Review- Gaiac 10 from Le Labo(Tokyo Exclusive)

Available only in Tokyo. Except for that brief transition period between summer and fall, inasmuch as it still exists. Then it travels the world. In New York they wanted at least 180, 400 if you want to be able to do refills. Reddit gave it to me for 60 for 10.

The return address was in Northern Virginia. Based off the list of stuff they had available for decant they had Money. Money with a capital M. Based off the address I decided it was better for my soul not to ask too many questions about that money’s provenance. There's a difference between legality and ethics and NoVA and its sprawl are a dumping ground for the lucre from the battles between the two.

Le Labo's City Exclusives are yet another thing I'm regrettably late to. I talk a lot about things I’ve been late to, don’t I? I was vaguely familiar with Santal 33, the unofficial scent of a certain genre of New York men. I've tried Thé Noir 29 and Another 13 and I liked them well enough, just not enough to pay Le Labo amount of money. The whole affair just seems really affected. The reclaimed wood, the whole “we mixed this specially for you” gimmick, the personalized labels, the aprons. The damn aprons. I don’t know why I’m so stuck on the aprons. It probably reminds me of ten years ago when people would call themselves “makers” because they had the money for a 3D printer. The fetishization of craft as an aesthetic when we all know you’re owned by a multinational conglomerate. 

So God forbid I really want something from them bad enough there will always be some rich eccentric Redditor who happens to have wholesale amounts of both perfume and glass decant bottles I can finesse a quick 10 or even 30ml from. 

August is City Exclusive sample season, so every time I passed by a Le Labo(which is actually somewhat often in Manhattan) I tried a bunch at random. I must have smelled crazy. The one that immediately stuck out the most to me before they were even available was Gaiac 10, the woody and musky Tokyo exclusive. Just the concept seemed like it was made specifically for me. I know, I know. The reviews I read backed up this sentiment. Because I’m me I tried to fight it. More Gemini nonsense.

The others… I can't say they really did much for me. The citrus ones were too citrusy. Kind of like those French candies. The Mexico City one, Coriandre 39, was disappointing. Just straight cilantro. It made me hungry. Mousse de Chene 30 I wasn't going to get because it kinda seemed like a dirtier version of CDG2 which I already have. Myrrh 55 was… okay? I don’t mind medicinal smells but it seems like something that could get tiring. And none of them seemed to last that long!

The only scents that really stuck out to me were Cedrat 37 and Gaiac 10. Which I got samples of at the Le Labo in NoMad next to the Ace Hotel.

I will say the idea of Cedrat was more intriguing than the execution. I like the idea of ginger in a fragrance but on my body… it lacked presence. It didn’t last that long, and it had that weird kind of thing that certain Le Labos( like Santal 33)and a lot of Aesops have where you kinda smell like outside. Like… one of the base notes is outside. 

I was traveling at the end of the month so instead of hemming and hawing about whether to spend 180 on a thimbleful of something I’d have to wait to get good I reached out to Reddit and it delivered. 

During the week between contact and arrival I was in the middle of reading The Crying of Lot 49. Lot 49 is Thomas Pynchon’s shortest book and probably his most accessible by default. Still, out of all of his works that I’ve read so far it’s the one that resonates the most with me. 

I can’t even say that I empathize with the conspiratorial aspects, although I am someone who is known for connecting a dot or two. More so it’s the notion that all of this exists and yet I’m the only one who finds novelty in it or finds it shocking. The idea that I’m the last one to see the conspiracy in front of me. Even the idea that because I’m the last one to see it(as far as I know anyway) that I see it as a conspiracy and not just the way that things happened to shake out. That feeling that maybe I’m looking too much into something and that ultimately none of what I’ve observed actually matters. Is this all just some cosmic joke performed for the benefit of someone else? The strange feeling that although there’s no ulterior motive or hidden meaning there’s still something that seems off. That feeling of bewilderment where all you can really do is ask yourself, “This is it?” Almost kind of a dual shock. The most painful resolution is that there is none and you just have to sit with that.

Yet somehow something as simple and dumb as “Oh there’s different mail” has such a wide scope and unites so many various sectors of society you have no awareness of. 

Such as fragrance nerds trying to get a deal.

The bottle I received from this mysterious Virginian was pretty nice. Square, with an Art Deco magnetic top, with just four words on it:

Gaiac 10, Le Labo.

No pretense, just minimalism that mirrored the juice inside.

Two things beguile me about Gaiac 10. The first is its simplicity. All Le Labo products have a number at the end of their name. This number represents the number of ingredients used. So Gaiac has 10 ingredients. In terms of scent it’s pretty straightforward. Guaiac wood, cedar wood, olibanum incense and musk. 

The second thing is its longevity. My God this thing stays with you. 

Don’t get it fucked up: it’s very much a skin scent. It’s very intimate, which is ultimately what I like in a scent. I don’t really care for things that project far. I only do two maybe three sprays of anything: one on each side of my neck, maybe one on my chest. I like intimacy. I like the feeling of knowing that this is only shared with you. Almost as if it was solely for you, if only for a moment.

But some moments last forever. In the case of the Gaiac forever is at least eight hours. Off two sprays, one on each side of the neck.

What stays with you is a faint mixture of musk and wood. Maybe a bit of spice from the incense. It starts out with kind of a hickory note upon spraying but it really mellows out into something contemplative. Almost a sense of melancholy about it. If you’ve ever used a wooden sauna and you’ve been in there for a while it kind of feels like that. It practices restraint but there is a rawness, a sensuality even, that stems from the musk. A sense of longing that’s ironically magnified by its minimalism. If anything there really isn’t much to block it because it isn’t hidden by camphor, or pink pepper or benzoin or whatever the fuck they put in the other City Exclusives.

This is probably what Lydia Tár smells like.

I find myself in a strange city I’m told I’ll love. I’m in a hotel room with no windows. The hallway looks like Barton Fink. The restaurant on the ground floor is expensive. The wine is acceptable.

I find myself looking at old zines behind glass, the information panels helpfully explaining their contents in Somali and Hmong. I buy a hat that says “Artist Books”. Because it’s funny.

I find myself in a loft district, in a department store built into a former factory. Examples of the American finance bro uniform strewn about in between truly worthwhile labels. For every RRL or Kiton there’s a Theory or Rodd and Gunn. I make a flat white with the four thousand dollar espresso machine they’re demoing and bounce.

On a whim I walk down the block to Le Labo but it's already too late and City Exclusive season is over. 

I find myself in another city, at a concert that took 30 years to happen. The artist’s landmark album, one of my favorites, the one being celebrated, had a bigger impact in Japan than it did in America. Japanese exclusivity seems to be a theme with me, doesn’t it?

I find myself in a bar getting a drink with some people. Somehow a long time coming yet in retrospect a bit too fleeting. We smoke afterwards. The drink was sweet but we smoked sour. 

I find myself back at the hotel, still high. A bit past midnight and the world is far from perfect. At least not this week. I turn on Martin. Pam donated Tommy’s Benjamin Banneker clock to a monastery.

The faint aroma of guaiac wood still lingers as I try to sleep.