Perfume Reviews by Dr B1414

Sarrasins by Serge Lutens

I confess, I’m not too fond of soliflores. I get bored with them quickly, and if it has to come down to that, I’d rather enjoy the raw material than a perfume built around it. However, if there is one soliflore Jasmine perfume that I am attached to, it’s Sarrasins. A soliflore made by an artist. I doubt there is a significant amount of actual Jasmine Sambac in Sarrasins (the real thing is prohibitively expensive for sustained mass production), but when you have someone like Sheldrake taking the lead while closely watched by a visionary like Lutens, I bet they can weave magic out of thin air.

While I love Sarrasins, I must confess that for years I have struggled with it. I think it is beautiful, but to my nose, it never quite achieved the legendary status that has been bestowed upon it by so many critics and the fragrance community. I don’t find it leathery, challenging, spicy, complex, and surely not “purple,” although the way they hint at it by tinting the juice can be misleading at times. On my skin, Sarrasins always behaved as the utopian Jasmine Sambac scent. It has every aspect tuned at the right pitch to produce the most sublime outcome. A floral scent so beautiful, you know it can’t be accurately “true-to-life.” Therefore, why not go all the way and paint it purple? That is how it wears on my skin from start to finish, with only very subtle changes that I could easily let slip if I wasn’t paying attention. If I scrutinize it under a magnifying glass, yes, I can see how it could evoke a purple-like sensation due to its high methyl anthranilate content, which has a fruity and grape-like smell. I sense the indoles (perhaps challenging to some), I detect the green and spicy notes, and would even go so far as to convince myself that I perceive a suede-like texture deeply buried underneath. But ultimately, a perfume is meant to be worn, not dissected like that (at least for the most part), and in that regard, Sarrasins remains a rather linear soliflore experience. An exquisitely beautiful one, nevertheless. Everything is well balanced: the desirable facets are showcased in their full glory, while the auxiliaries are there but handled with great care, enough to entice, suggest, or, for many, even proclaim, yet never quite enough to define a consensus.

Ultimately, Sarrasins for me represents the type of soliflore achievement that I enjoy more than the actual material. I don’t know if I can speak of any other perfume ingredient about which I feel that way. And that, with most likely relying on craftsmanship rather than the material itself. When I hear people say that you can’t render an accord that equals or surpasses the raw ingredient, I can only exclaim, Sarrasins!

Also, for the reformulation conspirators out there, the current version of Sarrasins smells as glorious as ever; perhaps it performs slightly better. I don’t detect any difference regarding the scent profile between the 2006 Palais Royal label jar and the current iteration. And that is the main reason I suspect it never contained a significant amount of natural jasmine, because if it had, it would have inadvertently undergone some changes over the years.

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Naja by Vero Profumo

Although Naja was intended to pay tribute to the snake and its various symbolic attributions, I can solemnly attest to its chameleon-like capabilities. In certain aspects, Naja’s game of textures evokes the sinuous and slithering body of a snake, while in others, the ever-adapting nature of a chameleon to its surroundings.

At first glance, it may seem like a predictable fragrance, but as you wear it, you come to realize that it becomes less definable. Again, Vero drew inspiration from the classics (Caron’s Tabac Blonde) and produced something new and singular, very much ahead of its time. There are many ways to interpret Naja: a honeyed tobacco, a soapy leather, or a powdery floral all seem perfectly viable options. It is all of that, and some more, and one might experience each of these personalities at various times. Wearing it, I seem to pick up the leathery nuances most, while analyzing it on the skin, it presents more of the powdery and floral facets of the linden flower and the honey.

It always starts with the melon and linden blossom duet, swiftly supported by one of the key players, the honey. And while Vero has consecrated her love for using honey in other compositions, it is the first time that she relinquishes her beloved passion fruit for an equally vivid melon accord. Here, the juxtaposition of the watery and fresh melon over the leather reminds me of Le Parfum de Therese, except that in Naja, the leather is highly tangible. The melon sits further in the background. The linden flower accord is more prominent, powdery, and sweet with a characteristic lemony zing, and cleverly blends with the note of honey. The other most important player on my skin is the leather accord. It is not mentioned in the note pyramid, and I assume it is more of a facet that results from the pairing of Osmanthus absolute, tobacco, and Vero’s musk cocktail. One other thing I want to emphasize is how different it feels from the usual leather accords I have encountered. It comes across as creamy, unctuous, and soapy. When I say “soapy,” my mind goes to those homemade lard soaps that use only salts and no perfume. They have a very distinctive smell, which is both fatty and salty. Therefore, picture an unctuous, fatty, at times salty leather. Sinuous and slithering, just like a snake. I do not pick up the osmanthus and the tobacco notes individually, but I believe they intermingle to breed this new species of leather. Finally, the honey is equally important. A very naturalistic smell of honey, texturally accurate, slightly animalic, and only moderately sweet. The musks are cleverly used and not as overtly impolite as with other compositions, such as Onda, Rozy, or Rubj.

I think Naja is one of those fragrances that will be experienced slightly differently by each individual. I have not yet read two identical impressions from people who have tried or written about it. Moreover, it may present various aspects at different times and to varying degrees, depending on how much one chooses to apply. For Vero, Naja was meant as a tribute to tobacco, and yet I get none of it. For me, it is a unique take on leather, which makes strong use of honey and is pulled out of the mundane, treacly waters by clever use of linden and melon, both of which imbue a fresh, zingy spark to the composition.

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Chypre Mousse (new) by Oriza L. Legrand

I love this fragrance. This is one of those perfumes that I could see myself wearing as a signature scent, that is, if I believed in that concept. Nevertheless, I find it perfect for my taste - earthy, mossy, woody, expertly blended, smooth, excellent performer, versatile (your mileage may vary), high-quality, and with a mythical flair. It is such a unique perfume, especially for a chypre. There’s nothing quite like it. I could draw a parallel with January Scent’s Burvuvu, not that they smell similar, but both evoke a magical forest, especially the vegetation that decorates the earth and the trees. Or, an old closet with moldy clothes:).

Chypre Mousse stays true to the Chypre family by pairing moss and resins to create that characteristic velvety effect; however, it departs from the classical structure by avoiding the top note clichés, and to my nose, by choosing to implement more of the treemoss (Evernia Furfuracea) as opposed to oakmoss (Evernia Prunastri). This latter observation is important as I find the two materials to be rather distinctive, with Evernia Furfuracea smelling more intensely woody and nutty, compared to Evernia Prunastri. Indeed, I believe the fantasy “chestnut accord” in Chypre Mousse is a result of that. Moreover, I am inclined to suspect it is also how they managed to preserve the formula over the years, since treemoss is not as heavily restricted by IFRA as oakmoss. As previously mentioned, at the top, they opt for an unusual combination of fennel, mushroom, mint, and various greens instead of the classical citrus or fruit. It is invigorating and unique. It makes me think of the forest breeze and, simultaneously, the forest floor, as the mushroom is quite prominent. Speaking of which, the third major element of this fragrance, and perhaps the deal-breaker for many, is the raw earthiness. Here, the name does it justice, as it comes across as an “earthy mousse.” Taking some patchouli, soil, dead vegetation, and mushrooms, further whipping them into a thick mousse-like consistency, topping it with treemoss, and sweetening it with some resins. The mint is served as a side dish. If you think it sounds disgusting, well, I guess it comes down to how much you love earthy scents. To me, it smells delicious. You might also think it could come across as rough and abrasive, in which case, please refer back to the name. Yep, they thought it all through.

Chypre Mousse is the kind of perfume I expect to smell in the artisanal realm, executed with an expert’s skill and experience. Unique, bewitching, and distinctive. Lastly, regarding how it held up over these years (as I am always skeptical of chypres), I am delighted to say that the current iteration smells just as good as the earliest one (and this seems to be the case with all other perfumes from the house). So, as opposed to my initial fears, hunting for a vintage is not mandatory. Oriza L. Legrand offers some exceptional perfumes, value-for-money-wise only rivaled by Parfum D’Empire at this time, and Chypre Mousse is undoubtedly their Tabac Tabou.

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Fantôme De La Nuit by Prin

Prin Lomros is still one of the noses I eagerly follow up with. However, it’s been a long time since I felt the need to add another of his creations to my collection. More often than not, I sense he is reshuffling the same old DNA into his new projects. This issue permeates the artisanal scene and makes things rather uneventful for me.

With a past order, I decided to try most of his creations that I skipped. I hoped something might catch my nose. I added Fantôme de la Nuit to the stack of samples without looking at the notes. The name intrigued me, and I told myself, “With a name like that, it’s bound to be dark and mischievous.” I was expecting something animalistic and not safe for public wear. Therefore, blindly, I dipped the blotter inside the sample vial and sniffed. Puzzled. What is this?! I checked to see if I got the right sample. I did. It didn’t smell anything like the name implied. This was not dark and animalistic. Instead, it was a bright, warm late summer day in the countryside, right before dusk, when the sky turns rusty-red. The agrestic smell took me by surprise. It was spicy, green, aromatic, and brimming with dry herbs. As it continued to develop, I thought of an outdoor kitchen with a rustic design, made from bricks and wood, fueled by a large wood-fired oven. Steel pots simmer with various kinds of farmed crops, loads of vegetables, and fresh herbs. The smell of sun-warmed hay fills the air while a sheep or two wander around. It smells like a “savory-agrestic” perfume. From what I have tried over the years, I think this is a first. After waking up from my brief bucolic wanderings, I looked at the notes. By then, I had completely forgotten that the perfume was called “Fantôme de la Nuit,” so I double-checked its name. Everything cleared up inside my head.

Fantôme de la Nuit is rather unique, and if I were to draw any parallel, it would be to Haxan, to a lesser extent. However, the latter walks more into a fougere direction, whereas the former is a proper agrestic. Moreover, the way the savory nuances shine throughout the fragrance’s development makes for another unique element. I keep going on about these piquant elements in Fantôme de la Nuit without mentioning them. To my nose, it’s primarily the fennel and the cumin. Now, I am no stranger to Lomros’ fixation with cumin (maybe that’s why we get along so well), but I did not fathom he could handle fennel equally well. Now, Fennel (Foeniculum vulgare) has a highly multifaceted scent profile, and it is generally used in perfumery either as sweet fennel (Foeniculum vulgare dulce) or as bitter/common fennel (Foeniculum vulgare vulgare). Antonio Gardoni uses the former expertly in several of his perfumes, while here, Prin has put the latter to great use. It exudes a scent that straddles the lines between bitter, camphoraceous, aniseed, and even onion-like. And of course, it pairs brilliantly with the second savory element used, cumin. The fennel is immediately noticeable as soon as you spray the fragrance, while the cumin takes its time to get through. The lavender and the mushroom are also present in the beginning, but fade away quickly. Aside from the piquant notes, the other major ones to my nose are the hay, oakmoss, and immortelle, in that order. The immortelle imbues a slightly sweet, maple-like brown glaze over the perfume’s structure (just like the sun setting over the horizon with the coming of dusk), while the hay (and the liatris) provide a powdery vanillic sweetness thanks to their naturally high levels of coumarin. The oakmoss helps ground everything and bring some balance with its inky-bitter facets. I wish the goat hair tincture had revealed itself more, but I believe it works its magic toward the late dry-down, offering a milky-sweet and creamy texture to the base. Overall, the general feel of the fragrance is: dry, herbaceous, warm, slightly sweet, with the constant presence of the savory pair of fennel and cumin.

In my book, this is a highly evocative agrestic composition, with some unique touches, making it worthwhile for fans of Prin’s work and bucolic perfume enthusiasts alike.

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Hammam Bouquet by Penhaligon's

Hammam Bouquet is significant for Penhaligon’s, not only as their first fragrance, created 150 years ago, but also as the only one signed by William Penhaligon, credited as its creator.

As one can guess, and if you are lucky enough to try the fragrance in its pre-2000s iterations, it smells old-fashioned; alas, instead of making me think of Hammams (Turkish baths), it makes me think of a cross between the Arabic world and their reverence for roses with the musky and powdery style of the old French boudoirs. That is to say, overall, it is an Oriental fragrance featuring a musky and dusty rose alongside a creamy sandalwood base. That might sound repetitive and mundane, yet it is not. Hammam Bouquet is unique, and I find it difficult to draw parallels with other scents. Two come to mind, and neither is what one can call a mainstream fragrance: Serge Lutens’ Cannibale, mostly the opening part of it, and Aramis Calligraphy Rose. In fact, if you’d combine the opening of Cannibale with the Aramis, and further dash some powder and a creamy sandalwood on top, you’d get a solid idea of what Hammam Bouquet smells like.

The opening is my least favorite part, and it smells like vinegar. I will quote Serge Lutens in describing his own creation, Cannibale: “It leaves a vibrant acidity on the nose and on the skin, reminiscent of the floral vinegars of 18th-century France.” I thought Cannibale was over the top with its acidic, vinegar-like opening, telling myself, “Only Lutens could have come up with something like this.” However, it seems that William Penhaligon was the first to do it. I find this opening too much for my tastes, intriguing and original as it may be. Luckily, it fades away quickly, leading to a beautifully rendered watery rose. The rose accord here reminds me of the rose water one will find at the entry of so many Mosques in the Arabic world. The rose petals, always fresh, suffuse their sweet and delicate aroma to the water, inviting you to cleanse your hands before entering the Holy place. Later, a dusty-powdery facet creeps in, next to a creamy sandalwood. At this point, the powderiness reminds me of the vintage French aesthetic, while holding tight to the Oriental motifs. Moreover, a slightly medicinal and toffee-like myrrh joins in, and slowly but surely, the musky nuances. The latter becomes stronger as the perfume settles down, yet I don’t feel the fragrance ever gets exceedingly dirty. However, like so many fragrances of those times, it would be deemed as quite musky and unclean by today’s standards. In my opinion, it is mild but wicked enough to keep me intrigued. Its evolution throughout the mid and base notes reminds me of Calligraphy Rose by Aramis, with its resinous, musky, and rose display. One particular note that I can’t identify in the composition is the lavender. And since this was supposedly marketed as a fougere and a men’s cologne, it had to make up for a substantial amount of its formula. Despite that, I can see how various molecules that make up the lavender accord and scent could work in conjunction with the citrus in the opening to create an acidic and sour vinegar sensation, or alongside the orris and sandalwood in the heart to impart powdery aspects. Moreover, a purple hue lurks underneath, and that might be the source.

Even today, I feel that Hammam Bouquet retains its elegance, flair, and originality, which says a lot for a perfume that was introduced in 1872. I understand how it might smell out of place for most perfume enthusiasts today, especially the ones that shy away from “vintage scents.” Nevertheless, there is so much to be enjoyed and discovered here, not just for vintage perfume lovers, but also for those who seek a masculine rose scent, or an Oriental floral composition that is not heavy but rather like a watercolor painting, or the fresh rose petals dancing on the water's surface waiting to imbue your hands with their sweet and intoxicating aroma.

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Mito Voile d'Extrait by Vero Profumo

As I reach for green and floral compositions more often, with temperatures rising and daylight broadening, Mito sits very high on that pedestal. It is an incredibly vivid and textured green-floral-chypre. Mito is all about textures. From the incredibly juicy green opening to the dewy, creamy floral heart, and finally, the velvety moss and creamy woods. Vero was inspired to create Mito after visiting Villa d'Este gardens in Tivoli. The perfume smells like walking through a dense, well-kept garden—almost a greenhouse, thanks to its humid and wet facets (perhaps the champaca).

Mito opens with a strong, bracing galbanum and juicy citrus accords. I wish there were some basil in there (like in Onda). I feel it would have worked well. Alas, I don’t detect any herbs or spices. This introduction is so vibrant. It reminds me of grabbing a handful of stems and cutting through them, releasing their juice and unmistakable green aroma. Soon, the florals join in. Mito shifts to a rich floral bouquet, where champaca and magnolia are the main players. There is a distinctive wet, creamy nuance with hints of citrus-green. The citrus element from the opening supports this effect. There are no indoles, so the florals smell clean and fresh—somehow exotic. This Mediterranean garden is anchored by a base of oakmoss, patchouli, woods, and light resins. There are no animalics, none of the dirtiness found in Onda, Rozy, or Rubj. I came to expect a touch of explicit connotation with Vero’s perfumes. Here, Mito uses other means to surprise. It abandons the bedroom sheets and moves the action to the heart of nature. I believe animalics would have detracted from the perfume. Still, I would have loved a touch of indoles. However, I cannot complain. There are so many things I love about Mito that I can overlook these small, subjective flaws. The greens and florals smell so natural and tangible. The base complements everything so well that it is hard to fault the perfume for such whimsical nonsense.

Mito is difficult to dismiss if you like green chypres and natural-smelling florals. It draws inspiration from the classics without ever feeling repetitive. My preference is for the Voile D’Extrait, which is richer in the base and florals. The EDP leans more top-heavy, dominated by greens and citruses, with only a light floral touch and ethereal base.

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Immortal Beloved by YS Uzac

I’m at the point in my fragrance journey where my interest and fascination steer mostly toward “conceptual perfumery.” I don’t care whether a fragrance is all-natural, synthetic, or about marketing and trends. For me, the outcome is what counts. And I have started to slowly move away from most “traditional” structures that will continue to exist as pillars only re-adapted to fit current times and tastes. That is one reason why I find so many of the Ys-Uzac perfumes thoroughly fascinating. They can’t be confined within the bounds of “traditional templates.” I think most of their fragrances are abstract, except for the “Grands Classiques,” but even those implement unique elements that make them stand out (I can’t think of anything remotely similar to Pohadka). However, if one feels like dipping their nose into the house, that collection might be the “safest” approach.

Immortal Beloved is part of the "Grands Classiques" and presents a somewhat familiar theme, as well as notes and accords that are easier to separate and identify. Nevertheless, what fascinates me about it is its complexity and ever-changing nature. Contrary to many other perfumes from Ys-Uzac that are difficult to grasp and understand, yet fairly linear, Immortal Beloved paints a clear picture of what it wants to portray, while going through a multitude of changes. Another captivating aspect is the myriad of textures I detect. I don’t recall another perfume showcasing so many different consistencies.

Inspired by the letter written by the composer Ludwig Van Beethoven to his “mysterious beloved,” found after his passing, with the recipient still a mystery to this day. As you can infer, this is a mysterious, warm, rather romantic fragrance. I would classify it as a smoky-oriental, with heavy use of resins, boozy, and glacé fruit accords. Another brief and accurate depiction is how the house puts it: “A nuance of caramelized plum, which symbolizes an unforgettable beloved. The opulent undertone of an elusive Cognac note reflects the intoxicated romance, and a majestic dark rose representing the immortal passion.”

Upon first glance, one would think: plum, cognac, rose, and resins. Personally, I draw much more out of this fragrance, and it always unfolds in three stages, with each one immersing into the next. I always loved that “snowball” effect, especially when each layer works with the subsequent one in harmony.

The first part is boozy, effervescent, spicy, aromatic, and fruity. Here is my dilemma: how on Earth do I get a “root beer accord” from this?! I tried to put it together, and perhaps it is a result of the way all notes interplay. I get a cognac accord, but there is also a strong peppery nuance, paired with a fizzy lavender and a passion fruit accord that transforms the cognac into something rather reminiscent of fruit-flavored root beer. I don’t complain, however, as I find it truly captivating and infinitely more original. It almost feels like a boozy and fruity fougère with strong peppery touches.

The second stage presents the plum accord, a shy yet present rose, and as the lavender and passion fruit move into the background, a more precise cognac accord. The boozy and candied plum keeps me enthralled, being a big fan of both those accords. The rose plays hide-and-seek and is never a mainstay. At this stage, a toffee-like nuance also creeps in alongside hints of smoke from the resins in the base, like tossing the rose on embers and drowning the plum cognac on it to extinguish the flame.

In the final stage, the emphasis shifts abruptly toward the resins and woods. It becomes thick, leathery, and smoky. There are smoked woods and resins as well as something musky and animalistic that resembles castoreum, but it might very well be the labdanum giving off that impression. It becomes treacly and dense, opposite to how it opens up. The subtle animalistic qualities fit well within the frame, albeit manageable by most people’s standards. Again, the imagery of embers comes to mind, slowly burning away.

I mentioned the multitude of appearances that this perfume presents: effervescent, herbaceous, juicy, velvety, liquor-like, caramelized, resinous, woody, leathery, and smoky. Moreover, several unique, perhaps phantasmal accords take shape in my mind that I cannot shake off, such as the root beer impression and a distinct “bread-like” texture. Figure that out.

Finally, as mentioned, while Immortal Beloved might lack the abstract nature I have come to expect from Ys-Uzac, it compensates through sheer complexity and diversity in perception. Constantly shifting and shaping into something different. It also smells intoxicating if one has a strong penchant for boozy plum accords, smoky resins, and leather, like yours truly. I can’t think of anything similar, despite sharing a similar structure to other well-established boozy-fruity Orientals such as 1740, Ambre Russe, many Serge Lutens, or 1697. It draws inspiration from the “Grands Classiques” while remaining thoroughly distinctive.

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Rose de Nuit by Serge Lutens

I remember my deep infatuation with Rose de Nuit. That was a long phase. At the time, I considered it my “signature scent,” and there were only a few such perfumes during my journey. I still like it very much, and believe it is one of the most beautiful and certainly most interesting scents from Serge Lutens - an outliner, since it was composed by Gilles Romey, not Christopher Sheldrake. One can easily separate perfumes such as Rose de Nuit and Iris Silver Mist from the rest.

In those days, I was still a big Rose fan, and was still exploring and indulging in what is probably my favorite genre in perfumery, leather-chypres. Rose de Nuit, as you might have guessed, is both. It is also a unique take on both those themes, indeed, a rather standalone perfume, not just in the Lutens universe. My obsession led me to track down and acquire all its iterations, from the pre-Lutens era to the early days and the present times. The perfume is among the few in the line that underwent significant changes over the decades, and perhaps the only one that was significantly improved. Hardly do I come across a reformulation that proves to be righteous, and certainly did here. For me, Rose de Nuit evolved into something better with each subsequent reconstruction, culminating in its current shape. The early Shiseido jars were incredibly bitter and too abrasive. The current form is flawless and infinitely more complex.

So, what are we dealing with here? A Rose, yes, and a Chypre. Already a rare breed, these rose-chypres. The rose is old-fashioned, vampiric, dusty, and decayed. The moss is bitter, earthy, and inky. There is a leather-like facet, perhaps built on various musks and resins; overall, this feels like a leather-chypre. As it evolves, the rose gets engulfed, slowly dying away. Major improvements over the early versions were the addition of a subtle apricot note, replacing the overused bergamot, to suit Monsieur Lutens' penchant, and a mildly sweet and waxy beeswax accord, which works wonders to offset the otherwise problematic bitterness. Lastly, the perfume suffered a drastic shift in texture, from abrasive mossiness to a purring, velvet-like, and at times waxy appearance. It makes me think of one of those authentic animal fur mantles. It had seen an upgrade with each subsequent attempt, every time adding small elements. An outliner in the line, no doubt. Once you smell it, you’ll understand why. It’s not a Sheldrake; it is very old-fashioned, perhaps too morbid and dramatic for current times. And still, it bears that unmistakable Serge Lutens dose of mysticism and macabre. Children of the night who love chypres and poetic roses consider giving this one a sniff.

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HYLNDS - Isle Ryder by D.S. & Durga

Roaming the Highlands at the dawn of Spring. The snow still covers the grounds, and yet the sun’s blaze warms the earth, causing it to melt away. From underneath, the dormant vegetation emerges. The scent of damp, drowsy grass slowly permeates the air. He stops by the thick fir tree forest to catch his breath and fills his horn with mead to warm his soul. It tastes wonderfully sweet. It reminds him of the honeyed jasmine flowers his beloved used to wear in her curly, long hair, once upon a Spring.

I’m thoroughly fascinated by this fragrance from the HYLNDS collection by D.S. & Durga. It is such an oddball. I have tried to think of what it reminded me of, and it finally clicked. It is one of the weirdest potions from Uncle Serge’s cabinet of curiosities, Chypre Rouge. To this date, it is the only Serge Lutens perfume I could never tolerate. Even so, it only shares the aesthetic, as they don’t smell all that close. After all, I very much enjoy Isle Ryder. The Lutens was more sickly-sweet and adorned with stewed fruits, in the characteristic Lutens fashion. Regardless, this is also a weird concoction, one that, at least for me, works. Yet I am left scratching my head about how to place it; a floral and boozy coniferous perfume, perhaps? The most prominent facets are: fir, jasmine, meadowsweet, and honey. There are other aromatic nuances that I cannot place, and a prickly-mineral quality in the dry-down that resembles ambergris to some extent. The most fascinating bit, however, is the vivid “mead accord,” an alcoholic beverage made by fermenting honey. I feel it was more or less accidental, perhaps a result of blending various facets of honey and meadowsweet, among others. It hits you in the face in the opening, effervescent, sweet, and boozy, and lingers throughout. It is never overpowering, yet constantly present. The coniferous nuances are also prevalent, fresh, resinous, and warm. The jasmine is surprisingly indolic. I’d say that, if there is a single most challenging aspect of this perfume, apart from the unusual pairing of notes, it has to be the unashamedly indolic jasmine. It also bears some faint fruity and honey-like undertones, but the indoles are most prominent. Rest assured, it doesn’t feel suffocating. It is rather ethereal. I don’t think I ever smelled a jasmine accord that feels indolic and light at the same time. Another thing I want to point out is this dampness that creeps about. A green, wet sensation that, in my mind, looks like the forest floor with grass and fir needles dampened by the melting snow. In the late dry-down, it becomes increasingly resinous and warm.

As a huge fan of this HYLNDS collection, Isle Ryder is the most fascinating among the ones I tried. It should be sampled just for fun. And while I’m not a “conehead,” I get along with the coniferous facets in here, well complemented by the funky jasmine and the boozy and heart-warming mead accord. The dampness, the prickly-mineral ghost accord, and the hard-to-place aromatics are just a bonus, as well as a forever puzzle to be solved by my nerdy brain and fruitful imagination.

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Rubj Voile d'Extrait by Vero Profumo

I believe Vero chose the name “Rubj” to hint at the blood-red gemstone, ruby. And while smelling the perfume doesn’t signal anything red to my olfactory cortex, but rather shades of brown, green, and white, the essence of what Ruby evokes most certainly hints at the symbolic meanings behind the color red, such as passion, desire, love, and strength.

Aesthetically, Rubj fits perfectly among other mischievous, carnal musky-floral compositions such as Bal à Versailles, Salome, MAAI, La Tsarine, and Muscs Koublai Khan (due to the interplay of musks and spices). It is not as overly complex and intellectual as Onda, Rozy, or Naja. Rather, it is straightforward and ready for some boudoir action. It is Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red. It is pure eroticism.

To break it down as a scent, for me, Rubj is a spicy, musky, and floral perfume with some Oriental motifs such as warm woods and incense. The star of the show is the orange blossom, a flower I’m not particularly fond of. However, the way it is handled here makes me an admirer. It is strongly supported by an equally naughty, indolic jasmine, and supposedly, tuberose and neroli, but I’m not picking up much of the last two. The opening is briefly green, followed by an aromatic and intensely spicy embrace with basil, coriander, and my Holly and most beloved, cumin. Yes, the abhorred “C” word. And while Vero has claimed many times that she never used cumin in either the Voile or the Extrait versions of Rubj, I am getting it clear as day. I tried forcing it out of my mind, but there is no dismissing it. It is here to stay, and I am up to take it all in. I’m also picking up some basil and perhaps other spices along with an array of green elements. They work brilliantly to introduce the star of the show, the orange blossom; the latter is lush, waxy, and indolic, backed by a fruity and honeyed jasmine. They sure make for a dazzling pair. The base is dominated by cedar, which, alongside cumin, instills a rather dry quality to Rubj, incense, and a fatty musk cocktail with prevalent use of civet. Civet is always a great choice to pair with florals, and it works magic in Rubj. Seemingly, she is not holding anything back: cumin, indoles, and civet. But what sets it apart from the other perfumes mentioned, and with which it has a resemblance in aesthetic, is the artist’s touch, the way Vero handled these materials that can easily off-balance a composition and steer it into “not safe for work territory.” Rubj is like the beautiful lady in the red dress, slowly making her way through the crowd. She doesn’t have to say anything or try hard to get all the attention. There is nothing overtly sexual about her appearance, either, but the way she moves and acts will make your mind wander. That is how Rubj is. It sparks your imagination, while always poised, and the restraint is impeccable. Gallantly unfolding, the mingling of notes and accords is suave, while the synergism feels effortless.

All of Vero’s perfumes hide an erotic side, as she wholeheartedly believed they should. Rubj, more than all others, is a fine example of that.

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1697 by Frapin

The house of Frapin is well established in the cognac industry. Seemingly, they have carried that tradition rather successfully to commissioning equally good boozy fragrances. Indeed, I can’t think of another house that has released more amazing boozy perfumes over the years than Frapin has. Among them, there has been 1697, originally launched as a limited run, and later integrated into their regular line. And yes, it is a brilliant boozy perfume, but what really puts it over the top is the nose behind it, the master of disorder himself, Bertrand Duchaufour. Had it been anyone else, 1697 would have certainly gone down as a great rum fragrance. But Duchaufour had to make things far more complicated.

If you take a look at the note pyramid, this might strike you as another “been there, done that” bacchanalian composition resolving around the well-proven combination of booze, vanilla, spices, and dried fruits. There have been countless such releases over the years. The latest to catch my attention, from one of my favorite houses, Parfum D’Empire, was Madagascar Baume Vanille. However, 1697 smells like none other. It took me some time to pin down this fragrance. It is bizarre at first. The only thing that is rather obvious is the blast of rum in the opening; not sweet, friendly, or “perfumey,” but quite the literal smell of rum. One thing you get with Frapin perfumes is the most literal sense of the spirit in sprayable form. The rum accord is so vivid that it questions your choice of scent depending on where you plan to wear it. After that initial burst wears off, the rollercoaster begins, the rum lingering in the background. You soon realize this is really Duchaufour at his best, which also means, at his most chaotic, old-school self. You smell dried fruits, not coated in sugar, but sour, as if soaked in rum, and turned slightly stale. Afterwards, you pick up a bitter and medicinal quality, dusty and somehow putrid. It hints at something you smelled before, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You look at the suggested notes and accords, and it hits you: it’s Hawthorne. Here, only the more off-putting facets of the flower are used. And when I say off-putting, I mean: Did you know that some say Hawthorne flowers can give off a scent resembling that of decaying flesh? Then there are also quintessential spices, woody notes, and another major player, vanilla. The latter, however, is yet again alien and unlike the common practice: dusty and dry, with hints of smokiness, devoid of sweetness. Speaking of which, this perfume overall lacks the typical sugary qualities that members of this genre so often abuse. It is, in fact, quite dry. Therefore, when you put all the pieces together, hyper realistic rum accord, stale flowers, musty wood, dry and dusty vanilla, and sour dried fruits, one can guess why this has never been very popular, and perhaps why Frapin has decided to empty the barrel and fill it with something else.
Overall, the most accurate way I can describe how this fragrance smells is: going down into the dusty and dank cellar, putting your head inside one of those wooden barrels in which the liquor was aged, only that the barrel is now empty and all you smell is the soaked wood, and the cellar.

Unlike most perfumes in this DNA, 1697 never sought to appeal to the general public. It was rather a testament. That Frapin can not only make great cognac, but also great perfumes. And of course, it was yet another stroke of genius from one of the most prolific perfumers of this century. It is chaotic, but only till you get to know it enough to place all the pieces in their rightful place. It has its challenging, attractive, and unique bits. Drenched in rum, and quite unlike anything I have smelled. I see people comparing it to L’Artisan’s Vanille Absolument, but 1697 is more focused on rum and dried fruits, smells more mature and higher quality. And I confess that deep inside, when Parfum D’Empire launched Madagascar Le Baume Vanille last year, this is what I hoped it would be; alas, they decided to split it and leave something for the mainstream market to enjoy. 1697 made no such compromises, and that’s why in my books, it is the best boozy vanilla ever made.

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Hermèssence Cuir d'Ange by Hermès

I believe Cuir d'Ange is Ellena’s best work. Despite being considered by many as one of the greatest perfumers of all time, I am not a fan of his “watercolor” style. Alas, there are a few compositions signed by him that I love. And while I enjoy Ambre Narguilé more, I have to bow my head to Monsieur Ellena for his tribute to leather in Cuir d'Ange. I believe this was meant to be a response to Chanel’s Cuir de Russie and Dior’s Cuir Cannage. Of course, Hermes did it in style, with Cuir d'Ange. I also believe it was the last perfume Jean-Claude created for Hermes. What a way to pay tribute and end such a prolific collaboration.

The perfume is not overly complex, and the name is well chosen. This is how I’d imagine a fragrance called “Angel Leather” ought to smell. It presents a clever duality between this gauzy, dreamy, dusty floral part and the robust, textured, and salty leather; light and darkness. And to my nose, it boils down to this interplay of leather and hawthorn. What an unconventional pair. I love Hawthorn; the smell and the taste of Hawthorn bee pollen. Various perfumes did a great job in mimicking an accord, but none that I come across thus far has been as precise as Cuir d'Ange. Jean-Claude brilliantly renders this accord, and it encapsulates many of these fascinating flowers' facets: sweet, almondy, bitter, green, slightly medicinal, musky, and powdery. With clever use of musks, he further veils the accord and gives it a nice lift, like Angel dust. The leather component makes me think of fine leather goods, as only Hermes knows how to do. It’s devoid of smoke, while there is a prominent salty quality that I absolutely love. It hints at human skin, making for quite an intimate touch. When I first tried Cuir d'Ange, I was taken aback since I did not expect Hermes and Jean-Claude to present such a crude and assertive leather. There is a slight stable-like and rural vibe to it, but in the most elegant way. After all, this is Hermes.

I find it interesting how there isn’t much talk among “Cuir aficionados” about this perfume, despite being one of the most brilliant, definitely skillful leathers around, in my humble opinion. It is a true testament of “the materials are important, but the nose is the most important.” And it does not resemble any other perfume. Clone houses seem more preoccupied with duping Ambre Narguilé, the darling of the line. However, true connoisseurs know about Cuir d'Ange, and the ones I know and value hold it in high regard, deservedly so. If you fancy yourself a Cuir lover, you have to sample this. It is not only one of Ellena’s best works, but I believe it is one of the best leathers ever made.

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Pumpkivus by Pineward Perfumes

As a HUGE pumpkin lover and grower, I have longed for a perfume to do justice to this amazing fruit. I have tried multiple, but they all missed the point, most of them smelling more of holiday candles or ice cream desserts. With Pumpkivus, justice has been done, and honestly, I don’t know if it can get any better or more vivid than this. For me, Pineward offers an amazing concept on paper, but it often falls short in reality. Last year, they launched two perfumes that I had long wished for: this one and Tome (an incredibly accurate approximation of old books and leather), and I crossed my fingers that they could nail both. And they did.

When I read the blurb on Pumpknivus and the in-house extractions and materials used, I realized its potential. They also included a fair warning, “a challenging perfume.” The last time they gave that word of caution, it was for the brilliant Funerie, my favorite Pineward to date. Still, daunted by the past three years of disappointing releases, I decided to go with samples first.

For people who are familiar with the way raw pumpkin flesh smells, and how the fibrous part inside that holds the seeds does, they will instantly recognize and appreciate what has been achieved in Pumpkivus. Hence, you will get the raw pumpkin, not the candle, nor the ice cream, nor the pie. The flesh absolute and the pumpkin seed extract represent the core of this fragrance. It evokes this organic, fleshy, somehow fruity, partly green, and nutty aroma. The other elements orbit around, lending their particularities and transforming the perfume into a rather weird, at times even off-putting, smoky-earthy-fruity-sweet concoction that doesn’t smell like anything else. If I were to draw similarities, I could name several fragrances that occupy a similar space, such as Sova from Slumberhouse or Treacle from Pineward. It reminds me of Sova mostly. They both share this dark, agrestic theme, organic, sweet, smoky, earthiness that leaves you scratching your head in regards to what the hell is that you are smelling, and yet you can’t take your nose off it. Repulsive and enticing simultaneously.

Since an image is said to be worth a thousand words, this is how I picture Pumpkivus:
You take a pumpkin, crack it open. Pour some sugar on it and let it sit on the wet earth until it starts to spoil. Once it’s gone rancid, set it on fire. Mission complete.
If it were a movie, it would have been a Tim Burton motion picture. If it were a song, undoubtedly Slipknot.

It evokes a combination of savory, putrid, edible, sweet, creamy, and earthy elements. Like organic compost. I can see how the corn silage and the oud help with that fermented nuance, and how the patchouli and the vetiver bring about the earthiness. Of course, the corn silk and the brown sugar provide the sweetness. A challenging perfume indeed, much like Funerie with which it shares plenty, not in smell, but in identity. They both belong to decayed matter, not to the living. They sure make for a nice Halloween pair. However, the sweetness and creaminess, and even the nutty quality in Pumpkivus make it less difficult and easier to enjoy. It is one of those scents that makes you recoil, only to immediately come back for more. Nevertheless, the dry-down is truly delightful, as it morphs into a creamy and nutty pumpkin with a sweet smokiness lingering around. If you love pumpkins or challenging and weird agrestic scents like Sova, definitely give this one a try.

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Onda Voile d'Extrait by Vero Profumo

I truly believe that when Vero created her perfumes, she wanted to embody certain aspects of femininity through each one. If that was the case, then Onda most definitely represents the burning passion. Of course, I don’t believe in marketing perfumes by gender. Still, when I see perfumes such as Onda, Bandit, Femme, and Tabac Blond targeted toward women, I can’t help but wonder what bold personalities women had back then. Bold, in capital letters, just like these perfumes are, and most certainly, how Onda is.

I said it must represent the fire, the lust, and that’s because it makes me think of both.
Another way I picture it is going down the spiral staircase in the castle, only to find the dragon’s lair. There, you find an old chest. Inside is the precious bottle of Onda. It evokes that imagery. There is a fiery opening that lingers throughout like a burn. Then comes a dusty and old leather garment, moving toward a smoky lair of woods, moss, and animals lurking in the dark.

Note that my preference when it comes to Onda, and as a matter of fact, all of Vero’s perfume compositions, lies with the Voile d’Parfums and the Extraits. I am omitting the Eau de Parfums. For me, they fall short of the original idea and overall feel more top-heavy and less challenging. Therefore, I discuss the Extrait and Voile versions of Onda, and briefly point out the differences between them. However, the core idea and scent are the same. It sprouted with the Extraits and was carried over to the Voiles.

Onda is a highly complex composition built on three parts, skillfully coming together as each layer moves into the next, hence becoming increasingly intricate as it progresses.

The first part is a punch in the face, a full-on assault of spices and aromatics that evoke the imagery of fire. A cauldron simmering on the flames, in which ginger, coriander, nutmeg, and basil are thrown. Give it a good stir and inhale the sinus-cleansing fumes. You can feel it burning your throat.

The second part begins shortly after with a combination of cold and chalky powder, which I attribute to the orris, and a rugged leather accord that creeps in assertively. The afterburn from the opening carries through as the dusty leather aspect continues, joined by an ascending woodiness coming from the vetiver. It’s also at this point where Onda begins to get smoky.

In the final stage, the vetiver begins to showcase its full spectrum of facets: smoky, peaty, woody, aromatic, and slightly nutty. The leather and the orris continue to dance while new performers join the party, such as oakmoss, lending a beautiful, velvety, and bitter dimension. Another one is honey (on the dry side and animalic), and of course, a fatty musk cocktail in which I can mostly distinguish the civet. It’s dark, earthy, smoky, dripping with lust, and how I like to call them, “old-world smelling.” It’s dark erotic poetry, and for me, it is bliss.

To briefly touch on the differences, there is the original Extrait, the original Voile de Parfum, and the reissued Voile de Parfum by Campomarzio in Italy. The Extrait is the most brutal, borderline androgenic. Very smoky, peaty, dry, spicy, and woody. The original Voile is very similar to it, but it opens up and unfolds more slowly, so that one can identify more facets. The basil comes through better, the orris also, it feels more powdery and less dry and harsh. The latest reissue brings a few (and very welcomed) changes: the opening offers a more citrusy and juicy dimension in lieu of the fiery one, the heart presents a fruity and fleshy ylang-ylang, and the honey note is less dry and a tad sweeter. I find them different enough to be worth owning if one loves Onda as much as I do, and I admit that the Campomarzio reissue is my favorite, as it keeps the original DNA while adding some extra new layers to it.

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Point Mort by YS Uzac

I confess, I am not a fan of oud perfumes. To me, oud is something that needs to be savored and celebrated in its pure, unadulterated form. It is a perfume on its own, perfected by time and nature, and further elevated by a skilled distiller. Therefore, I wave most oud perfumes as they pass by, thinking to myself: ” What a waste of time, resources, and money.” However, there is one perfumer who can persuade me, and that is Vincent Micotti. A man who understands and appreciates oud beyond the boundaries of perfumery. He uses it to convey an artistic idea, rather than display a composition centered around it.

Naturally, when I heard Point Mort was making a comeback, I was excited. Please note that this version is not meant to replicate the original. There have been changes made to the composition, as requested by the person who commissioned the original Point Mort.

The first thing that struck me was that this perfume felt immediately familiar as an actual oud perfume, in contrast with the other compositions from the house that use agarwood. Ankaa, Night, and Theros are more elusive, although once you wrap your head around each, you’ll start to understand what the material is doing. With Point Mort II, it hit me on the first try - “This is Chinese!” Unmistakably. When I say Chinese, don’t think of the fractionated Sinensis oils, the one-chord, honey-focused varieties that have become so popular nowadays. And for good reason, they are easy to grasp and easy to love. You need to go back, back to those older Chinese oils that offered the full spectrum of flavors. And boy, they had so much to offer. Some older Ensar Oud oils, such as Hainan 2005 and China Sayang, a few traditional Yunnan oils, and I believe Jinkoh Store had one that was more traditional in feel, Hainan Essenza. I’m talking about those full-bodied, more traditional Chinese oils that offered a proper buffet and olfactory universe that is difficult to encounter in any other terroir. Primarily, what made those Chinese oils so singular was that they offered a plethora of primordial, visceral facets that are typical of such oils. With many of them, you’ll smell musk, ambergris, leather, hay, and earthy-like nuances. The Chinese believed that there is no better smell than the scent of the human body. Not as it is today, washed and pampered by a dozen care products, stripped of all of its innate odors. But the way it smelled thousands of years ago. Oils like those are a treat and a learning curve. This is the type of oud profile I am picking up in Point Mort II. For me, it is the most recognizable as an oud composition among the rest of the Ys-Uzacs. However, one has come to expect a poetic rendition, and not a straightforward alcohol treatment, as with all works from the house. Ys-Uzac is not about the materials; it’s about the creative vision achieved through the means of olfaction.

A chess game with time. Indeed, after spending some time with it, I can definitely see the game being played, and time winning invariably. I don’t know what the note pyramid is, but to my nose and imagination, the perfume unfolds like this:

The Opening: Short-lived, perhaps a couple of minutes - spark, ozone, mineral, smoky, flint-like, spicy.
I picture a Supernova, and following it, birth. It starts the way everything does, with genesis.

Act I: antique wood, fresh fruit, apricots, tea, ginger, rosehip, frangipani, and osmanthus flowers in bloom, ink, paper.
A young man. A writer, perhaps a poet. Aristocrat. He writes in his study room, beautifully ornate with massive wooden furniture. The window opens to a Pistache tree forest nearby. It’s Springtime, and the breeze blows joyously. There’s plenty of time till Autumn.

Act II: deep wood, dead foliage, rust, copper, overripe fruit, leather, hay, musk, red and brown colors.
Decades later, the same person is now a crippled, old man. He writes still, his hand shaky. The fruits turned bad on the table, emanating a stale odor. He’s been neglecting the decorum, and some mustiness has crept in along the wood beams. On the table, the books he wrote are carefully wrapped in leather sleeves. Outside, Autumn has changed the Pistache tree forest to a rusty, deep orange hue.

Act III: musty leather, urinous musk, earth, wood.
The body is prepared for its return into the earth. The wooden casket closes over the dead flesh that has just started to decompose, and the last rusty nail is hammered into place with a low-pitched sound. The earth is still; only the worms are joyful today. Nature’s cycle is now complete, and time hails triumphant again, the undisputed chess champion for the millennia that have passed, and the ones yet to come.

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Thaumas by Sammarco

I really love the way Giovanni Sammarco handles florals and appreciate the time he takes working on a new creation. I want artists to take all the time necessary and focus on the creative process, without pressure from retailers or giving in to market demands about what and when to release something new. Therefore, when I heard back in 2024 that Sammarco was introducing a new scent to their line, I was eager to try it, since I own quite a few and I knew it would be worthwhile. However, I postponed it. I first looked over the note list and how the fragrance was presented, as well as community feedback. There were several things that I wasn’t so sure about: “powdery and fruity” is most often a pair made in Hell for me, and further looking at the notes listed, I felt it was maybe a spin of the already brilliant Ariel (Orris and Sandalwood heavy floral composition). I took my time. Last year, I requested a sample with a purchase. I sprayed it on the blotter and was floored by it. An instant love. The opening was so good that I started bracing myself, expecting it to go South (the powdery-fruity thing). But it never did. No powder and no sweet fruitiness on my skin. Floral? Or is it? The best way I can describe this fragrance is: if one were to think of the fattiest, creamiest, homemade butter, but instead of milk, one would use flowers. This smells like butter made of flowers. Straight-up. It is so creamy and buttery that you can smell the texture. A salty quality accompanies the fragrance throughout. And then, behind this salty and creamy veil, I pick up the Narcissus and the Jasmine. I personally get no fruity nuances, nor the powdery or the sweet ones. To me, Thaumas is not sweet at all, but rather salty.

Thaumas doesn’t shift significantly throughout the wear. For me, that can be a problem, unless the scent is so satisfying that I wish it wouldn’t change, and that is the case here. Moreover, despite lacking in vertical development, I find it fascinating in the way it builds on this “floral-butter accord,” and love picking up various facets that help construct that imagery. I reckon the culprits responsible for this savory texture are: orris, sandalwood, jasmine, and ambergris. Each contributes to certain aspects of it - the orris and the sandalwood provide the creamy and buttery texture, ambergris the saline quality, and jasmine the milky quality. One can think of this perfume as a heavy orris-sandalwood duet, much like with Ariel, but that is merely the core structure. And it differs greatly from the one in Ariel. The latter plays on the spicy, milky, sweet facets of the sandal and the chalky facets of orris. Thaumas is more about the buttery wood and the creamy orris. The use of ambergris should not be overlooked, as it does such a terrific job in lending a salty touch to the composition. Lastly, the florals, from which I mostly pick up the narcissus, one of my favorite floral materials, which plays on the leathery and skin-like nuances, while the jasmine plays on the milky ones. There is also a hint of smokiness, very subtle, but undoubtedly there.

All in all, this latest addition to the line also became my favorite of everything Giovanni has created. It might not be as cerebral and captivating as Ariel, nor as sexual as Alter, and it lacks the bad-boy gusto of Bond-T, but it is so deeply satisfying. For me, it is pure joy and comfort; the warmest, coziest blanket. Or the thickest, creamiest slice of butter, which I stopped indulging in a long time ago, so I might very well indulge in Thaumas.

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Ponderosa by Pineward Perfumes

This fragrance could give Fille en Aiguilles a real run for its money as far as my favorite compositions to wear around Christmas Festivities go. I remember sampling it back in 2022, expecting a total wreck, since I dislike both pine-heavy and sweet-gourmand perfumes. And it turned out to be a brilliant discovery.

It is both a pine-dominant and a gourmand perfume, but the balance (and this is the key word here) of the two parts is so finely tuned that people like myself who struggle with both could find plenty to love about Ponderosa. Now, I never had the chance to smell Ponderosa Pine trees in real life. Supposedly, they do emanate these sweet vanillin, butterscotch, caramel, and cinnamon-like facets. What Nick did with this composition is to create a cozy and enveloping pine scent built around this unique-smelling coniferous by amplifying the innate “gourmand” and sweet facets of the tree. Therefore, you’ll get pine, and loads of it. However, it smells incredibly comfy and warm, delicious, and sweet, without ever becoming obnoxious or falling into the gourmand category (at least for me). My main issue with most pine-forward perfumes is that they lack warmth. When it comes to woody materials, I prefer the warmer, more exotic varieties. Hence, for me, coniferous notes have never presented much of an interest. But with Ponderosa, the warmth is present, in heaps. It works so well that you could feel it enveloping you. It is the warmest and coziest pine perfume I know, while always staying true to its identity, without succumbing to excessive sweetness. Just enough to convert even an unbeliever like me. Now, imagine if you were a die-hard Conehead. Fille en Aiguilles is my quintessential choice, while Ponderosa is the one that keeps me warm.

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Nostalgia by Santa Maria Novella

Well, I couldn’t say that I spent much time around vintage Italian sports cars; therefore, I don’t know how close to the brief Santa Maria Novella came when they put together Nostalgia, a perfume that, according to the brand, is trying to capture that certain smell. If I didn’t read anything about the backstory of this fragrance and were to dive into it blind, I don’t think that I would have made that association. Yes, it captures specific smells that to me have a nostalgic feel, but I never would have guessed they were hinting at sports cars.

As a perfume, this one is quite an oddity. I would have gone as far as to say the weirdest in their line, but then there’s Marescialla. I think both are unusual and difficult, in different ways, since they smell nothing alike. And even so, something is appealing in both. Some bits make me recoil, while there are also parts that I love. Both of them prove to be a “difficult relationship” case for me, and yet they smell so unlike anything else that owning them is the only way to remind myself of such peculiar compositions.

The opening of Nostalgia makes me smile, recoil, crave more, and run for the hills, all at once. It hits on all fronts with no backing off: smoky leather, burnt rubber, plastic, glue, wood laminate, turpentine, and an old-school aromatic accord that reminds me of the vintage shaving foam my grandfather used to use. I still don’t know what to make and how to feel about this introduction. Luckily, it settles down quickly, with the lesser appealing facets dissipating and the more appealing ones sticking through. Hence, once the more “synthetic” nuances burn out, what remains is this smoky leather accord, quite supple, not harsh, paired to the aromatic component that is so prevalent in all the house’s compositions, and an increasingly strong resinous warmth with subtle sweetness. It remains distinctive still, but now it feels more recognizable as a perfume and less as chemical warfare. At this stage, if not for the aromatic component that runs through it, it could have been linked to other resinous, smoky, leather perfumes, but the former anchors it nicely into a slot of its own.

It’s quite a bumpy ride, one that starts with a crash for me, only to improve as the race moves on. A race in reverse, if you want. I know some folks love the opening, so I guess for them it starts with the number one finish. So yes, a race in reverse, nevertheless, and whether it’s going to be “a crash” or “a win” upon first sniff, it’s up to you. Just be patient, it gets really good shortly after.

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Rozy Voile d'Extrait by Vero Profumo

“A Rose Is Still a Rose,” said no Vero Kern ever.

Next to Onda, Rozy is the most complex work in the Vero Profumo catalog. A perfume that fascinates me on multiple levels, apart from the name. I don’t know what inspired it, but to me it sounds rather discordant with the fragrance itself. Such a convivial title for a composition that steers quite mature and dangerous. But perhaps that is how it all started. The journey of coming of age. With a little girl named Rozy.

There is nothing "breezy" about Rozy. There’s not even much rose to it. I also feel quite reserved about placing it in a group of fragrances since it spans such a vast territory, but if I were to squeeze everything and have it fit in one slot, it would be the Oriental genre.

It is really fascinating how Vero managed to pull inspiration from the classics to later develop her own original ideas. The way she used materials in ways they were rarely used by other perfumers, and how she always thought outside the box. With a name like Rozy, one would expect a big rose at the center of the composition, but that is hardly the case. The floral part of this fragrance is built upon a mutant “TuberRose.” I say mutant because it is neither tuberose nor rose, more like a hybrid of the two. Of course, Vero wouldn’t just glue them together, but further transmute the individual parts. Therefore, the tuberose keeps some of its innate characteristics: green and camphoraceous, while its rubbery and almost leathery aspects are amped up. The rose is pressed against the pages of a book and left to dry: a dusty carcass of its former self, while its natural fruity/berry-like facets are further exploited. She opted for blackcurrant/cassis to emphasize the delta-damascone-like molecules naturally found in rose. And so, Rozy opens with a burst of juicy blackcurrant supported by camphoraceous and green facets, quickly followed by the bouquet of transformed flowers. But the floral part doesn’t get to hold the limelight, as one can almost immediately sense darkness creeping under. I pick up a prominent leather accord, quite dusty and dry. It feels like the florals are growing out of a leather garment, perhaps partly because of how the tuberose is transfigured. And this leather accord will continue to hold its ground for a long time, joined by other Oriental motifs as Rozy morphs on the skin: honey (again, dry and not syrupy), incense, resins (styrax and cistus), woods, oakmoss, and a noticeable animalic cocktail of musks, very similar to the one used in Onda, only slightly toned down by comparison. The brighter bits of Rozy disappear as swiftly as they appear. You get a glimpse of the currant buds and an impression of the florals just before they get engulfed by this harem of sins. Its fall from grace is predestined with no turning back. She was once a little girl named Rozy, and she turned into a beautiful woman who has mastered the art of seduction.

Ultimately, Rozy feels like watching someone’s coming-of-age journey, or perhaps witnessing one’s transgression. It is a story of becoming. I enjoy every chapter of it, as each part is satisfying in its own way with no dull moments. A thorough olfactory composition where quality materials, skillful crafting, classic and modern alike, summit.

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Ambra Aurea by Profumum

Time to reach out more for the scents that cut through the cold. I wear whatever I feel like all year round, but there are a few scents that fare better in the cold. Ambra Aurea is one of them. Not necessarily because it is an amber scent, but because it is so thick and oily that it often becomes suffocating in the heat, while it envelops you like a warm cocoon during the cold Winter months. It is one of the most renowned Amber perfumes on the market, and rightfully so. Among the true amber fragrances in my collection, it is the least dynamic and unique, but it delivers in quality what it lacks in diversity. My main complaints with Profumum Roma scents are: 1) they are rather linear, and 2) too sweet for my tastes. Boy, they sure love their sweetness. However, Ambra Aurea, while it is sweet, never gets on my nerves. There is a strong bitterness from the myrrh, as well as a saltiness from the ambergris to help offset the sweetness. Surprisingly, this is an amber scent that is rather complex, going through several transitions along the way. I think it is one of the strongest creations in their line, at least for my tastes. It opens up with a strong note of myrrh that smells bitter, medicinal, and earthy to the point of feeling fungal. It has this oily texture from the get-go, almost like you're applying essential oil rather than perfume, but then these Profumum scents are very concentrated. There is also a saline quality with a hint of muskiness and tobacco-like facets, most likely attributed to the ambergris. As it settles down, it becomes sweeter, smokier, and more toffee-like. It gets significantly sweeter compared to the opening, but is kept in check by the other factors. Another thing that becomes more apparent as it evolves is the smokiness. For the first two hours or so, I wouldn’t call this a smoky amber, but in the dry-down, it gets really smoky. I like how it progresses, and I appreciate the quality of materials and the ratios used to create the perfect balance. As mentioned, it’s not a unique take on amber, but surely one of the best interpretations on the market, and of very high quality also.

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Varanasi by Meo Fusciuni

The way Giuseppe conveys personal experiences from his travels, and emotions likewise, through his works, is quite admirable. With Varanasi, he not only communicates his memories of the Spiritual Capital of India, but does it justice to such an extent that one can feel the energy of the city by experiencing the fragrance. He also portrays a lesser “advertised” face of India. It is not as pretty and colorful as you might encounter with most olfactory compositions or see in postcards and travel magazines. He shows the wild parts, the unfiltered bits that are purposefully omitted.

By now, you can contour an idea of what this fragrance smells like. Spiritual, spicy, dirty in a visceral and natural way (that developed countries forgot about). He offers glimpses of the agreeable: a shy jasmine and rose duet, some warm, sweet cardamom, enough to remind you of the beautiful parts. But make no mistake, this perfume is ultimately dark, sober, and quite dirty. Another fascinating thing is how the incense accord feels. It’s a “wet incense.” I can’t shake that damp quality off. Imagine Varanasi at night during the religious ritual of Asthi Visarjan. This is when people come to immerse the ashes of their deceased into the Ganges. How would that smell? He conveys that imagery through this scent. Indeed, the perfume is very earthy. Damp earth. I get plenty of the spikenard, but also the cypriol and the oakmoss. There is a slight minerality from the ambergris. The saffron and the musks help create a leather-like accord. It is both smooth and subhuman. The spices hit hard in the opening, mostly nutmeg and cardamom, and stick throughout. Above everything, the incense reigns supreme. It feels more like wood being burnt for incense rather than resins. The effect is quite dry and devoid of sweetness, slightly ashy. The damp quality sticks all along, making it stand out among other incense-themed perfumes. Truthfully, I find Varanasi rather unique. If I were to draw a parallel, I could name Tom Ford’s London. However, while London is bone dry and akin to the capital at night during Victorian England, Meo’s creation travels many miles to the East to tackle a more profound and religious approach to that same spicy-dirty-incense theme.

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September Country by YS Uzac

September may be behind us, and likewise, Autumn soon. Still, I felt it wasn’t too late to squeeze this in. I thoroughly enjoyed it this season; it does justice to the name. There is a festive and autumnal vibe about it. While I could see myself rocking it all year round, I feel colder months suit it best.

During the early weeks of Fall, there are all sorts of food and wine festivals here. Farmers come from all over the country to sell their stock. People prepare all kinds of local dishes, savory and sweet alike. The aroma that fills the air is glorious and highly diverse. Spices, alcoholic beverages, stewed vegetables and fruits, fresh fruit, and sweet preserves. A mingling of flavors that delights the palate. An explosion of colors. And that is exactly how September Country smells to me, and of what it makes me think of. There is so much contrast and so many hues. I have no idea what the actual notes are, but to me it smells like a combination of: gin, apple cider, ginger, tarragon, juniper berries, cloves, cinnamon, anise, parsley root, marzipan, and smoked woods. There is more, but these accords are few that I can distinguish. It’s spicy and boozy, very herbal and quite bitter. The bitterness is offset by a slight amount of sweetness, just enough to restore balance. In the dry-down, it becomes more about the smoky wood notes. Like the aftermath of the fair, with the furnaces smoldering in the memory of the joy they offered. Another artistic perfume from Ys-Uzac that this time tells the story of abundance and change that bestows the Fall season.

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Bond-T by Sammarco

I’m probably in the minority with this one when I say that, on me, it behaves like a musty leather fragrance for the most part. I see people calling it gourmand (what!?), a patchouli (that I can see), even a tobacco perfume (perhaps a facet of the osmanthus). But to me, it is a bold leather, very phenolic, and very musty (definitely from the patchouli). I can draw a parallel between the leather accord in Bond-T and the one in Areej Le Dore Antiquity Part 1. They sure have that in common. There is certainly a good amount of cocoa sprinkled on top, but I can’t think of it as a gourmand. Maybe a leather fetish sort of kink, and I’ll stop there. The castoreum is big here, in its all-natural beauty and complexity, contributing to the leather accord next to the second important component of it, the osmanthus absolute. A very phenolic one, I might add. Smoky, tarry, with a subtle sweetness underneath and only a minor fruitiness. The patchouli mainly adds that musty and earthy quality, which makes everything so much better. Rugged and in your face, that’s Bond-T. This is definitely not the other Bond, you know, James Bond. Maybe if he were a beaver dressed in a leather trench that belonged to his smoking great-grandfather, who fought in WWI, after he wrestled a boar in dark cocoa powder. Maybe then it could be a Bond-J. Alas, as it stands, it is Bond-T.

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Cadavre Exquis by Fazzolari + Gardoni

It all started with a sample, generously provided by a fellow perfumista, which led to many months searching up and down for a bottle. Finally, this quest came to fruition, courtesy of two generous souls.

At the time, I was well aware of this collaborative project between Bruno Fazzolari and Antonio Gardoni, as well as familiar with Bruno’s own interpretation in Corpse Reviver. The latter remains to date my favorite perfume from Bruno, only second to Au Delà Narcisse, although surpassing it in terms of peculiarity. Stumbling upon its predecessor, Cadavre Exquis, I came to discover that I much prefer and enjoy it. However, they are not that similar, and I could see myself justifying owning both, but I will get into that comparison shortly.

Cadavre Exquis is not only idiosyncratic as a composition, but for me, a delightful fragrance that cleverly combines medicinal, spicy, animalic/musky, and gourmand characteristics in a way I have not encountered before. Not only did this project assemble two highly atypical noses, but the fact that it involved back-and-forth cooperation at 6000 miles distance is another amazing feat. A fellow enthusiast described it to me as more of an “O’Driu meets Slumberhouse,” and I see where he is coming from, but there is unmistakable Antonio and Bruno material in it. The name says it all - a monstrosity of a gourmand, a far cry from the usual ones that recently overtook the scene, the offspring of two experimental noses who never shied away from bold compositions. Do not be fooled by the gourmand moniker. It is one in the way it hints at various edible foods, herbs, spices, and even beverages, but the sweetness is kept in check; therefore, it will not drive up your blood glucose to a concerning level. I suspect that the more appetizing parts of the composition had Bruno’s touch, while the more aromatic, spicy, medicinal, and animalic ones, Antonio’s. One thing that fascinates me is how much emphasis was put on vanilla, although I don’t pick it up in particular. I would never call this a vanilla fragrance, not in a million years. What I get and recognize are facets of it, and the way it helps to texture the perfume, but not the actual flavor. According to Bruno, they have used a tincture, a CO2, and an absolute. The texture is my favorite part of this fragrance. It feels very much like butter, and to some extent, beeswax absolute. I messaged Bruno and asked if he used or intended for an actual butter accord. That’s how vivid it is. The way he explained it to me is that when you combine “edible” materials with animalics, you tend to get similar nuances. And it makes perfect sense. Both butter and beeswax are of animal origin, and both smell quite animalic. Therefore, this buttery, milky, waxy, and creamy texture dominates on my skin throughout, and on top of it, everything else seems to play its own tune. I can’t quite speak of a consistent scent development, as I pull various facets under different conditions. And the structure is highly complex.

I like to picture this perfume like a buffet. Nothing is missing. The hosts, your friendly Civet Cat family neighbours. They have their natural odor, but that doesn’t stop you from indulging in the feast they prepared. For starters, it is wise to have some entries to make sure the digestive system is primed for the binge to come. Some camphor leaves and star anise will help, but let us not forget the sweet, warm Amaretto with its dried-fruit and almond-like aroma, often prescribed as a digestif. With the warm-up done, we proceed to the chocolate. Heavy on cocoa butter and high in milk, as the civets don’t fancy the dark varieties. A banana milkshake is sure to help it go down easier, and while at it, don’t forget the dried fruits and the almonds. Does anyone want more butter? These cats sure love butter. In the midst of it, you ask someone to open the window, letting some fresh air in to ventilate the civet-stenched room. The breeze carries in the scent of the cypress trees growing nearby. Braced by it, you resume the festivities with revitalized appetite.

As you can see, yes, there are some medicinal qualities (camphor), but they don’t last long and are soon replaced by a creamy Amaretto accord and strong star anise. The chocolate skews toward high-fat milk varieties rather than the darker ones, and the ylang-ylang suggests a banana-like impression. There is a candied orange accord in the opening, later replaced by moist dried fruits, while the base reveals faint cypress and benzoin touches. The civet note is quite prevalent and intensifies as the perfume dries down. What I appreciate here is the minimal, naturally derived sweetness and silky-smooth (buttery and creamy) texture. That, paired with everything else, makes it such an enjoyable ride. Not only to my palate, but to my imagination as well. Hands down the best gourmand perfume I have ever tried, and no surprise, my favorite. Not only does it quench your appetite, but it also challenges your understanding of various accords and materials. The way they have been put to such great use and, more importantly, synchronized in total unison, even at 6000 miles apart, between two very different artistic styles.

Last but not least, I know many asked me and wonder: “How does Cadavre compare (scent-wise) to Bruno’s version that came out in 2019, Corpse Reviver?” Well, I ran through three samples of it, compared them many times, and wore them separately. I never felt that Corpse was meant as a replacement for Cadavre, but rather a different approach. One could easily own and enjoy both as they behave differently. Here is a quick breakdown highlighting the main distinct elements between the two, in my experience.

- Cadavre is a gourmand and makes strong use of savory elements. Everything about it(texture included) hints at a buffet. On the other hand, Corpse Reviver is a smoky, woody perfume, with a prominent malty-whiskey flavor, and I can’t place it as a gourmand, despite a brief dark chocolate accord in the opening.

- With Cadavre, the vanilla feels like the engine of the composition, whereas in Corpse, the oakwood is the main player. If you have ever smelled oakwood absolute, you’ll realize how much of a pivotal role it plays in the fragrance. Prevalent facets one can pick up are toffee, malt, whiskey, woody, and smoky.

- Texture-wise, Cadavre feels buttery, milky, and creamy. There is no smokiness, and the effect is very cozy and smooth. With Corpse, the texture is harder, making me think of wood logs in a fireplace, a glass of whiskey in the hand, and a small tray with some dark chocolate (as opposed to milk chocolate). Overall, it feels sharper and rougher.

- While both showcase boozy accords, in Cadavre I perceive more of an Amaretto type of facet, very creamy, almondy, fruity, and sweet. With Corpse Reviver, it is all about the whiskey.

- There is a noticeable civet note in Cadavre that I don’t pick up with Corpse. My tolerance for animalics is very high, so it might be there for others.

At the end of the day, they are different spins on the same DNA, but one makes me think of food while the other of wood and smoke. While I can’t compare Cadavre Exquis to anything, I could make an association between Corpse Reviver and a few dark, treacly, woody, and spicy offerings from Lutens, such as Le Participe Passé or L'Innommable. I love the former, and I’m not yet decided on the latter. Not because I don’t enjoy it, on the contrary, but I’m not sure I need that DNA in my overabundant collection as of now. Time will tell.

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