Violet Firefly

Violet Firefly to me is more of a leather firefly. She's heavy and intense. When you meet her, you're taken aback and that reaction never truly changes. She's tender at times, but never really know what's going to happen next with this crazy woman. To say it in less words, I get the comparison entirely It smells of leather jackets, heavy heady powerhouse floral perfume and lipstick. If there was ever a scent to perfectly capture the fabulous drag queen that's always the centre of attention, it would be this. Singing 80s ballads, drinking the trashiest but tastiest drink you could imagine. Hard to approach, but you'd be glad you did - she's crass, she's gorge, she's a stone cold biatch. Havin' fun? You know it.

A beautiful and unisex scent. There are lots of violet leaves in it, with the sweet, crisp, smoky, leathery, resinous touch. Feels bold, radiant and gorgeous. I've always wanted a very "violet" fragrance, with an indigo electric current, and I knew it immediately when I met Violet Firefly. There aren't enough words to express how much I love it, I just know my day is lit up when I put it on, it brings me energy and happiness, effortlessly chic as Teone all chypres perfume. This completes my violet dream and I hope more people love it as much as I do.

I dunno about the cross-dressing reference in the official description of Violet Firefly. It sure is darn hilarious. This woman should rewrite all fairytales. I can see it's a result of the pairing of a respectable Victorian lady's favourite flower and the masculine leather accord. One thing's for sure though, VF is what I thought Oriza L. Legrand's Violettes du Czar would be. It has a crisp cool opening of brightly faceted violets balanced judiciously with a smooth leather accord. Every other note in the composition bows in submission and service to these two star players. This is dignified and stately enough to be the signature scent of any au courant imperial court. I'm amused by the irony of the comparison. Violettes du Czar was worn by not one but two of the Romanov tsars. Oriza L. Legrand being the chosen purveyor of fine fragrances to the Russian court. To my surprise, the supposed Tsar's Violets turned out to be a infectiously gay, grape soda cum bubblegummy type violet. It eventually grew on me and I like it immensely now. It's just not very, ermm... Kingly. I think if these two perfumes exchanged names, nobody would bat an eyelid. Infamous royalty aside, Violet Firefly is more ballsy than she cares to admit. This is a truly unisex fragrances. One that both Victorian ladies and Russian tsars would love. I'm sure they're eating their hearts out in the grave now. Drag queen this is not, but something quite regal.

I have a first green slap of mellow sage with a strong sparkling bergamot accompanying a leather of purple leaves and fat iris, smoky with cypriol, fresh with jasmine and loaded with oakmoss. Up close it has a cocktail sweetness. It feels very natural and is pleasantly balanced. A high-quality purple affair, which modernizes its vintage structure and feels fresh, bright and inspiring. The evolution is a comfortable crescendo and a soft drying. Thrilling.

Typically I really love violet scents even though most of them either conjure elegant little tins of traditional violet candies or a powdery floral violet hand-milled bar of fancy soap at a quaint Airbnb, or even the delicate rosy-violet fragrance of an old-fashioned tube of lipstick. And these are all very nice smells but they’re not really complex or interesting. Violet Firefly from TRNP is a violet that gives you a bit more to work with, but I don’t know if I really care for all of the various components. The sweet, romantic blossom is accentuated and nearly overwhelmed by a sort of herbal sagey-cypress stinginess that for a few moments smells distressingly minty. Mint is one of those notes that ruins all fragrances for me. It’s a sort of false freshness that I paradoxically associate with really gross smells as well as the attitudes of people who pretend they never get crusty or farty and think their shit, as they say, don’t stink. Listen, all shit stinks, it’s okay, it’s supposed to. Luckily the minty shitshow subsides and it becomes a subtle mossy leather-violet situation that lays close to the skin and leaves an ozonic coolness trickling down the back of your throat, like a ghostly scrum of misty morning April shower ectoplasm.