Fragrance Reviews by Vibert

Oh joy! A lavender scent that doesn't turn into stuffy-old-man soap! I love fresh lavender in the garden, but tend to steer away from lavender scents. Unless they have strong animalic components - like Jicky or Ungaro II - they become oppressively soapy on my skin. Not Gris Clair.

My experience is that almost every time Sheldrake and Lutens break out of their obsessive sweet oriental groove, they strike gold: Sa Majeste la Rose, Chene, Un Lys, Tubereuse Criminelle, and now Gris Clair. The element of success in this scent, I believe, is balance. The lavender is palpably real and three-dimensional, but not overwhelming. Instead, it's perfectly offset by smooth woods and soft spices, enlivened by a mild camphorous note, and rounded out by just the merest dab of sweetness in the base. It's not sensuous in the manner of most Serge Lutens scents, but rather quite reserved and formal.

Gris Clair is a scent that I would turn too when I'm dressing well in warm weather and want to project sophistication, poise, and confidence. Better than average lasting power and adequate, yet controlled sillage and projection add to its charms. Bravo!

The intense candied citrus and floral notes that open Tocade are accompanied by some disturbing ethanol fumes, but these subside quickly to reveal a rich vanilla custard accord with sharp rosy accents. Tocade’s vanilla could easily have become cloying, but it is rescued by a vaguely medicinal bitter edge on its floral components. The overall effect winds up more soapy than foody, which is fine by me. If pressed, I’d guess that the bitterness stems from some galbanum in the mix, and that this, in concert with the rose and a clear, dry cedar in the base, creates the soapy accord that offsets all the vanilla.

Tocade remains relatively linear for some time once the vanilla-soap accord settles into place, though a sweet, fruity amber eventually gains some prominence in the base. The drydown is smooth cedar and vanilla, with just a hint of the tangy amber deep in the background. I think Tocade is a very pleasant scent –safe and easy to wear, but I can’t help but feel that it’s just a little bit dull as well.

Neither of the two earlier Eau d’Italie scents I’ve tried – Sienne l’Hiver or Bois d’Ombrie – pleased me much, but I just had to know what Bertrand Duchaufour, master of dark, smoky incense, would do with an aquatic floral. Magnolia Romana goes on with a blend of green floral notes and smoky (yes, smoky,) nutmeg so beautifully calculated that I want to freeze the opening in place for hours. But after a few minutes an aquatic accord wells up to douse the smoke, and Magnolia Romana emerges quickly and dramatically from veiled mystery to limpid clarity. Bright rose, crisp cypress, and ozone/calone notes blend into an accord that smells more of lotus than magnolia to me, while a very hard-edged cedar interacts with the rose to yield a nose-tingling peppery accent.

It’s that sharp, peppery edge that keeps me engaged as Magnolia Romana develops. Its bitter dissonance rescues the scent from the comfortable blandness that ruins so many watery florals. Another redeeming feature is an utter lack of sugar. Most similarly structured scents I know wallow in gobs of tropical fruit syrup, but this one eschews the melon margarita mix for a bracing shot of Campari.

Once it reveals its cool, bitter heart Magnolia Romana remains linear for a full four or five hours before folding down into its cedar base. Much to my delight, the peppery bite persists right till the end. Though not a weak scent, Magnolia Romana wears close to the skin, even when applied generously. Magnolia Romana is not a scent for those who enjoy filling a room with their fragrance, but I can recommend it as a warm weather option for anyone who hankers after a sugar free variation on the aquatic green floral theme.

With a name like "Isfarkand," I expect a rich, evocative oriental scent, but that’s not what Ormonde Jayne delivers here. Isfarkand starts out with a peppery kick, immediately followed by brisk, tart citrus. These top notes are bolstered by a bone dry cedar and spice accord that evokes parched dunes and scorching sun. The citrus notes fade after several minutes, as citrus notes are wont to do, leaving the spare spiced cedar accord in stark isolation. Isfarkand continues in this manner for most of its duration, and as I wear it, it’s simple structure begins to strike me as familiar. As I perceive it, Isfarkand parallels other dry cedar-dominated scents like Diptyque’s Tam Dao and Satellite’s Padparadscha. (Both of which, as far as I’m aware, are cheaper.)

Is it good? Absolutely. But it doesn’t strike me as original. Try it if you like this sort of thing, but I can’t work up too much enthusiasm for it.

So where’s the “noir”? Orris Noir starts out as a rather bright, sweet, fruity fragrance, quickly supplemented with a hefty dose of powder. A blend of sweet spices emerges after several minutes, transforming the fragrance from fruit punch to baked fruit dessert and moving it toward oriental territory in the process. As Orris Noir develops the fruit calms down and the spices expand, making for much better balance. By the time I’ve worn it for an hour, Orris Noir has become a richer, though not particularly darker, scent.

To me the iris in this scent seems quite restrained – so much so that I’m surprised to find it in the name. By the time it reaches its crescendo Orris Noir is a sumptuous, if not outright decadent, sweet spicy oriental, which eventually subsides into a smooth balsamic-woody drydown. It’s a very nice scent, but its name gets no reward from me for truth in advertizing.

I'm not sure how much this has to do with osmanthus - at least with the osmanthus that grows in profusion in my neighborhood. On me, Ormonde Jayne's Osmanthus is a thick, heady, indolic white flower composition in the same raunchy vein as Mona di Orio's Nuit Noir and Etat Libre d'Orange's Charogne, if not quite as overtly erotic as either. Nonetheless, Osmanthus makes a strong statement, and that statement is suggestive. I attribute the hard-hitting indoles to the jasmine sambac in the pyramid, and I'm sure the leathery labdanum contributes to the scent's animalic nature. The drydown, which comes surprisingly soon on my skin, is mostly about cedar, complimented by a warm animalic musk.

I've begun to wonder if scents like Nuit Noir, Charogne, and Osmanthus represent a manifesto of rebellion against the spare, minimalist compositions that populate so many niche perfume lines. At any rate I see Osmanthus as a nice, lush "bedroom scent," but not something I'd wear to the office.

I've worn the odd, sweet/tart, fruity/floral champaca in scents like Ayala Moriel's Rebellius and Mandy Aftel's Tango, where it is backed by strong, smoky leather. Ormonde Jayne serves it simply, without the smoke and the hide, on a bet of sweet amber and woods. The effect is both exotic and refreshing, but also relativelly bright, and I can see wearing this scent if you're looking for something sweet to wear in summer. On the other hand, Champaca doesn't do much to excite me, and if I'm looking for the distinctive tang of its star ingredient, I'm going to turn to more complex and darker scents.

The simple, sweet smell of spring. Not just a bluebell, but a glass bell, sounding crisp and pure. This moist, ethereal green floral is linear and uncomplicated, but it always makes me smile.

Rive Gauche launches with intense, sweet, spicy top notes that distinguish it immediately from the run of contemporary men’s designer fragrances. (The listed star anise note is particularly prominent.) It then moves quickly to a woods and floral accord that’s dominated by a yeasty or winey patchouli note. The spices continue to hover around the patchouli, and the scent gradually sweetens as it develops. The floral accord eventually takes on the garb of carnation, while a deep vetiver note contributes much-needed balance by taking some of the sweet edge off of the spices and patchouli. So far, so good.

Sadly, by its third or fourth hour Rive Gauche pour Homme has collapsed into a base of thin, scratchy woods that are no fun at all to wear. It’s an unfortunate end for what began as a pleasant scent, and I’m left wondering whether YSL cut corners on the base ingredients.

If Ormonde Man were a color, it would be charcoal gray. It goes on dusty-dry and herbal, smelling of rosemary, pepper, and sage. A tightly integrated oudh accentuates the peppery accord, which is sweetened only slightly by spices in the background. All of this rests upon foundation of sharp-edged woods and vetiver, and though no incense notes are listed, the combination of oudh and spices leaves me with the impression of a dry, craggy incense fragrance. Ormonde Man’s mossy, vetiver-flavored drydown is both rugged and austere – I only wish it lasted longer. The fragrance runs its course within two or three hours, even when applied generously. After a few days’ wear I've decided that I like the stuff but it hasn’t knocked my socks off. And at Ormonde Jaynes’s price point and two hours duration, it would need to leave my toes showing.

The cinnamon-bergamot topnotes don’t scare me off at all, and I particularly like the way the tarragon spikes the opening accord before segueing into the sweet patchouli that follows. After that, I experience Gentleman as a largely conventional woods and patchouli fragrance on a powdery sweet amber base. What leather there may be isn’t terribly assertive, and if there’s any civet in this blend I’m missing it entirely. Carnation surfaces from time to time, but not with the panache it showed in the late and lamented Patou pour Homme.

I’m inclined to believe the rumors that this was once a bolder and more animalic scent. The Gentleman I’ve tried is ever so polite and undistinguished, not the dangerous, if sophisticated, rake I’ve heard described. I might have enjoyed that one’s company, but the new guy’s just a yawn.

Calyx opens with a blast of candied tropical fruit that reminds me of nothing so much as a big, fluorescent colored lollipop, and were it not for the scent’s high repute I might have dismissed it right away. The chemical fruit note persists, but softens over time to merge with a very smooth, milky green floral accord with the olfactory texture of a luxury hand cream. (Which given the Prescriptives cosmetic brand, isn’t so surprising.) That many lotions and shampoos are similarly scented does Calyx no favors, and it’s hard for me to shake the impression that I’m wearing a high-end bath product. Sillage and projection are limited from the start, and on me Calyx fades within two hours to a very soft fruit custard skin scent. Calyx ultimately strikes me as a pleasant scent but in the final analysis I don’t think it’s anything special. Menard's L'Eau de Ryokuei does the green floral thing much better (albeit more expensively), and for something a bit weightier and entirely sugar free, there's Estee Lauder's Beyond Paradise.

An aside: I wonder if Calyx has inspired Dawn Spencer Hurwitz’s recent Celadon, which being drier and less conventionally fruity, is an easier fragrance for me to wear.

Jicky without the civet.

Well, not really, but the two classics approach their dominant lavender accords from similar directions. In my experience lavender fragrances fall into two broad groups. Mix lavender with aromatic herbs, sharp citrus, and green notes, and you’ll get a brisk, astringent accord. Serge Lutens’s Gris Clair is a good example. Blend lavender with sweet citrus, vanilla, amber, and/or animalic musks, and the resulting accord will be warm and comforting. Both Jicky and Caron Pour un Homme take the latter approach, and both do it exceptionally well. But whereas Jicky underpins its citrus, lavender, and vanilla with a provocative civet base, Caron Pour un Homme’s lavender rests on a base of sweet, powdery amber and creamy woods.

While it’s reasonably potent, Caron Pour un Homme wears fairly close to the body. As lavender is a volatile note, the scent changes gears after two hours or so, when it begins to dry down to its luxuriously cushioned vanilla and wood base. The overall effect is comfortable, yet sophisticated, and very, very easy to live with. If you’re looking for a soft, fuzzy take on lavender but don’t relish Jicky’s animal overtones, Caron Pour un Homme is a must-try fragrance.

Is that Spanish for "Queasy, queasy, queazy?"

OK, so it's not that bad. Just another fruity floral. It starts out with synthetic "melon" and dries down powdery. Now pardon me as I go back to sleep...

Grey Flannel opens with a barrage of very dry, bitter herbal notes, supplemented by what smells to me like a very heavy dose of violet leaf. Over time a slightly sweeter mown grass accord enters to underpin the brusque top notes, but Grey Flannel remains a stark and craggy scent.

Grey Flannel eventually matures into a blunt vetiver on a mossy cedar base, from which point it remains resolutely linear before fading away. Grey Flannel is clearly a product of that same decade that brought us the more trenchant and confrontational Yatagan, and I’m glad it’s survived for all these years. It makes a fine antidote to the host of faceless clean men’s fragrances that dominate today’s designer market.

The combination of resinous and citrus top notes that introduces Habit Rouge always strikes me as “boozy,” like some kind of sweet, old-fashioned cocktail. A touch of smoke that follows resolves the liquor into whiskey, which floats over a base of sweet vanillic powder. There really is something laid back and sleepy about Habit Rouge: its overall effect is plush and comfortably reassuring, much like a pair of fuzzy slippers or a favorite upholstered chair. It’s on a par in quality with Derby and Heritage, and of the three it is the sweetest, softest, and the most easily approachable. Like Heritage, Habit Rouge projects well from the skin and leaves a conspicuous trail of sillage, so while it’s gentle in manner, it is not a weak or shy scent. Enjoy it with a good book, a glass of scotch, and a cozy fire. And if none of these are handy, you can rest easy - Habit Rouge will conjure them up for you anyway.

Does anybody really need another review of Cool Water? Beats me, but here are my two (s)cents:

Yes, it smells a lot like Green Irish Tweed, especially for the first half hour or so. And yes, it smells a little bit more obviously chemical. It's a relatively linear scent on me, and the drydown does not arrive at the familiar Creed Millesime base.

It's pleasant enough, if somewhat cheap smelling, but what works against it most is that it's over-used and too often imitated. In all fairness I should forgive Cool Water for spawning so many inane progeny, but I'm not sure that I'm a big enough person.

A very nice summer daytime scent: light and breezy, yet also possessed of some earthy mystery and a distinctive edge.

Silver Mountain Water opens up with a well balanced currant and tea accord, spiked with a touch of the aquatic and a twist of citrus. As the heart exposes itself, the tea and violet contribute an herbal, soil-like undercurrent that enriches a scent that might otherwise be too much of a lightweight.

Another distinctive feature is a metallic, or perhaps "stony" note (robyogi's "inkjet toner?") which for me lifts the whole composition onto a new plane. The element of subtle dissonance this note injects keeps me coming back for another sniff.

The drydown is very rapid on me, and reveals an accord familiar to anyone who's worn Millesime Imperial or Green Irish Tweed. In the case of Silver Moutain Water there is also a persitent echo of the current/tea accord that adds a little zest to the end stage. This is one of those scents that seem to disappear after a couple of hours, only to re-emerge unexpectedly from time to time.

Intriguing, and very well worth trying, regardless of gender.

Anybody remember Slim Jims? The slender, rather greasy sausage sticks were a favorite snack of mine, with a distinctive smell derived, no doubt, from a heavy dose of artificial "smoke" flavoring. Rub yourself down with a Slim Jim, and you've got Lonestar Memories.

The stuff goes on in a potent burst of barbecue smoke and dry leather. Both notes persist all the way through the development, to be joined by some candied amber in the Serge Lutens style, and then perhaps a bit of cedar and some black pepper. I can see Lonestar Memories as a room spray for the kitchen when you want to feel as if you've just had a barbecue, but I'm not tempted to wear it. Besides, Slim Jims (if they're still made,) are cheaper.

Chalk one up for truth in advertising. Noir Epices is just that: dark and brooding, like Byron's Manfed in a particularly grim mood. The nutmeg, black pepper, and clove blend with a clean rose note to produce a melancholic heart accord that is as beautiful as it is sober.

The pepper and clove hang around to join the patchouli and woods in a rich, yet utterly sugarless drydown. I get a whiff of barbershop a few hours into the development, but it's not enough to cheapen the scent at all. Instead, it adds a tinge of nostalgia to this already moody composition.

This is a gripping fragrance, and also very formal to my nose. Malle markets it as unisex, but I think it would take a very special woman to pull this one off. Moderate sillage and projection, and reasonable staying power.

Given all the controversy surrounding it, Kouros is a scent I approached with trepidation. As it happens I need not have worried. After Ungaro II, or even Jicky, it's not that much of a shocker.

Kouros opens with a powerful blast of citrus and civet, and I'm guessing that the civet note is what turns so many people off right from the beginning. Granted, the civet in Kouros is in-your-face, rather than subtly integrated as in Ungaro II, but it's not mishandled, either. As the citrus note fades, honey and strong floral notes come into play behind the civet to create an animalic, yet sweet new accord. This dense heart is where Kouros strays dangerously close to the liquid excretion territory inhabited by the putrid Amouage Gold. Luckily, some bracing spicy notes, perhaps clove and cinnamon, pull Kouros back from the brink. (Though not without some suspense.) It's very easy to see how at this stage Kouros could become offensive. It is, after alll, the grandaddy of all 1980s powerhouse fragrances.

As things progress a bit of astringency (vetiver? artemisia?) slips in to balance out the civet/sweet floral accord. From here Kouros launches on its extended and well-executed drydown, with traces of the civet over incense, musk, and vanilla. After a few hours, things even become downright powdery. A surprising end point for a fragrance that goes on so wickedly potent!

All in all, Kouros is a bold scent that was pioneering on its first release. It still stands out tall, like an isolated mountain peak among the timid, undistinguished fragrances that crowd today's designer landscape. Kouros will always be a polarizing scent, as is any that features a prominent note of civet in its composition. Given its animalic character, Kouros's sheer strength and great sillage can also make it hard to wear. In fact, it's not a scent that I have occasion to apply all that often. But for someone eager to make a bold, if rather crude, statement, this is a fragrance to try.

Yowzah!

No question, this is an unbuttoned shirt, hairy-chested, testosterone bomb of a scent. And it's great!

Stinks to high heaven when it goes on, with top notes reminding me of stale urine, but do give it a chance. Within five to ten minutes, I can swear I'm walking through a foggy west coast conifer forest, wearing a new leather jacket, with my enormous dog (he's real, at least,) by my side. The piney, resinous notes last through the drydown, while the leather intensifies and a gentle (if anything in this melange could possibly be gentle) sandalwood and musk sweetness rounds things off.

How do they do it? Frankly I don't care, as long as I can have some.
Great sillage, and you'll have to wash it off, because this stuff hangs around forever.

Eloge du Traitre opens with a very fresh, icy pine that is quickly joined by cool green herbal notes. The geranium and jasmine mentioned in the scent's description are well hidden, and serve more to soften the edges of the fragrance than as leading elements. The heart of Eloge du Traitre is the cold heart of a pine forest in winter, all still and frosty in the early morning light.

The pine and a certain sharpness in this scent may be what remind some reviewers of Yatagan, but I find the resemblance superficial. Eloge du Traitre has none of the artemisia that shapes the heart of Yatagan, and does not approach the older scent's dry, feral potency. Ultimately rather simple and not terribly exciting, though it might well appeal to those who find Yatagan just too overwhelming.

Notes: Brazilian orange, caipirinha limon, mandarin, tagette, green leaf, rosewood, gaiac wood, elemi, amber, musk, coconut

My, I'm just astounded that I'm the first one reviewing this fragrance! Is it that much of a sleeper? Oh well, that suits me just fine - I'll keep it for myself.

With listed notes like mandarin and coconut, I feared this might be a pina colada for the skin. Surprise! The opening is tropical fruit alright, but the accord comes off more like ripe mango, guava, and perhaps even a bit of passionfruit, rather than suntan lotion. Soon after application I found a buttery-smooth woody note welling up under the fruit. Could it be sandalwood? Checking the notes, I decide it must be the rosewood and gaiac at Bahiana's heart. And a beautifully handled wood it is! It blends with the bone-dry coconut note to form a warm cushion for the exotic fruits.

This is indeed tropical, and strictly for summertime. That said, Bahiana is the richest, most complex, and most lasting fruit fragrance I've encountered in a long time. It persisits for at least 6 or 8 hours on me, with a lingering amber, musk, and wood drydown just lightly touched with fruit esters. How MPG gets those citrus notes to last so long is beyond me, but I'm certainly not going to complain. There may well be a bottle in my future...

Thank you, MPG.

Like Etro's Vetiver and Maitre Parfumeur and Gantier's Route du Vetiver, this is an uncompromising, undiluted, earthy take on vetiver root. The vetiver attack is sharp and immediate, with no citrus to soften it and just a touch of aromatic herbs to lend it depth. The "sel" part comes in a bit later, in the guise of an iodine note that's not too far removed from certain Islay single malt whiskys - Talisker and Laphroaig come to mind.

Like Route du Vetiver, Sel de Vitiver slowly rounds out and mellows over time, but never becomes bland or insipid. It's a spare, trimmed-down scent, with nothing extraneous in its composition. Once the heart accord settles in, it doesn't seem to develop all that much. That's alright though, since the accord is both distinguished and appealing in its unconventional way.

Beyond Paradise is a moderately sweet, soft green-tinted floral scent that manages to be extremely amiable without ever descending into banality. According to Estée Lauder, what lies beyond paradise is a grassy alpine meadow brimming with wildflowers and warmed by a June morning’s sunshine.

Except for a brief, astringent galbanum and dry herb opening, Beyond Paradise’s green accord is one of newly mown grass and fresh hay. This greenery is seamlessly wed to a gentle white flower accord that’s so well-blended that this seasoned gardener is hard pressed to distinguish any individual floral notes. The indoles are under strict enough control that the only chink in Beyond Paradise’s clean innocence is a slightly animalic honey note that some passing bee brewed from all of the scent’s fresh nectar. Beyond Paradise is also largely free of conspicuous aldehydes. This lack may have a lot to do with the peculiar abstract clarity of the scent’s floral heart. More than the slightest hint of the trademark Lauder White Linen soap and powder would have made Beyond Paradise insufferably maudlin, so the restraint exercised in their application deserves special complements.

Beyond Paradise is not a thick, plush, heady floral scent in the vein of Fracas or Joy. Nor is it entirely aligned with the weightless, dew drenched spring florals of Diorissimo or En Passant. Instead, Beyond Paradise appears to occupy an elevated and appealing middle ground among today’s floral fragrances.

Has my nose changed, or has Bvlgari Black? Both, I suspect. Here's what I had to say a while back, based, I am ashamed to say, on my memory of Black from an earlier date:

"Audacious and original when it first appeared, but I'm afraid it's been surpassed in my book by many of the smoky leather scents that have come after it. Admirable, I suppose, but no longer all that exciting."

I recently tried Black again, just for kicks, and now I have a different impression. I hardly notice the notorious burnt rubber note. I can't even smell the tea. All I pick up now is the most cloying - even choking - powdery vanilla I've experienced in years. These days I'd turn to Santa Maria Novella's Nostalgia for a taste of what Black used to be...and sadly, I'm again having to punt the puck.

OK all you English-only speakers, don’t go out and buy this thinking that it’s an incense fragrance. That would be “encens.” Insensé is a green floral scent for men that starts out smelling like Chanel No. 19 on steroids and ends up smelling a little bit like Shiseido’s Basala. Here’s what I imagine Daniel Moliere thinking as he cooked up Insensé: “They say raw aldehydes smell a lot like a burnt out candle. Well shucks, that’s about as macho a smell as tobacco smoke, dark leather, or burning rubber – why not bottle up a bucket full of aldehydes and sell the stuff to men?” It’s actually a great idea. There’s only one problem: it should have been part of a niche line somewhere. The guys stopping by the Givenchy cosmetics counter couldn’t possibly know what to make of this.

Insensé opens with what smells like a bushel of galbanum dissolved in undiluted aldehydes. It’s hard-edged, sharp, and unabashedly aggressive. If “aldehydic floral” has you thinking Chanel No. 5, you’re really in for something when you spray on Insensé. To call these top notes isn’t entirely accurate, since they persist in the foreground for a couple of hours. Rather than a seasoning to lighten up a rich floral accord, Insensé’s aldehydes are a main course. There are floral notes deep down in Insensé’s heart – most obviously a bone dry rose and some very stark lavender – but they’re never “pretty” in any conventional sense.

The cold, crisp, green accord that dominates the scent’s development warms only slowly as its floral component sweetens and some rather sharp spices emerge. Next to materialize is a very bold cedar note, which anchors the fragrance to its firm balsamic base. The spice and cedar combination reminds me a bit of Shiseido’s cedar powerhouse Basala, but Insensé is far lighter and less opaque a scent. This is not the kind of voluptuous, green-tinted unisex floral you get in Carnal Flower or Creed’s Chevrefeuille Original. Nor is it the sort of dark, brooding men's rose scent typified by Montale’s Black Aoud or Czech and Speake No. 88. It’s not even the somewhat crass attempt at gender bending floral irony found in Gaultier’s Fleur de Male. Insensé is a phenomenon all unto itself - a floral fragrance that remains spare, dry, flinty, and uncompromising from beginning to end. I can’t think of too many scents quite like it, and I’d recommend that any man who thinks he can’t wear something floral give Insensé a try.

I was surprised and delighted at once at how deeply Cuir Beluga satisfied my nose. Very rarely will I inhale a scent and know immediately that I’m going to love it. It happened with Dia, with Carnal Flower, and with Musc Ravageur, and now I can add Cuir Beluga to the list.

Cuir Beluga is the softest, smoothest, and most soothing leather I can remember smelling. It is in roughly the same comforting mold as Luntens’s Daim Blond, Armani’s Prive Cuir Amethyste, and Parfum d’Empire’s Cuir Ottoman, but I find Cuir Beluga more creamy and refined in structure than any of these. Most of the sweet, mild leathers that I’ve worn domesticate their inner animal with sweet fruit: dried apricot, plum, raspberry, or cherries. Cuir Beluga adopts a different strategy. It marries its buttery leather accord to an almost impossibly plush and voluptuous vanilla. (This is, after all, Guerlain!) Like so many strokes of genius, it appears obvious once accomplished, yet also so utterly “right” that it seems both inevitable and unassailable.

That the simple conceit works so well must be credited in part to Guerlain’s unparalleled treatment of vanilla. I’m not so sure that any other house could have pulled it off with such success. At any rate, the result is glorious, even if it is uncomplicated. The kind of poise and balance found in Cuir Beluga requires no extra adornment, and the scent’s construction represents what I think of as “classical” in the art of perfumery.

Wearing Cuir Beluga is like being gently wrapped in the most supple suede you can imagine. Myself, I prefer my leathers on the wild side - provocative or animalic brews like Knize Ten, Aoud Cuir d’Arabie, Eau d’Hermes, or Parfum d’Habit – but Cuir Beluga is a touchstone for that other, more civilized leather experience. I purchased a bottle on the assumption that it’s the only leather scent I could convince my wife to wear. ;-)

First, a disclaimer: I had very little time to spend with Sycomore – certainly not enough for my usual multiple wearings.

The moment the very pleasant sales assistant at the Chanel boutique sprayed Sycomore onto my arm, I involuntarily blurted out “Mitsouko!” Sycomore announces itself right out of the bottle as a classically constructed dry chypre scent – the kind that could just as well have been composed in the 1920s. Comparison with Mitsouko is tempting in a test of any dry chypre, but in this case it’s inevitable. The Mitsouko framework is all there: the moss, the woods, the smoke, and even the signature peach. By sheer chance I had a sample of the Mitsouko pure parfum on hand when I tried Sycomore, and the resemblance is remarkable. That’s not to say that Sycomore is a clone – more of an homage I think.

After roughly a half an hour on the skin, Sycomore begins to go its own way. The peach note grows conspicuously sweeter, then melds with an indolic orange blossom note to yield a lush tropical fruit accord. This sumptuous accord displaces the smoke from the opening, sweetening and softening the entire composition in the process. This leaves Sycamore’s heart more bright and less challenging than Mitsouko’s, which retains more of the smoky, earthy qualities of its opening.

What strikes me most deeply about Sycomore is the exquisite rendering of its moss note. It is surely one of the finest I remember smelling in a modern fragrance. It’s a good thing too, since Sycomore’s basic chypre accord is never far from the surface, even as the sweet tropical fruit and orange blossom accord wells up ever higher during the development. Several hours on and the fruit and floral notes subside to leave the dark, earthy – even somewhat fungal – chypre base fully exposed once more.

So does Sycomore outclass its aged ancestor from Guerlain? No, it does not. But then really, how could it? What it does quite well though is provide an interesting and well-crafted alternate choice for lovers of true chypre scents. It is a softer, sweeter, and more personable fragrance than Mitsouko, and so it may hold appeal for anyone who finds the older scent a bit too weighty or demanding.

I was delighted to find Bois de Violette available for testing – even purchase – at Bergdorff’s recently, and given its reputation I plied my way past one of the most pretentious and ill-informed sales associates on planet earth to try it.

For me, wearing Bois de Violette was like lying in a snug cedar box filled with candied violets. Funereal, isn’t it? Well, Bois de Violette is not a "happy" scent. In fact, it’s close, dark, and thick, especially for its first hour on the skin. After that the lugubrious opening accord begins to sweeten and soften – first very slowly, then with exponential acceleration. Just when I think Bois de Violette is going to careen into the side rail of my tolerance for powdered sugar, its engine catches fire, and the resulting cloud of smoke redeems it for me. Once Bois de Violette settles in to its drydown I’m treated to the familiar smoky, spiced honey base that so many of the Lutens fragrances share.

Bois de Violette is an impressive, hard-hitting scent, one of those that I can admire without actually liking. All for the best, as far as my wallet is concerned, since it’s at least one much-praised niche fragrance that I won’t have to buy.

(An aside: Smelling the two side-by-side, it’s clear that Bois de Violette is the inspiration for Tom Ford’s ugly little Black Violet. Were Bois de Violette widely distributed in North America, Mr. Ford need not have bothered.)

First a word of acknowledgement to Luca Turin and Tanya Sanchez: without their recent Perfumes: The Guide, I would have never given the masculine scent moping about at the Estee Lauder counter a second glance. Now that I’ve tried (and purchased) it, I owe them a debt of thanks.

This sleeper from Lauder is enough to get me shouting from the rooftops: “Flush all that Cool Water, yea, all that Green Irish Tweed (heresy) down the drain!” For less money than either you can have a scent of their general ilk that’s more distinctive than the Davidoff and no less well-built or attractive than the Creed. Mind you, Beyond Paradise’s resemblance to these two classics is only general, and it’s certainly no imitation. I’m not even sure I’d place it squarely in the same fragrance family. But it most certainly does emanate the same healthy, sweet, green spirit as Cool Water and Green Irish Tweed, and I think it could easily replace either in a limited fragrance wardrobe.

As far as my limited nose can tell the link between the three is a certain robust, fruity-grassy-woody accord that may result from a blend of citrus, sandalwood, and violet leaf. Beyond Paradise for Men has a more obvious floral component than Cool Water, and I also think it’s more smoothly blended and tightly structured. It’s an ever-so-slightly drier and greener scent than Green Irish Tweed, and of course it does not share the trademark Creed base of sandalwood and tangy, metallic amber. To its great credit, Beyond Paradise also outlasts Green Irish Tweed on the skin by hours.

Beyond Paradise for Men is linear in the best meaning of the term. It sustains its hale and sunny heart accord for hours before entering a mild vanilla, musk, and sandalwood drydown. Beyond Paradise for Men is one of those rare fragrances that always put a smile on my face. Upbeat, but never trite, it makes a great casual weekend scent, but it’s also versatile enough for all but the most seriously dressy situations. My only question: Why didn’t they release it under the Aramis label? Surely it would have garnered more attention as part of Lauder’s masculine line. As it is, Beyond Paradise for Men is an underappreciated delight that’s worth a try for anyone.

Eau Lente starts out smelling like an Indian curry - straight garam masala. Happily, within moments it reveals an opopanax heart that prevents it from continuing as a South Asian lunch buffet. Once the opopanax asserts itself, it dominates the scent completely, with controlled bursts of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and coriander occuring from time to time. Otherwise it's pretty linear all the way through.

Eau Lente is beautiful, but surely it's not for everyone. If you like Diptyque's opopanax candle, you're going to love this. If opopanax is not your thing, you can forget about it.

When a scent is as universally praised as Derby, the obvious question is always “Could it really be that good?” In this case my answer is a resounding “You bet your backside it is!”

Inside an hour’s acquaintance Derby arced into the lofty orbit of my esteem that's shared by Patou pour Homme and Knize Ten. Derby is a paragon among leather scents, and it may well be the most interesting Guerlain fragrance I’ve tried since Jicky and Mitsouko. With its barely revealed hints of civet and animalic musk (castoreum?), Derby is a sleek, well groomed animal in a custom tailored suit. It’s a very sophisticated scent, but it’s no less a power hitter than the more raucous Kouros and Yatagan. If Derby were a man, he’d be suave, cultured, and dignified, but he’d also really know his way around the bedroom.

Along with power and complexity, another of Derby’s outstanding features is its blending. The accords are so seamless that I can’t determine where one ends and the next begins. Derby evolves through several fascinating stages on the skin, but the transitions are so smooth and gradual as to be undetectable. Derby is no scent for little boys (of any age). You must be self-assured, worldly, and well seasoned by life’s vicissitudes to carry this scent off convincingly. You won’t smell “like an old man” if you’re not qualified. You’ll just smell like you’re trying too hard.

A big, cushy vanilla based scent from Guerlain’s premium line – what’s not to adore? I was prepared to swoon over Spiritueuse Double Vanille from the very first sniff, but guess what? I’m not buying it.

Why not? Well, the opening accord of miraculously dry vanilla and brisk pink peppercorns is arresting, but within minutes there appears a conspicuous, abrasive, sour note that reminds me much too closely of boiling vinegar. The impression on me is the olfactory equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard, and it’s just as intolerable. The nasty note does eventually go away, but it lingers far too long for my patience. The drydown, when it arrives is (what else?) a satin smooth vanilla and sandalwood blend that’s almost - but only almost – enough to make me forget the awkward middle movement. I know that Spiritueuse Double Vanille has found much love her on Basenotes, but I find it far less satisfying than its siblings Cuir Beluga and Bois d’Armenie.

A one-trick synthetic immortelle that smells just like artificially flavored "maple" syrup. Crypt is creepy only if you have a phobia of breakfast condiments. It eventually dries down to a conventional sweet amber base, but with an offputting sour note behind it. Returns to the tomb within a half-an-hour, not to be heard from again.

Not something I'm going to exhume.

Cuir de Russie offers an almost perfect balance between glamour and danger. Sharp leather, fruit, and sweet citrus dominate the opening. Strong florals emerge very quickly afterwards, along with some smoke. A sweet floral accord with a superbly integrated civet underpinning and the merest trace of lingering smoke makes for a rich, dark, seductive, heart that's vaguely suggestive of a more animalic Habanita. The leather submerges for some time under the exotic florals and civet, then reasserts itself strongly in the drydown.

Cuir de Russie's extended drydown reveals a smoldering animalic leather, amber and civet base. At the risk of redundancy, the civet note in Cuir de Russie is one of the best executed I've ever encountered. Bravo!

A magnificent leather scent that has risen over time to the summit of my leather collection, right alongside Knize Ten and Eau d'Hermes. I think it's suitable a man or a woman, provided the wearer has the confidence and dignity required to carry such a bold and complex scent.

I'm afraid it's wet blanket time for Narciso Rodriguez.

Narciso Rodriguez goes on with very bright, sweet citrus notes and an aquatic – melon accord that moves quickly into the foreground. This melon is thicker and less natural than that in Millesime Imperial, and it rests upon a powdery foundation that soon reveals itself to be cedar. The tutti-frutti accord doesn’t persist, and I have no complaints about that. Its retreat reveals the cedar more fully, along with a pleasantly bitter green note (violet leaf?) and a touch of fresh resin that just might be cypress. As it dries down the scent continues to dry up – becoming more stark, aromatic, and woody by the minute. What eventually emerges is a blend of still-bitter green notes, dry cedar, and sharp vetiver over a foundation of light musk. Nice enough, but far from earth-shattering.

If ever a scent took long acquaintance to appreciate, it’s Muscs Koublai Khan. My first (and second, and third, and fourth…) attempts at wearing Muscs Koublai Khan all ended in puzzlement, if not utter revulsion. The unabashedly raunchy animal reek that assails the nose when this scent hits the skin goes beyond challenging: it’s outright scary. It’s every secretion ever extracted from a mammalian backside all rolled into one. Who in their right mind would want to smell like this? Me, it turns out.

What changed my mind? During one of those seemingly endless attempts to wear and understand this scent, my wife came up behind me and asked me what I was wearing. I fumbled apologetically for a moment before she continued, with a leer: “That smells goooooood!” It was Mikey with Life cereal. (“He likes it?) Clearly there was something to be said for this pungent concoction.

The fact is, if you can inure yourself to it, Muscs Koublai Khan is kind of like a bulldog: it’s so ugly that it’s perversely beautiful. To wear it is to flaunt your gonadal urges and your mammalian stench. You just have to accept the fact that you’ll smell as if you're coming off of a sweaty sexual encounter on a bed with decidedly stale sheets. If you can swallow that, you can wear Muscs Koublai Khan with pride. There are indeed times when I want to smell post-coital, and when those times come I reach for my bell jar of Muscs Koublai Khan.

Look out! Here comes the John Varvatos party pooper!

John Varvatos opens with a standard-issue modern men's fragrance fruit accord that's made somewhat intriguing by a hint of something dusky and animalic deep in the background. Unfortunately, the animalic note is quickly overwhelmed by what I've come to think of as the "Jolly Rancher" accord: cheap, artificially fruit-flavored hard candy. Like the candy, the fragrances that use this sort of concoction all wind up tasting the same to me, no matter what color they are. So for all its exotic medjool date, tamarind, and ajowan notes, John Varvatos winds up smelling crassly sweet and commonplace to me.

Part of the problem may be that even true, fresh tamarind can have a steely, artificial edge to it. On top of that, the date, which is a very flat note under any circumstances, comes across as particularly synthetic and two-dimensional here. The very sweet, powdery synthetic amber in the base does nothing to improve matters.

The fruit accord rests on a bed of very smooth woods and sweet vanilla, softened by the powdery amber, and I have to say that the result is oddly redolent of high-end tanning lotion. For something that's so fruity, John Varvatos is potent stuff. The projection and sillage are both exceptional. More in line with the bulk of fruity fragrances, John Varvatos enters its drydown very quickly, perhaps even within an hour. The listed leather note only appears way deep into the drydown, and even then it's almost too anemic to matter. The sendoff is the vanilla, soft woods, and sweet powdery amber accord that supports the scent's heart. The John Varvatos fragrance pyramid lists eaglewood (a.k.a. agarwood, oudh), but the folks at Quest International must have just waved the closed vial of oudh over the mixing vat, because its presence is entirely undetectable. A few hours into the drydown, and the interesting animalic note from the opening finally reappears, but it's too late and too little to get me excited.

Though my evaluation may seem harsh, John Varvatos is by no means a "bad" scent. It's just disappointingly ordinary for something that's been so highly praised.

Ambre Sultan goes onto my skin as a chaotic miasma that manages to be excessively sour, sickly sweet, and bitter, all at the same time. I attribute this assault on the nostrils to the confluence of sharp, bitter oregano and the trademark Sheldrake/Lutens sweet amber accord. The two come at each other as mighty waves and collide with a titanic crash.

The first few times I tried Ambre Sultan I was unable to endure this cacophony. Over the next few I persevered long enough to enjoy the dusky, lascivious spiced amber accord at Ambre Sultan’s heart and the luscious sweet amber drydown, but wasn’t convinced that they were worth waiting for. It took several more widely spaced attempts before I decided that they were. My final appreciation of Ambre Sultan is based on my understanding of why that unsympathetic opening may be necessary.

For what it’s worth, here’s my theory: Like so many of the Serge Lutens oriental fragrances, Ambre Sultan flirts with being insufferably sweet. Unlike some of the others, it avoids plunging into a powdery-syrupy quagmire. How? I attribute Ambre Sultan’s success to the balancing influence of its sharp herbal and spice components. These hard-edged savory notes offset the amber’s potential to cloy at the nostrils. However, in order to endure and yield this effect at the heart of the scent, the relatively volatile sharp notes must be used in great concentration. The end result is a unique and beautifully balanced heart accord, but at the price of a sharp and confrontational opening. Given Serge Lutens’s penchant for provocative openings, this price seems very much in line.

Patience with Ambre Sultan yields exceptional rewards because of its enormous tenacity. For that first half an hour of confusion, I get as much as twelve hours of libido enhancing ambery goodness. The dry amber skin scent persists for even longer. It’s no surprise that such a long lasting fragrance is also very potent. I find Ambre Sultan overbearing and difficult to wear in high temperatures, and prefer to use it in controlled doses in any case. Besides strong projection, Ambre Sultan leaves a trail of abundant sillage, establishing an olfactory aura around its wearer.

Is it challenging? Yes. But Ambre Sultan is also a giant among amber scents. The only amber I’ve found that can hope to rival it is the very different, and less confrontational Ambre Precieux from Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier.

I've spent a lot of time with Amouage's new Jubilation XXV. Why? Partially because others have been so divided by it (indifference to adulation), partially because it's one of those complex yet understated fragrances that I need to spend a lot of time with, and mostly because everything I've tested lately has been utter tripe. Jubilation XXV may not be earth-shattering, but at least it's not utter tripe. So...

Though it's not concise, I'm going to recount my evolving thoughts on Jubilation XXV. I started with my usual sparing application on the back of one hand:

First off, Jubilation obviously comes from Bertrand Duchaufour, the same nose that gave us Timbuktu and Dzongkha, and it seems to be another stage in Duchaufour's exploration of incense. Jubilation starts out as a spicy incense blend, including frankinsence and myrrh along with cinnamon, coriander seed, cloves and maybe even a slight touch of oudh. At first it reminds me of Dzongkha, but it starts out sweeter and less smoky. Floral elements are clearly present, but they are closely blended and hence difficult to distinguish and identify.

Jubilation grows smokier as it develops, and soon reveals a very dry leather note. At this stage Jubilation aligns itself somewhat with Durbano's Black Tourmaline, though it's much less smoky and obviously more floral. It dries down to a base of leather and incense with a healthy dose of iris root that again brings Dzongkha to mind. If you enjoy Dzongkha or Black Tourmaline but want something just a bit more easy to wear, I expect you will like Jubilation XXV.

My second round with Jubilation involved side-by-side comparisons between Jubilation XXV and a couple of other well-regarded incense fragrances by Duchaufour, plus a full day's wear on my neck, chest and arms. This exercise grew into a meditation on the entire Amouage line:

When Amouage first emerged oh those 25 years ago, it was noted for (OK, notorious for) outrageous pricing, rare, high quality ingredients, engaging noteworthy noses, and ridiculous snob-appeal advertising. The fragrance market has since changed, and so has Amouage. Thanks to the current craze for "prestige" designer scent lines, you can now pay as much for scents from Comme des Garcons, Armani, Hermes, or Christian Dior as for Amouage Gold or Dia. Meanwhile Amouage moved (stooped?) to chase a younger, hipper market with "clean, fresh" scents like Arcus and Cirrus. These were less individual than the earlier offerings, and even eschewed or downplayed Amouage's signature frankincense note.

Last year's Reflection duo were a positive development. They were composed by outstanding noses (Roucel, Sieuzac), showed much more originality than Arcus or Cirrus, and won some favor from bloggers and critics. (Pace Luca Turin.) Now, hot on their heels come the two Jubilation offernigs, the first since a new artistic head announced a major change in direction for the house.

So how does the male scent, Jubilation XXV, relate to the rest of the Amouage line? For starters, the frankincense is back. With a vengeance! Like the early Amouage releases, Dia, Gold, and Ciel, Jubilation also has a kind of blatantly floral heart that is uncommon among men's perfumes.

Jubilation bears little resmblance to Gold, whose abundant aldehydes, sweet heady white flowers and civet speak to me of potpourri in a litterbox. It is also a much thicker, darker, and woodier fragrance than the bouyant and well-named Ciel. Jubilation XXV is a more closely related to Dia for Men than of any otehr Amouage offerings. Yes, Jubilation is thicker, sweeter, and more opulent than Dia, but their frankincense/floral/leather accords run parallel, if distinct courses. With Reflection, Arcus, and Cirrus, Jubilation has nothing in common.

If Jubilation marks a change for Amouage, it's more of a course correction than an outing in a novel direction. Maybe this is what disappointed those critics who expected something radically new from Jubilation. The more positive responses may reflect Jubilation's depth, its exceptional blending, and its high quality ingredients. I find it no coincidence that Amouage discontinued Arcus and Cirrus when the Jubilation siblings appeared. Jubilation XXV and Jubilation 25 make both of them look like anomalies in the house history. What of Jubilation XXV itself? I started out ambivalent. If Jubilation was going to win me over, it would do so gradually.

Like it or not, Amouage's first scent, Gold, was a blockbuster release - potent, in-your-face, and unapologetically flamboyant. (Think Kouros, Kingdom, or Angel.) It was too limited in distribution and too expensive to turn the tide of perfumery, but you new whether you liked it within minutes of putting it on. It's no surprise that coming from Bertrand Duchaufour, Jubilation XXV is a very different kind of animal. It is understated, though complex, and eminently wearable. It somehow manages to have persistent sillage with very moderate projection. It works like an olfactory shadow that follows you at a distance.

In an attempt to break my ammbivalence, I finally took a deep breath and poured what remained of my expensive sample down my right arm, where it left a persistent oily stain. (High concentration?) Applied generously, Jubilation XXV becomes an entirely different fragrance. First off, it reveals previously hidden top notes. Fruity top notes - especially blackberry - over the heavier cinnamon, cloves, and incense. There's also patchouli. Lots of patchouli, which was very inconspicuous in lighter applications. The listed bay is also much more present in the heart, along with the floral notes, spices, and a very well-blended honey/patchouli/frankincense accord. With generous application the ambergris in Jubilation XXV packs a lot more punch, and lends the fragrance a warm, sensuous, yet slightly "dangerous" animalic glow. When applied without timidity, Jubilation XXV reveals itself as an impressively rich, deep composition.

Liberal application improves Jubilation's longevity as well. The luxurious drydown persists for hours and hours and is without question this fragrance's best feature. Oudh, myrrh, and opopanax engage in a complex dance upon a stage of leather. The medicinal astrigency of oudh and myrrh offer a perfect balance to the sweet opopanax.

Jubilation is by far the darkest men's scent in the current Amouage lineup. It's also heavier and sweeter than any Duchaufour scent I can recall, except perhaps Mechant Loup, to which Jubilation bears no other resemblance. In fact, Jubilation's closest kin are not Duchaufour's earlier incense compositions, but Amouage's own drier and more slender Dia, along with certain woody, incense fragrances like Divine's L'Homme Sage (minus the saffron) or even Andy Tauer's L'Air du Desert Marocain. While it's no Patou pour Homme, I do not blush to compare Jubilation XXV to New York, Havana, Chergui, or Fumerie Turque in its of depth and complex structure. In one respect Jubilation XXV can indeed stand up to Patou pour Homme, and that's in its superb blending. With its velvet smooth accords and seamless evolution Jubilation XXV might just become a locus classicus in modern fragrance blending.

Jubilation XXV is not a revolutionary fragrance or a blockbuster release. But provided that you wear enough of it, it is an easily wearable and distinctive scent of obvious high quality. Along with the recent Reflection, I believe Jubilation XXV represents a return to form for Amouage after a string of less-than-distinguished releases. Jubilation XXV is one of those scents like Santal Noble, Iris Bleu Gris, Cuir Mauresque, and Muscs Koublai Khan, that have crept up on me slowly after making an indifferent first impression. Appreciating Jubilation XXV requires more than cursory acquaintance, along with expectations untainted by the hoopla of its advertising copy.

Now that the rest of the fragrance world (for better or for worse,) has caught up with its pricing, the house of Amouage may become more relevant than it once was. One can now spend Amouage prices, if not more, on a fragrance and get far less in return. If Amouage maintains its commitment to top-flight ingredients and continues to engage noses as accomplished as Bertrand Duchaufour, it may become a house to watch over the next decade.

As likeable as Amouage Gold is vile. Where Gold is fussy, garish, and bombastic, Dia is balanced, poised, and elegant. It's hard to imagine when you'd wear a scent as overblown as Gold, Dia is an exemplar of versatility. Amouage makes much of its rarified frankincense note, and in Dia it occupies the place of honor. The frankincense is immediately obvious when Dia leaves the bottle, accented by cardamom, soft neroli, and a brief flash of bright citrus. The gap left by the citrus is soon occupied by some sweet dry fruit, cardamom, and gently balanced floral notes, led by peony and ylang-ylang, as Dia settles on the skin. Soon after there emerge two notes that in tandem with the incense carry Dia’s central structure: a smooth, buttery iris, and a subtly smoky leather.

It doesn’t take long for the spices round out and blend with the frankincense, iris, and leather in a tightly blended accord that is at once gentle and exotic. Dia’s heart accord is more openly floral than most contemporary men’s fragrances, but unlike Gold it eschews aldehydes and indoles, making it at once a sparer and less prissy scent.

Dia is not a weak scent, but it does wear fairly close to the skin, which is just how I like it. Though it’s anything but loud, Dia lasts for the better part of forever before entering its suave leather, iris, and amber drydown. I think that the luxurious drydown alone makes Dia worth wearing. It will persist overnight and greet you with its gentle touch when you awaken. Like all of the Amouage line Dia is costly – it was shockingly so when first released in 2002. Now that you can pay more for the Comme des Garcons Luxe line, scents from Indult, or limited editions from L’Artisan Parfumeur, Dia doesn’t seem quite as extravagant.

Harissa falls squarely into my "pleasant surprise" category. Coming from a house like Comme des Garcons, and with a name alluding to a mouth-searing North African condiment, I was expecting a harsh and unwearable capsicum concoction along the lines of L'Arisan Parfumeur's Piment Brulant. Someties it's wonderful to be proven wrong!

The bitter, abrasive scent of green pepper is indeed present at the start, but it's folded into a cool and semi-sweet melange of mint and citrus. Harissa warms up very quickly as the crisp top notes are joined by a mellow spice and incense accord, made edgy by the presence of black (not chili) pepper. All of this rests atop a cushion of sweet, rounded vanillic notes that makes Harissa's heart distinctly oriental in style.

Harissa's spicy-sweet, peppered heart vaguely recalls Lorenzo Villoresi's controversial Piper Nigrum - enough that I feel safe recommending Harissa to anyone who enjoys the Villoresi but wants a lighter, more refreshing fragrance. Given its composition Harissa is a surprisingly bright and transparent scent, perhaps because of a lingering minty or camphorous note that punctuates the main spicy accord.

As Harissa ages on the skin it grows progressively more mellow and diaphanous, while exposing a firm woody base that's warmed by just a hint of very clean musk. While it's not a weak scent, Harissa hangs close to the skin and does not trail clouds of sillage in its wake. Longevity is more than acceptable though, as the drydown progresses over the course of six hours or more. My lasting impression of Harissa is of a crisp, clear, yet exotic fragrance that would be great summer alternative to the traditional citrus and aquatic scents. My thanks to the kind Basenoter who sent me the sample - I would not have made this lovely find on my own!

Notes:
Top - Pimento, Galbanum, Spices
Middle - Cedar, Incense, Angelica
Base - Vetiver, Oakmoss, White Musk

French Lover is a very dry, warm incense and vetiver composition, softened by a touch of musk in the base. It opens with a whipcrack dose of peppery woods and galbanum, rendered even more piquant by a subtle hint of clove. The incense that emerges over the first hour on the skin is neither sweet nor smoky, but faintly luminous. The opening green notes eventually morph into a bold, earthy vetiver that's joined by a crisp cedar note in a very suave central accord. This isn't the rude vetiver that headlines Vetiver Extraordinaire or Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier's Route du Vetiver. Instead, it's a rakish and sophisticated vetiver - still dangerous, but also sharp, articulate, and clever. The strong vetiver and cedar accord persists right through the mossy drydown, warmed by the musk and highlighted by the incense that floats in and out of the background. The scent is incredibly tenacious and will hold for a full day unless it's forcibly removed.

There is no citrus to brighten the scent and no floral notes, benzoin, vanilla, or coumarin to sweeten it. Nor is there any of the obvious smoke or leather that gave the monster 1980s chypres all their swagger. In its uncompromising dryness and severity, French Lover parallels Caron's Yatagan, though with much greater transparency and without the prominent castoreum and artemisia. Exchange Yatagan's crude furs for an impeccably tailored suit and you might wind up with something like French Lover: Yatagan for the twenty first century. Where a scent like Kouros or Yatagan might open its fly and display its genitalia, French Lover simply adjusts its collar.

Yet for all of its sophistication, French Lover has something dark and vaguely threatening deep in its heart, a bit like the foetid animal note that creeps around Dominique Ropion's Une Fleur de Cassie. (Also for Frederic Malle.) French Lover may be a stylish beast, but it’s still a beast, and capable of some brutality.

As for the much-discussed name, I don’t think it’s all that apt – not even if it’s tongue-in-cheek. The American market name, Bois d’Orage (translated poetically as “Thunderwood”), is more accurately descriptive, if a bit less clever and original. This is not a seductive, sensuous fragrance along the lines of Musc Ravageur, and those expecting a boudoir scent are going to be deeply disappointed by French Lover. On the other hand, anyone who's looking for a bone dry chypre, incense, or vetiver but finds Yatagan too uncouth and Vetiver Extraordinaire or Maitre Parfuneur et Gantier’s Route du Vetiver too rustic may enjoy the more civilized approach of Malle’s French Lover.

Dioressence opens up with a pungent green floral accord that grows progressively more powdery as it develops. The green notes and powder become seasoning for a "doughy" rose that soon dominates the composition. Because it remains relatively dry and green, the rose in Dioressence is neither heavy nor heady. Instead, it remains quite crisp and relatively bright. Once settled, Dioressence continues for some time on its green and rosy way in a relatively linear manner.

Only after an hour or more do traces of spice and some woody notes emerge in the base. These soften and sweeten the composition while providing some additional complexity. Dioressence is notable for the clarity of its construction, if not for any great longevity or projection. It doesn't really excite me, but it is a very finely tuned, dignified, and understated scent that would work well in a professional setting.

Melon (not listed but obvious), citrus, watery notes, and florals: Miss Boucheron goes on as the kind of vapid, fruity, candy-and-flower scent that I despise. There are some initial accords (the light leather, violet, rose, and melon) that are vaguely reminiscent of the superb Le Parfum de Therese, but they manage to be at once thinner and more blatant.

While the jellybean effect calms down after a few minutes and leaves more room for the leather, it never manages to disappear entirely. That means I really can't abide by this scent, even though it is extremely light and airy. Maybe Miss Boucheron is better in the summer, but I'm not sure that I'm compelled to try again. At least it's not the vile and commonplace brew that its top notes threaten!

A mellow, rich, and sweet patchouli fragrance with the barest suggestion of chocolate buried deep inside. Patchouli Antique is one of the softer and less adamant of patchouli scents, without the kind of aggressive projection and carnivorous bite you'll find in Mazzolari Patchouli, Black Aoud, Profumum Patchouly, or Bois 1920's Real Patchouly. Instead it's a more suave and cultivated patchouli, the kind that anyone could wear in public without feeling the least bit self-conscious. Oddly for a patchouli-heavy fragrance, it fades rather quickly to reveal a powdery musk and wood base that lingers as a skin scent for several hours.

Pleasant in the end, but disappointingly weak in character. I for one prefer my patchoulis much more dangerous.

Golden Amber is a highly individual take on amber. In fact, it's a highly individual take on fragrance! The scent goes on with an extremely smooth, custard-like fruit and floral accord, which is soon backed by a very light powdery amber note. The floral fruit accord develops an exotic, tropical edge, thanks to a well blended lychee note, but it never becomes harsh or cloying. The barest hint of indolic white flowers and Asian spices wafts in as Golden Amber develops, while the amber continues to glow gently in the background.

The base of powdery soft amber, creamy sandalwood and white musk is indulgent, but not animalic, and persists quietly for several hours. Golden Amber is a far cry from thick dark ambers in the mold of Ambre Sultan, sharp, boozy ambers like Ambre Russe, or the sweet, viscous ambers like Ambre Precieux and Aoud Ambre. It is at once more delicate and complex than L'Artisan Parfumeur's demure amber scents as well. In fact, anyone expecting a typical amber experience with this scent will be sadly disappointed.

While the two do not smell terribly alike, there is some conceptual similarity between Golden Amber and Bond No. 9's Chinatown: both feature a fruity accord (peach/mandarin, lychee/mandarin) with Asian spices over a rich, sweet, and smooth background. What stands out about Golden Amber, besides its creamy, yet delicate texture, is its balance. It somehow manages to be powdery-sweet
but not suffocating, and rich yet also bouyant. This is a lovely scent that I encourage all the womenfolk to try. I (who proudly wear Carnal Flower, Tubereuse Criminelle, and Habanita,) find it somehow too "feminine" for personal comfort.

Whoosh! Fleurs d'Oranger hurls heady, indole-laden orange blossom like a projectile weapon as soon as it leaves the bottle. Once it's knocked your head back with its opening salvo, it calls in reinforcements in the form of a crisp, green floral note that suggests lily-of-the-valley, but must actually be a very limpid rose. This addition lends the scent some clarity while balancing the swoon-inducing indoles of the opening. The simple, sweet floral accord taht results soon settles in as the heart of the fragrance, and its extended sillage leaves a bright nebula of scent in the wearer's wake.

For all the animalic decadence inherent in the orange blossom indoles, Fleurs d'Oranger reads as a happy scent: sweet, dewey white flowers in the sunshine of a cool spring morning. An unusually crisp, yet still sensuous tuberose note spreads itself out as a backdrop, but its heady tendencies are moderated by a healthy dose of citrus zest. I get very little cumin out of this scent, and the base reads to me mostly as clean white musk. I quite like Fleurs d'Oranger, and add it to the list of Sheldarke-Lutens fragrances (Gris Clair, Un Lys, Sa Majeste la Rose, Chene, Tubereuse Criminelle,) that offer relief from their accustomed spiced and honeyed orientals.

(As an aside, I am puzzled by repeated assertions that Fleur d'Oranger was cloned when Lutens released the more recent Mandarine-Mandarin. Except for orange zest - a condiment in Fleurs d'Oranger, the main course in Mandarine-Mandarin - the bright but indolic floral and the dark, smoky, spicy, carmelized citrus-oriental have exactly nothing in common. Maybe my nose is broken.)

Diptyque's L'Autre takes a nice shower, then settles down to a caffe mocha.

Fougere Bengale starts out as an oddly dry coffee and chocolate gourmand that's seasoned with exotic spices. Several of the prominent top notes are "Bengale" indeed: coriander seed, turmeric, cumin, ginger, and black pepper. The resulting curry accord persists, albeit more discreetly, right into Fougere Bengale's heart. After a half an hour on the skin, a classical aromatic/sweet/mossy fougere arrangement wells up underneath the Indian restaurant accord. Next up is a generous dose of syrupy immortelle. Happily, the moss and the bitter aromatic notes offer balance and contrast against the gourmand mocha and spices, so that Fougere Bengale never becomes overly sweet and syrupy. It certainly smells dark and rich, but also "hot," or even a bit parched.

After a couple of hours the chocolate drifts into the background, leaving the spices and the semi-sweet fougere base to themselves. Late in the game Fougere Bengale lets go a charming surprise: a sweet, mellow tobacco leaf note that drifts up and hovers quietly above the moss and vanilla drydown. It's a warm and comforting end to an interesting journey. The strong curry accord will not please everybody. It's certainly not among my favorites. But if the idea of wearing garam masala appeals to you, go out and try Fougere Bengale - it's very well done.

Don't let the name fool you. If you're looking for a typical carnation scent, all spices, Dianthus, and eugenol (clove oil), you've come to the wrong place. Yes, there's Dianthus (giroflee) in this fragrance, but it performs behind a veil of powdery musk, aldehydes, sweet amber, and white flowers - especially a soft, yet sultry jasmine. A creamy sandalwood serves as backdrop for the floral bouquet.

The overal impression is rich and "perfumey" in the manner of the grand old Guerlain scents, which could well have been Carnation's inspiration. It's lush and decadent, but still very dignified and proper, with its powdery base and soft aldehydes. I can give Carnation no better compliment than to say it smells as if it had been made nearly a century ago. Women (or very adventurous men) who enjoy the classic Caron and Guerlain scents may take very happily to this recent fragrance.

What this has to do with racehorses is beyond me. It starts out with a brief burst of tart citrus and bright floral notes, then quickly transforms into a sweet, powdery iris, backed by light musk, soft sandalwood and slightly bitter violet leaves. Iris is where Equistrius stays for most of its lifespan. This is not the blunt, rooty iris of Iris Bleu Gris or the crisp, transparent, green-tinted iris of Hiris. No, this is somewhere between the smooth, buttery iris of Iris Poudre and the sweet, candied iris of Dior Homme. It's kept from being flat and cloying by the bitter edge of its violet leaf note. Without that it might be oppressively powdery and sweet. The sum impression on me is of a very smooth, creamy and nutty scent that wraps my senses in a satiny mantle.

As Equistrius develops, an anise or licorice-like note (not listed) wells up behind the iris, casting a cool spicy-herbaceous shadow over the proceedings. The entire development takes place close to the skin, with little sillage or projection. The scent is not short-lived by any means, but because it wears so close it's easy to forget you have it on. In its drydown Equistrius fades into a sweet sandalwood foundation with a touch of warm ambergris and a lingering trace of powdery iris.

While it's hardly earthshaking, Equistrius is a nicely blended, easy-to-wear scent that's obviously composed of very fine ingredients. It's also a thoroughly unisex fragrance and a safe choice for those who seek an iris scent but are put off by some of the more obviously frilly or aggressively earthy entries in the field.

The opening so often described as "gasoline" or "rubber" seems to me a strong dose of eucalyptus, wintergreen, camphor, or menthol. It's cool, sharp, and bracing, like a good slap in the face with a frosty mitten. Pairing these sinus-clearing top notes with the voluptuous sweetness of tuberose is a stroke of genius - perhaps even the cleverest thing Sheldrake has done.

On its own or in combination with other white flowers, tuberose can be positively oppressive. Cut it with clear camphor, and it's outright refreshing. Unisex, too, as far as I'm concerned. Tubereuse Criminelle wears closer to the skin than some other tuberose scents, with moderate sillage and projection. It lasts a solid six hours on my skin, with a creamy vanillic drydown. The persistent cool menthol notes make this the first tuberose scent I turn to in hot weather.

Tubereuse Criminelle is not the same kind of room-filling diva as Fracas, nor does it share the soft, unearthly luminosity of Carnal Flower. It is very much its own animal. It's surely not for everyone, and it probably takes some nerve to wear, but if you can get into its peculiar groove the rewards are rich.

Another misfired shot in the direction of Green Irish Tweed and Cool Water. I'm tempted to stop writing here and conserve space on the server, but I did wear this stuff for several hours, so I probably ought to say something.

Solo starts out smelling like a run-of-the-mill fruity-aquatic fougere, and that's pretty much where it stays. The opening is briefly distinguished by some sharp green and conifer notes, but the overall effect is still more aquatic than sylvan. Solo's heart aims at being crisp and fresh, but only manages harsh and thin. The drydown is both crude and sweet, projection is minimal (thank heavens) and the fragrance doesn't last all that long either. Like so many others of its breed, Solo is unremarkable, undistinguished, and hence utterly expendable.

Cimabue is a spicy oriental fragrance that delivers gilded olfactory splendor without sinking into cloying sweetness. It begins with a burst of bright citrus with a rich spice (nutmeg, I think,) counterpoint. Next come cinnamon and cloves, a distinct honey note, and some rich florals, all resting on a bed of soft sandalwood. This combination is sweet, dark, and remarkably well blended. The saffron in Cimabue is more harmony than melody, and its slightly bitter accent cuts the surrounding sweetness. The saffron-sandalwood accord is rendered rich, smooth, and creamy by added notes of tuberose and vanilla.

As the scent continues to develop, the cloves and cinnamon merge with opopanax to make a profound and luxurious accord that enriches the sandalwood and vanilla drydown. If you enjoy spicy or woody orientals like Jaipur Homme and Eau Lente, you ought to try this very well made scent as well.

I waited a long time to get my hands on a sample of Eau du Fier, and I put it on with much anticipation. The scent opens with an intense burst of orange juice, (like concentrate from a can,) joined quickly by a very literal smoke note. And that's about it. These two notes are so isolated that I hesitate to call them an accord. Instead, they play like two completely independent tunes, juxtaposed in the manner of Charles Ives. The gesture is bold, but I don't think it's altogether convincing, especially since it churns over a very thin base. In fact, the whole scent feels to me like an olfactory stunt - at least until the orange note fades out. After that I'm left with a very smoky leather drydown with a major barbecue vibe.

Truth in advertising? Absolutely. A satisfying fragrance? About that I'm not so sure.

More bois than vanille to my nose, and unlike some other reviewers, I find this a tad less syrupy sweet than some of the other Sheldrake/Lutens concoctions. Vanilla dominates in the top notes but soon integrates into a mélange of very rich, heavy woods, spiced with a bit of anise. I’m reminded of Feminite du Bois, but Un Bois Vanille is chunkier and less lithe than its older sister, even though it’s also less complex. Not entirely unpalatable, but not all that exciting either, especially at Serge Lutens prices.

Feminite du Bois starts out with spices and sweet white flowers, quickly joined by a very soft, powdery note that persists into the heart of the fragrance. The florals and spices blend seamlessly into a very pretty accord that's underpinned by the most subtle of wood notes.

Feminite du Bois holds in this sweet woody oriental mode for a long time, then drifts very slowly towards a powdery vanilla and wood drydown. During this process the woods become more and more prominent, eventually nudging the floral/spice accord out of the way and stepping into the foreground. The whole composition is wonderfully light and delicate, particularly when compared to the much heavier sweet orientals Sheldrake has composed under the Serge Lutens label. Too powdery for me to wear comfortably, but certainly a fine fragrance.

Gomma starts with a dry, pungent, leathery opening with a faint smoky undertone and just a bit of lavender. It mellows quickly into a dry woody-leathery skin scent with an added astringent element that could account for the "rubber" some reviewers have perceived. Gomma is less complex than related fragrances such as Bois d'Ombrie or Etro's own Palais Jamais, but equally free of any prettifying floral or sweeter notes. Gomma should please anyone looking for a simple, unobtrusive, dry leather scent, but I don't find it all that exciting.

Potent without a doubt, and bone dry as well. Basala jumps out of the bottle like it means business, with whole lots of cedar, lavender, and dry herbs. The opening is so stark it's almost frightening, and when I first applied it I thought "Oh *@#%!" and then "What have I done?"

Basala calmed down after a few minutes, and so did I. The very realistic lavender emerges even more strongly as the scent ages, eventually taking center stage, with notes of cedar and sandalwood, cinnamon, and maybe even nutmeg in the background. It would all be way too much if the accords were sweet, but like Caron's Yatagan, Etro's Palais Jamais, or Malle's French Lover, there's not a speck of sugar in this fragrance.

The result is stoic, bracing, and a bit austere, but also hypnotic and more than a bit exotic. The cedar and sandalwood persist into the drydown, along with the barest hint of powdery musk to meld it with the skin. An excellent scent. Too bad it's become so hard to find.

Grain de Plaisir arrives in a resounding blast of citrus and celery seed. There’s also something vaguely sweet and vegetal underneath, and it’s all very discordant.

A dense nutty/doughy accord emerges after a few minutes, while the sharp celery smoothes over and integrates with the tart, chirpy citrus. A dark burnt sugar note and a bit of amber work their way out of the background while the citrus slowly fades and the doughy accord sweetens. The remaining citrus note is still discordant, and grows outright sour as it recedes. What remains is a dark, honeyed amber accord that somehow reminds me of burnt pastry, perhaps baklava.

It seems to me that Serge Lutens’s Mandarine-Mandarin dries down in a similar direction, though with more finesse and complexity. Grain de Plaisier tries (maybe a bit too hard?) to be interesting, but never fully manages to pull itself together.

Remarkable. Given the polarized views that Yerbamate seems to generate here, I was hardly sure what to expect of it. As it happens, expectations were irrelevant: Yerbamate would have confounded them no matter what they'd been.

Yerbamate goes on green and herbal, almost harsh, with just a hint of spicy sweetness in the background to keep the greens from getting out of hand. The herbal notes assimilate quickly, revealing some incense beneath. The tea and mate surface soon after, blending with the incense to create a very beautiful, yet austere accord that marks the heart of Yerbamate. The smoky note observed by some reviewers seems very faint to me - almost a soft shadow of the tea. The tea and mate volley back and forth between woods, incense and a very light powder in a long, slow drydown whose character changes, sometimes abruptly, until it finally fades.

This fragrance utterly transcends the typical green scent experience. It is complicated, surprising, and more than a little bit mysterious. I'm not sure why some find it so offensive. Maybe it's just baffling, or maybe it responds inconsistently with different skin types. At any rate, I encourage everyone to give it at least a try.