Frangipani
Ormonde Jayne (2003)

Why are British perfumers so meek? Ormonde Jayne, Jo Malone, Miller Harris, Creed (cringe), etc. Is it the British sensibility of trying not to call attention to yourself no matter what, when, or why? The notes called out in this perfume are not wallflowers, pun intended, by any stretch of nature or imagination but Ormonde Jayne makes them so. Perhaps I need to try the parfum concentration. Anyway, Frangipani EdP opens with a beautiful mélange of lime evocations - freshly squeezed and juicy lime, lime zest, and linden flowers. On this balmy spring day in Northern California this feels just right. Despite the bright and sparkling energy of the lime notes, it is soft and gentle; they are transparent and effervescent notes. They unfortunately fade very quickly into the heart notes of this perfume, which are the stars: frangipani, obviously; jasmine, rose, and tuberose. Taking a cue from the name, the frangipani is supposed to be the star one would presume. Honestly though, it doesn't seem to be. I get more jasmine from the heart than any of the other florals. There is a citrusy element to the jasmine, which I expect is the effect of the frangipani. The heart of Frangipani is less about frangipani and more about a general white floral accord, to my nose. In keeping with the character of the lime, the florals are quiet, soft, well-spoken, luminous, and transparent. What happened to the tuberose? As I mentioned in the beginning about the perfume being intentionally meek, here is a heart full of modern perfumery's biggest and brightest floral stars, and tuberose is probably the biggest of them all - yet in Frangipani it is almost undetectable, save for a very light musk type note which might be tuberose. Tuberose has claws and a roar; put a bouquet of tuberose in a central room of your home and it will fill the rest of the house. OJ's Frangipani doesn't let the frangipani sing its beautiful soprano voice with notes and volumes that will make it ring; the jasmine's evocative contralto is muted to a supporting harmony; and tuberose is stuck in the back singing a rhythmic bass at an almost imperceptibly low volume. Yes, I know, not every floral with these or any combination of this cast of characters needs to be loud and operatic, but this feels less like the singers are intentionally singing softly and quietly and more like they've been microphoned incorrectly. This criticism well-levied aside, I do have to say that the materials used for these notes are absolutely lovely. Superb quality and photorealistic - just, someone move the mic closer to the singers please! If I haven't convinced you yet, here's my final piece of evidence: I've only been wearing this EdP for about two hours and it's already a skin scent. I'm not a big stickler for longevity, projection or sillage as I believe there is no one-size-fits-all to perfumes, but, frankly, 2 hours to become a skin scent for an EdP at this price is unacceptable. Supposedly there is a musky, vanillic amber base, but I'm honestly not getting that at all - which is perfectly fine with me. The floral musks, presumably of the tuberose and the indolic side of jasmine, are what are steering the base after the final dry down. Beautiful though Frangipani is, it has no confidence or playfulness. I was really hoping for this perfume to be a bit of handful, or even brash and rude to the point of slightly assaulting me - to take its hand and plop it firmly on the crotch of my pants and have a squeeze. It could've, I feel like it should've, I wish that it would. That might have been alarming and maybe even a bit off-putting, but at least it would've been interesting. Instead, OJF is just pretty; quietly, meekly, uninterestingly pretty.

Frangipani Absolute is at least accurately named, given that it smells more like the absolute than the living flower. The absolute smells green and waxy, like a nubbin of beeswax rolled in matcha powder; the living flower, which I had the opportunity of smelling for the first time in Colombia last summer, smells a bit like jasmine but without the indole and grape, and there is a buttery undertone that I associate with gardenia, minus the heavy bleu cheese aspects.

Frangipani Absolute freshens the waxy-green heft of the absolute by filtering it through lime and linden blossom, creating the impression of hothoused tropical flowers drenched in ice water and the glass partitions thrown open to salty sea air. The brightness of this topnote is undercut later on by the lush creaminess of the living flower, embodied by an accord that smells like a dairy-heavy rice and coconut pudding made out of tuberose petals, with pools of yellow Irish butter rising to the surface. A subtly salty musk and clean cedar hum in the far background, mainly there for support in case the almost unrelenting brightness of the lime-drenched white flowers falters.

Cleverly, the perfumer has made the floral component very peachy, to mimic the peachy jasmine-like aura of the living flower. Frangipani is therefore blessed with a suede-skin note that smells charmingly like the back of a rubber watch on a sweaty child. The scent shifts between these three main accords – green-aqueous-fresh, peachy-rubber, and creamy-buttery-tuberose – without ever getting pulled too far down in one single direction. That's some balancing act.

Frangipani Absolute is an undeniably beautiful scent, and an interesting take on a flower that often plays second fiddle to more powerful headliners such as gardenia or tuberose. My hesitation on whether it stays in my collection or not stems from several different quarters.

First, the salty, quasi-aquatic musk in the drydown reminds me very much of Lys Méditerranée (Malle), already a wardrobe staple for me, which makes me wonder if it's not duplicative to have two scents that represent largely the same ‘feel', i.e., heady white flowers drenched in dew and the salty air rolling in off the ocean. The occasions when I feel the need for this precise combination are few and far between, therefore surely it is redundant for me to have two separate fragrances at the ready when this tight little niche corner of my ‘need' rears its head.

Second, Frangipani is so pretty and well-presented that it makes me feel slightly uncouth in comparison. Worse, the prettiness reminds me of the golden, solar fruity-floral ‘glazed eyes' affair that is J 'Adore (Dior), which is fine if you're wearing something you can pick up from any Sephora or Douglas, but not great if you're special ordering from a classy niche brand like Ormonde Jayne.

Third, the brightness of the lime-and-peach-hued white flowers feels a little too sharp and insistent at times, like when you neck that syrupy but metallic juice from a tin of canned tropical fruit. In other words, absolutely gorgeous at first but perhaps wearing a little on your nerves towards the last? Along the same lines of complaint (minor, but still), the vanilla tuberose pudding base flirts with heaviness; it clashes a little queasily with the citric acid of the lime, to the extent that it teeters on the precipice of a curdle.

Out of all the Ormonde Jayne scents I own, Frangipani Absolute is the one I agonize over the most. Do I need it? No. Does its classical (but slightly mainstream) beauty justify me keeping it? Maybe. But the fact that I swing between a yes and a no on this scent, personally, doesn't mean that it doesn't rank among the top tier of tropical floral perfumes I've had the pleasure of smelling.

Spring blooms. Tiny, sweetened, lime peel bits. The top flows into the heart seamlessly. Very well-mixed heart flowers. I'm impressed how well these notes are blended. No sugar, lightly green, a bit watery without being too aquatic.

The heart is a light thing. Smells fairly natural, to me. Musky, mild wood, touch of sugary vanilla later. Becomes creamy with time.

Overall it's a lovely fragrance. Not one of the better florals, as I like mine stronger. Safe enough for a work scent.

Starts off as a unisex candied orange and lime, then turns into a jasmine floral scent. Very feminine. The sweetness of the vanilla and musk is partially offset by the cedar. It's a good floral scent, and one of the better "bouquet" scents for women.

To begin with, naming a scent "Absolute" indicates it is soliflore
oil, not a mixture of other scents. Perhaps Jayne wants to indicate "Absolutely," rather than the proper wording "Absolut," without the "e."

This begins for me with an apricot note, then settles down to a generic white floral melange without much character and in which I can not detect any of the notes mentioned. I would think one could not hide tuberose, rose or jasmine, but Frangipani Absolute manages to do just that for my nose.

If you want real frangipanni, note the correct spelling with two "n"s, sample Lili Bermuda's Frangipanni. Although Turin describes the scent as somewhere between peach and jasmine, for me it's closest to our tuberose, but sweeter, less green. The notes for the Lili Bermuda blend follow:

Orange Blossom, Ylang Ylang, Jonquil, Jasmine Sambac, Cassis, Patchouli, Sandalwood, Vetiver, Amber, Vanilla

Samples can be obtained directly from Lili Bermuda if you can't find them elsewhere, and very affordably. This is available in pure parfum strength as well as either an edp or edt, I can't recall which.

Comparing both Jayne's version and Lili Bermuda's will I believe be most instructive for those unfamiliar with this beguilng tropical flower.

Intensely floral, sweet but not syrupy, heady and semi-camphoraceus, almost playdoh-y in parts even, with a vein of citrus tying up the bouquet. Better make that a 'tree' for this frangipani smells alive!