Avon
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The citrus duo of lemon and lime tears through with eye-watering intensity, their natural oils presenting almost undiluted, acidic and bright. There's a metallic, almost petrol-like sharpness threading through—that 'offense' note earning its keep—creating an opening that's more challenging than charming. Within minutes, something green and resinous begins creeping in from underneath, hinting at the peculiarity to come.
Pine emerges properly now, not the clean Christmas-tree variety but something rawer, sappier, with rough bark and bruised needles. Black pepper provides a dry, crackling heat whilst that enigmatic 'fume' note hovers like smoke through trees, abstract and shape-shifting. The musk begins its slow anchor, though it's still overpowered by the green-spicy alliance dominating this phase.
What remains is surprisingly linear: pine and musk locked in an earthy embrace, with black pepper offering occasional prickly reminders of its presence. That 'scum' base note manifests as something mossy and slightly stagnant, like standing water in a forest hollow—not unpleasant if you've made peace with the fragrance's feral character, but certainly not conventional. The citrus has long since evaporated, leaving only its memory in the composition's persistent dryness.
There's something delightfully unhinged about Corvette - Wild Country, a fragrance that reads like a fever dream scrawled in the margins of a Victorian gentleman's journal. The opening salvo of lemon and lime feels almost weaponised—tart, acerbic, and unapologetically sharp—whilst that curious note listed as 'offense' manifests as a metallic, almost petrochemical brightness that genuinely lives up to its name. This isn't polite citrus; it's citrus with a grudge.
What follows is genuinely peculiar: a heart labelled simply as 'fume', which presents itself as an abstract, smoky-resinous haze, neither clearly incense nor wood smoke, but something vaguer and more industrial. It's here that pine begins its descent through the composition, bringing a crisp, forest-floor sharpness that collides rather than melds with the black pepper's dry heat. The musk arrives anchored by something earthy and slightly off—what the data charmingly terms 'scum'—which manifests as a murky, pond-water facet that either repels or fascinates depending on one's tolerance for the unconventional.
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3.9/5 (77)