Jane Birkin means very little to me. A few breathy vocals on what amounts to a porn soundtrack and suddenly she's an icon. I suppose the legendary Hermes Birkin Bag helped but now she complains that its use over the years has caused her Repetitive Strain Injury.
The blurb that accompanies this rather wonderful scent created for her by Miller Harris, the deliciously skanky musk of L'Air de Rien, explains that Mrs Gainsbourg could never, ever find a fragrance that she liked. Of all the beautiful, artful perfumes created through the years, not one worked for her. Poor Jane.
But she lucked out with this one. It's supposed to evoke the smells of Jane's childhood - her father's pipe tobacco, floor polish and old, wooden furniture - and there's definitely a unique, other-worldly air to it. But it's also sweet and fecal, louche yet rather refined, like a wet dog bounding into a trustafarian's 1960s party, all viewed through the haze of a Camberwell carrot and an extra large whisky.
It's also available in a lighter, toned down version, the slightly more approachable Un Petit de Rien. That might be a good starting point if the thought of a dirty, old afghan coat in a stale, wood-panelled room doesn't sound too appealing to you. If you enjoy that then step up to the original.
[By ANDREW]
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