Gucci Rush, 1999. Perfumer Michel Almairac.
There’s nothing I can add to the comments I’ve read about how this smells. Hairspray, lactones, patchouli, non-existent flowers, bubblegum, poppers. All true.
It’s the feeling, though.
There’s not even an attempt to tether this thing to anything actually botanical. Natural and chemical are words I tend not to use, because what do they mean? Nature, as we use it discussing the environment, has no meaning whatsoever when you look at it. And what matter isn’t chemical? That said, Rush’s value is that it is unapologetically unnatural and chemical. And all the better for it.
If this is a signature scent, I pity the people close to the wearer. This is definitively an occasional scent. It is loud, cruisy, intolerant and laughs incessantly. This is the Dionysus of perfume. It’s also monotonous, not in the sense of humdrum, but of hitting one note, and one note only, endlessly. There is very little evolution in time with this one, but why should it be otherwise? Who wants a party to end? All credit to Tania Sanchez for describing this as both large-scale outdoor art and intended for a night out. That’s the best characterization I can imagine for this baby. Ultimately, though, the night-on–the-town analogy gives with one hand and takes with the other. Yes, Rush is the life of the party. Absolutely. We’re all drawn to her when she arrives. But she’s also the sitter. The last one at the party, dancing drink-in-hand by herself while everyone else has left. Wonderful.