in defense of drakkar noir

Today, I speak of Drakkar Noir.

I had never heard of Drakkar Noir in the summer of 1985 when the lady on the airplane came through selling duty-free. Girl friends with me said I just *had* to get it, so I did, shelling out what was a lot of money for me at the time. ($96 in Aug 2022 dollars.) I had just turned 18.

I loved Drakkar Noir, and wore it often: I only ever had the one bottle, which lasted probably 4 years. By year 4, it had become overworn by my circle and I was a bit tired of smelling it. Maybe I should get another bottle now!

But I think it's probably a new formula, and I really loved the early one. Remember it was only 3 or 4 years old when I got it.

A superbly curated blend of lemon, herb, and wood, plenty soapy and piney-but-not-Poloey, with the era's requisite tiny touch of patchouli, and just the slightest Coca-Cola-ish bit of cinnamon in there. A fraternity-guy fave to be sure.

If Polo is the Journey song of colognes, Drakkar Noir has to be the Erasure — unexpectedly sophisticated, appealing, clubby, sexy, loved by bros but who-cares-it's-great.