wide range of Grateful Dead tee shirts. Pupils different sizes… Beer from the Marsh Woman’s Brewery is a wild, gritty kind of enthusiasm. This is a hyperabundance of life. While this is mostly reminiscent of a fertile and violently organic landscape, it is regularly interspersed with clutches of sapient wildflowers that take a perverse delight in watching you watch them watching you. The longer that this stuff wears, the more it dries. It’s as though the pulse acts as a dessicant. The deep browns and glowing greens are displaced by pastel dust and shining straw marked hither and yon with starbursts of pinks, purples, and blues. This also has the tendency to amp some of your skins natural essences, so if you don’t fancy your own smell, be warned. Beer from the Marsh Woman’s Brewery has been a ton of fun. It is difficult to say whether or not a 5 ml. bottle would find its way into the personal collection, but it has been worth the experiment. This is suitable for Him or Her. Beer from the Marsh Woman’s Brewery gets a 4 out of 5

:::Dragon’s Heart::: Another goody wrapped in ribbons for Christmas! Will the applause never end??? There is a conspicuous growth in the BPAL stockpile of Daemonorops infused splendor here of late. This has been addling the imagination with all manner of foolishness and irresponsibility for two and a half decades now. More of Beth’s evil genius in store certainly. By the ingredients list, this one wouldn’t have made first pick due to the high fruit content. Some isn’t bad, but a bunch is too reminiscent of a 15 year old girl wearing Exclamation and chewing FruitStripe gum with her mouth open, making sure that everyone in Kmart can hear her oh-so-clever narration. One should know better, considering the level of pride and dedication that goes into perfecting the craft. There is also a wide variety of skin chemistry and personal preference out there to be taken in to consideration. Let’s pretend that this is in no way tied to a (not so) secret fear of being pursued by insects and devoured by their larvae for smelling like a congealing pool of fructarian sustenance. From the Imp: Fweep! The fun that there is to be had! Nay, this is not the kitschy and voluble waif decried in the aforementioned passage. Here is THE fantastic. This is a sneering aviatrix with fiercely intelligent, magenta eyes. She has just flown her biplane through a grove of trees with fluorescent pink blossoms, shorn boughs tumbling in her wake, her lavender coloured scarf trailing behind her. Behind her, her pet Dragon, Bellatrix, follows while clutching a boquet of Lilacs. Black Musk is oh-so near and dear, and the way that it compliments and embellishes the Dragon’s Blood is second to none! Beautiful. So far, the fruits are not at all conspicuous in the profile. The final execution will be flawless and tasteful to be sure, but at this phase, the olfactory visibility has been reduced to zero. Dragon’s Heart is aglow from the first impression. This is the halo of a sainted floret. For anyone out there who adores Bewitching Brews’ Lurid, Dragon’s Heart might just take it down a peg… Especially for those skeptical of Ozonic virtues. On the Skin: ZOMG! Dragon’s Heart takes the top slot of any of the blends in the Ars Draconis category thus far. Either the Fig insists on invisibility in this instance or is merely incognito. Dragon’s Heart is that same aviatrix, but she now has a cheroot clamped tightly in her electrically charged vulpine grin because she has a pretty purple rotary cannon bolted to the front of her biplane. Well, that and she’s naked. Dragon’s Heart is Yummy unhinged. The imagery that this blend has evoked so far would inspire a series of novels that combines the elements of Steampunk and the fantasy myth… Yeah, Elven Androids with fetching walking sticks and well-oiled libidos who corral their dragons in the dirigibles hovering over the loch. Dragon’s Heart works fantabulosly on Him or Her… The Wife opines that “That’s what Morgan would smell like (from Criminal Minds).” Dragon’s Heart Gets 5 out of 5

::: THE RAVEN ::: No wintry storm, A Yuletide, warm, A radiance gold and mocking! Delight commands, My trembling hands, To search about my stocking! When what surprise, Should light my eyes, And leave me reeling, limp? The best of Yules, They gleam like jewels, Especially the frimp! My lips went numb, My heart a drum! I blushed just like Lenore, One I’ve been cravin’ Behold, The Raven, A mystery nevermore… A newfound vice, This should be nice, I’ll dab it by the Gallon! Good times ahead, Delicious dread, For me and Edgar Allen… Thank you, Sissy! Thank you, Beth! From the Imp: Violin music fills the world. There is darkly varnished wood. A train whistle echoes mournfully in the distance somewhere beyond the fog outdoors. From behind a barrier of cool, cruel glass the face of your beloved seizes you by the heart, squeezing it like warm soft clay in a blacksmith’s grasp. Rain is silhouetted on violet-tinged Victorian Wallpaper. It would be mausoleum silent were in not for your disconsolate sigh. Awake equates Hell. Sleep carries you off on iridescent black wings… The Raven is positively exquisite. Those of you who adore the Violet’s magnificently melancholy perfume, yield to this. Perhaps there is no better bloom to pair it with than Neroli in her twirling and blindingly white skirts. Iris is also at the dance, certainly, yet she watches from a shadowy doorway, her eyes aglitter, as Violet and Neroli spin towards a silkient and saturated kind of ecstacy. The Sandalwood is glossy, smooth, and round; the perfect surface to resonate those quick, quivering, and hot little breaths. The Dark Musk is a diamond-dust sheen on the nape of Her neck. A single trickle moves hypnotically slow alongside a dark ringlet pasted there. The front of Her indigo dress has opened to Her navel. Her hand, quick as an albino barn swallow, covers Her Cupid’s Bow mouth, stifling a giggle. Quick enough that you can’t quite focus on the jagged scar on the inside of Her delicate wrists… Ah, now you’ve remembered to breathe. Illinition: Heaven help us all. He watches Her float up the spiral staircase; a progeny of serpents and smoke. Whether this is the tug of the pear-handled, nickel-plated revolver in the stiff leather holster, or his blood; a roaring red lion on the verge of beastly boil that makes his skin voracious to breathe the gloom, to drink Her in it is impossible to tell. Every time his eyes close, a heart-breaking trumpet sounds. When he opens them again, nary an angel appears to abate his shame, to feign glory. There is only Her. Swallowing dryly, his eyes can almost slip past the small of her back. Almost. He can hardly stand it. He crosses the threshold, all thunder and lust, vibrating in response to Her wan smile from behind the bed’s gossamer canopy. Again, he closes his eyes to the sound of that trumpet, that damned trumpet. A single, salty track slips down his cheek. He can feel Her warmth radiating upon his lips. When he opens his eyes, nothing remains but a concavity in the pillow and two Violets where Her eyes should have been. He folds, half the man he used to be. When he can see again, he walks outside and into the citrus groves where they used to picnic in summer and She would wave to friendly faces on the train from beneath Her favourite purple parasol. Her lips locked away beneath engraved stone, he fancies a nickel-plated kiss. He cannot wait to see Her again. The Raven is an impossibly beautiful scent. Its glory deserves the ubiquitousness of His and Her skin with equal measure. The Raven is easily worth a 5 ml. bottle. It would be worth 10 ml. if the legends are true. Positively stellar. A 5 out of 5.

:::LADON::: Ye Gods, there is much pitter-pattering that goes on in the name of Daemonorops! Apples is another story altogether. Oh, aye there is much by the way of mythology, sci-fi, and insinuation that comes with the territory of all things Appley. There are horrific omens of green hard candies and teefs-yanking taffy’s that bob up and down in the poorly lit corners of the imagination. The time is nigh to draw up faith to full height, one supposes. Surely the ways that this could go wrong are finite. This is a long way from the days of Head-shops, Enya, and bong water. The Lab has an amazing capacity to dwarf the most aspiring grandiosity! From the Imp: Now THAT is Apple! There is nothing harsh or artificial about the Apple fragrance in Ladon. The Hyacinth note is also assertive and it pairs nicely with the Apple. Ladon smells like something a person would expect to have massaged into their tresses at a salon in some preposterously affluent community. Ladon is fresh, brilliant, and clean. Ladon bespeaks airy and open spaces with plentiful light and well polished surfaces. There is a healthy and cleansing vitality to this; a sense of quietly confident well being. Ladon is both the tranquil sound of trickling water and the comfort of flowing raiment. On the Skin: Nice spectral shift! Ladon becomes a fantasy tropical beach; the sands are brilliant white, but the surf is bubble-bath warm and glassy pink. The Hyacinth has shied away from the remaining olfactory experience leaving the Dragon’s Blood to fuse with the Apple. What brilliant insight must have gone into the discovery that these notes work so well together. Seeing the world through Rose-coloured glasses? Well, Ladon fills you, every cell and pore, with a radiance that would render said spectacles obsolete. Ladon is no mere baptism, Ladon is outright deification. Ladon is time-elapsed blooming. Ladon is resurrection. Ladon is the hush of a lunar eclipse through the window of a newly painted room. Ladon is ideally suited for feminine biochemistry. Ladon has an otherworldly allure that moves with a grace, temperament, and wavelength that is suited for the curled lips of the Goddess infinitely moreso than the expectant glare of the God. Profound stuff! Ladon gets a 4 out of 5.

:::OLD DEMONS OF THE FIRST CLASS::: An Imp of this arrived as a whimsical component in the old Christmas stocking. While it is difficult to tell which is worse; the tachycardia or the crazy-leg, both are sure signs that good things are afoot! Disturbingly enough, despite countless hours of obsessive and repeated perusals of the ENTIRE BPAL catalogue, Old Demons of the First Class has, somehow, managed to evade any sort of recollection. Not a single disagreeable note is worthy of suspicion in this blend. The moniker of this formula does have an appeal to those latent, naughty, non-conformist impulses that lurk moistly. How serendipitous that this would arrive during the season of cheer and goodwill! In fact, the title did provide an eerie sort of flashback of curling atop a faux-tiger hide covered pillow and reading a newly opened Hans Christian Andersen book by the glow of a strand of multi-colored Christmas lights while the tv droned in the background. Cweepy! From the Imp: This one zips straight up the nose and zigzags between the primal fear and the pleasure centers of the brain… How very CLEVER! Thoughts amble between a ride on some enchanted ferris wheel; set to ethereal calliope music, and slowly descending under pale lavender constellations, and a pants-wettingly sightless wander through the woods where you don’t hear scampering, scurrying, or a rustle of leaves, but the snapping of a branch as thick as your wrist. Plus, whatever did that is hot and hungry. For a second, this fragrance veers wildly off topic and smells like an enormous Cedar tree wearing AquaNet… o_O. This eventually resolves into a focus of a shrill and hyper-intelligent harmony of the Myrrh, Musk, and Piper Nigrum. Darkling divinity. The sweeter elements are effectively subdued by this stygian trinity. Pale and ghostly, the effect is almost that of something traitorously synthetic in nature. There is something a wee bit out of place at the gathering. As all the revenants swirl together in the air as an afterthought, a broader and more beautifully sinister masterpiece swims up from the depths and fills the room with a silent breath; every hair on the nape of the neck stands up acutely as you realize that this thing knows your name. On the Skin: Scream bloody-Myrrhdur! Old Demons of the First Class morphs like Hell (No pun intended) at first; this has become a stadium-sized pane of stained glass infinite in citrus hue. This is molten and flaming topaz. Of course there are refugees of the groves in Old Demons of the First Class, but the Myrrh briefly takes on the same sort of characteristic that fills the nose as that superfine mist a person sees when the rind of an orange is torn away with the fingers. The Clove is the fleeting face seen out the window of a night time trip by train. Though Orange Blossoms are much beloved, they are quite hard to indentify both from the Imp, freshly on the skin, and well into the dry down phase. For lovers of Vetiver out there, Old Demons of the First Class would be complimented by Khus on a magical magnitude. On Her, Old Demons of the First Class would be worrisome. This stuff is crazy, but not the fun kind. This is the try not to let your voice crack, don’t blink, chew your arm off in the morning and leave in your underwear kind of crazy. Tears of a kitten with its throat cut. On Him Old Demons of the First Class continues to present the most potent variety of thrill and peril. This is 120 mph on the 5 with all the windows down; holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes while smiling… never mind the gin, silly. Spectrally, Old Demons of the First Class is magma-chamber, bed of coals, cigarette-cherry, pyrotechnics, boot leather, broken glass, hair dye, and July night sky. Old Demons of the First Class is really first rate. Excelsior stuff, this. 4.5 out of 5

:::KUANG SHI::: The Lab has rendered a brilliant tribute to the sanguivorous undead of China. Aside from some of the more unique characteristics such as raniform hopping and a verdant pelt, these vampires are a force to be reckoned with. Lightning can take out a Kuang Shi according to one article. Actually, the Lab’s Lightning would make an epic pairing with Kuang Shi. One can only try… More to come at a later date. From the Imp: Ooooh, nice! The Mandarin Orange is the most noticeable. It’s hard to tell whether it’s the White Musk or the White Sandalwood that’s balancing so harmoniously here. At first impression, this is a whole lot like the ECHT KOLNISCH WASSER 4711 cologne that comes in the bottle with that fetching teal and gold label. This has a really nice, citrusy and clean fragrance. If there is Mango in this, it isn’t really noticeable at this phase. It is subdued, biding its time until its potential gets unleashed by biochemistry. On the Pulse: Argle-bargle! Behold the Mango! Mango of the SNL persuasion; sweet and swishy with a perceptible attitude. Although there was no mention of them in the notes, there seem to be a heaping helping of Aldehydes that come out to play at this phase, and Mango-soap fit for a snooty girl is the result. This one seemed to be much better from the Imp. It would make for an ideal room fragrance. On the skin, it is too confectionary for comfort. Even hours later, this would be right at home in a bulging sack of marshmallows. 3 out of 5.

:::The Seekim::: The Seekim May seek What he wants When he knows What He aimlessly Seeks, But Any old Quest Is followed with Zest, And keeps him Demented For weeks. The Seekim will know What He lacks When he Finds that he lacks What he knows; But taking stock Would give him a Shock And add To the weight of His woes. And if He should guess What He fears He’d fear Any further to guess, And pull down The blind In front Of his mind; To cover His Mental distress The Seekim Will Slacken hispace When he learns it is silly To fuss He’ll follow His toes Where every toe Goes; He seems To be somewhat like Us. (Sidney H. Sime MCMXXIII A.D.) Without a doubt The Seekim is one of the best things to explode a nose (as the saying goes). A bulldoze of throws! Where throes of whoah’s flows! Why follow toes where every toe goes when BPAL shows your soul grows when your nose glows? *twitch* The Seekim has rocketed its way to the loftier, uppermost tiers of the BPAL formula favourites. 5 ml. of this has been hibernating in a scallywag-themed millinginline receptacle... http://www.etsy.com/shop/millinginline waiting for today since mid-October (First, a return to The States from London was in order). Was it ever worth the wait! From the Bottle: An extraordinary blending of the Cocoa and the Hay creates a very exotic effect that would be like a fantasy version of Amber… Amber worn by some advanced alien race whose reflective skins secrete a neurotoxin capable of suspending you in a state of throw-your-hip-out climax for 30 minutes. Super-duper, Starship Trooper-rad, bad, glad you’re mad! Oof! Wait. There’s more… The Incense Ash is pretty brucking filliant. Indubitably apt! Of course, there are the virgin Incense wands with their overblown razzmatazz for your hooter. The smoke gets the point across, but usually the magic happens at nanosecond intervals just as you step over a threshold, but before the cloy sets in. The Ash is where the goodies lurk. No hollow promises here. No apologies for lack of staying power. This is the real deal. No Patchouli is detectable yet. Considering that Patchouli isn’t well known for being retiring or timorous, one can’t help but wonder when this is going to make an entrance with all the subtlety of a 19 foot jack-in-the-box at a funeral. Much is the same with the Black Pepper... Hmmmm… Beth is being awfully sneaky this time around! Thinking about the surprises in store makes it impossible NOT to bounce, despite the disapproving and slightly worried looks from The Wife… Illinition: Ack! We have an Amp-Champ! Love, Love, LOVE The Seekim! Instantly enamored with enchantments of the morph taking place. At very first impression, it is a considerable surprise that there isn’t any Teak mentioned or credited in this formula. This is reminiscent of the first impressions made with the first encounter with “Antikythera Mechanism”. There is a wonderfully clean, dark, and rich kind of living wood that commands the respect of all in its presence (or so it would seem). As The Seekim sits atop the pulse and develops for a few moments, the Black Pepper and the Patchouli bleeds into the fray; distinguishing themselves as the premier scouts on this safari into rollicking, rapscallion redolence. This is the fragrance of fertility. The Seekim is rich, black, loamy earth. The Seekim is wild, unchecked growth. The Seekim is sex, Sex, SEXXX! The Seekim is absurdly incredible in every respect. The Seekim would be the ideal accompaniment to your wildest, pavonine, bohemian frockery. Even better when said frockery has been shamelessly cast to the carpets in favor of slipperier stuff. Spectrally, The Seekim is dark. Pitch. Pine Needle. Pewter. Eggplant. Espresso. Oxblood. On Her, The Seekim is a whirlwind of gasps, teeth, sweaty hair, and deep furrows scratched into your back. On Him, The Seekim is Lamp-eyed hyperventilation, a steely grip, and mile after mile of electrified taste buds. Beautiful. 6.5 out of 5.

:::The Witch’s Repast::: All things experimented with that owe their origins to the Lab’s Märchen category will prove to yield uncannily delirious mood. The formulas from Vasilissa The Beautiful are especially, wonderfully weird. There was some trepidation upon reading the notes for The Witch’s Repast; Kvass, Wine, and Roast Meat? BPAL has been known to seduce an unsuspecting nose more times than not. Now is not the time for timidity. From the Imp: Um, Buttered Toast and Cherry Robitussin? Seriously? Yes, seriously. BPAL is never to be taken lightly, even when arriving at the conclusion that a particular scent is disagreeable to one’s personal preferences or sensibilities. This is a very distinctive and unmistakable impression at this phase. This summons childhood memories of being sick... The Buttered Toast was a comfort food while the Cherry Robitussin was a clear indicator of being in deep shit, health-wise. This is not a hint that The Witch’s Repast is at all unpleasant. On the contrary, there remains many a deep-rooted fondness for those quiet days hidden away from the torments of public school, being doted upon, and curled up with a good book. The Witch’s Repast has turned out to be unpredictably nostalgic right from the uncapping. The title might have great powers of suggestion. Aside from a good book, there are also memories of shivering beneath blankets, being the sole possessor of a roll of toilet paper, and peeking out as one of those 80’s goodies (Never Ending Story, The Princess Bride, Legend) flickered on the screen. On the Skin: This COMPLETELY morphs almost instantaneously. Honey is, by far, the most dominant note that jets from the inner wrists... Irrefutable, light, golden Honey! There is a strong, almost instinctive impulse to give it a taste (not recommended)… There is also a pale, almost translucent floral that compliments the honey wonderfully. The effect is silkient and powdery. There is the faintest trace of the Butter, but no more significant than the 17th day of being a 3rd grader. Most strange is the Roast Meat. Inhaling deeply from the wrists reveals nothing of the characteristics one might expect. It’s the exhale that gets you. It is very subtle, but effectively startling; the olfactory equivalent of a double-take. This has certainly proved to be an occasion where it really paid off to move beyond the initial uncertainties and experiment with one of the formulas that seemed as if it might not have worked at first. The morph made this completely worthwhile and it added new levels of respect and reverence for the multifaceted ingenuity that goes into formulating these experiences. The Witch’s Repast fills the mind with golds and pinks. A man could wear this, but it might not be recommended outside of a Holiday setting. The Witch’s Repast is quirky, quixotic, and great, great fun! A 4 out of 5 and a Bravo to boot!

:::Love Me::: Anything that comes from The Conjure Bag is fraught with adrenaline and hyperventilation. Not only is there this deliciously decadent sensation that comes from flirtations with occultish sensibilities, but there is also the conspicuous absence of specified notes in these formulas… This is a great catalyst for getting those free-association juices flowing. The brilliantly coloured oil manages to capture both sunset-hues and metallics which are evocative of some of the formulas from the Phoenix Steamworks catalogue of fragrances. From reading the vast majority of the reviews, a pattern begins to emerge where there seems to be a clear consensus that Love Me belongs solely in Her realm. This has certainly proven true in some cases, but in others the evidence clearly shows that a fragrance can work just as well, if not better, on Him. From the Imp: Crystalline Cacao, orgiastic (Vanilla) Orchid, sufferin’ sawmill, and combustible Kerosene. There has not been any experience quite like this with The Lab’s fragrances so far. Most peculiar! This fragrance would be notoriously difficult to describe. As of this instant, Love Me seems neither masculine nor feminine. Love Me isn’t foody, it doesn’t smell like a home fragrance, a cleaner, or a perfume. This is a distinctive, smoky, purplish scent. For some queer, indecipherable reason, imagery of being lost in the dark on horseback keeps coming to the forefront of imagination; skeletal silhouettes of trees, thorns, brambles, purple berries, cricket symphonies, and tall whipping grasses. Miniature globes of blood that look inky in the moonlight, falling onto damp, coarse gravel and burnt wood. On the Skin: A wrist slashed with the Imp’s wand yields crazed ampage. Fleeing the room brings little relief. This stuff could be tasted from twenty paces! The wounded wood takes preeminence. The Cinnamon, so notorious from previous reviews, picks the now to be ejected into the foreground like so much molten matter from the glowing deeps of some cavernous caldera. There didn’t seem to be much by way of Cola in this one, unless it’s the kind where a deep snarf is taken from the bottle's neck immediately after a few Mentos have been dropped inside. Bubble gum, also, does not compute. Unless, of course, this bubble gum happens to be stuck between the teeth of the Kodiak Bear who intends, for all the world, to gnaw your face off. Spectrally, Love Me is purple and pink. This is not to say that it is cute. This is the purple and pink worn by a sociopathic and homicidal Easter Bunny. Love Me is a great deal of fun. Love Me is psychedelic, giddy, and high-pitched chaos. Love Me is to be worn when being the life of the party is a must. It might be easier to concede that Love Me was formulated with Her in mind, as it is definitely all aglitter with blushing and curvaceous confections. On Him, though, Love Me reveals a rip-roaring sinister side. Love Me is a glassy-eyed, open-mouthed stare. Love Me has you tightly, almost painfully fettered while it administers a hot, slow, and inexorable tongue-bath. Occasionally a giggle will punctuate the mood. Love Me is by far one of the more interesting olfactory offerings to escape the Conjure Bag. No guarantees that a 5 ml. bottle of this could be kept under lock and key for long, but the Imp will most surely come in handy. A splendid job by Beth! 4 out of 5.

:::DRAGON'S TEARS::: This potent punch of fascinium got included as frimpage in this year's order of Halloweenies. As much as Dragon's Blood is virtually worshipped in these parts, Dragon's Tears has just been one of those formulas that oft gets overlooked during the excitement of the odering period when the embodiment of predatory hedonism is all the rage. Dragon's Tears is a gemstone coloured eyeball tickler of an oil much the same as most of those that ebb from the Daemonorops persuasion. Flicking open the Imp is immediate gratification; rewarding the reveler with resplendant redolences. There is an almost extra-sensory shift of the equilibrium. You now enter the realm of alternate dimensions, of spirit, of the supernatural. There is no mistaking the sacredness of Dragon's Blood. An element of excitement has been included with the addition of a marine quality Ozonic. On the skin this just continues to amp. This formula peaks quickly; becoming eye-watering and almost palpable at around the three minute mark. It mellows again a few moments later, but mingles exquisitely with natural body heat. This has unparalelled staying power; being just as noticeable the following morning as it was twenty minutes after the application. Dragon's Tears is a must. Exotic and incomparably sexy on Him or Her. 5 out of ever lovin' 5.

Black Pearl The world's economy may very well be going to Hell in a Rocket-Sled, but somehow there's always room for a spot of BPAL! Being overseas on a Study Abroad program made things interesting. This was an opportunity to exercise patience, longing, and anticipation... An order full of Halloweenies and Imps made for an exaggeratedly happy homecoming. The first Imp tried was Black Pearl... This was no Jerry Bruckheimer interpretation of Sea-spray, Scallywag, and Swashbuckle (Thank the powers) but this IS an exotic breeze, a faraway gaze, treasure, and a good old-fashioned love of adventure well personified. Black Pearl is a welcome addition to the hoarded hordes! From the Imp: Er, this gives a persuasive impression of what things might indicate a Brazen Cougar at first snap; There is something remniscent of liberally applied AquaNet, a boozy pulse, the Ghost of last night's cigarette, and a perfume that, while intended to give the impression of life of the party and fun, is actually spendy in a calculating sort of way. At this stage, Black Pearl is lusty laughter, an attentive stare, a couple too many shirt buttons undone, and ice cubes tinkling against glass on a shady porch inundated with shining leaves while the rest of the world seems irreparably lost in the glaring maw of summer. The only conspicuous note so far is the Iris. This is a heady boquet; shimmering and sharp. Illinition: The greenery really comes coiling and curling from the pulse points, which is peculiar because a quick perusal of the notes reveals nothing to explain this. Surprisingly no mention of Ozonics. Something sneakily soapy begins to develop after a few minutes which is a nice surprise... Ordinarily, some of the soapier elements in the Lab's formulas had a tendency to be off-putting; verging on unpleasantly synthetic. Black Pearl is a very nice exception. If anything, Black Pearl is like a costlier bar of soap one could find in the more exotic fragrance section of a luxury department store. This is nicely balanced by the White Musk. This softens it and lends a powdery lift. A beam of light. Black Pearl has an almost musical freshness. This is an aura meant to be worn like a mirage. The Coconut and Hazelnut have been suprisingly subdued to the point of undetecability throughout this experience. There is nothing thick or cloying about this fragrance, no danger of anything resembling a tanning oil. Black Pearl is a lovely fragrance. While the end result is clean and bright, it is a version reserved for feminine power. A man could get away with wearing this, but it might raise a few eyebrows. Black Pearl gets a 4 out of 5.

:::THUNDER AND BLAZES::: The long and the short of it: this is the very best of the Leather fragrances. Thunder And Blazes is quickly becoming a favourite. The label art is good and creepy. Downright disturbing, in fact. This clashes wonderfully with the scent. From the Bottle: Leatheriffic! This was opened in the car after picking it up at Bat's Day. The reactions were whiplash and, "Holy Hells Chaps!" This amps delightfully on the skin. The Dragon's Blood is subtle and compliments this formula overall. The Lemon Candy and the Crushed Grass weren't obvious from personal experience, nor was the mud. There is something wet in this; not Ozonic, per se, but moist... morning dew perhaps. Thunder And Blazes is a must for Leather lovers. Exquisite on Him or Her. A 5.5 out of 5!

:::La Pere Fouettard::: This was a much coveted gem in Sissy's vault of BPAL goodies for quite a while before it showed up as a Birthday gift! You're the best, Schnanni! (((SMOOCH!))) Sifting through the reviews of predecessors, it came as quite a surprise to see so many nods to fancy french cookies... Really? There wasn't much of an association with baked goods from this experience. In fact, the odds are that if a plate of Gaufrettes mysteriously materialised in the house, they would provide little to no temptation for the eating. It is much more feasible that they would be bludgeoned mercilessly with some holy relic. Immolated. Interred in a churchyard. The impressions of la pere fouettard arte pretty much sommed up by the ingenious artwork of the label. Ultrablack. Thoughts not fully formed. Fear of the unknown. Sexy as Hell. From the Bottle: Lewdest, Lascivious Leather, illicitly lickable Licorice, Super Soot, and... Black Walnut paste??? At this stage, La pere Fouettard is a joyride in the back of s hitman's limousene. There is a face here that is charismatic and unquestionably handsome but, for some reason, you will never be able to recall a single detail. While his tones are cultured and soothing, there is no mistaking the mercurial menace that lies just beneath the surface. You are proferred a sweet in the form of an Anisette lozenge from a silver tray. The smell of Leather is dizzying, and you can't be sure if this emnates from the limousene's seats of the black racing gloves of your host. The way that the light winks from his platinum cufflinks is bewitching. Powerful musculature bulges beneath the sleeves of his exquisitely tailored charcoal suit... but you gaze stops there. You are prompted to pay close attention and, as the smoked glass partition rolls up noiselessly, you are helpless to do otherwise. There is no sadness in you. There is, surprisingly, a complete absence of fear. For some reason, a lone tear glides down your cheek and disappears into the collar of your shirt. It is an overcast day. The Victorian porchfronts flash by into infinity. There is a soundless, trembling sigh. Sleep beckons. The Iniquitous Illinition: Impossibly, this waxes still darker. Absolutely nothing modern or metropilan remains here. There is a more conspicuous threat. There are more definitive horrors. This would be a Christmas story penned by Howard Philip Lovecraft. All carols are solemn. Bereft. All tinsels are sullied. Strangulating. The sole reason you find yourself here is that you were to surprise mother. A simple shortcut through the woods with a sack slung over your shoulder. A rap at the door. Her mouth and eyes a perfect "O". Somehow, tragically, you have been irretrievably lost. A miserably cold night has been spent in the wild, wet wood. You abandoned your sack when you were awakened in the middle of the night by vocalizations from creatures you remember from nowhere in childhood. Your clothes are tattered from jagged stones and twists of evergreen limb. Trembling, moist, and miserable, you stagger into a clearing. By the light of the coming dawn, you see a strange sort of cottage. It becomes apparent that no one has set foot on these grounds for at least 50 years. You enter for a temporary respite from the cold and the stinging rain. You sit with your back to the hearth and draw your knees to your chest for warmth. After a few deep breaths in the quiet gloom, sleep tempts you. So reclined, it feels as though you have begun to fall, through the floor, in slow motion, and you startle awake. Again, you close your eyes. The nasty wind is like the fluting of the damned, and a waft of soot and char gusts from behind the grating and caresses your cheek. There is something else there too. You sit bolt upright; breathless with your heart hammering in you ears and galaxies whirling in your periphery of vision. You know he's there. Someone. Something. With your so called "gift" of second sight, you see him. He's inside the chimney, hanging head downward. His skin is coal-black. His kcuckles, protuberant. His fingers are ludicrously long. His eyes are wax and sandalwood. His teeth are chrome grasses. His adam's apple bobs and you can here a raping, clicking, chuckling sound as he begins to resurrect; to revive from his hibernation. You crash through the door and hurtle, all apiss and screaming through the meadow. His laughter erupts; a laugh that makes thunder sound like a siblant whisper... A laugh that knocks you prone. A laugh that flattens timber and cracks the sky... Mother shakes you awake and smooths your forehead with a cool moist cloth. She reminds you that you are her favourite silly goose and that you shouldn't eat licorice before bed. It has given you nightmares since you were a child! La Pere Fouettard is genius. It is both glamorous and diabolical: equally suited for Him or Her. La pere Fouettard is sexy and severe. Thank you, BPAL for your incessant supply of magic! a 5 out of 5.

:::Iago::: Huzzah for Bats Day 2011! This was the second time attending the event and it was just as challenging not to be overwhelmed by seeing the entirety of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's category in person. It's quite different being allowed to sniff the oils prior to making a purchase. Two days would still be an insufficient amount of time to check them all out. Iago has been one of those blends that has been lurking in the wings, lying in wait for a prospective purchase. So far, all of the BPAL blends containing Leather have been an ecstacy on the nose. Until now, Red Rider has been the epitome of a sexy as all get out blend for Leather... And along came Iago. From the Bottle: Kerblam! Vetiver shrieks right out of the neck with a one-two punch. This is sweet, grassy and sinister; a chuckling from somewhere deep in a rolling sea of shadowy blades. The Black Musk is gorgeous; sweet, dry, and earthy. This behaves like a draping of rich, black, flowing cloth with purple and blue highlights. A cape worn by a romanticized sociopath. Together, the Black Musk and the Vetiver entwine in a glittering and potentially dangerous kind of dalliance. A scandal. A spectacle. So far this has the feel of a gothic novel read from atop a pile of cushions in a window seat. The novel seems to constantly shift from feeling like a tragic, melancholy romance to a boddice-ripping variety of madness and terror. It's cool and quiet and feels quite harmonious with the billowing, pewter-coloured clouds and the swaying gunmetal-green tree tops outside. Thus far, the Leather has declined to assert itself in any overtly conspicuous way. While is presence has been noted, at this phase it could be emnating subtly from the Leather-bound tome. The Illinition: The Black Musk and the Vetiver amp, briefly, into a ghoulishly delicious kind of crescendo before the Leather drops onto it's pedestal of preeminence. This is the last thing your brain registers before realizing, too late, that you have been alterted to the presence of the assassin via Leather boots, Leather gloves, Leather jacket. This is your panicked hyperventilations being cinched to a stop as you pause in your flight from an unseen horror in the jungle's moonless night only to have the coils of a black python cradle you quiet from an overhead bough. Iago is glamor, malevolence, and treachery. Iago is cold, calculating, and irresistable. This has all the trappings of a classic and refined gentleman's cologne with added cues of both respect and unease. Spectrally, Iago is Black, Indigo, Eggplant, metal, mahogany, and evergreen. On Him, Iago is wicked and villainous. This is the unabashedly sexier arch-nemesis of Red Rider. Red Rider may have thrown the gauntlet, but Iago head-butted him in the teeth. On Her, Iago is a thing of disquiet. While decadently delicious, there is a high-pitched warning in your guts that convinces you it is a glamour-fortified disguise. Iago is a brilliant concoction. Highest marks. a 5 out of 5. Thank you, Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab!

:::CASANOVA::: The myriad associations that come with this particular BPAL blend are enough to send even the most reserved reviewer into apoplectics. Even imagining a fragrance that represnts the penultimate seducer and playboy is a feat that few would dare attempt. There is every confidence that Casanova will make it's way to the top of the list with very little effort. This was the first bottle of the three that arrived in the latest order that was uncapped for a precursory sniff... The knees immediately went awobble and this was locked safely away; the head whirling! Impossibly good! An intimidating and daunting feat awaits. To try and encapsulate the sensations that attack multiple senses at once using lucid language will be quite the undertaking!Nothing can prepare even the most seasoned reviewer, the hapless myrmidon, from the phenomenon in store for them as they dare to encounter the wiley and ambitious formula that is Casanova! Abandon hope, all ye who enter here, truly! There is a huge range of really extraordinary notes that have been packed into Casanova. It's difficult to predict which one would take precedence because so many of the would work as dominants that would more than efficiently carry and compliment endless combinations of the other notes. So much quality in such a wee bottle! There isn't the least bit of room for Casanova to go wrong in any way. From the Bottle: This is devastatingly good. The experience is almost psychadelically enhanced! All the notes are perfect, readily identifiable, yet all flawlessly blended to create a solid wall of NOM NOM NOM! Gold has been struck! If anything is at the top, it would be the Lavender... But only just. The intermediates would be the Anise, Bergamot, and Amber... All of this rests in a hammock of Leather. Leather with creamy Tonak and Lemon pillows... It would be very easy to be carried away by Casanova! A library is a near perfect conceptualization! This would be some ancient library that is utterly vast, yet filled to bursting with leather-bound volumes. Even the most aspiring bookworm could well live out the rest of their days languishing in little more than the offshore breezes and page-turnings; punctuated only by the curious availability of dalliances. Casanova is an introspective yet astonishingly liberated sort of anthem to all that is good about sensualist birthright. So far, Casanova seems to resonate with nuances that would be befitting of masculine body-chemisrty; while wholly original, Casanova leans more toward a cologne than a perfume at this phase. On the Skin: The Anise really comes out to lend a sticky-sexy, shiny black highlight to the luminescent blues and purple of the Lavender. The brilliant izles of the Bergamot dance and orbit around this glowing core... Imagine the birth of an olfactory galaxy for starters. The Leather in Casanova is more subdued than it was imagined to be. It is clearly recogniseable, but seems reluctant to stand apart from the Tonka or the Lemon Peel.These have proven to be the Siamese Triplets of this blend with this experiment. As Casanova begins to dry, it is the Lavender, Leather, Anise, and Bergamot that hold court overall... And all of these are really fantastic notes! For those of you out there who REALLY miss Saint Germaine *hand up, wiggling... Eyes wide... Licking lips* Casanova comes awfully close to fitting snugly, smugly alongside it as top contenders for the supremacy of fragrances for Him in the entirety of the BPAL line. There is a sweetness in Casanova that could play nice with Her skin chemistry... Yet would have more of an appeal to instinct were it to have transferred to her skin via desperate and hyperventilating contact with Him. Spectrally, Casanova is purple, blue, green, aquamarine, fluorescent orange, gold, grey, powder, and black. Casanova is really, really incredible. Recommended for ANYONE who wants to feel really good about being a man...A very desireable man. Casanova is smart and sexy. Primped and perverse. Noble and nasty. Quite the accomplishment! Thank you Black Phoenix Alchemy Labs!

:::ECCLESIASTICAL EXCESS::: A miracle of sorts led to the discovery of Ecclesiastical Excess hiding in the "search" area of the BPAL site. When 5ml. was ordered, it simply disappeared the following day! Whew! Somehow, this had escaped notice when it was posted in the LE Category, but snatching it up quick proved serendipitous! This stuff is superb. The gorgeousness of ALL the Lab's notes are way beyond compare. Daemonorops (Dragon's Blood), Frankincense, and Vetiver are particularly spectacular. The genius of Beth's craft is amply displayed, both, in the way these notes come together and the degree to which they are complimented and enhanced by the addition of the other notes. Ecclesiastical Excess? Faustian Depravity? C'mon! Ecclesiastial Excess proves itself to be almost supernaturally irresistable. As if the very first whiff from the Bottle's neck isn't a rascally recumbentibus enough, the Label Art suits ground-breaking and classical tastes alike. The entire experience is profound from start to finish. From the Bottle: The Daemonorops and the Rose-infused Frankincense accentuate the Vetiver in a completely unprecedented way. For those who are timid or skeptical of Vetiver, ecclesiastical Excess would be ther PERFECT opportunity to be exposed to the loftier qualities of Vetiver's olfactory profile to as they are illuminated here. Ecclesiastical Excess has the über high-quality depth, magnitude, and resonance ordinarily reserved for the costlier varietals available only when one has the willingness to plumb the depths of the Salon or the Carnival Diabolique Categories. Ecclesiastical Excess IS depravity... Depravity and full-blooded hedonism that is somehow captured; it's essences bottled for mere mortals to stake a temporary claim on riding the ethers with Gangs of Gods, a Multitude of Monsters, and Far-Fetched Fractal Frequencies. It's funny, but Ecclesiastical Excess almost makes you want to BOW to it. Wear this in a crowded room if you've the stomach for hungry revere, being disrobed with a glance, or... Daggers. Maybe all three! The Mate Absolute and the Clove ride in on the tail-wind of Ecclesiastical Excess, leaving you all to helpless to not succumb to their white-hot vortices. They create a dry and, yet, pliable element that typically resides in the Land of Leathery notes. While not quite Leather, the aridity and the astringency join forces to produce something that might make for a more pleasing set of tannins and hermetically isolating and secreting away all traces of the creature. Ecclesiastical Excess will burn an indelible groove for itself in your synapses. This is, so far, one of those Limited Edition fragrances that deserves to be immortalized with a place of permanence in the Catalogue... Hey, shouldn't there be a new "Hall of Infamy" category where the upper eschelons of the LE's might reserve a place of honor? Just think of those incredible Alums! Pretty penny notwithstanding, it would rock! ... Just sayin'! The Infernal Illinition: Here, the Rose-infused Frankincense acts the vulcan projectile with a direct assault on the frontal lobes. After the slightest brush with sapponification, the Mate and the Vetiver both geyser forth in a roiling crescendo to stay apace of the Frankincense and reverbate in unholy matrimony (patrimony?). The Myrrh transmogrifies into a veritable Force of Nature; a crazed and sentient lightning strike blasting a blackened path before it and luminating an olfactory opera of intergalactic proportions. The Clove stays surprisingly subdued. Here the Clove could be interpreted as 'The Watcher' or maybe 'The Lunatic Fringe'. Ecclesiastical Excess waxes sweeter the longer it lounges on The Skin. Impossibly gorgeous and radiantly befrocked. Ecclesiastical Excess is sure not to disappoint on Him or Her, rendering one more delectable than the other in turn. Spectrally, this is crimson, purple, gold, indigo, & black shades of velvet. A 5.5 out of 5!

:::FOLLOW ME BOY::: The concept behind the fragrance that is, "Follow Me Boy" is intriguing to say the least. By observing patterns of human behavior, it has long since been revealed that the vast majority of menfolk are relatively simple creatures who are motivated and manipulated with astonishing ease; particularly in the areas of libidinous impulse. That harlotry or burlesque require the addition of magical intervention is mystifying unless, of course, the lady inquestion has the drear misfortune to bear an uncanny resemblance to Willy Nelson or Samuel L. Jackson. As no notes for this formula were listed, a wee bit of research was necessary to divine the make-up of various traditional formulas for Follow Me Boy. 25 "notes" were listed in the 7 recipes readily available on the internet. 9 different "notes" were repeated at least 4 times: Rose, Jasmine, Rosemary, Orris, Licorice, Damiana, Ginger, and Bergamot. Given Beth's characteristic genius, it is certain that artistic license prompted the inclusion of of subtler additions that render the Lab's version excelsior in every way!From the Imp: The strongest impressions, so far, are of Rose, Jasmine, Vanilla, and... Daemonorops? Follow Me Boy has a nice, hot-pink pulse to it that does indeed insinuate the spontaneous appearance of incendiary cavities appearing in the pocket regions; all in the name of the almighty eye-candy. At this phase Follow Me Boy also dredges up fragmented, early memories of Mr. Bubble.Indeed a warm, wet, confectionary, hot-pink froth. Should there be Cinnamon in this, it has been incontravertibly masked by the creaminess of the Vanilla and the sweetness of the Jasmine and Daemonorops. While there's no mistaking the Rose in this, it has been expertly played down so that it is in no jeopardy of overwhelming the overall fragrance. Aside from Mr. Bubble, Follow Me Boy is also a tad remniscent of something that could be associated with the classic baby-oil fragrance. All flagrantly erotic notions aside, the image of Her having a soak in bubble bath followed by Her smoothing on the baby oil so that it reflects off her skin just... So, is stellar. Yum. On the Skin: The Rose and the Daemonorops amp more than aything else so far. Follow Me Boy also develops a harder edge... Or, possibly, a veneer. Is there something tallow-ish in here? Anyone? The head swims with imagery of burning candle. This is not at all in the generic, "Yankee Candle" sense of a descriptor... This candle has been sought after. This candle is precious. Indeed, this candle was procured with a very specific purpose in mind. A very focused intent... A subtle spiciness begins to emerge after some moments. A stealthy tang. Guesses would drift in the direction of Basil and Lavender or Rosemary. Black Peppercorns would come as no surprise, but this also shows up, from time to time, in Daemonorops. Follow Me Boy is nice, enchanting, and specifically for Her. Highest rating. Follow Me Boy is a 5 out of 5. Thank you, BPAL!

:::GREED::: Black Phoenix Alchemy Labs' Sin & Salvation formulas are among the most vicious, relentless, and cerebrally potent that have been encountered by this reviewer to date! Given the notes included in Greed, it is difficult to believe that it has been passed over with such dismaying frequency! Copal is likely pretty close to being the favorite single note produced by The Lab. Copal is an otherworldy invocation of sorts; a resin which has been transfigured into a golden, almost musical entity that captivates, that crushes inhibitions. Oakmoss is also high on the list. Wherever Oakmoss is found, it has a near Deified ability of enabling fragrances to take on personality and sentinence. Heliotrope is the biggest enigma. While other blends have been purchased and reviewed that contain the flower, it has been notoriously difficult to isolate and identify with any great reliability. The specific virtues of Heliotrope have been infuriatingly elusive. Hopes are that Greed will prove most instructive in this respect! From the Bottle: Greed is such and incredible blend! The Patchouli plays the starring role at this phase, yet the Oakmoss and the Copal intertwine to produce a wonderful gold and green (the colours of money!) thread that seamlessly weaves its way throughout the fragrance. There is also a dry, orangey-white floral in Greed that is, presumably, the Heliotrope. While the note is unmistakeably floral, it does not render Greed effeminate in any way: to the contrary, it is similar to Lilac or, perhaps, Chamomile in the respect that its essence evokes notions of a fragrance that one could expect to find in a high-end barber shop. Greed is spectacularly earthy with emphasis on metallic elements. This is what a billionare would be imagined to smell like having just come in from an episode of therapeutic "gardening" in a greenhouse filled with a virtually endless array of exotic vegetation thathas been potted in bronze urns. If money grew an trees ... The Patchouli is incredible. It is The Labs gorgeous variety. This is not at all the eye-watering, "stinky hippie" Patchouli that is mass-produced and commonly generates an aversion to it. This Patchouli is practically the living plant; exuding not only the wooden top notes, but a freshet of shining, succulent, and luxuriantly green leaves. On the Skin: Greed smells like MONEY. Greed is wads of recently minted currency and roll after roll of gold coins. Very cleverly rendered! The note presumed to be the Heliotrope seems to have vanished at this phase. The Patchouli and the Oakmoss are now inextricably woven together, giving Greed the green, papery feel. Meanwhile, the Copal stands alone and undercuts the formula with the finesse and subtlety of a golden hammer. Greed smells like unmitigated affluence; posh car, expensively tailored suit, power-tie, shined shoes, gold wristwatch, and well-bred coiffure replete with Copal-based, top of the line cologne guaranteed to command the respect of all present. You have to smell Greed to understand it. This is Greed expertly, flawlessly personified. Greed is the marriage of "old money" and "new money". From experience, this is rather difficult to imagine as a fragrance for Her... Unless it transferred to Her via inflagrante dilectico atop the maple desktop in the office... or, mayhaps, during a "seafaring excursion" sort of champagne brunch aboard a yacht. On Him, Greed is everything the word proports itsself to be. Greed is the stuff of Wolves on Wall Street, swindlers, Robber Barons, corporate magnates, legacy, sybarites, and all forms of glitterati and their luminaries. Greed is something that has to be experienced to be believed. Once again, Black Phoenix Alchemy Labs have done truly amazing work. There can be no higher recommendation. Top marks! Greed is way off the charts, earning a 5.25 out of 5. Greed is a "must have" for the avid/rabid collector. Place your order. p.s. The Wife: it smells like Juicy-Juice... Like snack-time in a pre-school. sheesh.