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Three Roses by Annette Neuffer

11th July 2024

 

The only possible reason why Annette Neuffer is not discussed in the same breadth as other talented, self-made European perfumers (Andy Tauer, Vero Kern, Antonio Gardoni, etc.) is because, unlike these, she has been unable to professionalize her operations or achieve economies of scale in her production so that her perfumes are priced at a point where regular perfume wearers can buy them. 

 

In Europe, at least, there is great respect for Annette’s style, and a rather robust grey market in swapping samples and full bottles of her work.  But not even a glowing review from Luca Turin in the Guide 2018 wasn’t enough to shoot the brand into the indie stratosphere currently occupied by Teone Reinthal, Manuel Cross, Clandestine Laboratories, Zoologist, Tauer, and so on.

 

Which is a shame because it proves that a certain measure of market exposure and self-promotion is what gets some perfumes talked about, therefore keeping them ‘alive’ in the mind’s eye, while others, none the less important or beautiful a creation, risk trailing off into the darkness of the void.  This is why it’s important for people to write about Annette and people like Annette.  I don’t claim that my words have any impact – blogs have been dying for years now, and this one is no exception.  But as the lights start to go out on this ship, there is a certain sense of freedom in realizing that I can write about anything that strikes my fancy, with no regard for what might be current or ‘hot’, because nobody is watching.  

 

And what I want to write about today is Annette Neuffer, because unless she suddenly starts sending free bottles of perfumes out to YouTube and Instagram perfume ‘influencers’, her work will remain largely unknown to all but those who deliberately seek her out.  Her perfumes are as worthy of the intense fandom discussions that swirl around around Teone Reinthal or Zoologist.  A jazz musician living in Freising, Germany, she works completely in naturals, but with a deftness of touch that made even Luca Turin – famously a critic of all natural perfumers – marvel. 

 

I don’t like everything she makes, but even those I don’t like, I find myself thinking about and trying to understand how they work.  Enter clumsy yet obligatory metaphor about jazz; though I don’t understand jazz and its weird, cacophonic ‘non-structure’, I enjoy it at a subliminal level once I stop trying to analyze it.  I think that’s probably the key to Annette Neuffer’s work too.

 

First up, three roses.

 

Honeysuckle Rose is a fat but wilting white flower, a vine of jasmine or tuberose curling in on itself, buried in swathes of beeswax and furniture polish.  It smells like sweet tea and nectar and female skin putrefying in a Southern heat so intense that you can almost see the beads of moisture popping up.  I smelled a honeysuckle bush once in the South of France and was shocked by how fleshy and sultry it actually is, in contrast to its rather innocent reputation. 

 

This perfume smells like honeysuckle in the air – heady, rudely floral, honeyed – but powdery and slightly dank on the skin, like a cup of over-stewed tea.  The oily cedar-like notes of a dank rosewood add to the impression of a flower floating in a gong bath, a flash of something white and delicate in the Vantablack gloom. 

 

It is only later, once the bitterness of the tea and woods has subsided, that Honeysuckle Rose reveals its final, true form – a sunny orange blossom busily licking the sticky grunge of beeswax and rosewood off its fur.  The contrast between light and dark is startling, like a bar of the whitest goat’s milk soap carved from a block of resin.  A trace of warm, dark honey lingers underneath this, like licked skin, recalling some of Vero Kern’s perfumes (Rozy in particular, with its attractively stale, louche rose breath). 

 

 

Rosa Alba is based around a rare, white Bulgarian rose varietal named, well, Rosa Alba (rose of the dawn).  It has simple but powerful beauty of a freshly picked rose from a wet garden, with its alluring mixture of lemon zest, geranium leaf, and finally, a trembling, jellied, pink rosewater loukhoum nuance tucked deep into the tightest folds near the heart. 

 

A resinous, powdery (slightly sour) sandalwood is the only other element here, lending the fragrance the feel of a traditional Indian attar.  This is the immense, timeless beauty of a flower stuffed inside the flimsiest of shells.  And though arguably a direct copy of nature, you’d have to be a marble statue not to be moved by a smell like this.

 

 

Avicenna White Rose & Oud is my personal favorite of Annette Neuffer’s takes on rose, perhaps because it turns such a (by now) familiar paradigm on its head.  The marriage of rose and oud is a natural one, the gentle, bright sweetness of rose tempering the sour, moody darkness of oud, and as such is a popular trope in perfumery.  But even a template this good gets old after a while. 

 

What I love about White Rose & Oud is that it reimagines the rose-oud pairing in the context of a witch’s apothecary in the Middle Ages, giving it new angles I hadn’t considered before.  The opening is a pungent herbal lemonade that has dried to crystals on a mantelpiece somewhere, before being swept into a pestle and mortar with a bunch of dusty culinary herbs and ground to a fine powder.  But before you think, wow, this is super sour and harsh and I don’t like it, in rolls an intoxicating lush, Turkish delight rose that softens all the sharp edges.  The interplay of that rosy loukhoum against the tart, almost brackish oud – which you realize is what the deeply sour herbaciousness in the topnotes was camouflaging – is brilliant. 

 

The umami, wheaten sandalwood in the basenotes interacts with the oud and other woody notes to create an accord so dry and 3D and aromatic that it feels like watching plumes of barkhoor smoke hanging heavy in the air or hot benzine shimmering in the thick air at the fuel court.  

 

But while recognizably (finally) a rose-oud scent, White Rose & Oud never feels exotic in a tokenistic manner, perhaps due to its persistent streak of antiseptic sourness – that medieval apothecary vibe – that runs through it from top to bottom.  I like to think that Bernard Chant would have liked the witchy 1970s feel of this, even if he didn’t quite get the whole rose-oud reference the way modern perfume wearers do. 

 

Source of sample:  I bought a sample set directly from Annette Neuffer’s website back in (I think) 2017 or 2018.  

 

Cover Image: Photo by Christina Deravedisian on Unsplash

 

 

 

 

 

Lists Review Rose Round-Ups Single note exploration

A Rosy Roster: My Favourite Rose Fragrances

7th October 2023

 

Roses are an intensely personal thing, aren’t they?  A fresh, wet ‘ripped from nature’ rose is one person’s idea of heaven and another person’s hell.   Now, this is kind of fun because it means you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince and self-guided discovery is never not a thing of joy. 

 

But about nine years ago,  I went on a rose expedition for a now-defunct perfume blog and by the end of four separate articles about rose perfumes of every type and flavor, I ran into a big ole rose-scented wall.  I was done.  This was when I learned that if you are too comprehensive about any line of inquiry, you begin to hate the thing you were originally so excited about. 

 

These days, I am wearing and enjoying rose perfumes again, which is no mean feat for someone with rose-induced PTSD.  And this simply because I have stopped feeling the obsessive need to own a perfume in every single rose category, e.g., naturalistic, chypre, rose-patchouli, green rose, etc.  I am now guided purely by my own taste.  I like what I like, and if that doesn’t happen to be Nahema or Gucci No. III – and it most certainly does not – then that is ok.  While I do write about fragrance, I’m not sure why or when I began to equate what is essentially a hobby with any responsibility for covering all the bases.  I have neither the money nor the time to be anyone’s library. 

 

So, this is my very personal list of favorite rose fragrances.  You will notice that I like my rose to be a bit player rather than the main attraction, tucked behind a curtain of woods, spices, and resins.  I have a weakness for roses masquerading as one of those floral Indian puddings infused with saffron and pistachios, or as spiced chai, or even as a creamy sort of wood.  I enjoy roses covered in smoke, crushed cocoa nibs, inky mosses, papery grasses, or tons of soft, wet soil – I like to sense the struggle of roses trying to break through something and somewhat failing.  Rose needs to know its place.    

 

There are no rose soliflores on my list.  In fact, though I admire their verisimilitude, I find soliflores of every single flower to be incredibly boring.  Ok, you imitated a living flower, have a cookie.  Would I ever take you over the actual scent of a live flower?  Not a chance.  I would rather have the glorious scent of a real rose in my nostrils for the all-too-brief two point five seconds it lasts than The Perfumer’s Workshop Tea Rose on my person for more than five hours.  There are some smells better left to nature.  

 

Nahema, No. 19, Diva, Magie Noire, Heure Exquise, Coco –  I respect the hell out of you for occupying such an important place in perfume history.  But I don’t love love you.  Rose is an essential part of your very complicated fabric, but none of you are rosy enough for me to look past the slightly old-fashioned, ladies-who-lunch feel I get from you all.  (It’s me, hi! I’m the problem, it’s me.)  

 

And God, have I grown tired of rose gourmands.  Oud Satin Mood, I raved about you, and honestly, let’s admit it now, you are nothing but a bloated pile of vanilla, violets, rose, and marshmallow fluff.  You have become synonymous with the modern (read: social media age) taste for loud, sweet perfumes simply designed to fill the air and get you attention in a sea of all the other people holding up selfie sticks.  I would be a little embarrassed at my lapse in judgement except that I didn’t exactly stop there.  I also went gaga for the hot syrupy mess that is Rose Jam by Tauer Perfumes, Rose Jam by Lush, and countless other variations on the theme.  I even bought a bottle of Nina Ricci’s L’Extase Rose Absolue, which is Francis Kurkdjian shamelessly knocking off his own Oud Satin Mood formula for a designer brand.  Have I mentioned that I own a bottle of Oud Satin Mood and that I had already started to detest it when I bought L’Extase Rose Absolue?  Yep.  This whole blog is me calling myself to account for my own bullshit.

 

 

Anyway, if it’s not clear by now, the perfumes below are the renditions of rose that I love, or at least prefer above all others that I have worn or owned (or, God knows, still own despite myself).  

 

     

 

Rose Oud by By Kilian {Full review here

Photo by Heather on Unsplash 

 

Rose Oud is unimaginatively named, obnoxiously over-priced (especially for what is synthetic oud), and not terribly original.  Yet it is beautiful from every angle and, unusually for a rose-oud, speaks with the softest, most indoor voice imaginable.  Its magic lies in the effortless smoothing over of all the cracks between normally pugnacious materials such as guaiacol, oud, and rose. 

 

Think of the most beautiful supermodel you’ve ever laid eyes on – but one who nonetheless fails to either move you or turn you on – and that’s Rose Oud by Kilian.  Because it is almost rosewater-levels of gentle, I use it when I want to feel seen but not heard, like a sleek black cat winding around the ankles of people at a party. 

 

 

Mohur by Neela Vermeire

 

Mohur is a handful of red rose petals strewn on the surface of a glass of cold almond milk into which have been stirred grated carrots, black pepper, and cardamom.  There is a cold restraint to the fragrance that elevates it.  The notes strain against a muslin cloth, drip feeding into the fragrance on a time-release mechanism and allowing the wearer to smell everything both in and out of order.  



First wave – an austere oud note and a sourish leather, underpinned by a green cardamom note.  Behind the sharpness of the opening accord, some fruit and rose petals begin to take shape.  In this moment, the rose smells like the dried rose petals stirred into black tea that you can buy from Marriage Freres.  Then, for about half an hour, I can’t smell a thing –  it’s as if all the opening notes have sharply withdrawn, leaving only a haunting impression of something enticingly boozy and sour on the skin.

 

Then, without warning, the fragrance seems to rev back up again like rusty engine.  Now underpinning the tart fruitiness of the emerging rose is the fuzzy, almost raw feel of a green almond freshly peeled from its shell and pressed to release its fragrant milk.  The red rose petals lose their tea-like dryness and bloom into wet, jammy rose petals plucked straight from the flower.  The sticky rose combines with the milky almond notes to produce something almost edible in its deliciousness.  But the jam and milk notes are spread out on a foundation of earth and roots (carrots), powdery chalk (benzoin), and wood (sandalwood and cedar), so it never quite fully crosses over into gourmand territory.

The intense (but filtered, shaded) whirligig of spice and rose notes never really settles.  Even in the base, it just keeps on shifting through a kaleidoscope of impressions.  At times, the base reads to me like a dusty, rose-tinted talcum powder – the combination of now-dried rose petals and benzoin – and at others, a full-throated, creamy sandalwood that tilted its sweetness towards a weighty vanilla, again, nuanced by rose but never dominated by it.  Sometimes, Mohur strikes me as a very pretty Indian rose; other times, a small miracle.  

 

 

Parfum Sacre by Caron

 

Parfum Sacre hooked me early, at a tender time of my life when I needed a Big Perfume Love, and is therefore resistant to any attempt I make at objective analysis.  If pushed, I would say it smells like an ancient carved sandalwood chest filled to the brim with myrrh resin reduced to a fine golden powder and tender pink curlicues of rose soap lovingly carved off a block of Camay with a pocketknife.  It smells full and soft, like cashmere, but studded with little kitten licks of black pepper and lemon that trickle the back of the throat.  Even the thin, reedy version of Parfum Sacre available to buy today possesses that gently peppery, rosy, soapy quality that says ‘Mother’ to me.  Therefore, it continues to be one of my Big, Albeit Incoherently Described Perfume Loves.

 

 

Smyrna by Le Couvent {Full review here}

Photo by Zoe Schaeffer on Unsplash

 

Smyrna, for the most part, reminds me of the steamy, botanical smell of a warm greenhouse where you are dividing geranium plantlets – the vaporous aroma of sun-warmed wood frames, the peppery snap of the roots and stalks, the rosy-minty smell of the geraniums.  Though ostensibly modelled after Rose 31 by Le Labo or (even closer, I’d argue)  Rose Poivrée by The Different Company, the black pepper gives the scent a kick but no funk.  It smells planty, not underpanty.  It is so smooth, slippery, and oddly lotiony that I can’t help but love it, if only as a spa-like extension of my grooming ritual after a long, hot bath. 

 

 

Portrait of a Lady by Editions de Parfums Frederic Malle

 

Regal and brutal in equal measure, Portrait of a Lady is the kind of fragrance best suited to boardroom intimidation than it is to personal enjoyment.  I only ever call upon it when suiting up for battle – it is my own pocket Iron Lady, complete with the bouffant hair and 1980s power suits.  Crushing, smothering belly rolls of the ashiest incense this side of Tobacco Oud crowd in on the pulpy raspberry rose, the neon green flicker of camphor or eucalyptus acting as a warning light.  A sober, dry patchouli hulks in the background, somewhat discreetly at first until you take a second look and realize just how massive it is. 

 

Portrait of a Lady is less of a fragrance than it is a behemoth – an institution.  These days, the rose is a little less brilliant than before, so some of that ‘red jewel glittering against a grey fog of ash’ effect is lost.  But it is still an impressive perfume and still eminently suited to business of turning you into a walking weapon of mass destruction.  I respect its power more than I like it, but I will never be without a little vial of it, like a flick knife tucked inside my knickers. 

 

 

Eau de Protection by Etat Libre d’Orange, aka Rossy de Palma

 

Eau de Protection gives me all the sulky, stroppy darkness I’d ever dreamed of as a baby Goth circa 1993.  The opening is bright and scratchy feeling, a neon rose teeming with enough ginger, pepper, and geranium to make you wince.  This is soon somewhat softened by a cocoa-ish musk that feels slightly funky in a cat’s paws kind of way, which in turn sets the stage for a dramatic smackdown between the drawing-blood-on-metal sharpness of geranium, wine, a more pulp fiction sort of rose, and an earthy patchouli.  In winding down, it seems to lurch between dried earth, roses, musk, amber, and cocoa, shunting you from the high-toned and pitchy to the dusky and velvety, and then back again.  The whole ride never once feels comfortable or predictable.  Bravo you weird, wonderful people at Etat Libre d’Orange!  This is as jolie-laide as Signora Rossy de Palma herself.

 

 

Rose de Nuit by Serge Lutens

 

There is a true rose in there somewhere, a mere memory of a living, breathing thing of beauty, but it is smothered and muffled with layers of wax, adipose, and decaying rose petals. The opening verges on the unpleasant, with a rose as sharply tannic as the dregs of red wine in the glass you forgot to rinse the night before.  The beeswax takes some of the sting out of it but adds a note of greasy scalp or hair that has not been washed for five days.  The rose dries up and becomes blackened, parched, and leathery, but the fat honeyed wax undertone only grows more animalic. 

 

The first time I wore it, I was repulsed.  But also intrigued.  I put it on before bed and each time I awoke during the night, I became aware of an enticing aroma surrounding me and emanating off my body.  It possesses the slightly sour, intriguingly musty, altogether human smell of a piece of skin you (or a lover) have licked.  Reader, I bought a bell bottle of it.  Though I rarely wear it because its forced intimacy makes me feel unsettled, I am glad that I have something this evocative (and slightly creepy) in my possession. 

 

 

Lyric Woman by Amouage

Photo by Jaspreet Kalsi on Unsplash

 

I didn’t think very much of Lyric Woman until I spilled a sample vial of it on some paper in my office one day and was met by this most incredible aroma of real Indian sandalwood – creamy but dry, rosy but as sturdy as a table.  I was felled; it moved me.  But if the sandalwood was the hook, I ended up sticking around for the lush rose and smoky-buttery-banana ylang, floral shapes in the air carved out and defined by the spices that jostled in the air pockets in and around them – mostly a prickly, piquant green cardamom, which gives the rose a grainy, beery-like dimension, and a fiery black pepper that sharpens and adds angularity to the custardy ylang. 

 

The overall effect is surprisingly smooth and mild for something so densely packed with spice, and I’ve come to realize that Lyric Woman shares a similar structure with Parfum Sacre, in that the botanical ‘true-ness’ of the rose is modulated and made lotiony-smooth by the buffing action of the spices, and intertwined so deeply with the sandal that it is tough to see where the seams between rose and wood actually lie. 

 

In the 2009 Guide, Luca Turin talks about a fruity-woody damascone note in Lyric Woman that turns it from a nice perfume into one that might be called a masterpiece.  And he is right, of course – there is a raisiny, dried plum quality to the rose that makes you think of rot at the heart of an otherwise perfect-looking apple – but I also think that the piquant cardamom and incredible sandalwood are also key players in the magic.  Without them, this might be a nice fruity-woody-incense rose – with them, Lyric Woman becomes the most accomplished translation of the traditional rosy-sandal attar motif of Arabian perfumery to a format more familiar to Western Europeans.         

 

 

Encens Mythique d’Orient by Guerlain

 

This is what I like to call my ‘expensive French whore’ perfume.  It calls to mind an extremely well-dressed Parisian lady at lunch who has peed in her pants a little but is supremely confident that nobody is going to call her on it because she’s just ordered a bottle of the 1975 Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs.  Opening on a steam-pressed barrage of starch and aldehydes, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’re in a Chinese laundry.  There is a brief glimpse of a rich rose and sour oud wood, but this is whipped away fairly quickly, leaving you enough time to wallow in all those fizzing, airborne ‘white shirt’ particles floating in the air, stuffed to such density that it almost takes on a physical form in front of your nose.  As metallic as a hot wire brush, you can almost feel the aldehydes clogging your lungs like cotton fluff.

 

When the starch cloud calms down, it reveals a rich, salty, ‘fatty’ ambergris note – semi-urinous too – that turns the lights up on the rose.  The effect of the ambergris is like the glare of hard, speckled sunlight on water – so bright you have to half-close your eyes to perceive it.  This approach effectively merges the classical ‘French’ style of aldehydic, operatic florals with certain hallmarks of ‘Eastern’ perfumery, such as the  hay-like bitterness of saffron and the gilded pungency of ambergris, to startling effect.  Acid rather than alkaline.  It smells oddly cheap (scratchy) and luxurious at the same time, a dichotomy I particularly enjoy (see Noir de Noir, below).  

 

 

Rose Nacrée du Desert by Guerlain

 

Rose Nacrée du Desert is technically a balsamic rose-oud, yet, for me, the role played by the patchouli is so central to its character that I mentally classify it as part of the rose-and-patchouli sub-genre.  A bright, jammy Taifi rose is set down to smolder in a pit of smoking resins, medicinal saffron, and the sour, incensey greenness of oud wood, and this accord is what dominates at first.  But then, in the drydown, in rolls that gloomy, soil-like patchouli, trampling all over the powdery, sweet benzoin to give it a dirty, lived-in edge. 

 

Rose Nacrée means pearlized rose, which implies something delicate or femme.  Don’t believe one bit of it.  This is the darkly beautiful oil anointing the beard and robes of Emirati men, wafting evocatively in their trail as they head into the Mosque for evening prayer.  It is as heavy as a length of gold-embroidered damask, so I think carefully before spraying it on, but once it is securely soaked into my every skin cell and nose hair, becoming part of my organic compounds, I luxuriate in it like a cat rolling around in catnip.   

 

 

Rozu by Aesop {Full review here}

 

Rozu wraps a fresh, dewy rose in paper-thin layers of pink pepper, shiso leaf, and aromatic grasses that crackle with intent.  Surprisingly, it is not the spice or the aromatics that shine through the hardest.  For me, it is the evocative aroma of freshly-turned soil that makes Rozu special.  Moist, sharp, alive – this is the healthful, plush air inside a Japanese onsen. 

 

 

Epic Woman by Amouage

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

 

Epic Woman balances the hot and the sour and the sweet as masterfully as a delicate Chinese dish – the heat from the black pepper and cinnamon, the green pickling spices (caraway), and the soft-but-oh-so-vinegary oud are the major players here.  But there is also a diffuse sweetness, coming off the pink rose that blooms behind the sour opening notes and what feels like a mixture of powdered cinnamon and vanilla.  The parched tannins of the black tea are difficult to pick out when placed up against the smoky guaiac wood, incense, and other spicy-woody notes, but they are nonetheless present and correct.



The vanilla in the base is subtle – a thimbleful of crème anglaise rather than an ice-cream sundae – and spiked with just enough sugar added to round out the sourness of the oud wood.  The sourness and the delicate spices surrounding the rose persist all through the perfume, though, and keep me smacking my lips.  This is a perfume to be savored like the snap of a cold dill pickle straight from the jar when you’re starving.  In its perfectly judged balance of sweet, piquant, spicy and anisic, Epic Woman is my favorite rose-as-sherbet perfume.  

 

 

Noir de Noir by Tom Ford

 

The recipe in Nigella Lawson’s ‘Feast’ for Chocolate Guinness Cake makes an enormous wodge of damp, dense (yet springy) chocolate cake of the deepest black imaginable, topped with a thick single layer of white cream cheese frosting meant to resemble the head on a pint.  The beauty of this cake is the way what Nigella calls ‘the ferrous twang’ of Guinness holds its own against the chocolatey sweetness of the crumb and the tartness of the cream cheese.  If you think about it, the pairing makes sense – there is something almost animalic, or at least iron-rich, like blood, that connects the loamy darkness of stout (and soil) with the aroma of a 90% cocoa bar of chocolate being melted in a bain marie.

 

Noir de Noir uses the iodine-like sting of saffron and the plushness of Turkish rose to perform the same trick.  The slightly garbagey, vegetal iron-filling aspect of the spice acts upon the patchouli and roses to create an extraordinarily dark truffle accord that feels like a cross-section of that Chocolate Guinness Cake.  The rose note here is slightly rosewater-ish, providing a cheap and cheerful Turkish Delight brightness that countermands the black velvet lushness of the chocolate-oud.  Probably the most romantic perfume in my collection, though, like dark chocolate and Turkish Delight, a strictly once-in-a-blue-moon kind of craving.

 

 

Paestum Rose by Eau d’Italie

 

This translucent wash of rose, myrrh, and black pepper – set over a base of incensey cedar or cedar-ish incense (depending on the angle you look at it) – never strikes me as being as dark or as gothic as some reviews describe it.  However, there is a water-washing-over-river-stones quality to the myrrh that lends it a certain seriousness, like delicate roses bleached of their lifeblood, their pinkness fading slowly to greige.  The tartness of the pepper tickles my taste buds in much the same way as Epic Woman does, but this is far more sheer and weightless a composition.  I also sense the urinous greenness of blackcurrant bud, sucking any moisture out of the air. 

 

For years, I vacillated between Costes I and Paestum Rose, as I see these fragrances as two sides of the same coin – transparent, spiced woods and rose – and for a while was sold on the more cinnamony Costes I.  But my fascination with the Costes waned as I could never get it to rouse itself past the first, shy, minor C wave of aroma it summoned.  Paestum Rose, while almost equally as sheer as the Costes, seems somehow more robust and characterful in construction, so I sold my two bottles of Costes I and purchased a bottle of Paestum Rose in 2017.  Doesn’t matter now, of course – both the Costes and Paestum Rose have been discontinued.  Rozu by Aesop might be an adequate substitute for the airy, piquant freshness of the peppery rose smell that I love so much, but I’m doubtful.  Paestum Rose is one of my most worn rose fragrances of all time, because it’s just so damn easy to wear, yet never less than soulful. 

 

 

Santal Majuscule by Serge Lutens

Photo by Jessica Loaiza on Unsplash

 

For a perfume that lists so many comforting notes – cocoa, rose petals, sandalwood, and so on – Santal Majuscule by Serge Lutens is full of things that pull and push against each other, creating tension.  The first few minutes feel dense to the point of sensory overload, a strong, boozy cocoa note interacting so violently with a jammy red rose that it conjures up a phantom note of aromatic coffee bean.   The sour, lactic tang of the sandalwood clashes with the syrupy sweetness of the rose; the bitter dustiness of the dark cocoa stands off against the oiliness of the wood; these contrasting notes and textures rub up against each and then pull apart again in the most interesting ways possible.  

Much like Chanel’s Bois des Iles, Santal Majuscule is a reconstruction of the characteristically creamy but arid scent of true Indian sandalwood.  It draws on the different textures and angles of the rose, cocoa, and woody notes to suggest – roughly – the range of tones you get in sandalwood, which run from rosy, woody, and syrupy to dusty, milky, sour, sweet, and oily.  Towards the end, the aridity lets up with a tandem of woods and rose arranged in that floral Indian pudding style, complete with rosewater and saffron.  A perfectly autumnal, woody rose experience and one that is deeply meaningful to me. 


 

Muschio by Lorenzo Villoresi 

 

Past the rosy-minty slap of the geranium leaf, Muschio is a surprisingly creamy rose-musk-sandal affair not a million miles away from Safran Troublant by L’Artisan Parfumeur.  Tremendously diffusive and enveloping, it is one of those rare scents that manages to be sharp and mellow at the same time, thus straddling the Great Gender divide with ease.  Yes, it feels like rose custard, but at the same time, it also smells like crushed herbs, that arid-umami Villoresi sandalwood, and a clean, woody musk.  It is one of my favorite scents of all time, let alone a rose one, and among one of my most worn in 2019, when I was living in Rome. 

 

 

Sballo by Bruno Acampora

 

Sballo means ‘trip’ in Italian.  Not as in a ‘trip to the seaside’, but in the ‘I ate some funny-looking mushrooms and now your face is a rainbow’ sense of the word.  Which is appropriate when you consider how mind-bendingly seventies the Acampora oils smell.  Trippy, psychedelic, groovy – all words that fit the Acampora aesthetic like a glove.

 

Sballo is the banner-carrier for this seventies feel, so it goes heavy on the aromatics, hay, patchouli, and oakmoss.  It ain’t pretty, but it sure does smell authentic.  The main thrust is a patchouli-rose chypre in the Bernard Chant style.  Think Aromatics Elixir and Aramis 900, but richer and rougher in texture.  An artisanal, homemade take on a commercial model.  The rose is brilliant and red, but smothered by armfuls of dry, rustic grasses and hay note acting in tandem with oakmoss and patchouli.  

 

Most modern chypre scents fake the bitterness of oakmoss in the traditional chypre accord via other materials that share a similarly ashen dryness, like denatured patchouli aromachemicals (Akigalawood), hay, galbanum, or even saffron.  But though there is no oakmoss listed for Sballo, I can’t imagine that it doesn’t actually contain at least some.  To my nose, the shadowy dankness of the material is unmistakably present.  

 

Sballo shores up this oakmoss effect by flanking it with equally dank or earthy-dry materials such as hay, clove, patchouli, and a material that smells like tobacco or black tea leaves.  The overall effect is gloomy and desiccated in the grand rose chypre tradition.  Saving it from a classic ‘ladies who lunch’ formality of the chypre is the rough, almost burnt-ashy texture of the moss and patchouli.  It is like the rough, stubbled jaw of a brutish male thrust into your personal airspace, causing both discomfort and the thrill of secret excitement. 

 

 

Traversée du Bosphore by L’Artisan Parfumeur

 

Despite buying almost every iteration of the theme in the past, and me originally thinking that it smelled like a cherry-flavored Jolly Rancher, Traversée du Bosphore is the only rose loukhoum scent I have kept in my collection. 

 

The notes say apple and pomegranate, two ingredients heavily used in Turkish and Balkan cuisine.  But I am used to my mother-in-law’s wild pomegranate syrup, which is tart and sweet and tannic all at once, so for the longest while I couldn’t see the connection to the more single-cell syrup I was smelling in the topnotes.  The dry down, on the other hand, was always more interesting to me – a fat, pink suede cushion thickly dusted with icing sugar and trembling under the weight of rose petals.  The Tl;dr of all this is that while the drydown felt luxe to me, the opening always smell cheap. 



But then it struck me – what the hell am I talking about?  Loukhoum is cheap.  Its cheapness is practically its whole point.  It is cheap to make, cheap to consume, and it tastes a bit cheap too.  I lived in the Balkans for 17 years, and at meetings in Bosnia, Serbia, or Montenegro, someone would invariably pull out a tin of loukhoum and you’d find yourself mindlessly chomping through two or three cubes of vaguely rose-flavored gelatin with the coffee (always more of a texture than a taste), careless of the post-loukhoum sugar headache that loomed over your medulla oblungata like a nuclear cloud. 



Knowing that loukhoum costs pennies is part of its hokey charm, I guess.  It’s like coffee, good bread, and chocolate – small things that cost relatively little and yet provide a spot of brilliance or colour in the drabness of our daily lives.  And this (essential) cheapness is key to appreciating Traversée du Bosphore.  Enough with the mythologizing of Eastern sweetmeats, this perfume seems to be saying – loukhoum is made from boiled up horses’ hooves, so let’s not all pretend that it’s something fancier than it is.  I no longer live in the Balkans, so when I feel a bit nostalgic for the cheap rosewater taste of the local loukhoum, Traversée du Bosphore is my solution. 

 

 

Tocade by Rochas

Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash

 

A great big, cheap, creamy delight – basically the fattiness of L’Oréal Riche Shine lipstick mixed with the scent of sugar cookies pulled fresh from the oven, and a few non-descript florals (the Roucelian magnolia is there, of course, but also lily of the valley) thrown in purely in a futile attempt to freshen the stodge of its muffin top.  The overall effect is super sweet and plasticky and acetone-ish, like a 1980s My Little Pony scissored in half, or one of those rhubarb-and-custard boiled sweets you’d buy at the corner shop in Ireland circa 1993, which of course is what makes Tocade such a fun, nostalgic wear. 

 

By Killian’s take on Tocade, Woman in Gold, missed the whole point when it made the basic template smell more luxurious.  Tocade is a rose-flavored crème brulée, yes, but more the kind you’d buy in Lidl during their Turkish week than in an upmarket restaurant – and like any loukhoum-and-lipstick scent, this creamy, sugary trashiness is an essential part of its charm.  I wear Tocade only occasionally, but it’s always a good time when I do. 

 

 

Oha by Teo Cabanel 

 

Dark, lush, and curvaceous as heck, Oha smells like a 1940s vintage perfume resurrected from the dregs of a dried-up vial found in somebody’s handbag.  It smells like an authentic, honest-to-goodness musky rose chypre, by which I mean it smells almost embarrassingly sexual, in a similar vein to L’Arte di Gucci and Rose de Nuit by Lutens, but stripped back a bit so that the effect whispers rather than cat calls.  The roses are lusty and sharp – a blend of Bulgarian and Turkish – and the bed they lie on is a sort of mossy patchouli-oak-musk thing that feels suitably dank but still incredibly perfumey. 

 

Oha is as close as I have ever found to that whole ideal of your mother, dressed to the nines in a body-hugging black velvet dress and soaked in Coco by Chanel, coming in to give you a kiss goodnight.  Well, to be honest, I never had a mother like that, but when I wear Oha, I simultaneously feel like I am both the child and the mother in that fictive scenario.  This was the most unneutered and most serious perfume that Teo Cabanel has ever done, only to be promptly thrown out in 2021 with all the other perfumes by the house that didn’t smell like a bleached sun dress and citrus body spray and the whole pre-teen French girl fantasy vibe they’re going for these days.  Assholes.   

 

 

Le Mat by Mendittorosa {Full review here}

 

Le Mat is a study in decrepitude.  Picture a time-release reel of a rose blooming violently and then slowly desaturating in hue from a pulpy, blackened red to brown, dirty gold, and finally grey – a smudge of ash crushed between the pages of a book.  Everything bracketing the rose is desiccated, from the dried fallen leaves of the patchouli to the hay and dried honey spackle of the curry-ish immortelle.  It smells like summer grasses so bleached by the sun you can almost hear the cicadas.  The dense spicing of nutmeg, clove, and black pepper force-ages the rose and buries it under a fine layer of white powder, like the mastic coating on a nubbin of Orthodox incense.  I still dream about this one long after my sample is gone.  

 

 

Safran Troublant by L’Artisan Troublant  

 

Conor McTeague, my friend and much loved writer who wrote under the pen name of Jtd, died in spring of 2020, and I think about him at least once a week.  He was a far better writer (and thinker) than I could ever be, and I looked up to him immensely.  And I know that he loved me.  My heart hurts that he chose to leave, but I know that a part of him lives on in his perfume reviews.  This is why, rather than writing my own words about Safran Troublant, I want to quote Jtd, as his review of this perfume always struck me as the only thing anyone ever needed to say about it. 

 

He said that Olivia Giacobetti almost always  ‘gives us something that doesn’t really exist, but easily could since it makes perfect sense.  In Safran Troublant, she doesn’t give us a talking bear or a winged horse.  She gives us a rose/saffron marshmallow.  Not only is this imaginable, it starts to convinces me that I might actually have eaten one of these marshmallow at some time or other.  The perfume is so persuasive that I question myself.  Is the perfume a memory or an imagination?  Giacobetti speculates so effectively that I question the experience, but she does it so deftly that ultimately I don’t care.  It’s as if I’m day-dreaming.  My mind eases a bit and I become more mindful and less perplexed’. 

 

Conor, how I wish that Safran Troublant had worked a little better as a panacea.  I never wear this rose/saffron marshmallow without thinking of you.

 

 

Cover Image:  Photo by Levko Lyudochka on Unsplash 

 

Source of Samples:  I bought (or swapped for) all the perfumes I talked about in this post either in full bottle or sample form.  

     

  

 

 

 

Aromatic Chocolate Chypre Fruity Chypre Gourmand Immortelle Patchouli Rose Single note exploration Smoke Spice Woods

Personal Pantheon of Patchouli Perfumes: PART II (The Deviations)

6th March 2023

 

 

Fragrances in this group – the patchouli deviations – tend to be more perfumey, abstract, and therefore more individual in character.  Some of these deviations treat the patchouli as a fixed point on a map, others as a jumping off point into unknown avenues of discovery.  Though some clear sub-categories can still be discerned (patchouli chypre, rose-patch, fruitchouli, etc.), even the patchouli perfumes that may be said to fit a ‘type’ surprise you by sliding instead into tight slots intended, in retrospect, for them alone.  For example, though Noir de Noir (Tom Ford) and Rose Nacrée (Guerlain) both play with the rose-patch template, the first smells like French chocolate truffles and the second smells like the inside of a Mosque.

 

Stepping away from the more straightforwardly patchouli patchouli group (earth, cocoa, amber) discussed in Part I opens the door to a diverse group of potential new entrants.  Because once you start cross-pollinating patchouli with jasmine, oakmoss, immortelle, black pepper, vanilla, and tonka bean, the results vary as infinitely as the combinations to a bank vault safe.

 

On the one hand, this makes it easier to identify and avoid redundancies.  On the other, the temptation to add these fragrances to your collection is strong, precisely because each of them is special in their own unique way.  My approach to curation of this second group, therefore, is less structured than the first.  I will have to feel my way intuitively through it, being completely honest about the specialness or ‘essential-ness’ of each choice to my personal collection.

 

Remember, this is by no means a comprehensive analysis of every single patchouli-esque perfume I have ever smelled or reviewed, but rather a good hard look at my personal collection and collecting habits.

 

 

Phenolic Patchouli

Photo by Tobias Rademacher on Unsplash

 

Patchouli 24 by Le Labo.  Yes, yes, I know that 80% of the patchouli in Patchouli 24 is in its name.  And yes, if you were to argue that Patchouli 24 smells more like smoking tar pits and the aftermath of a chemical fire in a tire factory than it does patchouli, you’d certainly have a point.  But are you writing this blog, or am I?

 

Something about the way the burned, smoky ‘electrical fire’ facet mingles with the thin, poisonously sweet slick of vanillin and the faint whiff of runner’s sweat (vetiver) pooled at the base makes me feel like Lisbeth from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, chasing a bad guy down on her motorcycle.  The salty-sweet ‘glazed ham’ quality to the smoke is also something that feels weirdly sexy to me.   I would wear this more often, but for the fact that when I do, my husband stops the car to check for an electrical shortage or fire of some sort.

 

 

Immortelle Patchouli

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

 

Saying goodbye to:

 

PARFUMS Luxe: Patchouli by Comme des Garçons.  Luxe: Patchouli’s opening salvo of wet teak, hickory smoke, syrupy immortelle, anisic fenugreek, and herbal patchouli is both impressive and challenging.  I swooned when I first smelled this in a niche perfumery store in Belgium but should have remembered that scents that are characterful enough to push past the thick fuzz of hundreds of other perfumes being sprayed into the air are often too big for me when I get them home.

 

There are parts of this fragrance that I love.  It is a genius idea, for example, for the perfumer to flank the patchouli with the syrupy warmth of the immortelle, the burning white pepper, the dried alfalfa sweetgrass, and the bold smokiness of the opoponax, because these notes render all the soil out of the patchouli like fat from a sausage, leaving only its vegetal facets on display.  On the other hand, vegetal in patchouli speak always translates to a stewed celery-like tonality, which is not ideal, because, you know, walking around smelling like a vegetable stock cube is not something I aspire to.

 

And unfortunately, this is the aspect that gets further accentuated by the curryish fenugreek note, which smells like crushed celery seeds mixed with pine and mint.  I can take fenugreek in spicy sandalwood settings (like Santal de Mysore by Serge Lutens) but my tolerance level plummets when it is shoved up against an already vegetal-smelling patchouli.  There is nothing like this in my collection, let alone my patchouli collection, but Luxe: Patchouli gets worn too infrequently to earn a permanent place.

 

Dreaming about:

 

Le Mat by Mendittorosa.  A dry-yet-syrupy exposition on the same immortelle-patchouli idea as Luxe: Patchouli, but far less confrontational and saturnine than the Comme des Garcons.  I find it beautiful.  However, at €250 a bottle, it is one of those small, precious things that I am content to file away in my memory palace and think about every now and then.         

 

 

Rose-and-Patchouli

Photo by Salman Khan on Unsplash

 

Rose-patchouli fragrances work in much the same way as rose-oud fragrances do, in that they pair something lush, floral, sweet and stereotypically feminine (the rose) with something rougher, darker, woodier and more stereotypically masculine (patchouli, oud).  The fragrance works because the contrast works.  For some reason, rose-patchouli fragrances all have a slightly Victorian, gothic feel to them – stormy, dramatic, morose (serious Morrissey vibes) – while rose-oud fragrances read as dry and exotic.  I must be in the mood to wear a rose-patchouli fragrance, as they tend to feel quite rich and over-bearing on my skin, and I am not always ready for their sturm-und-drang.  However, I have found two that both suit me and fill very different mood slots in my collection.

 

Eau de Protection by Etat Libre d’Orange, aka Rossy de Palma.  This is the Gothic darkness I’d been hoping for from Voleur de Roses.  The opening is bright and scratchy feeling, teeming with enough ginger, pepper, and geranium to make you wince.  This is soon somewhat softened by a cocoa-ish musk that feels slightly funky in a cat’s paws kind of way, which in turn sets the stage for a dramatic smackdown between the drawing-blood-on-metal sharpness of geranium, wine, a pulp fiction rose, and an earthy patchouli.  Towards the end, the scent seems to lurch between dried earth, roses, musk, amber, and cocoa, shunting you from the high-toned and pitchy to the dusky and velvety, and then back again.  The whole ride, which takes place over ten hours on my skin, never once feels comfortable or predictable.  Bravo you weird, wonderful people at Etat Libre d’Orange!  This is as jolie-laide as Signora Rossy de Palma herself.

 

 

Rose Nacrée du Desert by Guerlain.  By rights, Rose Nacrée du Desert is a balsamic rose-oud – exotic and Eastern in character – rather than a rose-patchouli.  Yet, for me, the role played by the patchouli is so central to its character that I personally classify it as part of the rose-and-patchouli sub-genre.  It is dry, rich, and as hefty as a hippo.  A bright, jammy Taif rose is set down to smolder in a pit of smoking resins, medicinal saffron, and the sour, incensey greenness of oud wood, and this accord is what dominates the scene at first.  But then, in the drydown, in rolls that tremendously gloomy, soil-like patchouli, trampling all over a powdery, sweet benzoin to give it a dirty, lived-in edge.  Rose Nacrée means pearlized rose, which implies something delicate or femme.  But nope.  This is the darkly beautiful oil anointing the beard and robes of Emirati men, wafting evocatively in their trail as they head into the Mosque for evening prayer.  

 

Already yeeted from the Patchouli Patch:

 

Voleur de Roses by L’Artisan Parfumeur.  Voleur de Roses is a relatively simple scent based on three notes – rose, patchouli, and stone fruit – but it is the interplay between these notes that makes it fascinating.  The opening is that of plums on the turn, the sweet smell of fruit slowly rotting in the sun.  Since this is so quickly joined by wet young rose and an earthy patchouli, you are never quite sure whether the fruity decay belongs to the rose or to the freshly upturned earth, so the rotting plums effectively form a bridge between the rose and patchouli.

 

The feel of the perfume is wet, lush, and botanical.  It is certainly not as dark or as brooding as reviews paint it.  The patchouli dominates the rose, yes, but it is not a sinister, raw, or aggressive sort of patchouli.  In fact, the whole thing comes off as delicate and transparent, like a Japanese silk screen print.  With notes as lusty as patchouli and rose these, you want the scent to be deep, bloody, resonant and almost pounding in their intensity.  Or at least I do.  But Voleur de Roses never delivers the intensity I crave, and to add insult to injury, it seems to dissipate from my skin in under two hours.  And I refuse to pay L’Artisan Parfumeur prices for what amounts to a patchouli-rose splash.  

 

 

Sexy Baby Powder Patchouli (Yes, it’s a category, deal with it)

Photo by Miguel Salgado on Unsplash

 

Patchouli Bohème by LM Parfums.  Immediately, this recalls the smeary aroma of the ladies’ communal changing room where my mother would bring me into as a little child to wait while she tried on clothes.  The closed air swollen with the collective unsnapping of bras and unpeeling of pantyhose, the yeasty aroma of cooped-up underboob and flesh rolls suddenly released from their whalebone prisons, and the clouds of deodorizing talcum powders moistened by the day’s wear and tear.

 

At the center of all this is a balmy-greasy accord like clay or playdough spiked with the rosy-minty spikes of geranium leaf.  There is an ungodly amount of tonka bean in this, its slightly roasted almond butter facet roughed up by an oily patchouli masquerading as a black leather jacket.  Thanks to the strong role played by the tolu balsam, the texture of the perfume oscillates between sticky (turgid, airless, and ‘brown’) but and dusty (baby powder spliced with glints of metal).  Tolu balsam is similar to benzoin (woody, vanillic, spicy) but deeper, waxier, and more medicinal, with a pronounced leathery or tobacco like effect.  In Patchouly Bohème, it is as essential as the patchouli.  This is a scent that catches me off guard every time I wear it, because I never anticipate the way its soft, balmy, nutty-powdery skin is just a front – a wee baby Shalimar – hiding this massively earthy, roasted leather.  It is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

 

 

Peppery Patchouli

Photo by Pratiksha Mohanty on Unsplash

 

Lord of Misrule by Lush.  The opening smells like black pepper but only if you imagine a handful of black pepper powder being blown at you through the sweet, glittery miasma of mica and minerals that hovers around the bath bomb wall at Lush.  If you told me this is what Outer Space smells like, I’d believe you.

 

Straight away, there are two layers.  The first, that minty-mineralic ‘bath bomb’ dust that impregnates every available air particle to the point you feel a little ‘choked out’.  The second, a wet, syrupy-sweet accord that smells a little like the Coca Cola syrup you mix with seltzer in a Soda Stream.  In this regard, it feels like Lush is recycling a few ideas from previous perfumes in Lord of Misrule, most notably the bright, Coca Cola-ish marmalade-myrrh accord from 1000 Kisses Deep and the burnt sugar notes from All Good Things.  The patchouli is hiding out in the heart, but it is so heavily bookended by the sharp pepper and the syrupy amber that, for the first hour or two, it is easy to miss.

 

But the greyish fuzz of minerals and space dust eventually burns off, revealing a sumptuous patchouli amber so rich you can almost feel it as a weight on your skin.  Essentially, in marrying a sexy ice-creamy amber-vanilla tandem to a headshoppy patchouli (think more the incensey sweetness of patchouli nag champa than the essential oil), Lush has recreated the more expensive feel of niche vanillambers, like Ani (Nishane) or Ambre Extrême (L’Artisan Parfumeur) but charges you a mere €35 for the pleasure.  As long as Lush makes Lord of Misrule, I will be buying it.

 

 

Green Patchouli

Photo by Rebecca Orlov | Epic Playdate on Unsplash

 

One herbal and dusty, one creamy and playdough-y.  Both greenish.  Both essential (to me).   

 

Cozé 02 by Parfumerie Generale.  Coze smells like someone picked up the nicest smelling things in the world – coffee, pepper, dark chocolate, hash resin, patchouli – and shoved them into a perfume.  For something that references both hash and the chocolate we eat when we get the munchies, this is as far away from the druggy atmosphere of a teenage boy’s bedroom as can be.  The sativa note has been cleverly married to a host of other green, herbal, and woody elements, thus yanking the whole thing outdoors.  Whenever I wear this, I feel like I am in the company of friendly lumberjacks, sitting down in a forest opening to coffee, brownies, and a funny cigarette or two after a morning of cutting down trees.  It is the type of perfume that makes you feel happy in an uncomplicated way.

 

The opening is rather dry and dark – a brief boozy patch followed by ashy tobacco and a fine dusting of something that can only be cocoa powder.  It is delicious and slightly spicy, with hot pepper and cloves.  This ashen layer is fitted closely over a sticky green hemp base, and then finally set to smolder on a base of mahogany wood chips.   There is a near perfect balance between edible and inedible, dry and balmy, and smoke and cold, clean air.  Technically, it would probably be correct to call Coze a quasi-gourmand, but its genius lies in dotting the foody notes so evenly around a dark, woodsy, smoky base that it would never occur to anyone to call it yummy.

 

 

Arbolé Arbolé by Hiram Green.  Full review here.  There is a wonderfully soft, smeary quality to the patchouli used here – it is clearly patchouli, but not at all headshoppy.  Rather, backlit with a greenish, rosy tint that makes me think of exotic liqueurs, it takes on a pleasantly stale, waxy chocolate softness that recalls vintage make-up, heavy silks taken out of storage in cedar trunks, and huge beeswax candles dripping over everything.  There is a sort of cosmetic, floral wax tonality that smudges the corners of the other notes and gives the perfumes a touch of vintage glamour.  Hiram Green perfumes wear as if lit from within and this is no exception.

 

All the individual characteristics of the raw materials – the cedar, patchouli, sandalwood – have been sanded down until only a smooth, integrated woodiness remains.  There is none of the normal bitter muskiness of cedar, none of the raw, earthy, or leafy facets of patchouli, and the sandalwood registers only as a unifying texture of creamy butter.  There is a smutty quality to this perfume that appeals enormously to me.  It shares the same soft ‘musky cocoa powder’ sexiness with Mazzolari Lei and Parfumerie Generale L’Ombre Fauve, both of which also blur the lines between patchouli, musk, and ambery-vanilla aromas so smoothly that the nose doesn’t immediately recognize one or the other.

 

 

Patchouli Nu-Chypres (Sans Moss)

Photo by Irene Kredenets on Unsplash

 

I have two favorites in this category.  Stellar job at curation, Claire!  Both use the earthy-minty ‘emotional remoteness’ of patchouli as a replacement for oakmoss in the chypre equation.  But they are so different to one another, as well as criminally discontinued and therefore unobtanium, that I have no choice (no choice, I tell you!) but to keep both in my collection.  

 

Bottega Veneta eau de parfum (For Her) by Bottega Veneta.  Like the famous intrecciato handbag upon which it is based, Bottega Veneta weaves together tonally-greige strands of plum, jasmine, and patchouli for a dusky, hoarse-throated take on suede.  It has the same milky bitterness you get in other light suede fragrances such as Daim Blond (Serge Lutens), which it resembles slightly.  But it is the addition of the gruff, stone-washed patchouli that makes Bottega Veneta the more robust and sexier scent.  Sadly, Bottega Veneta has discontinued this perfume, along with all its original ‘department store’ perfumes, choosing instead to throw the brand’s entire marketing budget at its soulless, couldn’t-strike-upon-an-idea-if-it-tried luxury segment (Le Gemme).  Well, fuck you very much, Bottega Veneta.

 

 

31 Rue Cambon by Chanel.  This is a fragrance that proves that a fragrance doesn’t need oakmoss for it to smell like a proper chypre.  Though I didn’t love it at first, it has slowly taken hold in my life, occupying roughly the same general space in my head as Mitsouko (Guerlain) and Profumo (Acqua di Parma).  But because Rue Cambon draws on a dry patchouli to provide that bitter mossiness essential to the drydown of a chypre, it is more modern, i.e., more streamlined in structure and far less powdery.

 

31 Rue Cambon is essentially a jostling together of ice and earth – the bitter, stinging purity of that bergamot, the Grappa-like chill of orris root, a touch of milky peach skin and jasmine in the heart to fool you into thinking that there is something akin to human warmth in here (there isn’t) – all grounded by a patchouli material that smells more like dried rose petals crumbled into dried earth than the chocolatey version used in Coromandel.  It makes me smell like someone who has her shit together.  The version I wear – the original eau de toilette – was discontinued in autumn of 2016, a sacrificial lamb slaughtered on the altar to modern consumer demand for beauty to last more than five hours (the fucking heathens).   Unfortunately, the post-2016 eau de parfum version suffers from an overload of thick, swampy ylang or vetiver that suffocates the lacy delicacy of the bergamot-iris-jasmine-patchouli structure.

 

In other words, when both my Bottega Veneta and 31 Rue Cambon are gone, I will be nu-chypre-less.  

    

 

Already yeeted from the Patchouli Patch:

 

Mon Parfum Chéri, par Camille by Annick Goutal.  A throwback chypre, all sharp elbows and no curves – and yet Mon Parfum Chéri, par Camille is a modern construction, launched in 2011.  The plum note is tart and sour, the iris starchy, and the patchouli as dry as a bone.  It manages to be rich and dark without being earthy, and light and powdery without being sweet.  For me, it immediately formed a memory bridge between the mossy plum of Guerlain’s discontinued chypre, Parure, the woody violets of Bois de Violette (Serge Lutens) – without the candied sweetness – and the dirty patchouli drydowns of grungy drugstore rose chypre classics such as La Perla Classic.  Its bitter, dusty grandeur suggests a perfume with a long and storied past, like Mitsouko.  I respect the hell out of Mon Parfum Chéri, par Camille (to the extent that I bought and sold it twice in two years) but found it difficult to wear comfortably.  I struggled to bend it to my will, make it sink properly into my skin.  Its noli-me-tangere air made it a forbidding and standoffish experience.

 

 

Oakmossy Pagan Patchouli

Photo by Content Pixie on Unsplash

 

Aromatics Elixir by Clinique.  We all know what Aromatics Elixir smells like.  Or do we?  It initially smelled murky and old-fashioned to me, until I leaned into it and realized that it is one of the great perfume anachronisms of the last century.  Created by Barnard Chant in 1975, Aromatics Elixir blazed a trail of agrestic patchouli, bitter herbs, rose, resins, and moss through what was a very different perfume world, setting itself in opposition to the clean, sporty fragrances that followed soon after but also breaking ties with the mannered formality of the green floral chypres of the fifties and sixties.  Aromatics Elixir’s groovy, loose-hipped manner is the kind of messy that earns you a lifetime of therapy later.  Sometimes it smells less like a perfume and more like a collection of elements a pagan goddess might summon from the undergrowth.  It lives exclusively in the small, private space between my clavicle and my sweater where it can do the least damage.  I apply the potent urine-yellow juice delicately – sprayed lightly onto my fingertips and then pressed gently onto my flesh – but in the end, the submission is all mine.

 

 

Saying goodbye to:

 

Beloved Woman by Amouage.   Beloved is beautifully done.  But was it necessary for me to invest in a whole bottle of it when it is clearly Amouage’s homage to Clinique’s Aromatics Elixir?  No, Claire, it most certainly was not.  Example number 202 of spectacularly poor judgement.  Beloved opens with a bitter, powdered clove, lavender, and sage combination that smells as aromatic and talc-like as Histoires de Parfums’ 1876.  But really, the rose, the hay-like chamomile, and the sage all combine to sing an Aromatics Elixir-shaped song.  Beloved is a fine lady, and Aromatics a hippy mom.  But the essential bone structure is there.  One might have been the other had different choices been made, and all that.

 

Now, of course, there are differences.  Aromatics Elixir is earthier, its airways gunked up with patchouli.  And the rose note in Beloved is arguably more remarkable.  Hidden behind the aromatic powder of the opening, you might miss it at first, but then it swells in intensity, rising from a crumble of dusty potpourri rose petals to become a big, juicy rose fluffed out by moisture.  The rose lingers for a while in a pool of boozy, hay-like immortelle, for a combination that is simultaneously syrupy and dry, sweet and savory.

 

But again, did these small differences provide adequate justification for slapping down a cool €300-and-something down on the table for a bottle of Beloved when Aromatics Elixir performs the same basic trick of making you feel womanly, powerful, and in control of your own fate, but at a cost that is almost ten times less?  No, Claire, they did not.  

 

 

Already yeeted from the Patchouli Patch:

 

Noir Patchouli by Histoires de Parfum.  A very refined take on the Bernard Chant canon of patchouli classics from Aramis 900 to Aromatics Elixir, retrofitted for modern tastes with a soft leather bag accent, every inch of its lining thickly dusted with green floral cosmetic powders.  But the earthy, almost metallic bitterness comes from the tree moss rather than from the patchouli, so while it is dark, it is also fresher and livelier (mintier) than expected.  I liked it, but liking is not a strong enough emotion for me to keep anything.  And once I’d spotted the familial Aromatics Elixir DNA, it was time for it to go.

 

 

Tramp by Lush.  Tramp was my Lush favorite body wash for a full decade, so when I got the chance to order a bottle of Tramp perfume from the Lush Kitchen in 2016 or 2017, I didn’t hesitate.  A simple blend of two especially dank forest-floor materials – patchouli and oakmoss – I can understand why they were forced to discontinue it in this post-IFRA world (my last remaining bottle of the body wash still lists Evernia prunastri on the label).  What I don’t understand is why I loved the shower gel so much and the perfume not at all.  In one of those ‘be careful what you wish for’ scenarios, it turns out that a straight-up, one-two punch of patchouli and oakmoss smells like an unfinished sketch of Polo or Brut.  Bitter, aftershavey, pungent, and unrelenting – gah!

 

 

Patchouli Truffles

Photo by amirali mirhashemian on Unsplash

 

Unlike the cocoa aspect of the more patchouli-forward fragrances in Part I, which appear only as a facet of the patchouli material itself, this category refers to a more explicitly gourmand treatment, i.e., melted chocolate, dark chocolate truffles, Nutella, etc.  Where patchouli becomes transubstantiated into something purely edible.   

 

Noir de Noir by Tom Ford.  The recipe in Nigella Lawson’s ‘Feast’ for Chocolate Guinness Cake makes an enormous wodge of damp, dense (yet springy) chocolate cake of the deepest black imaginable, topped with a thick single layer of white cream cheese frosting meant to resemble the head on a pint.  The beauty of this cake is the way what Nigella calls ‘the ferrous twang’ of Guinness holds its own against the chocolatey sweetness of the crumb and the tartness of the cream cheese.  If you think about it, the pairing makes sense – there is something almost animalic, or at least iron-rich, like blood, that connects the loamy darkness of stout (and soil) with the aroma of a 90% cocoa bar of chocolate being melted in a bain marie.

 

Noir de Noir uses the iodine-like sting of saffron to perform the same trick.  The slightly garbagey, vegetal iron-filling aspect of the spice acts upon the patchouli and roses to create an extraordinarily dark truffle accord that feels like a cross-section of that Chocolate Guinness Cake.  It’s worth noting that the rose note here is slightly rosewater-ish, providing a chippy Turkish Delight brightness that countermands the black velvet lushness of the chocolate-oud.  Probably the most romantic perfume in my collection, though, like dark chocolate and Turkish Delight, a strictly once-in-a-blue-moon kind of craving.

 

 

Angel Muse by Thierry Mugler.  Full review here.  Muse is an improvement on the original Angel because (a) it manages to drown out the high-octane Maltol shriek of its predecessor with a velvety blanket of hazelnut cream, and (b) the treatment of the patchouli in Muse tacks towards gianduja rather than the sour, wet dishrag left to molder overnight in a sink of the original Angel.  Muse smells both edible and inedible, like a posh chocolate truffle mashed underfoot into the warm, sweet grass of a polo pitch, which makes it a successful perfume rather than just a successful gourmand perfume.  The addition of vetiver is critical.  Vetiver often smells like ground hazelnuts (see Vetiver Tonka, Sycomore, Onda) but adds a savory, mealy element that restrains the sugar.  That effect is noticeable here, and matched to the soft chocolate of the patchouli, the inevitable result is that of a creamy, nutty chocolate truffle (gianduja).  Naturally, because I like it so much, Angel Muse has been discontinued.

 

 

Fruitchouli

Photo by Jasmine Waheed on Unsplash

The marriage of inedible (patchouli) and edible (fruit).  Note that the patchouli in this style of fragrance is usually very clean and ‘pink’, i.e., a prettied-up version of the material, stripped of all its brown, grungy earth tones, instead bulked out by tons of white musks and sweet, syrupy Maltol.  This style of fragrance is not my kind of thing, but I have managed to find two examples that I can not only bear but truly love.

 

Visa by Robert Piguet.  In a slightly similar vein to Mauboussin, Angel, and Chinatown, it would probably be more accurate to call Visa a complex, fruited ‘oriental’ with a distinct patchouli character, however since we are no longer saying the O word and since this attempt at curation is focused on patchouli, I am going to place Visa in the fruitchouli category and invite anyone with a problem with that to write me an angry letter.  The fruit notes in Visa are remarkable – white peaches, plums, and pears that smell true to life without smelling the slightest bit loud or fake.  Darkened at the edges by the burnt sugar of immortelle and wrapped up tenderly in a powdery benzoin and patchouli blanket, Visa’s peaches and plums come bathed in autumnal dusk compared to the strobe-lit glare of other fruity-floral fragrances.  There’s a certain winey, ‘stained-glass’ glow to the stone fruit here that makes me ridiculously happy.

 

Everything in Visa feels hushed.  Even the leather note is gentle – a buffed grey suede rather than a twangy new shoe.  The suede and the slight drinking chocolate powder feel in the base offers a gentle cushion for the fruit notes.  Half the pleasure I derive from wearing Visa lies in trying to guess what category it falls into.  It straddles several at once – the fruity-floral, leather chypre, fruit leather, gourmand, and yes, definitely the dreaded fruitchouli.  But far being a brainless fruity, sweet thing that you use to stun the opposite sex into submission, Visa smells poised and a little bit mysterious.

 

 

1969 Parfum de Révolte by Histoires de Parfums.  It’s a fruitchouli, but not as we know it, Jim.  The perfume’s name refers to the sexual revolution occurring in San Francisco in the late 1960s, but by 1969 the once idyllic hippy kingdom that was Haight-Ashbury had already started to be corrupted by hard drugs, homelessness, and unsavory criminal elements.  And in a way, 1969 Parfum de Révolte pays homage to this shift, by grafting an exuberantly sexy, brash fruit top onto a darkly spiced patchouli base.  At first glance, 1969 is all about playtime.  It opens with the biggest, trashiest peach note ever – as crude and as effective as a child’s painting of a peach, smeared with Day-Glo pink and orange paint.  The green cardamom note squirts a gob of Fairy washing up liquid into the pot.  Joined by a dizzying swirl of rose, chocolate, and vanilla, the peach vibrates and expands at an alarming rate until you feel like you are literally walking around in your own personal fantasy ice-cream sundae (one that features liberal helpings of vinyl and boiled sweets).

 

Once the shock and awe of the fruit-vanilla assault dies down, spicier elements enter the picture and quietly anchor the whole thing.  The mid-section is a fruity rose and vanilla spiced with the gentle green heat of cardamom pods and the woody warmth of coffee beans.  The fruity, creamy roundness is still there, but now with depth and presence.  I like 1969 Parfum de Révolte because it gives me both the low-rent pleasure of a Tocade-style plastic rose-vanilla and a darker, more adult finish that rescues it from tipping too far into the gourmand category.  When all analysis is folded up and put away, what’s left is a sexy catcall of a fruitchouli with just the right balance of vulgarity and wit.

 

 

Saying goodbye to:

 

 

Coco Mademoiselle Eau de Parfum Intense by Chanel.   I remember something in the original Guide (Perfumes: The Guide, 2009) about Chanel doing their version of Angel and being surprised (and embarrassed, it is implied) that it was such a success.  But really, what is surprising in people craving a softer, posher, Chanel-ized take on a fragrance so famously jarring?  The essential idea of Angel – sugared fruit clashing with a hoary, masculine patchouli – is a clever one but not that easy to pull off.  Coco Mademoiselle took the basic template and cleaned it all up, turning the dial from heavy, sour and syrupy to luminous, pretty, and girly.

 

The Eau de Parfum Intense version plays it very close to the model for original eau de toilette, i.e., the pinkish, perfumey fruit pop of lychee set alight with a shower of metallic aldehydes, all underlaid with a cleaned-up, fractionated version of patchouli and a shit ton of those bouncy, expensive-smelling white musks that Chanel stuffs into its fragrances.  The only innovation in the Eau de Parfum Intense is the additional warmth and depth of tonka bean, but the differences between this and the original Eau de Toilette are not as significant as, say, the differences between Mon Guerlain and Mon Guerlain Intense, or YSL Libre and YSL Libre Intense.

 

I am letting Coco Mademoiselle Eau de Parfum Intense go because I bought it for all the wrong reasons.  On my way to live in Rome in late 2018 and leaving my (very young) family behind, I saw the pinkish juice in that reassuringly square Chanel bottle in the airport duty free, and between my tears (and copious amounts of snot), I thought, why not make myself disappear by wearing something that will make me smell like practically everyone else.  It was an act of self-effacement and of sorrow.  And it worked.  Coco Mademoiselle became my urban camouflage – the skin I slipped into every morning when I felt most like a freshly peeled egg turned out into the city.  Wearing it, I instantly became one with the faceless mass of women sleepwalking their way through the metro and train systems in the mornings.

 

I stopped wearing it for two reasons.  First, Helen, a tall and lovely but rather intimidating English colleague spun me around at the train station one morning, bellowing in my ear, Oi!  Who’s been wearing my perfume then?  (Sigh.  The inevitable downside of wearing a perfume this popular).  Second, more importantly, since I no longer live in Rome and no longer suffer the absence of my children or husband, I no longer feel the need to punish myself by making myself anonymous.  Wearing Coco Mademoiselle now feels as not-me as it always was.      

 

 

Conclusion

 

Out of the 22 patchouli fragrances discussed as part this second group, I am keeping 14, or roughly two thirds.  Sigh.  You see?  This is why you should never curate in public.  Now normal people will find this blog – maybe, if my SEO is working – and wonder why on earth someone would need this many fragrances, let alone a grand total of 18 of them dedicated to patchouli.  The answer is, of course, that I’m not normal.  And if you’ve made it this far down the page, then maybe – just maybe – you aren’t so normal yourself.    

 

 

Source of samples:  All the bottles reviewed or, ahem, curated here were bought or swapped for by me.  (Using the word curated is supposed to fool both you and me into thinking that this is an artistic endeavour rather than the pitiful result of unrestrained consumption that it really is).  

 

Cover Image:  Photo by Isaac Quesada on Unsplash 

Amber Aromatic Chocolate Patchouli Round-Ups Single note exploration Thoughts

Personal Pantheon of Patchouli Perfumes: PART I (Patchouli Bellwethers)

28th February 2023

 

I adore patchouli.  But is it necessary for me to own every iteration?  No, of course not (she said sternly to herself).  My problem is that, because I love patchouli so much, I am as vulnerable to each variant as my Nana is to phone scammers.  One sniff of this intoxicating material and my critical faculties desert me, leaving me with a patchouli collection that is at least 60% redundant.  (The fact that I just admitted to having a patchouli collection is another telling sign of bloat).

 

I think of patchouli fragrances in two broad groups.  First, straight-up patchouli scents, the bellwethers, the patchouli flags in the sand, i.e., scents that exemplify what patchouli is all about.  Within this group, the singular – some might say forceful – character of patchouli nudges the scent in one of three directions: soil, cocoa, or amber.  Second, the group of scents where patchouli is a key player but not necessarily the whole point.  These tend to be more abstract than the first group, and cover a range of derivations, from the rose-patch and patchouli chypre to the aromatic, the boudoir-ish, the peppery, and the animalic.

 

The article you are reading now talks about the first category, namely the more straightforwardly patchouli patchouli fragrances.  This is the group I find most difficult to curate.  I tend to like them all and can argue with myself into the wee hours of the morning about how this one has slightly more geranium or that one a drop more amber, and are therefore worth owning.  But, really, to anyone who only has a broad sense of what patchouli smells like (most of which will come from some childhood association with head shops, hippies, or health food stores), they are much of a muchness.  I wear perfume for myself, so this shouldn’t matter.  But when even I have stopped being able to tell the difference between Patchouli Leaves (Montale), Patchouli (Reminiscence) and Patchouli (Mazzolari) – if I ever could – it is time to pare back.     

      

Don’t mistake this for anything approaching a guide or a compendium.  This is a purely personal approach to cultivation, a paring down to my must-have in each patchouli category I’ve decided there is room for in my collection.  Even the categories are personal.  You might not think it necessary to designate a spot for a rose-patch scent or a pepper-vanilla patchouli, but I do.

 

Further, I am perfectly happy to own more than one fragrance in any one category if I find something beautiful or different that makes that perfume worth hanging onto.  I am not Marie Kondo.  (Apparently, neither is Marie Kondo these days).  All the same, any outright redundancies that I identify will be whittled from my collection and either gifted to family or sold on Basenotes or Parfumo.

 

My objective is to finally start fulfilling the original mandate of this site, which was do as Coco Chanel advised, i.e., to look in the mirror before going out and ‘take one thing off’.   Now, I admit that it’s not great to be referencing anything that a famous Nazi-sympathizer says about style, let alone name a whole website after it, but hindsight is 20:20.   The principle holds true, however.  Rationalize your choices, allowing what remains the chance to shine.  My hope is that by decluttering redundancies, my collection will be reduced to only the ones that make me shiver with pleasure.  After all, if that’s not the point of perfume, I don’t know what is.

 

Soil

Photo by Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash 

Cold earth.  Fallen leaves.  Dark, damp soil, unsullied by amber or vanilla or anything that might soften that patchouli punch.  Usually Italian.

 

My pick in this category is Patchouli by Santa Maria Novella (full review here).  This is cold, damp earth, with a snap-crackle-pop of camphor up front.  Menacing, dark, and even a bit sexy, Patchouli is nonetheless thin enough to wear during summer.  Flashes of rose, leaves, and leather mark it out as a perfume rather than an essential oil.

 

Saying goodbye to:

 

Patchouli by Etro.  If I didn’t have Patchouli by Santa Maria Novella, I would hang onto this.  It runs close to the Santa Maria Novella in that it is a rather plain, straightforward patchouli, but worn side by side, the Etro emerges as far greener (mint, geranium), woodier (cypress), and more bitter (artemisia, orange).  I will admit that the ETRO Patchouli is the more evolved and elegant fragrance of the two, as it goes on with less of a roar and its pacing is more even over the course of a wear.  However, as much as I hate to pitch my two favorite Italian houses against each other, the Santa Maria Novella Patchouli remains deeply evocative for me, while the Etro never strikes me as anything more than ‘a nice patchouli perfume’.

 

Already yeeted from the Patchouli Patch:

 

Patchouli Antique by Les Néréides.  Despite buying one of the pre-reform bottles from an eBay seller in Italy (back in 2014 when everyone was buying their Les Néréides bottles from the same source), I never quite understood the rapturous praise for this one.  It smells, well, like patchouli, with only that incredibly dusty cedar note to distinguish it from the rest of the pack.  The much advertized vanilla and benzoin finish is disappointingly wan even in the vintage version (their Opoponax, on the other hand, delivers the goods), so if you are feeling saudade for a version that has now melted into the ether of time, don’t worry – you’re not missing much.

 

Patchouli Patch by L’Artisan Parfumeur.  I was never able to perceive the fruity-floral effect of the osmanthus in Patchouli Patch.  In fact, because it wore so similarly to Etro’s Patchouli on me – a wash of cold, dry earth, enlivened here and there by tiny flourishes of herbs and woods – I sold it off not two months after purchasing it.

 

Patchouli EDT by Molinard.  Sour patch, kids.  I had a 2000 edition bottle, the clear glass with the smoky central label.  Though undeniably good value and solidly constructed (like all Molinard scents), the dry, almost bitter herbalcy of Patchouli EDT always smelled ‘old mannish’ to me.  This dusty air of decrepitude stopped me from luxuriating in the minty patchouli that lay at its core (there’s a process of one’s own skin becoming one with patchouli as the day wears on, and that didn’t occur for me here).  It is a solid, unadorned patchouli for those of you who don’t want the distraction of rich ambers, chocolate, or vanilla.  Unfortunately, for me, once these things are stripped away, all I smell is neglect.     

 

Cocoa

Photo by Tetiana Bykovets on Unsplash

Patchouli in the guise of cocoa or chocolate.  Bitter, earthy, oscillating between edible and inedible.

 

Borneo 1834 by Serge Lutens (Dark Chocolate); Coromandel Eau de Toilette by Chanel (White Chocolate)

 

Borneo 1834 was one of the first niche fragrances I ever bought, and one that never fails to trigger a swell of emotion in me.  Its dark, musty, camphorous opening reminds me of the day I bought it – a blustery day in Rome, walking in dark streets before they turned the streetlamps, still slightly drunk from the wine indulgently but unwisely ordered at lunch.  The cocoa note here is the dark dust soldered (with heavy machinery) off a black block of 97% chocolate, turned greenish at the edge by either mold or galbanum resin.  Though there are gourmand nuances fluttering around the periphery – a hint of caramelized labdanum resin perhaps – the overall impression is of a cocoa that is as dry and medicinal as anything found in Chinese medicine.  

 

The dustiness of the cacao reminds me of the shut-up rooms and papers in my childhood home, a decrepit old thing built originally as a forge the year the Irish Famine began in 1845.  All the rooms were cold and damp.  My brothers and I would routinely wear up to five layers of jumpers to survive the winters (we looked like genderless Stay Puft marshmallow people from a distance).  My mum, a teacher, kept all her school papers and homework in a study, where it was left to gently decay over the years.  Borneo 1834 smells powerfully of this noble rot – greenish-blackish spots of damp colonizing reefs of forgotten papers.  Where Coromandel is creamy, luxuriant as a cat, and comforting, Borneo is raw, dry, and confrontational.  I used to think of Coromandel as the better perfume, more wearable – but over the years, my parameters have shifted.  I now think of Coromandel as a wonderful perfume, but of Borneo 1834 as an emotionally intense experience that I cannot imagine ever tiring of.

 

Coromandel Eau de Toilette by Chanel shifts the paradigm on Borneo 1834 by re-using the same basic template, but switching out the dark, musty 97% cocoa for the silkiness of white chocolate and adding a gorgeous rich, antiseptic frankincense note.  The opening has the harsh aldehydic sparkle common to all the discontinued Les Esclusifs eaux de toilette, accentuated by a touch of bitter orange, and for a while, I imagine I am wearing a tweed overcoat kindly offered to me by a man, with whiffs of some male muskiness and sharp cologne still lingering on the scratchy wool.  But the green-brown earthiness of the patchouli soon sinks back into a giant pillow of orris, vanilla, and woods, for an effect that teeters between powder and cream.  What I love about Coromandel is its fatty, warming richness.  It feels generous and kind, the perfume equivalent of drinking a bath-tub-sized mug of hot chocolate spiked with Irish whiskey on a winterish day, or taking off your high heels and feeling your sore feet sink into the folds of a thick cream carpet.  Though it is not as evocative for me as Borneo 1834, and is therefore far more of a perfume than an experience, I firmly consider Coromandel EDT to be an essential part of my collection, as the yin to Borneo 1834’s yang.

 

The post-2016 eau de parfum and 2022 parfum versions of Coromandel are fine (with the balance between bright, fizzy incense and creamy chocolate a little off-center in both), but neither are an adequate replacement for the balanced specialness of the 2007 eau de toilette.  Therefore, when my bottle runs out, I won’t be replacing it.  That means that, within a year or two, I will have to content myself with only one choice in the cocoa category (Borneo 1834).

 

 

Saying goodbye to:

 

Psychédélique by Jovoy.  By God, this is good.  Thick, creamy swirls of dark (but not too dark) chocolate underpinned by a rich, boozy amber that just beg you to sip it rather than spray it on your skin.  The patchouli is clearly patchouli – green, dirty, earthy as hell – but a transubstantiation of sorts occurs as you inhale, transmuting the soil to a fine-boned, liquid mass of chocolate, dried fruit, double cream, and whiskey.  Spray-on truffles by way of Pierre Hermès.  Despite the glut of gourmand notes, Psychédélique veers towards masculine, possibly thanks to the hand of Jacques Flori, who did many of the Etro fragrances, and whose signature (if he may be said to possess one) is the addition of mint, geranium, and carnation to keep even the most ambery of drydowns fresh and lively.  In the end, however, Psychédélique cannot sustain the rich chocolate truffle accord for very long, soon devolving into a pleasant but standard ambery-patch, of which I have shamefully multiple variations.  Therefore, as much as it pains me, I am compelled to vote Psychédélique off the island.

 

 

Already yeeted from the Patchouli Patch:

 

Patchouli Noir by Il Profvmo.  I confess that I bought a (secondhand) bottle of this only because the great Darvant of Basenotes fame always spoke so highly of it.  What I liked about it: the mint, the dusting of dark cocoa over (unadvertised) spacey white musks, and the gentle spice of carnation or clove.  What I didn’t like about it: the tendency of the mint and vanilla mixture to come tantalizingly close to the wonderful scent of mint chocolate chip gelato but never quite get there because the accord’s impact is immediately diffused into scads of fluffy white musk.  Sigh.  Cock-blocked by white musk once again.

 

Amber

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

The earthy bitterness of patchouli balanced by the caramelic sweetness of amber (labdanum, benzoin, opoponax, vanilla).  

        

Inoubliable Elixir Patchouli by Reminiscence.  This is my absolute favorite in the ambery patch category, and every time my wandering eye alights upon other ambery-patch scents, and I head off to explore, I return to Inoubliable Elixir with my tail between my legs.  I’m going to call it right now – Inoubliable Elixir is the Joanne Woodward to my Paul Newman.  So, what does the steak of patchouli scents offer that the hamburgers of the category do not?

 

My answer is depth.  Now, the basic structure of the ambery patch template never changes that wildly.  With two such heavy, rich accords – patchouli and amber – there can always be minute variations in pacing (i.e., adjusting the point in the scent’s development at which the amber turns up to dunk the patch in its much-needed bath of hot, resinous caramel) and decoration (spices, floral notes, citrus), but the crux remains that balance between the leafy earthiness of patchouli and the voluptuous sweetness of amber.

 

Inoubliable Elixir trounces its competitors by ensuring that its patchouli and its amber go miles deep in flavor.  The patchouli is raw, pungent, and almost feral, its darkness lifted a little by a bitter, grassy vetiver, a material that sings in the same earthy register as patchouli but inhabits the surface of earth’s crust, when sunshine and water still penetrate.  The basic amber accord has been thickened here with a generous dressing of both tolu balsam, a South American resin that smells simultaneously like liquidambar, crushed ‘hot’ spices like cloves and cinnamon, and melted beeswax candles, and tonka bean, which throws in its roughened, tobacco-ish, almond cream heft for good measure.

 

When the dirty, greenish patchouli smashes into this thick, sexy, red-gold amber, it smells like I wish my skin would smell like naturally.  I wish to live in this smell, roll around in it, have my pores exude it.  Mind you, I own only the original version of this and don’t know how the modern version (in the clear bottle) measures up.  But if it smells anything like the stuff that comes out of my wavy gold bottle, then there is no reason to ever stray, as it is perfection.  It is also, like, €45 for a 100ml bottle.  Patchouli by Reminiscence is similar to Inoubliable Elixir Patchouli but much lighter (think 40% of the full whack of Inoubliable Elixir), so I like to wear that in summer.

 

 

Saying goodbye to:

 

Patchouli by Mazzolari.  Similar to the Reminiscence but with a honeyed labdanum material that gives the patchouli a luscious, smoked toffee dimension.   It is so rich and sweet that wearing it feels like sucking on a never-ending square of butter caramel.  All the Mazzolari perfumes have this almost super-sonic richness to them, an old school sort of intensity that translates to nuclear longevity and sillage, and Patchouli is no exception.  It would make the perfect starter patchouli for someone who isn’t quite ready for the purer renditions of the note, as the patchouli here is not the dank sort that reminds you of upturned earth and musty wardrobes, but rather a sort of outdoorsy, green grass note.  The dry-down is all about the amber, which slowly transitions from a rich, caramelic amber à la Ambre Precieux (minus the lavender) to a dry, almost powdery finish with a spackle of resins remaining on your skin à la Ambre 1144.  However, gorgeous as it may be, Patchouli by Mazzolari essentially skirts too close to Inoubliable Elixir’s overall effect for me to keep it hanging around.

 

Patchouli Leaves by Montale:  The marketing copy for this boasts that the patchouli leaves for this fragrance were first soaked in vanilla extract and then left to macerate for two whole years in an oak barrel.  The top notes, consisting of insanely rich but dry patchouli that has a raisin-like booziness to it, like aged cognac, suggest that the blurb might, for once, be true.  The dark, boozy patchouli is joined very quickly by a buttery, warm vanilla and amber that serve to sweeten the mix.  The final impression is of a warm, golden river of almost drinkable, spiced brown patchouli, boozy vanilla, and thick amber.  The amber is slightly resinous, adding at parts a slight roughness to break up the smooth vanillic undertow and a touch of powder towards the end.  It is as comfortable as putting on a great big woolly sweater over your work clothes when you come in from the rain.  If I didn’t love Inoubliable Elixir so much, Patchouli Leaves by Montale would probably be the next best choice (for me personally) because it is earthier and less syrupy-sweet than the Mazzolari.

 

Already yeeted from the Patchouli Patch:

 

Patchouli Nobile by Nobile 1942.  To be fair, Patchouli Nobile is a far more nuanced take on the ambery patch genre than anything else mentioned above.  The familiar tandem of earthy patchouli and caramelic labdanum is elevated in two ways.  First, by way of a fougère-ish accord – a textured umami brew of sandalwood, cedar, geranium (or lemon), and oakmoss – which gives it an unexpectedly masculine dimension.  And second, with a touch of smoke by way of a cured ham guaiacol and a sharp, piney frankincense.  Patchouli Nobile is not the first ambery patch to draft in some frankincense or myrrh for moral support – Patchouly by Profumum Roma also treads this path – but to my knowledge, it is one of the rare modern ambery patch scents that dips a toe so unabashedly into fougère territory.  (This of course makes sense, as patchouli has drafted in as an oakmoss replacer by perfumers for both fougères and chypres since IFRA first started clearing its throat).  

 

However, despite its substantial Italian charm, Patchouli Nobile is too on the shy and retiring side to appeal to me.  It is almost too subtle.  Then there is the issue of the typical Nobile 1942 drydown, which seems to rely on a roster of cheap, slightly scratchy white or woody musks.  I bought it, I wore it, I tried to go steady with it, but it never put out in the specific way I wanted it to.  In the end, wearing Patchouli Nobile made me long instead for the gutsier, older versions of Givenchy Gentleman and L’Instant de Guerlain pour Homme Eau Extrême by Guerlain, both of which do a more convincing job of marrying the earthiness of patchouli to something sweet (amber, cocoa, sandalwood) and something fougère-ish (lavender, coumarin, anise).  I sold my bottle, which wasn’t hard, because this is difficult to source outside of the EU (and sometimes, indeed, outside of Italy).

 

Patchouly by Profumum Roma.  Profumum Roma fragrances are a bit hit and miss for me, so I only tend to buy the travel bottles when I am in Rome, and even then, only after repeated testing.  The ones I like are a little off the beaten track of common praise; for example, I find the funky, feline cinnamon musk bomb that is Fiore d’Ambra (review here) to be far more interesting than the much-praised Ambra Aurea, and Dambrosia, while admittedly cursed with a vile pear hairspray opening, to be a better sandalwood fragrance than the brand’s own Santalum.

 

It should come as no surprise, therefore, that while Patchouly is extremely pleasant, I find that it essentially splits the difference between an ambery patch à la Patchouli Leaves (Montale) and a chocolatey patch à la Psychédélique (Jovoy).  The sole innovation here is that dry, smoky, but also sparkly incense that Profumum shoehorns into their more balsamic fragrances, which is always welcome.  Then again, if I want myrrh, I can always buy some Olibanum (review here) or, if I crave that dry, leathery sparkle of a labdanum-patchouli-incense pairing, I can wear Le Lion (Chanel), which effortlessly outdoes Profumum at its own schtick. (To cut a long story short, I sold my travel bottle of Patchouly).

 

Conclusion

 

My final choices in the patchouli bellwether group are four: Patchouli by Santa Maria Novella for earth, Borneo 1834 by Serge Lutens and Coromandel EDT by Chanel for cocoa (paring back to only Borneo 1834 when my Coromandel runs out), and Inoubliable Elixir Patchouli by Reminiscence for amber.  I am very happy with my choices, and perhaps more importantly, happy to have fewer choices.

 

Source of samples: I either bought or swapped for every single perfume referenced in this article.

 

Cover Image:   Photo by Gwendal Cottin on Unsplash 

Amber Attars & CPOs Balsamic Cult of Raw Materials Frankincense Gold Incense Mukhallats Myrrh opoponax Resins Review Single note exploration Smoke Spice The Attar Guide

The Attar Guide: Resin Reviews 0-A

31st May 2022

 

 

Kicking off the Resin Review section of the Attar Guide with the A’s – and given that amber starts with an A, there is a lot.  But before you dive in, in case you missed it, why not have a glance at this brief primer on all things resiny here?  It gives you the lowdown on the differences between myrrh and sweet myrrh (opoponax), what benzoin smells like, and the intricacies of the kingliest resin of them all, frankincense.  It also explains what amber is, exactly. 

 

 

 

020 (Hyde & Alchemy)

Type: concentrated perfume oil

 

 

No. 020 is orange-scented toffee rendered in liquid form, with a sprinkle of pepper for interest.  A combination of patchouli, tonka, and vanilla gives the scent a waxy, fudge-like texture that muffles the high-toned brightness of the orange blossom.  No. 020 bears some similarity to Hermès Ambre des Merveilles, its orangey goodness spiced with pepper instead of salt. 

 

 

 

Absolute Amber (Clive Christian)

Type: concentrated perfume oil

 

 

Escaping the wrath of Tom Ford’s legal department by a hair, Absolute Amber is a juggernaut of an amber with a synth under-pinning so potent it could fell a horse at five paces.  One sniff of this stuff was enough to cause my olfactory system to start closing up shop.  But at the edges, certain elements that characterize the Clive Christian approach with these exclusive oils can still be identified.

 

The first characteristic element is a topnote that is Lanolin-like in its medicinal balminess, redolent of a mixture of vegetable oil, sheep’s wool, tallow, and raw silk.  This is probably due to the carrier oil used in the Absolute line of perfume oils.  The second element is the supersonic radiance deriving from woody amber synthetics typically used for reach, such as Iso E Super, Cedramber, and the like.  The third characteristic I notice, both here and in one or two other examples in the Absolute range, is the emphasis on bringing out the sharper, more confrontational facets of the raw material being highlighted.  Sweet and fluffy these oils are not.

 

True to type, Absolute Amber is a tremendously spicy, resinous amber with undertones of plum, raisin, and grated cinnamon bark.  It is somewhat comparable in tone to Ambre Eccentrico (Armani Privé), swapping out the plush, fruity tonka bean for a somewhat bitter, aftershavey base that men might appreciate.  Absolute Amber is rich without being syrupy or ‘wet in any way.  In overall feel, Absolute Amber matches the synthy radiance of other rather butch amber scents such as Amouage’s Opus VI and Ambra Meditteranea by Profumi del Forte.  For those unbothered by potent woody ambers, Absolute Amber would be a strong (in every sense of the word) option for winter daywear, especially under a formal suit.

 

 

 

Photo: My own, Omani silver frankincense 

 

Absolute Frankincense (Clive Christian)

Type: concentrated perfume oil

 

 

Natural frankincense oil has a citrusy, pine-like freshness that is practically its main character trait, and this is precisely the characteristic that Absolute Frankincense has chosen to highlight.  The scent extends the silvery bite of the resin by flanking it with a lime-like bergamot and some very natural-smelling coniferous notes.  The result smells clean and high-toned – an expression of frankincense oil itself, as opposed to the burnt, smoky notes of the resin as it bubbles on a censer.

 

Those who love the more severe takes on frankincense such as Annick Goutal’s Encens Flamboyant will appreciate Absolute Frankincense.  Just be aware that this oil is monastic in its approach, and that the green purity of the resin has been prioritized far above the smoky, resinous, or sweet notes that usually flank frankincense.  This is the cold, smooth smell of the unburned resin itself, and an almost exact match to the aroma of the resin when you rub it between the palms of your hands.  My criticism is that Absolute Frankincense is almost too simple – too close to the aroma of good quality frankincense oil itself – to be worth the cost of entry.

 

 

 

Al Masih (Mellifluence)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Al Masih means Messiah in Arabic, one of the many names for Jesus.  And to a certain extent, Al Masih’s incense is more Catholic High Mass than Islamic cannon. Al Masih opens with a frankincense note as piercing as freshly-crushed pine needles, its citric edge underscored by a lemony tandem of elemi resin and petitgrain. The total effect is of a Mediterranean church with its doors thrown open to allow the soft breeze brushing over mastic to mingle with the scent of unburned resin. Cypress, cedar, and hyssop all add to its fresh, outdoorsy air, confirming that churches are not the only places where communion with a Greater Spirit takes place.

 

The drydown is a surprise. The sharp brightness of the herbs and resins softens, collapsing into the sensual creaminess of sandalwood.  The sandalwood lends a golden, wholesome texture to the scent, recalling the bounty of the harvest and all the good things to eat in the cellar.  This series of transitions has the effect of shifting the scene from the wildness of the maquis to a soft and homely devotion scaled to domestic proportions.  At once evocative and pleasing, Al Masih might strike a chord for lovers of piney, outdoorsy incense, as well as those who love the ‘medicinal unguent’ bent of modern Italian artisanal perfumery – think Bogue and O’Driu, albeit far, far simpler. 

 

 

 

Amber Absolute (Mr. Perfume)

Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil

 

 

I have to put my hand up here and admit that I like almost every dupe of Amber Absolute that has crossed my desk.  I would wear any of them quite happily in the place of the Tom Ford, because they are invariably lighter, thinner, and don’t quite feel like the twenty-four-hour marathon that the real deal entails.  That said, every single Amber Absolute dupe, when worn side by side with the real Amber Absolute, suffers greatly in comparison.

 

And this is no different.  The dupe is satisfying and rich on its own but, worn in proximity to the great Tom Ford, reveals itself to fall far short of the mark.  Amber Absolute has an enormously thick and heavy labdanum note, possibly Ambreine, a smoky, caramelized labdanum material (natural) owned by Biolandes.  This produces an intoxicating brew of caramelized toffee, leather, and burning incense.  It is thick and bittersweet, puffed up on all sides by a singed marshmallow note that makes it as hefty as a sleeping toddler.  As a perfume experience, it is remarkably well-balanced.

 

This dupe – like most others – does not feature that special thick furriness of labdanum or the vanillic cushion of benzoin.  The textural density is not right, therefore.  The bitterness of the incense notes has been replicated well, but compared to the original, the resins appear watered down.  Additionally, there is a minty freshness to the amber absent in the original, whose amber is more richly toffee-like, with whiskyish undertones.  In fact, the tart herbal twinge brings the dupe closer to Ambre Sultan than Amber Absolute (although the Serge Lutens is itself far thicker, more resinous, and more full-bodied).

 

In time, this dupe settles into a plain incense amber that, while nice, is nothing to write home about.  It subtlety and near-translucence compared to the Tom Ford means that it might make for a good option for summer or for those occasions when you want a nip of amber rather than the full jeroboam.  Not a great dupe, therefore, but not a bad all-purpose amber oil.

 

 

 

Amber Absolute (Universal Perfumes & Cosmetics)

Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil

 

 

Woody Allen once said that ‘Pizza is a lot like sex. When it is good, it is really good. When it is bad, it is still pretty good’.  The same could be said for Amber Absolute dupes.  Even at their worst, they still smell absolutely fantastic.

 

Even though it is not a hundred percent accurate, this is the best dupe for Tom Ford’s Amber Absolute that I have personally experienced.  It lacks the essential herbal-bitter depth of the incense component that makes the original so ‘tasty’, and as with all dupes of resin-heavy fragrances, there is a thickness missing in the body of the dupe.  In particular, the expensive lushness of high quality labdanum and benzoin is just not there.  The smoky marshmallow note is also missing, and there is a weird mintiness to the amber that does not feature in the original.

 

Despite these niggles, however, this dupe manages to nail the essential fruitcake-like deliciousness of the original.  It gets you about two-thirds of the way to the real Amber Absolute, and for me personally, that is good enough.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Nazar Strutynsky on Unsplash

 

Amber Afghani (Abdul Karim Al Faransi/Maison Anthony Marmin)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Amber Afghani is in many ways a traditional Eastern take on amber – dusty, vegetal, and medicinal, with an undercurrent of iodine provided by saffron and henna.  This is an amber that walks on the dry, leathery side of labdanum, rather than its unctuously sheep-fatty one.  In style and feel, Amber Afghani is similar to Royal Amber Blend by ASAQ, albeit greener and spicier.  Although floral notes and spices are listed, only saffron is perceptible, although there is a touch of the oily coolness of black pepper further on.

 

Amber Afghani is more monolithic than complex, and not something I would ever call refined.  However, if you’re in the market for a basic vegetal amber, and you’re more cowboy than cowgirl, then this is a pleasant and reasonably-priced option.  To add interest, I suggest layering it with rose and oud oils, or underneath Western (spray) soliflores such as Dame Perfumery’s Gardenia or Tuberose.

 

 

 

Amber Ash Sheikh (Abdul Karim Al Faransi/Maison Anthony Marmin)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Amber Ash Sheikh is a potent labdanum bomb with the feral honk of freshly-pored road tar and hot ash.  Subtle it is most certainly not, but if you are a fan of smoky tobacco fragrances such as Jeke, Tribute, and Patchouli 24, and want a current of sweet, molasses-like amber running beneath, then Amber Ash Sheikh is a must-try.

 

On my skin, it is mostly a fearsomely smoky labdanum bomb.  Labdanum is a resin from the rockrose plant that can read as ashy, tobacco-ish, and leathery, or alternatively, as wet, unctuous, and caramelic.  The way the resin will read in any given scenario depends on the direction the perfumer decides to take it in.

 

The direction taken here, with Amber Ash Sheikh, is firmly that of the ashy, dry leather.  The opening is so parched it sucks all the moisture out of one’s mouth, but there’s a molasses note hiding behind the ash, bringing a bitter, tarry edge for depth and texture.  It is somewhat like the play on ashy and wet seen in Soleil de Jeddah by Stephane Humbert Lucas.  But unlike that perfume, there are no bright fruit notes in Amber Ash Sheikh with which to relieve the unrelenting dryness.

 

Over time – and this is an oil that plays out on the skin over the course of a day or more if you don’t shower (heck, even if you do shower) – the bittersweet molasses note emerges from the shadows, imbuing the blend with a ‘black’ note pitched halfway between soft black licorice and buckwheat honey.  The stickiness of this accord is leavened by sour, dusty wood notes, which have a mitti-like pungency to them.  Later, the mukhallat smoothes out into a more traditionally buttery version of labdanum, nicely granulated with a gritty, bittersweet resin that recalls both the incensey amber in Amber Absolute by Tom Ford and the dried-fruit, copal bitterness of Norma Kamali Incense.  Highly recommended.

 

 

 

Photo by Isabella and Zsa Fischer on Unsplash

 

Amber Chocolate (La Via del Profumo/ Abdes Salaam Attar)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Who on earth could possibly dislike something that smells so delicious?  Amber Chocolate is roasted tonka bean shaved into a cup of the creamiest hot chocolate you can imagine.  It is spiced with a touch of cinnamon, black pepper, or even chili providing a little burn at the back of your tongue.  Thankfully, the spice element has been carefully calibrated to merely texturize the surface of the scent a little, not turn it into a niche-style freak show with curry or B.O. hiding out in the gourmandise, waiting to spring a nasty little surprise on you.

 

Amber Chocolate is a very thick, fluffy scent, and almost entirely linear.  In fact, it is remarkably similar to the yummy but simple goodness of Café Cacao by En Voyage.  If you love the smell of dark chocolate with a caramelized ‘condensed milk’ edge, then you’ll love Amber Chocolate.  If you don’t, or if you’re hoping it will evolve into something drier or less obviously edible, then you’re out of luck.

 

The attar format has much better longevity and duration than the eau de parfum, which fixes the common complaint that most people had with the original.  In fact, when it comes to the attar, it is as if the scent refuses to die.  It comes as a very dark, thick liquid that goes on like tar and stains the skin.  The drydown is finely textured, with hints of toasted bitter almond, hay, and an accord like burnt coffee grounds.  For me, Amber Chocolate lives up to the name of ‘delicious tonka bean’ better than Fève Délicieuse does, but I guess Dior got there first.

 

 

 

Amber & Frankincense / Amber Oudh #3 With Frankincense (Aloes of Ish)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Although this quarter tola bottle came to me labeled as ‘Amber & Frankincense’, I am reasonably certain that this is Amber Oudh #3 With Frankincense, based on what I can discern of the notes.  The first portion of this oil is pleasant if a little predictable – a dry, vegetal Indian-style amber with lots of raw, rubbery saffron and the lime-peel astringency of frankincense.  So far, so traditional.  Medicinal and severe, this Indian style of amber accord sits in direct opposition to souk-style ambers, which are focused on sweet, creamy combinations of labdanum, benzoin, and vanilla.

 

However, soon one notices the distinct presence of ambergris – salty, bright, and ozonic – which alleviates the dourness of the Indian amber accord, blowing gusts of sea air up its skirt.  The amber/ambergris accord becomes flushed with a thin layer of rubbery smoke, like a lump of resin seen through the haze of steam from a samovar.  Like most ambergris-laden affairs, there is also a note of charred leather, reminiscent of choya nakh, the destructive distillation of roasted seashells that many attar makers use to give their perfumes a salty, leathery pungency.

 

The heart is amber and smoky black tea, elevated by a transparent texture, like sugar water, vodka, or even champagne running through the pores of the resin, making it possible for the wearer to smell each note clearly.  This is unusual in an attar, because the natural density of oil tends to compress more than it aerates.  It is a quieter, more translucent take on the smoky booze, black tea, and dried fruit of Ambre Russe by Parfum d’Empire.

 

At one stage, there is a fleeting impression of the mint-leaf freshness of a Borneo-style oud, but this soon recedes into the smoky, rubbery black tea accent.  The drydown is a pleasurable affair of smoky, sweet resins and vanilla, approaching the singed marshmallow delight of Amber Absolute.  This is the little mukhallat that could.  Belying its low price, it walks you confidently through several styles of amber, starting off with the saffron-tinged medicinal amber of India, then shifting into a more Arabic ambergris-amber accord, then a Russian samovar (boozy, black tea) amber, to finally, a Western style amber in the incensey mold of Amber Absolute.  A prize at any price.

 

 

 

Amber Musc (Universal Perfumes & Cosmetics)

Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil

 

 

Amber Musc by Narciso Rodriguez riffs on the basic framework of the original Narciso Rodriguez For Her EDT (sweet orange blossom, musk, and patchouli) by adding amber and oud notes to spin it off into a more oriental direction.  The result?  A fragrance that retains the clean skin sexiness of the original while gaining a vaguely soukish exoticism. 

 

The dupe oil is virtually identical, down to the antiseptic cleanliness of the musk and the stiffening breeze of Iso E Super in the drydown.  The dupe more than adequately stands in for the original, which costs over two hundred dollars for the big bottle at full retail.

 

When a fragrance is constructed from entirely synthetic ingredients such as white musk, Maltol, and oud replacers anyway, you begin to wonder what exactly you are shelling out the big bucks for.  The special raw materials?  Nah.  Past a certain price point, you are paying for the brand name and the perceived exclusivity or rarity of the scent.  Given that Amber Musc is such a basic bitch to begin with, you might as well just buy the dupe and be done with it. 

 

 

 

Photo by Andrea Donato on Unsplash

 

Amberosia (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Amberosia is a parched amber with the texture of paper singed briefly at the edges with a blowtorch.  Picture the driftwood amber note subtracted from L’Air du Desert Marocain fused with aromatic rosewood, and that’s the basic character of this mukhallat.  Herbs and roses play second fiddle here, stepping back to let that austere, slightly cowboy-ish woody amber take the stage.  People who love, for example, the desert-dry woods, amber, and restrained rose in Czech and Speake’s No. 88 or Dior’s Ambre Nuit, will also appreciate Amberosia.

 

Towards the end of its life, Amberosia takes on a surprisingly barbershop-like quality.  You can almost taste the dry slap of a leather shaving strap against a freshly-shaved jaw.  There is a touch of soap, steam, herbs, and a tantalizing whiff of clean male skin.  These barbershoppy notes rough up the amber and wipe out any lingering traces of rose.  At this point, Amberosia is reminiscent of hairy-chested retro masculines such as Sahara by Mekkanische Rose, Ker by Bogue Profumo, and even somewhat, the far drydown of Peety by O’Driu.  Fans of gentlemanly colognes, wet shaving, and the traditional grooming art of the barbershop will adore this one. 

 

 

 

Amber Oud (Mr. Perfume)

Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil

 

 

The original By Kilian Amber Oud is a refined take on a Western-style amber – leathery, woody, and ever-so-slightly-characterless.  There’s a whiff of campfire smoke at the edges, but its unique selling point is really its politeness.  An amber that merely hints at the spice and roughness of other ambers, and an oud that is non-existent.  I am always surprised at this scent’s popularity until I remember that it is the perfect solution for people who dislike both amber and oud.

 

The dupe gets the basic scent profile right.  But where the original is discreet, the dupe is faint to the point of being undetectable.  Oils are generally closer-wearing than sprays, so one expects the volume to be a bit lower.  But in exchange for quietness, there should be a certain level of richness to compensate, and this fails to deliver.  A nice aroma, therefore, but in a concentration more suited to a body massage oil than a perfume.

 

 

 

Amber Oudh (Rasasi)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Amber Oudh is a waxy ‘coddled fruit’ amber with a chaser of rose and saffron for that essential taste of exotica.  Many a nose will interpret the astringency of the saffron or henna as oud, which is exactly how lower-end mukhallats achieve that oudy, medicinal feel without charging for the real stuff.

 

Credit where credit is due, Amber Oudh is no better or worse than any other ambery mukhallat on the low end of the scale.  It doesn’t read as overly synthetic, and I would recommend it quite happily as part of a beginner’s starter pack on mukhallats.  However, it doesn’t hold up to close inspection, collapsing quickly into the soapy white musk that seems to be the natural end of most Rasasi oils. 

 

 

 

Amber Paste (Kuumba Made)

Type: concentrated perfume oil

 

 

Amber Paste is the breakout star of the Kuumba Made collection, garnering rave reviews and fierce customer loyalty from people who don’t even wear perfume on the regular.  The fact that Kuumba Made is sold in Wholefoods and other emporia means that it is accessible to broad cross-section of people.  There is something pleasingly democratic about the line, with Amber Paste flying the flag for the brand in a big way.

 

They weren’t kidding with the name, though.  Amber Paste is definitely a paste rather than an oil, its sticky texture making it more difficult to apply to skin than the other blends in the line.  However, the slight fussiness of application is more than worth it because this amber satisfies with its balance between dark, herbaceous topnotes, and golden basenotes.  There is even some similarity, briefly, between Amber Paste and that bellwether of ambers, Ambre Sultan by Serge Lutens, although Amber Paste is less complex from every angle.

 

Amber Paste quickly settles into a powdery vanilla once the initial roar of resin and bay leaf has abated, developing a certain waxen blandness that makes it perfect for casual wear or for layering under more complex amber fragrances.  It may not satisfy the niche hound, but for everyone else, this is a great amber option.

 

 

 

Photo by Ravi Patel on Unsplash

 

Ambre Cuir (Henry Jacques)

Type: concentrated perfume oil

 

 

Ambre Cuir (‘Amber Leather’) exerts the sort of soapy, traditional shaving-cream appeal that will seduce men nostalgic for the feel of the leather strap and hot towel against their skin.  Ambre Cuir proved to be the most praised Henry Jacques among the men of Basenotes during a 2018 Henry Jacques sample pass, and with good reason – it has one of the most natural opoponax notes I’ve smelled in oil form.

 

Opoponax is a rather medicinal-smelling resin that smells partially cool, like herbal shaving foam, and partially warm, with an intensely spicy, balsamic underbite similar to cinnamon and clove.  Here, the resin has been pulled in the direction of cool by way of lavender absolute up top and a stony frankincense-iris pairing in the heart.

 

Handsome and acerbic, Ambre Cuir smells old-school in the most elegant way possible.  Fans of Dia Man (Amouage) will likely love Ambre Cuir, as it possesses something of the same silvery, soapy refinement, and a similar way of grinding rough, sticky resins into a bone-pale powder using Florentine orris as grist.

 

 

 

Ambrecuir (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

I would say that Ambrecuir is one of my favorites from the Sultan Pasha stable of mukhallats, but given the quality of his work, that is like throwing a pebble onto the beach and hoping to hit sand.  Ambrecuir is essentially a plush ‘white’ leather crème cut here and there with the sour, fruity funk of castoreum.  In theme, it riffs on the elegance of the contrast between the cool, powdered whiteness of orris butter and the rough blackness of varnished shoe leather as pioneered by Cuir Ottoman by Parfum d’Empire.

 

Where these fragrances diverge is in the drydown, when all traces of the creamy, iris suede have melted away.  While Cuir Ottoman goes on to develop a rich, powdery hay-amber accord that makes one think of brocaded liveries and pompadours of Versailles, the sour castoreum pulsing through Ambrecuir’s amber keep us firmly in the souk, pressed up against the heaving mass of bodies.  Indeed, fans of Rania J.’s Ambre Loup might appreciate Ambrecuir, as might lovers of Serge Lutens’ spicy Cuir Mauresque. 

 

Something to note here – a pleasingly antiseptic saffron darts in and out of Ambrecuir’s base, cutting the richness of the other notes like a knife worth’s of dried blood and iodine.  Without this spicy, medicinal note, Ambrecuir might have become as bloated as a corpse after a hot day in the river.  It is this balance of sweet and medicinal notes that gives Ambrecuir its curious delicacy and refinement.  The saffron-tinged amber also gives the mukhallat an ancestral link to the sternly vegetal, iodine-tinged ambers of Northern India, a category of fragrance that is one hundred percent sugar- and vanilla-free. 

 

A rich dulce de leche base brings it all home, though, turning away from Mother India and back towards Paris.  Anyone familiar with the ridiculously rich dried-fruit amber and benzoin duet in Tom Ford’s Amber Absolute may feel tears come to their eyes.  A gorgeous bastard child of leather and amber, Ambrecuir is for those who take their leather with a side of cream.

 

 

 

Ambre Narcotique (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Ambre Narcotique will induce a state of bliss in anyone who loves thick, spicy labdanum bombs such as Amber Absolute, Ambre Sultan, or Ambre Loup.  It opens with the bitter, leathery aroma of labdanum resin, introducing an animalic dark chocolate note that gets my Spidey senses tingling.  From that point onwards, however, this pleasantly bitter note is masked by a thick sieving of dusty benzoin, sweet myrrh (opoponax), and vanilla.  If you love incensey ambers with spices, herbs, and rosy notes operating at a more subliminal level, then it doesn’t get much better than this.

 

 

 

Ambre Sauvage (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Ambre Sauvage is a smooth-as-silk amber with a nutty, slightly plasticized leather undertone to balance out the sweetness.  In contrast to the dark, smoky incense of Ambre Narcotique, this amber showcases the buttery pleasure that is the marriage between a toffee-rich amber and a spanking new pair of leather brogues.  Not terribly complex, but like a caramel mocha latte, it goes down so easily it is hard to begrudge its simplicity.  Fans of L’Artisan Parfumeur’s L’Eau d’Ambre Extreme or Histoires de Parfums’ Ambre 114 will find their bliss here.

 

 

 

Photo by Klara Kulikova on Unsplash

 

Âme Sombre Series (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: mukhallat

 

The Âme Sombre series (Âme Sombre Oud Infusion, Âme Sombre Grade 1, and Âme Sombre Grade II) was conceived as a tribute to, well, Tribute – the landmark frankincense-cedar attar from Amouage that has such a cult following that people are willing to pay hundreds of dollars for even a sample of it.  Naturally, when Amouage discontinued its line of attars, the desire for Tribute increased even further.  Nothing enhances Holy Grail status for a scent like unattainability, scarcity, and the huge amounts of trouble one must go to in order to secure it.  Luckily for us all, Sultan Pasha has stepped in with his take on the original Tribute.

 

All the Âme Sombre variations revolve around a beguilingly rich, dark frankincense note redolent of the pine-like smoke from the censer at High Mass.  This frankincense is surrounded by a very good rose otto and voluptuous jasmine.  The florals never succeed in speaking over the soaring voice of that dark, burnt lime peel frankincense – they simply add a buttery floral softness that pierces the gloom like sunlight through a stained glass window.

 

In the base, there is a growl of dark tobacco, ancient balsams, resins, and gums, which joined with cedar, provides a smoky bitterness, like burning driftwood and funeral pyres.  The bitterness is alleviated somewhat by a low hum of amber and rock rose in the background, but never dies away completely.

 

Âme Sombre Infusion Oud is the most expensive and opulent version of Âme Sombre.  It rivals or even surpasses the cost of the original Tribute, due to the time-consuming and messy task of infusing a small quantity of Âme Sombre Grade I with smoke from sinking grade oud wood chips, which Sultan heated on a burner directly underneath the attar itself.

 

The Oud Infusion version therefore contains the uniquely clean, resinous aroma that comes from heating oud wood (as opposed to the fermented, ‘overripe’ aroma of pure oud oil).  The oud infusion doubles down on the rich smokiness of the frankincense, but also offers a slightly green sweetness that serves to soften the essentially bitter character of the scent.  This version, although expensive and now also possibly discontinued, is the most balanced version of Tribute, and my personal favorite.

 

Âme Sombre Grade I and Âme Sombre Oud Infusion both relate closely to the original Tribute (albeit with a bigger emphasis on rose), and either would be an excellent substitute for the now discontinued attar.  Âme Sombre Grade II differs quite dramatically from both the Oud Infusion and Grade I, but I like it a lot as a standalone scent and wish it had been marketed separately.  

 

Âme Sombre Grade I begins with an incredibly lush, lemony rose that has the effect of flooding the gloomy church corridors with light and air.  Rose is usually added to oud to give it a sweet juiciness to counteract its sour, stark woodiness, and here it plays that role both for the austere, pine-like frankincense and the sourish cedar.  Then a clutch of dark, balmy resins and leather notes moves in to draw a black velvet cloak over the bright, sourish rose, rendering the tone of the attar somber and serious.  Grade I is slightly darker, more phenolic, and more sour-rosy in feel than the Oud Infusion, which draws sweet woodsmoke notes from the agarwood infusion.  Grade I employs more of a focus on balmy leather notes than the other versions.

 

Overall, Âme Sombre Grade I feels more Northern in tone than Middle-Eastern.  There is a fresh juniper note in the background that further bolsters this ‘Orthodox Church in a chilly Northern forest’ tonality.  In terms of overall approach, Âme Sombre Grade I is perhaps the closest to the original Tribute with its stark, smoky cedar-frankincense combination.  It is also intensely powerful, lasting on my skin all day and well beyond a shower.

 

Âme Sombre Grade II is more tobacco-focused than Ame Sombre Grade I and has a sharper rose element.  When compared directly to Grade I, it reveals a big-boned, souk-ish amber-rose combination not a million miles away from sweet mukhallat-style fragrances like Raghba, Lateefa, and 24 Gold.  Not that this style doesn’t have a rough-hued, sexy charm of its own, you understand.  It is just that nobody in their right mind would pay Sultan Pasha prices for the kind of thing that sells for $30-$40 on eBay for 100 milliliters shipped. 

 

The tobacco, powered by the super-powerful synthetic Kephalis, is dry, papery, and rather strident.  Unlike Âme Sombre Oud Infusion and Âme Sombre Grade I, Ame Sombre Grade II contains a small quantity of synthetic aromachemicals.  In some circles, this piece of information seems to have sunk this version of the attar as being low-quality or inferior to the other versions.  I would argue mildly against that categorization because, although it contains some synthetics, it does not smell terribly inferior in quality.  Admittedly, it does lack the smoky, aquiline mystery of the other two versions.

 

Still, you get what you pay for, and who knows, you might just be in the market for a sweeter, friendlier version of Tribute.  The severity of the original does not sit well with quite a few women, for example, so this version might be the right pick.  In short, Âme Sombre Grade II is a pleasing rose-tobacco blend that would work well for people who like Wardasina or any of the Lateefa or 24 Gold scents – somewhat loud, rosy ambers that project a clear message of affability from a distance, thus perfect for clubbing.

 

 

 

Anubis (NAVA)

Type: concentrated perfume oil

 

 

Company description: Egyptian Kyphi, Egyptian Amber, Egyptian Musk, Darkness of the Dead

 

 

Kyphi is a type of compacted incense used by the ancient Egyptians, consisting of herbs, gums, resins, and woods powdered down into dust, bound with wine and honey to form briquettes of incense, and subsequently burned on ceremonial censers.

 

Kyphi differs from other forms of incense and bakhoor mainly in its inclusion of unusual aromatics such as mastic, juniper berry, turpentine (pine resin), calamus, and rush reeds, as well as its binding agents of honey, raisins, and wine.  Nowadays, scents referencing kyphi will normally use medicinal, bitter, or green resin notes that are not often seen in other types of incense.  They will often include a wine, honey, or raisin facet too.

 

Anubis opens with the same vegetable oil-like note noticeable in almost all the NAVA blends.  Once this dissipates, the bitter herbaciousness of the kyphi rises to the fore, mingling with a low key amber-resin accord for body, and an attractively musty, medicinal undertone.  True to the original raison d’être of kyphi, the blend smells purifying, albeit in a wispy, barely-there manner.  In other words, this is not a heavy or rich blend.  Its essential character is peppery and green – subtly bitter even.

 

Anubis does get sweeter and muskier as time goes on, picking up a not entirely unpleasant headshoppiness in the process (I assume that the Darkness of the Dead accord has something to do with patchouli).  Good, but I think I’d prefer this in an oil burner than as a personal fragrance.

 

 

 

Attar al Kaaba (Al Haramain)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

This is one of Al Haramain’s bestsellers, and justifiably so.  A fabulously thick, potent oil featuring a fruity pink rose, creamy sandalwood, and sweet amber, it paints a picture of eastern exotica in very broad brushstrokes.  No oud, either real or fake, no matter what you think you may be smelling.  However, there is a woodsy, almost coffee-like note swimming around in the syrup that’s deliberately open to misinterpretation, so if you want to close your eyes and pretend, then who am I to say otherwise?

 

Attar al Kaaba is a great starter ambery mukhallat.  A simple, and accessible and quite lovely rendition of the typical ‘attar’ smell, it will do the trick when you want to smell exotic and alluring in a slightly ‘foreign’ way.  It is quite sweet, syrupy even, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

 

 

 

About Me:  A two-time Jasmine Award winner for excellence in perfume journalism, I write a blog (this one!) and have authored many guides, articles, and interviews for Basenotes.  (My day-to-day work is in the scientific research for development world).  Thanks to the generosity of friends and acquaintances in the perfume business, I have been privileged enough to smell the raw materials that go into perfumes and learn about the role they play in both Western and Eastern perfumery.   Artisans have sent vials of the most precious materials on earth such as ambergris, deer musk, and oud.  But I have also spent thousands of my own money, buying oud oils directly from artisans and tons of dodgy (and possibly illegal) stuff on eBay.  In the reviews sections, I will always tell you where my sample came from and whether I paid for it or not.

 

Source of samples: I purchased my samples of Maison Anthony Marmin, Hyde & Alchemy, Mellifluence, Kuumba Made, Rasasi, Mr. Perfume, Al Haramain, NAVA and Universal Perfumes & Cosmetics.  My samples of oils from Clive Christian, Abdes Salaam Attar and Sultan Pasha Attars were sent to me by the brands.  The Aloes of Ish and Henry Jacques samples were sent to me by two separate but equally kind Basenotes friends. 

 

Note on monetization: My blog is not monetized.  But if you’d like to support my work or show appreciation for any of the content I put out, you can always buy me a coffee using the little buymeacoffee button.  Thank you! 

 

Cover Image:  Photo by Krystal Ng on Unsplash 

Amber Attars & CPOs Balsamic Cult of Raw Materials Frankincense Incense Myrrh opoponax Oriental Resins Round-Ups Single note exploration Smoke Spice The Attar Guide

The Attar Guide to Resins

30th May 2022

 

 

Arabic and Persian mukhallat perfumery differs from traditional Indian attar perfumery by way of its heavy use of the aromatic resins, gums, and balsams, which are all substances produced by trees and plants in order to protect themselves from disease or attack.  There is some use of resins in Indian attar perfumery – resins are smoked dry as part of a ‘destructive distillation’ process that is conducted independently of the main attar distillation; this produces what is known as a ‘choya’, which is then added into the final attar distillate to lend a specific warm, smoky facet to the final result.  However, the use of resins in Indian attar perfumery is minimal compared to Middle-Eastern mukhallat perfumery, where resins often play a significant, if not leading role in the character of its perfumes.

 

Most of the resins used in Middle-Eastern mukhallat perfumery have healing, cleansing, and antioxidant properties, and have long been used in traditional medicine.  Arabs chew frankincense tears as chewing gum to freshen the breath and aid digestion, for example, while Papiers d’Arménie owe their existence to a Frenchman by the name of  Auguste Ponsot, who, after stumbling across benzoin resin during his travels in Armenia in 1885, decided to make benzoin-infused strips of paper to cleanse the air in stuffy rooms all across Paris.  Both Arabs and Persians have long traditions of burning incense to fumigate their rooms, clothes, places of worship, and hair.  The word perfume itself comes from the Latin per fumus, which means ‘through the smoke’, making it more than likely that the first rudimentary form of perfume was, in fact, the fumigation of a dwelling with incense.  So put that on your burner and smoke it!

 

 

Photo by Andriy Tod on Unsplash

 

The role of resins in oil perfumery is to lend a blend a smoky, balsamic tone that provides both depth and fixative properties.  To Westerners, resins simply smell exotic and mysterious.  Our first exposure to them is likely through church where they are often burned on a priest’s censer.  Resins are, of course, important in Western classic perfumery too.  They form the bedrock of the ambery-balsamic family of perfumes formerly known as ‘oriental’, with resins such as labdanum and benzoin joining with vanilla to create the famous amber accord, recognizable to anyone who has ever smelled Shalimar by Guerlain.  The principal resins used in Middle-Eastern mukhallat perfumery are described below.

 

 

Labdanum (Cistus ladanifer) is the prime component of the amber accord in mukhallat (and indeed commercial) perfumery.   Labdanum is the name for the sticky exudate that covers the entire plant of this shrubby rock rose that grows in mountainous Mediterranean regions such as Crete and Cyprus.   In ancient times, the labdanum resin was transferred to the wool of grazing goats and sheep who brushed up against the shrub, and later, combed out of the animal’s hair by shepherds.  These days, however, modern perfumery extraction methods are used, such as boiling the twigs and leaves of the plant to extract raw resin, solvent extraction to extract an absolute, or steam distillation to extract an essential oil (the different extraction methods produce results that all smell quite different to one another).   

 

Labdanum absolute is a wondrous raw material.  It smells smoky, rich, incensey, leathery, and often displays an attractive salted caramel or toffee-like undertone.  In terms of texture, it can either come across as extremely buttery (unctuous) or extremely dry (dusty).  Under some lights, there is a slightly animalic, goaty facet to labdanum, but in and of itself, the scent of labdanum is not animalic.  

 

 

Benzoin is a sweet vanillic resin from two species of the styrax tree, the styrax tonkinensis (Siam benzoin) and styrax benzoin (from Sumatra).  Siam benzoin is the one most widely used in perfumery, and it has a slightly sweet, dusty cinnamon aspect to it.   In some lights, it smells like slightly woody vanilla. But benzoin resin has other subtler nuances such as brown sugar crystals, coffee, paper, and sometimes a wintergreen note like mastic or camphor.  Benzoin added to an attar or mukhallat lends a balsamic, spicy-vanillic tonality.  It plays an important role in the composition of the amber accord in perfumery.

 

 

Opoponax, also known as sweet myrrh, is native to Somalia and Ethiopia. In its upper register at least, this is a resin that barely knows that it is a resin at all.   In fact, it wants to be a spice or a herb, but can’t decide which, which is why the first flash of opoponax lurches wildly between the metallic, sweaty sting of clove and the aromatic camphor of bay leaf.  Another layer is the ambery resinousness in its lower registers that smells like a rich toffee but also quite a bit like Disaronno, which gives it a boozy almond butter tonality that cracks the safe open a little to reveal how the drydowns of No. 5 (Chanel) and Shalimar (Guerlain) are actually constructed.  There is even a hint of Johnson and Johnson’s Baby Powder or Baby Oil that lingers towards the very end. 

 

Later, the transition between the astringent spicy-herbal topnotes and the almond taffy basenotes makes things interesting.  This clash of cymbals produces an old fashioned bay rhum effect that makes me think of amber mixed up with Old Spice or Brut.  There is a lingering soapiness in among all that almond butter richness that calls to mind shaving foam.  It is a confusing but ultimately loveable mash up of balsamic sweetness and rinsing herbal sourness.  You get the gold honey of a resin and the aromatic rigor of a barbershop fougère. 

 

Opoponax (sweet myrrh) is not as medicinal as true myrrh but does have a rooty, almost herbal quality that sets it apart from the sweeter, creamier resins.  It can smell green and coniferous, like fresh lavender buds crushed between finger and thumb, but with a warm, golden, balsamic tone underneath that marks it out as a resin rather than a herb.  It is quite spicy, with a cinnamon bark facet, and a subtle soapiness in the lower register.

 

Fragrances that espouse the true spirit of opoponax in commercial perfumery include: Imperial Opoponax (Les Nereides), Ligea la Sirena (Carthusia), Or des Indes (Maître Parfumeur et Gantier), Eau Lente (Diptyque), Jicky and Shalimar (Guerlain), En Avion (Caron), Coco (Chanel), and Bengale Rouge (Papillon Perfumery).

 

 

Photo by Jack B on Unsplash

 

Amber resin, from the Baltic pine tree, does not produce its own essential oil.  In mukhallat perfumery, as in Western perfumery, amber is a fantasy composition rather than an actual raw material, its honeyed, resinous warmth suggested by a combination of labdanum, vanilla, and benzoin.  The proportions of ingredients used in the amber formula will depend on the effect the perfumer is seeking: more labdanum to create a leathery, dusty amber, more benzoin to create a sweetly powdery one, and so on.  Ambergris may have been used in the place of labdanum as part of a traditional amber accord, especially in earlier forms of mukhallats and attars, but for reason of cost and scarcity, this is no longer the case.  Read Kafkaesque’s marvelous Guide to 50 amber fragrances to help you identify amber scents that pique your interest.

 

There is a fossilized amber resin oil available for use in attar perfumery, produced through the process of destructive distillation, quite similar to making a traditional Indian choya.  In this process, the amber resin is burned and then distilled, producing a smoky, tarry-smelling oil.  This is not a true essential oil of amber but a by-product of burning.  Fossilized amber oil, when used in a perfume composition, produces a dark, balsamic effect, and must be dosed very carefully in order not to overwhelm the other notes.  It is sometimes called black amber. A fragrance that famously uses this is Black Gemstone by 777 Stephane Humbert Lucas.

 

 

 

Photo: My own, of Boswellia sacra (frankincense) gums from Oman

 

Frankincense, for many people, lies at the very tippety-top of the incense chain – the thoroughbred of the resin family.  Deriving from the old French word franc encens – meaning ‘high quality incense’ – frankincense is a gum produced by the Boswellia genus of trees which grows in Somalia, Sudan, North Africa, and the Arabian Peninsula.  The bulk of frankincense, called luban or loban in Arabic, comes from Somalia.  However, the finest quality of frankincense is called Hojari (alternatively referred to as howjary) or silver frankincense, and this comes from the arid Dhofar region of Oman in the United Arab Emirates.

 

The steam-distilled oil of frankincense resin gives attars and perfumes a fresh, coniferous resinousness, with a bright lemon-and-lime topnote.  Some grades of Omani frankincense smell like oranges or tangerines in their topnotes, with a soft-ish, creamy quality in the lower register.  The house of Amouage, based in Oman, was founded around the use of local Hojari frankincense, and indeed, most of this house’s output showcases the silvery beauty of Omani frankincense.

 

In an interview with me for Basenotes in March 2018, Trygve Harris, a frankincense distiller in Oman, talked about the different aromas associated with the different types of frankincense.  “Somali has a lemony note, and a warm dryness, an austerity.  It makes me thirsty — it smells vast and dry.  It reminds me of Palm Springs when I was a kid.  The Omani has a richness, an opulence, like a treasure box.  Regarding the differences in the Omani frankincense oils, I like to say the white (howjary) has more a green, herbal, butterfly note while the black has an orange floral spice aspect.”

 

Frankincense is the note that many people, including me, tend to lump in with the larger category represented by the word incense.  Technically, incense is any hard-ish material – be it a wood (sandalwood, oud wood) or a resin or gum (like myrrh, benzoin, copal, frankincense) – that can be slowly burned or smoked on a coal to produce a purifying but fragrant smoke.  Fragrances classified as incense fragrances typically feature some ratio of frankincense to other resins, balsams, and gums (most typically myrrh, but also benzoin, labdanum, etc.), so many of the frankincense-themed fragrances are actually the standard ‘incensey’ mix of frankincense plus something else.  Read my 2020 article on frankincense for a round-up of over 25 frankincense fragrances that are worth your time if you want to do a deep dive on this majestic resin.

 

 

Myrrh is a gum produced by the Commiphorah myrrha species of tree native to the Arabian Peninsula and North-East Africa.  Deriving from the Arabic word مر (mur), meaning ‘bitter’, myrrh oil is used all over Arabia, China, and India as a traditional medicine. Myrrh oil is quite different from myrrh resin.  Myrrh oil can be bitter, rubbery-smelling, and often quite saline (mushroomy).  The resin smells earthier, slightly sweet, with musty undertones – when lit, it smells quite smoky (well, duh).  

 

What does myrrh smell like?  While frankincense is a soaring series of sunny, high-pitched notes like lime peel or crushed pine needles, myrrh is dark, fungal, and gloomy, reminding one of the dark shadows behind massive stone pillars in a cathedral, signed pine, tar, anise, licorice, and the scent of freshly-sliced ceps.  It can be soapy, fatty, or rooty.  In perfumery, myrrh lends a subtle, earthy tone pitched halfway between soil and stone.  It has a sepulchral quality, leading some to categorize it as Gothic or moldy.

 

Some facets of myrrh are intensely bitter, while some smell like sweet licorice, anise, or rubber.  Often the resin smells latex-y and saline (in cookery terms, if frankincense is a citrus fruit, myrrh is volcanic salt).  Personally, I often perceive myrrh as smelling ‘hollow’, as if there were a tear in the fabric of the fragrance where the aroma is supposed to be (a sort of negative space).  Myrrh has a deeply atmospheric smell, redolent of the air inside centuries-old European cathedrals. Read my 2020 article on myrrh for a round-up of 27 myrrh fragrances that, together, form a whole education on the scent of myrrh.

 

 

Styrax is a sweet, ambery gum that comes from the tree known as Liquidamber orientalis native to Turkey.  It produces a rich, balsamic oil with leathery properties.  It shares a rich, heady sweetness with benzoin resin, a variety of which is called Styrax benzoin because of its commonalities with true styrax resin.

 

 

Other gums such as copal, copaiba, tolu, and peru balsam are used to a lesser extent in mukhallat perfumery, possibly because, with the exception of copal, they are species not native to the Middle-East or Africa and therefore always had to imported.

 

 

Copal possesses a bay-leaf bitterness that adds a pleasantly animalic bite to amber accords.  It is the prime component in Norma Kamali’s famous Incense, considered the behemoth of incense fragrances.  Copaiba is a woody, pungent resin from a tree native to South America, and is only rarely used in mukhallats.  Peru balsam, also native to South America, is a resinous, sweet-smelling gum with earthy, almost bitter basenotes of cinnamon bark, almond, and green olives. Tolu balsam is similar, but softer and velvetier.  All these resins come primarily from South America, although copal is also found in Eastern Africa.  They therefore tend to be more popular in Western interpretations of resinous-balsamic perfumery than in Middle-Eastern mukhallat perfumery itself.  These balsams add a voluptuous, velvety sweetness and depth to ambery-balsamic compositions.

 

 

 

About Me:  A two-time Jasmine Award winner for excellence in perfume journalism, I write a blog (this one!) and have authored many guides, articles, and interviews for Basenotes.  (My day-to-day work is in the scientific research for development world).  Thanks to the generosity of friends and acquaintances in the perfume business, I have been privileged enough to smell the raw materials that go into perfumes and learn about the role they play in both Western and Eastern perfumery.   Artisans have sent vials of the most precious materials on earth such as ambergris, deer musk, and oud.  But I have also spent thousands of my own money, buying oud oils directly from artisans and tons of dodgy (and possibly illegal) stuff on eBay.  In the reviews sections, I will always tell you where my sample came from and whether I paid for it or not.

 

Note on monetization: My blog is not monetized.  But if you’d like to support my work or show appreciation for any of the content I put out, you can always buy me a coffee using the little buymeacoffee button.  Thank you! 

 

Cover Image:  Photo, my own, of Boswellia sacra (frankincense) gums from Oman.  Please do not reprint, distribute or use without my permission. 

Attars & CPOs Cult of Raw Materials Mukhallats Oud Review Single note exploration The Attar Guide

Oudy Mukhallat Reviews: A-C

19th May 2022

 

 

 

The oud reviews continue!  We are now moving away from reviews of pure oud oils (grouped and alphabetized here: 0-C, D-K, L-O, and P-Y) to reviews of oudy mukhallats.  As a quick reminder, mukhallats are blends (mukhallat being the Arabic word for ‘blend’) of essential oils and other raw materials that were distilled or compounded elsewhere.  Some of them include carrier oils and synthetics, while others do not (price is a factor).  Generally, mukhallats are viewed by Arabs and Persians as the perfect vehicle for oud oil.  Indeed, given the preference in the Middle East for rich, complex blended perfumes, oudy mukhallats might even be preferable to wearing the oud oil neat.

 

The mukhallat is a uniquely Middle Eastern form of perfumery, while the attar is a traditionally Indian one.  Note that for most of the perfume-wearing world, the words ‘attar’ and ‘mukhallat’ are largely interchangeable (read about the actual differences here and here).  The rose-oud mukhallat is the most famous type of oudy mukhallat in the world, providing the basic template for the thousands of Montale, Mancera and Armani rose-ouds that now populate the market.

 

But before you start reading, oud-heads and oud newbies, do check out the introduction to oud here, which covers everything from how oud is distilled, its uses in oil-based and commercial perfumery, and the different markets that consume it.   Then read my Oud Primer, consisting of Part I: The Challenges of Oud, Part II: Why Oud Smells the Way it Does and Part III: The Different Styles of Oud.

 

 

Photo by Gary Meulemans on Unsplash

 

Abdul Azeez Blend (Arabian Oud)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Abdul Azeez Blend is an extremely potent, masculine-leaning rose, oud, and musk mukhallat.  The quality of the rose is excellent but tainted somewhat by a fuzzy ‘steel wire’ synthetic that I suspect belongs to the oud component.  This twang of oud synthetics – dry and rubbery – will familiar to anyone who’s ever tried a Montale or a Mancera.

 

Thankfully, this glancing chemical taste seems to affect only the opening, quickly disappearing into the velvety folds of the rich rose and amber that swells up behind it.  The amber is confidently spiced, the rose exuberantly jammy, and there’s a liquid smoothness to the texture that reads like a Mexican dessert liquor – one of those that are golden in appearance but plummy-brown in the mouth.

 

The scent grows ever richer and more caramelized as it develops.  However, for the first hour, this oudy mukhallat reminds me uncomfortably of lower-priced Arabian blends that rely too heavily on woody ambers or synthetic oud to carry the weight of the fragrance.  For a premium-priced attar, this is not ideal.  To be fair, the sensitivity to this raw, dry oud note is possibly mine alone, and if you can take the band-aidy notes at the top of, say, Montale’s White Aoud, then you can take them here too.  Once Abdul Azeez Blend sheds its rather synthetic topnotes, it becomes a truly excellent rose oud with potency and charm in spades. 

 

 

Photo by Ömer F. Arslan on Unsplash

 

Al Bayt Al A’teeq (Al Shareef Oudh)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Al Bayt Al A’teeq (meaning ‘the ancient house’ in Arabic) is a limited edition oil blend made by Al Shareef Oudh in close cooperation with a leading perfumery family in Mecca.  The aim here was to recreate the exact aroma profile of the oil used to scent the cloth covering the Ka’aba and the Black Stone.  Although I’ve never had the privilege and never will (being a non-Muslim), people who have been inside the Ka’aba itself have recounted the divine smell of the special oils mixed and rubbed onto the black cloth and onto the red bricks inside the structure.  Al Bayt Al A’teeq is a mukhallat that apparently recreates this special scent.

 

Al Bayt Al A’teeq is a great example of what Al Shareef Al Oudh does so well, which is taking a theme and interpreting it in the most authentic way possible, with little care given to appeasing Western palates.  The mukhallats and attars from this house all communicate a clear message of earnestness and sincerity.  In other words, blends and oils for the purists and the mystics among us, and not necessarily for the beginner or for the casual buyer looking for something sweetly, vaguely exotic.  These blends mean business – so you too had better mean business.

 

In Al Bayt Al A’teeq, authenticity has been placed high above smoothness, sweetness, and affability.  It is a ferocious blend of aged oud, musk, and ambergris, with no florals or amber at all to soften the blunt force of the animalics.  The result is a sepulchral, gloomy, but velvety blend that achieves the blackness of a starless sky.  It smells ancient, dusty, and a bit stale, like the exhalation of a tomb newly excavated.  Personally, I find it a bit suffocating, but it will appeal to people (especially men) who like their mukhallats authentically dark and serious.

 

 

 

Al Hareem (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Al Hareem showcases a particularly rare Bengali oud.  Bengali ouds are Hindi ouds, famous for being fiercely animalic, and indeed, the opening fizzes with a pissy, hay-like oud aroma that at first shocks and then beguiles.  A good Hindi oud reels you in on an attraction-repulsion mechanism – the hot sourness, the rotting wood, that stinking underbelly of a goat.  How can those aromas be so simultaneously repugnant and alluring?  That’s the mystery of pure oud.

 

Al Hareem follows this brutalizing but gorgeous oud opening with a mellow tandem of Turkish rose and Mysore sandalwood, the effect of which is the formation of a very traditional-smelling Indian attar cushion for that sour, animalic Bengali oud.  Al Hareem takes an age-old template – the traditional rose-oud-sandal mukhallat – and improves upon it by shoehorning the best, most luxurious materials into it.

 

In time, the soft red rose note is bolstered by other florals, particularly tuberose and gardenia, but the white florals never overwhelm or dominate the rose.  They are there simply to add to the creamy effect created by the musk and butter notes.  It is worth mentioning that there is a beautifully fragrant, nutty quality to the sandalwood in the base of this attar that’s particularly toothsome.  The final act is a sweet mélange of buttery woods, silky musks, cream, and roses, with only a trace of the woody sourness of the Bengali oud remaining.

 

I cannot recommend Al Hareem highly enough to people who are looking for a slightly traditional, but very soft and friendly Indian-inspired rose-oud-sandalwood attar to start out with, and who don’t mind spending a bit extra to get something that is made with high quality natural oils and absolutes.

 

 

Photo by Ren Ran on Unsplash

 

Al Khidr (Mellifluence)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Al Khidr uses a very unusual oud oil called Green Sarawak oud, which comes from oud trees grown in the Malaysian-owned part of Western Borneo.  All oud oil from trees grown on the island of Borneo, no matter their species or the region of Borneo where the trees grew, features notes that mark them out as Borneo oud.  They are all bright and vaporous in a freshly-cut-log kind of way.

 

In temperament, Borneo oud oils are eons away from the aroma profile of classic Hindi or Cambodi-style oud oils.  In fact, many Arabs find it difficult to accept Borneo oud as oud because it does not conform to their cultural expectations of how oud oil should smell, which for them is an aroma encompassing fermentation, leather, barnyard, hay, smoke, and spice

 

True to form, the Borneo oud oil used in Al Khidr is very green, clean, and tartly fresh.  There are hints of freshly-cut pears, apples, and herbs – notes also associated with Borneo ouds – as well as a sparkling solvent or glue-like high note.  (As it turns out, the scent of turps and nail polish remover is also a feature of Borneo ouds).

 

Al Khidr has a very pleasant flavor profile, balancing its silvery freshness with the murky, velvety depths one associates with oud oils in general.  This is the kind of oud that even beginners and those wary of ouds in general can immediately appreciate.  The oud is bracketed on either end by a grassy vetiver, smoky cade oil, lemon balm, and a whole host of fresh, crisp notes such as apple and cucumber, all carefully chosen to accentuate the rubbery cleanliness of the oud.

 

Al Khidr occupies a very earthy, balsamic tone from top to tow, sliding in minute increments from bright green at the start to dark green in the base.  There are other oud oils and Mysore sandalwood here too, but they are only there to deepen the emerald green brightness of the Green Sarawak.  For those looking for a balsamic oud mukhallat with clean green smoke or rubber notes, Al Khidr may prove to be worth your time.  It wears more like a hike through a pine forest than a trip to the Mosque.

 

 

Al Molouk Cambodi (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Al Molouk, meaning ‘the King’, is the name of one of Abdul Samad al Qurashi’s most revered blends, which in its original guise featured a blend of dark aged oud, Ta’if rose, amber resin, and wildflowers.  Unfortunately, in or around 2014, all the ASAQ mukhallats and attars were reformulated, and Al Molouk was badly affected.  Experts noticed that Al Molouk was no longer as natural-smelling as it once had been, and that the richness of the various components had been whittled down.  The composition had also been cheapened with a dose of woody aromachemicals to boost projection, a peculiarly modern obsession in today’s market.

 

But out of the misery of reformulation came a most interesting assignment.  The owner of The World in Scents, a Princeton-based seller of very high-end oud oils and attars, including those of ASAQ itself, asked JK DeLapp of The Rising Phoenix Perfumery to create a mukhallat that recreated the former splendor of ASAQ’s Al Molouk using only natural raw materials.  The project proved a resounding success, with many fans claiming it was equal to, if not better, than the original Al Molouk.  Based on the success of the first Rising Phoenix Perfumery Al Molouk, JK DeLapp created a series of variations on the central theme, starting with Al Molouk Cambodi, which adds a very fruity, sweet Cambodi oud oil to the basic template.

 

The result is almost incandescently good.  Opening with the juicy, sweet red berries and raw honey of a Cambodi-style oud oil, Al Molouk Cambodi smells immediately like real oud oil but without the funky sourness that sometimes gives pause to the beginner’s nose.  In the place of sour rot and fermented woods, there is a calm wave of sweet incense powder that acts upon the oud to render it as fizzy as a just-opened can of Coca Cola.  Behind this comes riding up a big Ta’if rose, sweeter and fuller than normal thanks to the dollop of a vanillic resin – probably benzoin – that burnishes everything in a caramelized glaze.  It smells as sweet, full-bodied, and generous as one might hope for in any exotic, vaguely oudified perfume.

 

This is one mukhallat with child-bearing hips.  It finishes up in the embrace of a rosy amber accord that smells like a crème brulée sprinkled with candied rose petals, red berries, powdered sugar, and rose syrup.  Indeed, fans of modern niche, gourmandy ouds like Oud Satin Mood (Maison Francis Kurkdijan) or Oud for Love (The Different Company) will find this to be firmly in their wheelhouse.  Al Molouk is both a surprise and a welcome evolution of the basic model.  It is particularly well-suited to those who want a natural rose-oud mukhallat but don’t quite get along with the leathery austerity of more traditional oud blends.  It will press all the right buttons for lovers of creamy, opulent rose-oud ambers.

 

 

Photo by Markus Avila on Unsplash

 

Al Molouk Trat (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Trat is a border region of Thailand that produces a very specific kind of oud oil.  Trat oils traditionally have a syrupy, candy-sweet character that tends to disguise a piercingly animalic basenote.  Picture, if you will, a piece of wet, rotting wood covered in strawberry jam.  That is the Trat aroma profile.

 

Al Molouk Trat is true to the character of a Trat oil, in that it initially smells like a vat of sugar syrup smeared all over a raunchy leather jacket that’s been dragged through a barnyard.  And it is exactly this dichotomy between tutti-frutti sweetness and grubby smut that gets the brain’s pleasure synapses firing on all cylinders.

 

Compared to the other Al Molouk versions, the oudiness here is both darker and more assertive in its presentation, taking longer than usual to fade away into the softer rose and amber notes.  The sweet-and-sour syrup aspect of Trat oud is the main feature, and despite the initial hit of sweetness, this is a more traditionally masculine affair than Al Molouk Cambodi (which is a fluffy Middle Eastern dessert in comparison).  For all its jammy, treacly richness upfront, Al Molouk Trat showcases a far more animalistic oud than the other versions.  It is rugged, fermented, and a bit sour – more traditionally oudy in profile.  In some parts, it is reminiscent of a Hindi-style oil.

 

In the drydown, the rose and caramelized amber accords common to the other Al Molouk iterations arrives to take control.  If your teeth were clenched through the more animalistic portions of this mukhallat, this will be where you let your breath out and begin to enjoy the ride.  Conversely, if you prefer the rugged, leathery oud that hogs the heart of this mukhallat, then its sweet, creamy drydown might strike you as a cop-out.

 

 

 

Al Noukhba Elite Blend (Abdul Samad al Qurashi)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

In terms of complexity, Al Noukhba represents a step up from the fabulous Jewel Blend.  But alas, it has a price tag to match, costing on average $1,300 per tola.  Still, Al Noukhba is very special indeed. 

 

The opening is almost shockingly animalic, with a blast of hot-sour-fetid woodiness that comes close to smelling like the bile that rises in your throat before you vomit.  To say that this could be challenging to newcomers to oud is an understatement.  In fact, I would recommend this blend only to people who have a bit of experience under their belts.  The opening lasts a fair bit on skin, but lean into it, and I’ll wager you’ll find Al Noukhba to be a deeply rewarding experience.

 

After the initial onslaught, the dark, hot-sour aroma of aged oud banks down, spreading out to allow the other notes to come to the fore.  However, the oud retains an assertive presence in the scent from beginning to end.  The extended run of the oud marks it out as quite different from Jewel Blend, where the aged oud lasts only for a couple of hours before giving way almost completely to the amber and ambergris beneath.  That in and of itself (somewhat) justifies the higher price of Al Noukhba.  When tested side by side, Al Noukhba emerges as a far deeper, drier, and darker scent.

 

Bubbling underneath the aged oud is something floral, a collection of notes which feel ‘pressed together’, a tarry brick of floral absolutes rather than fresh rose petals.  Al Noukhba is technically a rose-oud fragrance, but its oud is so dark and its rose so desiccated that it may puzzle anyone used to commercial or niche interpretations of the rose-oud theme.  Backing the floral ‘absolute’ is quite a lot of sweet amber and musk.  These accords add a nutty roundness to the scent that goes some way towards softening the darker floral and oud notes.  I’ve been informed that one female ASAQ customer buys ten bottles of this a year to smell as seductive as possible for her husband. Lucky man.

 

 

 

Al Shomukh (Amouage)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Discontinued, rare, and ruinously expensive when you do find it, Al Shomukh is a creamy but pungent rose-oud whose animalic bite certainly has not been dumbed down for a Western audience.  The opening of Al Shomukh features all the bile-duct sturm und drang for which Hindi oud is known.  However, the rich, smoky leather-like facets of the oud oil add depth and shading to the acid, thus giving it a supple roundness that takes the sting out of the experience.

 

For a beginner, Al Shomukh is challenging but not entirely off-putting.  Its funkiness is haughty, regal even.  The bleu cheese and truffles aspect of the oud oil may cause a momentary shiver of revulsion – the body saying no, most emphatically – but then, the nose finds itself wandering back to the same spot, hunting the scent like a truffle pig.  Al Shomukh is therefore a fine example of how pure oud can trigger the attraction and the repulsion reflexes simultaneously, creating an obsessive desire to smell it over and over again.

 

Touches of rose and a rather synthetic-feeling white musk bleed into the stark oud, feathering it out at the edges and helping to settle into the aroma of stale, ancient wood and long-cleared-out horse barns.  It is the smell of ruined libraries in the jungles, the yellowing pages of abandoned books curling in the moist brown fug of decaying wood spores.  There are hints here also of damp hay, barn animals, smoke, grass, and later – much later – a hint of fruit from davana, an Indian herb that smells like two-day-old booze, mint, and old leather Chesterfields.

 

I am impressed.  I am intoxicated.  It is impossible to guess from its stark, austere beginnings, but somehow Al Shomukh manages to work itself up into a rich, complex floral oud that smells more like an entire landscape than a mashing together of two or three raw materials.  It transcends its individual components, therefore, driving an arrow straight into one’s emotional solar plexus rather than allowing you to loll about in polite admiration mode.  Al Shomukh leans masculine because of the blunt focus on the oud and musk, but it is completely wearable by a woman.  It is not as heavy or as opulent as Tribute or Badr al Badour, but its sillage is still significant.

 

 

Photo by Alexander Kirov on Unsplash

 

Arabesque Noir (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Arabesque Noir is a dark rose-oud blend with a significant saffron note that lends it the ‘aged’ leather mien of an old briefcase or piece of wooden furniture left to molder in a closed-up room.  Medicinal, woody and heavy, the oud anchors the base, giving it the same decrepit glamor as the facades of storefronts in Havana.

 

The woody sourness of the rose-oud combination makes it a perfect choice for men who are looking for a masculine take on the rose-oud theme, or even just for people who like the acrid but exciting ‘freshly tanned leather’ aroma of saffron.  Leathery and battered, Arabesque Noir would also be ideal for people who spend lots of time in old second-hand bookstores, thumbing through books so old their yellowed pages threaten to crumble in their fingers. 

 

Arabesque Noir is ultimately reminiscent of Swiss Arabian Mukhallat Malaki, another dusty saffron-rose-oud mukhallat, but far better quality.   In the far dry down, a pleasant surprise lurks – an animalic, dark musk teeming with all sorts of skanky secretions such as hyraceum, castoreum, and civet.

 

 

 

Attar al Kaaba (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Attar al Kaaba is the base attar embroidered upon in Ghilaf-e-Kaaba, which will be reviewed in the next chapter, but it is distinctive in and of itself.  The oud and rose elements of the blend play out very differently in Attar al Kaaba than in its big brother.  For one, the oud in Attar al Kaaba is darker, more shadowy, and perhaps even a little sinister, while the rose is both sweeter and more winey.  It is a great example of how the essential elements in a blend can be altered or substituted with a different quality of material, creating a completely different effect.

 

Attar al Kaaba also differs from Ghilaf-e-Kaaba by being sweeter and plusher.  It is a very straight-forward rendition of the rose-oud theme, but done so well and with such high quality, natural-smelling materials that the result is a pleasure to wear.  While I admire the artistry and perhaps greater evolution in Ghilaf, I find Attar al Kaaba to be friendlier.  It would make for an excellent starter rose-oud attar for the beginner, provided that the beginner is interested in naturalness over effect and is willing to pay a higher-than-average price.

 

 

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash

 

Attar AT (Tauer Perfumes)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

I hadn’t understood how big a role that cultural misappropriation, or rather the perception of cultural misappropriation, played in the evaluation of attars until I read a comment on a Basenotes interview I did with JK DeLapp of Rising Phoenix Perfumery, which read as follows: ‘Looking forward to trying it and appreciate the perspective on Attars, but also giving the side-eye to another American appropriating an other’s work and culture and claiming he knows better and can do better.’

 

The commenter is making the point that only people of Eastern culture (Indian, Far East, of the Islamic or Hindi faiths, etc.) truly understand how to make an attar, and that Westerners doing it is either a cynical cash grab or a case of cultural misappropriation.

 

This comment, whether founded or not, raises the crucial question of how attar perfumery is perceived in the West.  I have noticed a certain awestruck tendency towards attars by Westerners, a kind of mass reverence for the genre, as if all attars and oils hitting our shores were uniformly possessed the magic of the East simply because they originated there.  This is rubbish, of course.

 

First, speaking as someone who has tested hundreds of attars and mukhallats from almost every major brand from Amouage to Surrati, I can tell you that there is as much dreck coming out of the East as there is from the West.  I would estimate the percentage of truly sublime attars or mukhallats at about five to ten percent of the mass, which is roughly equal to the hit rate in Western perfumery.  Unfortunately, however, because these oils carry mysterious names, come in a little gold bottle, and are from an exotic-sounding house like Rasasi or Al Haramain, the consumer is always going to be tempted to find them amazing even if they are not.  Even Amouage has attars that are dull, nasty, or just plain unimpressive.

 

Second, it is not the where (the East) that counts, it is the who.  In my experience, the best quality mukhallats out there are not being made by the big Gulf or Indian brands in the East but by small-batch artisans with a mostly Western background and upbringing.  Sultan Pasha, Ensar of Ensar Oud, JK DeLapp, Al Shareef Oudh, Russian Adam, Dominique Dubrana, and now Andy Tauer – these are all people who, no matter whether they are Muslim or not, are Western by birth, location, or background.

 

I mention this because although some people seem to think it is the exclusive preserve of Easterners to make attars, these days it is quite often Westerners, and specifically Western artisans, that take the care to distill oils in the old manner, hand-blend and macerate formulas, and source the purest raw materials.  They are taking the Western propensity for precision to bear on an old tradition of perfumery.

 

And now Andy Tauer, himself an artisan in the genre of Western perfumery, has joined this elite group.  In a way, it is a natural fit – Tauer already mixes everything for his perfumes by hand (in a similar fashion to blending a mukhallat) and as a longstanding user of resins, sandalwood, and jasmine, he would have all the necessary contacts in the Middle East to source the materials needed for this.

 

Attar AT is excellent work.  It succeeds both as a mukhallat and as an atmospheric set piece in the Tauer manner.  It contains exotic raw materials but somehow conjures up more of that tough old Americana (cowboy boots, pilgrims, vast open spaces of the American plains) than it does the East.  Attar AT opens up as pure boot leather, with a dense wall of fuel-like jasmine, birch tar, and castoreum-driven leather hitting the nose all at once.  But despite the tarry creosote-like tone and the fact that Tauer has used materials like this before, mainly in Lonestar Memories and L’Air du Desert Marocain, Attar AT does not make me think of his other perfumes.  The leather, although smoky, is smooth and dark, and, crucially, completely free of competing notes like amber or citrus.  There is no Tauerade.  It is powerful and concentrated at first, but soon becomes very quiet and almost linear.  A rubbery jasmine appears just past the opening notes, relieving, albeit briefly, the almost matte darkness of the leather accord.

 

As an aside, it is funny how noses differ: my husband smelled this and immediately said that there was jasmine in this, as well as a little bit of oud.  I, on the other hand, can only smell the jasmine briefly (it is similar to the phenolic jasmine used in the topnotes of Anubis by Papillon, for reference), and the impression of oudiness is only a background one, playing second fiddle to the leather.  However, at a distance and at certain points of the mukhallat’s development, it has something of the leathery, fermented smokiness that I associate with oud oil.  In general, I think it is fair to say that Attar AT genuinely has an oud-like tone to it at times, but that it in no way dominates.

 

Perception of sweetness seems to be subjective, but I’d peg Attar AT as being un-sweet, which is not to say that it is piercingly dry or sour.  It is more a question of lacking sweetness in the form of amber or a syrupy floral note.  If you know the sooty darkness of perfumes such as Heeley’s Phoenicia or Le Labo Patchouli 24, then you will know what I mean – an unsentimental, un-sweet darkness that nonetheless possesses so much texture and energy that it never tires the nose.  The dusty woods in the base only confirm this impression.  There is no creamy sandalwood or welcoming amber in the drydown to placate the sweet tooth, only a continuation of the main accord of dark, smoky birch tar leather.

 

As a mukhallat, Attar AT starts off very strong and dense, but soon loosens up into something much softer and quieter.  It wears close to the body and doesn’t project much.  However, longevity is excellent.  So far, so standard for an attar.  People will want to know if there is anything of Tauer’s synthetic signature in Attar AT – my take is that it doesn’t feel synthetic to my nose at all but be aware that birch tar in high concentration can have a bitter, metallic sharpness to it that some noses may interpret as synthetic.  The only hint of something unnatural comes when you try to wash it off, and then (only then) something synthetic does linger on the piece of skin you’ve just washed.

 

Masculine?  Yes.  I’d even go so far as to say that this is super-macho, especially during the first couple of hours when the leather is blazing streaks across the sky.  Attar AT is more evocative of the landscapes of the American West than of the deserts of the East; something about it celebrates the good-natured but tough manliness of the men who had to conquer large stretches of the American West on horseback, hungry and alone.  This is a theme that seems to course through much of Andy’s work.

 

Having said that, there are plenty of women who like this sort of dry, unemotional scent, and I count myself as one of them.  Overall, this is a great masculine attar (well, mukhallat) for a very reasonable price, and another entry to the genre that proves that you don’t have to be Muslim or be located in the East to make an attar that smells authentic or authentically good.

 

 

 

Aurum D’Angkhor (Sultan Pasha Attars)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Aurum D’Angkhor is special.  Every time I wear it, I marvel anew at its depth, complexity, and beauty.  It contains a small amount of the famous Ensar Oud Encens D’Angkhor in the basenotes, a fruity Cambodi oud oil with cozy wood nuances.  But the ‘Aurum’ in Sultan Pasha’s remix means ‘Golden’ and indeed, that’s the color that comes across in this blend.  Aurum is a love poem to the golden dust of saffron, polished oak floors, smoke, honey, and henna, a shady haze backed by a velvety floral richness.

 

The topnote of Aurum D’Angkhor showcases the oud, and for a few minutes, it has a dark barnyard character that some might find startling.  This accord is not, to my nose, unpleasantly animalic.  It never approaches, for example, the sour, bilious honk of a raw Hindi oud.  However, there is definitely something there that recalls the aroma of cow slurry, a smell so hotly liquid that it seems to ooze across the room like ripe Brie.  One’s reaction to this type of aroma depends on one’s level of exposure to farmyard smells during childhood.  I grew up around cows and now live next door to a dairy farm, so for me, the smell of cow shit is literally part of the air I breathe.  In other words, I’m fine with it.  You very well may not be.

 

The cow pat note dissipates quickly, however, allowing a soft, spicy brown leather to take shape, threaded with drifts of faintly indolic jasmine.  Saffron plays a pivotal role, called upon to bring out all its strange facets at once – the leather, the exotic dust, the sweetness, the faintly floral mouth-feel, fiery red spice, and a certain medicinal, iodine-like twang.  The oud and the saffron create a deep multi-levered scent profile suggestive of old oak floors, spicy brown leather, and dusty plum skin.  In short, Aurum showcases the depth of real oud, but past the fecal twang of the opening, none of its more challenging aspects.

 

The smoke in Aurum is chimerical, sometimes manifesting as little more than a faint tingle of far-off woodsmoke akin to a needle prick’s worth of birch tar or cade oil, and sometimes appearing as full-on smoke from a censer full of resins.  The smoke component is similar to that of Balsamo della Mecca (La Via de Profumo), which is primarily a labdanum-focused scent dusted with the clovey, balsamic bitterness of Siam benzoin and frankincense.  Backing the smoke is always a layer of dusty, medicinal henna powder and the golden sheen of honey-glazed woods.  Nothing, therefore, feels out of balance, not even when the smoke is rolling in.

 

Aurum dries down to a dark, treacly resin that smells predominantly nutty, but also kind of gritty, like coffee grounds sprinkled with sugar – probably a side effect of benzoin mixing with the cedar and ambrette musk.  There’s a moment in the drydown that reminds me of the sawdusty, almost granular sweetness of wood pulp and suede that is the primary feature of Tuscan Leather-style fragrances.  Many soft leather scents, like Tom Ford Tuscan Leather itself, Oud Saphir (Atelier Cologne), and Tajibni (Al Haramain), use a combination of a vegetal musk like ambrette, saffron, and cedar to create a musky, resinous suede effect, and that might be what’s happening here in Aurum.  However, Aurum is far more complex than these soli-suedes, deploying as it does a layer of resins, oud, and henna to jostle and thicken the sueded musk.

 

 

 

Ayuthia (Mellifluence)

Type: mukhallat

 

 

Is there such thing as an oud chypre?  This may well be the first.  The first note out of the bottle is most definitely oud – a wave of wet, rotting wood, mixed with woodsmoke, camphor, and sharp fruit.  However, this settles quickly, segueing into a dry, woody heart with lots of grounding patchouli, green leaves, and bitter oakmoss.

 

Although never sweet, the earth and wood notes are made rounder with a hint of something soft and giving, like vanilla.  Not enough to make it sweet, just to sand off the edges.  The other notes pay homage to the oud, which is clearly the star note in the blend.  The Chanthaburi oud oil vibrates thickly in every fiber of this mukhallat.  Lightly smoky, it sews a thread of fermentation through the fabric of the blend.

 

Though oud is the main driver, the base develops a velvety green dampness that is very forest floor-ish.  The inky oakmoss note expands to meet the mossy mintiness of a Borneo-style oud, completing the picture.  Hours later, the mineral salt of the oakmoss and the smoky woodiness of the oud melt away, leaving only the lively bitterness of camphor on the tongue.

 

Who could wear this?  Honestly, anyone with a pulse.  More subtle and subdued than pure oud oil, Ayuthia’s supporting cast of notes has a tenderizing, civilizing effect, smoothing away any rough or animalistic edges.  It is fresh, green, and woody, with a friendly touch of smoke and camphor – wearable in almost all situations.  In short, Ayuthia is superb blend for oud fans who want a break from the unrelenting intensity of the pure oud experience, as well as anyone who respects oud but can’t see themselves ever wearing it neat.

 

 

Photo by Thoa Ngo on Unsplash

 

Badr al Badour (Amouage)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

Badr al Badour is an opulent mukhallat based on a mixture of real oud oils (one from Cambodia, the other from Myanmar), rosa damascena oil, ambergris, and a touch of sandalwood.  It sounds like a simple affair, but it goes to prove that a sort of alchemic magic occurs when raw materials with flawless bone structure meet, fall in love with each other’s exquisiteness, and decide to procreate.

 

The opening features a classic rose-oud combination, drawn up using a rather dark, medicinal oud note and a citrusy, geranium-tinted rose.  So far, so traditional.  But slowly, as the oil warms up on the skin, the Burmese oud oil comes to the fore and it is then that you notice the lightly sour, almost fetid breath of real oud wood.  Peppery and dry, with nary a hint of sweetness to soften it, it is the pleasantly stale woodiness that escapes from old wooden trunks when you open them after years of neglect.  The scent is a reminder that oud is wood that’s fighting to live through an infection and only partially succeeding.  A smell half dead and half alive.

 

There is, for the average Westerner, a moment of repulsion, but fight it.  After the repulsion comes fascination.  There is a reason aficionados describe the smell of real oud as a compelling type of smell.  The salty funk of ambergris breathes life into the sour, dry oud mélange from beneath, bequeathing a round warmth that has nothing to do with sweetness.  I would describe this mukhallat synesthesically as pink gold with a silvery-gray oud heart, a clump of ashes nestling in the folds of a tightly-furled rosebud.

 

The citrusy rose of the start gathers in richness as the day wears on, perhaps due to the ‘creaming’ effect of the sandalwood.  I have seen the rose in this described variously as a Bulgarian rose and a Taifi rose, but its sharp, peppery quality leads me to believe that it is definitely Taifi.  The rose, in fact, strikes me as being somewhat similar in tone to that of Abdul Samad Al Qurashi’s Al Ta’if Rose Nakhb Al Arous.  The rose softens as the day goes on, becoming sweeter and fuller in body.

 

Overall, this is an unusually prismatic scent for an oil – different notes seem to come forward and then recede over the course of a wearing, allowing others to take their place.  At times, the scent seems to focus almost exclusively on the dry oud, at others the rose nudges forward to cast a sweet, rosy netting over the oud, and occasionally, everything but the salty warmth of the ambergris drops back.  This makes for an endlessly rich and varied wearing experience throughout the day.  Badr al Badour is a mukhallat to be savored for every minute it is on the skin.

 

 

 

Baghdad (Abdul Karim Al Faransi/Maison Anthony Marmin)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

If you are looking for an excellent rose-oud mukhallat for a price that won’t hurt your wallet too much, then look no further than Al Faransi’s Baghdad.  On my skin, the note pyramid is slightly inverted, with the sour, leathery Hindi oud striking my nose first, even though it is a heavy basenote.  The oud smells authentic, but not so animalic as to cause concern for more timid noses.  It is a battered, worn leather case set upon gently smoking woods – exotic and alluring, but not particularly challenging.

 

The rose, which emerges right on the heels of the oud, feels complex and ‘worked out’.  Heavily peppered and saffron-ed at first, it fleshes itself out into a huge, purplish explosion of jamminess, spice, and smoke, underscored with an emphatic flourish of fruit rot.  The rosy sturm und drang splutters out in a bath of sandalwood for a finish not a hundred miles away from the cream soda-ish last moments of Amouage’s Rose TRO.

 

Sounds amazing, right?  It is.  But – and this is a big but (and I cannot lie) – Baghdad exhausts all its resources within the space of a few hours, plunging from an amphitheater-sized presence in the first hour to a mere whisper of smoke and roses by the third.  This shouldn’t necessarily bother people looking for a quality rose-oud option on the cheap, as its reasonable price means that one can simply reapply throughout the day.  But it is a factor to consider.

 

If pressed, I would say that Baghdad is my very favorite from the Al Faransi brand, with Hind running a close second.  Baghdad leans masculine, but the classic smoky rose and oud pairing is so universal that I cannot imagine women not wanting to wear this one too.

 

 

 

Cambodi Attar (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: oudy mukhallat

 

 

A simple but highly satisfying affair, Cambodi Attar combines an affable Cambodi oud oil with excellent Indian sandalwood for a result that showcases the best in each.  The Cambodi oud oil dominates the first half, rich in a berry-caramel stickiness that suggests leather without featuring any of the stale off-notes associated with modern Cambodi-style distillations.  It is an approachable oud oil note, one that even beginners will find accessible.

 

The drydown is pure Indian santalum album, in that it is aromatic, buttery, and treading that fine line between sweet and savory.  Rising Phoenix Perfumery’s sandalwood is truly beautiful, and it is worth getting a couple of their attars purely in order to experience its handsome, rugged warmth in the tail. 

 

 

 

 

About Me:  A two-time Jasmine Award winner for excellence in perfume journalism, I write a blog (this one!) and have authored many guides, articles, and interviews for Basenotes.  (My day-to-day work is in the scientific research for development world).  Thanks to the generosity of friends and acquaintances in the perfume business, I have been privileged enough to smell the raw materials that go into perfumes and learn about the role they play in both Western and Eastern perfumery.   Artisans have sent vials of the most precious materials on earth such as ambergris, deer musk, and oud.  But I have also spent thousands of my own money, buying oud oils directly from artisans and tons of dodgy (and possibly illegal) stuff on eBay.  In the reviews sections, I will always tell you where my sample came from and whether I paid for it or not.

 

Source of samples:  I purchased samples from Amouage, Arabian Oud, Maison Anthony Marmin, Mellifluence, and Tauer Perfumes. Samples from Abdul Samad al Qurashi, Sultan Pasha Attars and Rising Phoenix Perfumery were sent to me free of charge by either the brand or a distributor.     

 

 

Note on monetization: My blog is not monetized.  But if you’d like to support my work or show appreciation for any of the content I put out, you can always buy me a coffee using the little buymeacoffee button.  Thank you! 

 

Cover Image: Photo of oudy mukhallats in my collection, photo my own (please do not use, circulate, or repost without my permission)

 

Amber Balsamic Gold Herbal Incense opoponax Oriental Resins Review Single note exploration Spice Uncategorized

Empire des Indes by Oriza L. Legrand

17th May 2022

 

 

Oh, opoponax, how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.  First, there’s the fact that, in its upper register at least, this is a resin that doesn’t know that it’s a resin at all.  In fact, it wants to be a spice or a herb, but can’t decide which, which is why the first flash of opoponax lurches wildly between the metallic, sweaty sting of clove and the aromatic camphor of bay leaf.  It’s like listening to a teenager’s voice breaking.

 

Then, there’s the ambery resinousness in its lower registers that smells like a rich toffee but also quite a bit like Disaronno, which gives it a boozy almond butter tonality that cracks the safe open a little to reveal how the drydowns of No. 5 (Chanel) and Shalimar (Guerlain) are actually constructed.  There is even a hint of Johnson and Johnson’s Baby Powder or Baby Oil that lingers towards the very end.  Now when people talk about wet wipes or nappies when it comes to either the Chanel or the Guerlain, I have an idea where that association is coming from.  New level unlocked.

 

Lastly, the fact that the transition between the astringent spicy-herbal topnotes and the almond taffy basenotes is awkward as hell, which makes things interesting.  Sometimes, this clash of cymbals produces an old fashioned bay rhum effect that makes me think of amber mixed up with Old Spice or Brut.  There is a lingering soapiness in among all that almond butter richness that calls to mind shaving foam.  Personally, I love this confusing mash up of balsamic sweetness and rinsing herbal sourness.  You get the gold honey of a resin and the aromatic rigor of a barbershop fougère.  What’s not to like?

 

I bought Empire des Indes (Oriza L. Legrand) blind because I’d heard that it was an opoponax perfume.  I heard right.  At first spray, I thought that perhaps I’d screwed myself because, you know, opoponax will opoponax, and is there really any point to owning something that repeats on you like a burp across your collection if you already own Imperial Opoponax (Les Nereides), Ligea la Sirena (Carthusia), and the Big Daddy of them all, Eau Lente (Diptyque)?  Not to mention Jicky (Guerlain) and Bengale Rouge (Papillon Perfumery), no slouches in the opoponax department themselves.  

 

But not to worry, because Empire des Indes, though it certainly possesses a strong opoponax character, has been dressed quite differently to these perfumes, and therefore occupies a different slot on my collection.  The sweaty metal of opoponax’s clove topnotes are softened by a dusty cinnamon Nag Champa accord, which has the effect of puffing the perfume up and out into a sweet, ambered dust cloud that shifts softly around you as you move.  It is something you can cuddle into.  By comparison, Ligea la Sirena is more citrusy-hot with lemons, sour tea, and carnation, a jagged knife perfect for cutting through the heat, while Imperial Opoponax is shaving foam central before hitting its toffee stride much later on.

 

Empire des Indes probably comes closest in orbit to Bengale Rouge due to the shared emphasis on that spicy cinnamon and a rich ambery-balsamic tonality.  They are both, it must be said, perfectly slottable into that one slot you likely have reserved for spicy ‘orientals’ whose primary function is to warm your bones (and emit a golden, balsamic sillage) when the weather is cold.  But in terms of weight and ‘thicc-ness’, there is no competition – Bengale Rouge is a Two-Ton Tessie, its generous pours of honey and tonka bean keeping the resin in place like a weighted blanket.  Empire des Indes is far lighter and more diaphanous, similar to the weight of something like Fêtes Persanes (MDCI Parfums), Black Cashmere (Donna Karan), or Theorema (Fendi).

 

But, of course, opoponax is not the only show in town (if it were, I’d recommend just going out and buying some opoponax).  There are some really nice, interesting things happening in Empire des Indes that make this so much more.  For one, ginger adds a savory, mealy texture to the cinnamony topnotes, creating a briefly musky, almost urinous twang that some will invariably interpret as Musc Ravageur-lite (ginger does something similar in Shams Oud by Memo).  Sandalwood adds a gently peanutty milkiness that fades too quickly for my liking.  

 

Once the spicy-herbal flash flare of the opoponax dies back a little, the scent breathes and stretches its limbs into that golden, toffee-ed resinousness (splashed here and there by Old Spice) that one expects from opoponax in general.  But where Empire des Indes innovates is in its earthy shading of this ambery accord with the cocoa-ish dust of patchouli and what smells to me like the curried maple leaf richness of immortelle.  (Neither of those notes are listed).  These accents, coupled with the dusty nag champa, give the perfume a witchy, leaf-blown tenor that feels like something out of the Solstice Scents catalogue (Foxcroft, Inquisitor, or Manor Fire, for example, some of which feature a similarly indie ‘burning autumn leaves’ accord).  Not headshop territory, exactly, but heading in that direction.         

 

Or would had Empire des Indes lasted any longer than it does.  The trajectory from top to bottom is regrettably short.  At least those last tendrils of dusty nag champa seem to be standing in for what otherwise might be a white musk or something abrasive, like Iso E Super, i.e., it carries the perfume across the last mile without compromising any of its delicacy.  Still, this is not a terribly rich or deep perfume.  It floats in wisps and tendrils and drafts.  Indeed, you might say that the only downside to Empire des Indes is its softness.  But you know what?  Like Fêtes Persanes, that is possibly what I like the most about it.

 

 

Source of sample:  Sample?  Baby, when it comes to opoponax, I buy the whole bottle.  Sometimes even blind.  I purchased my bottle directly from Oriza L. Legrand.   

 

Cover Image:  Photo by Sergey Norkov on Unsplash 

 

Cult of Raw Materials Oud Review Single note exploration The Attar Guide

Pure Oud Oil Reviews: P-Y

13th April 2022

 

 

Oud-heads and oud newbies, check out the introduction to oud here, which covers everything from how oud is distilled, its uses in oil-based and commercial perfumery, and the different markets that consume it.  Also, read my Oud Primer, consisting of Part I: The Challenges of Oud, Part II: Why Oud Smells the Way it Does and Part III: The Different Styles of Oud.  Also, don’t miss Pure Oud Reviews: 0-CPure Oud Reviews: D-K and Pure Oud Reviews: L-O.

 

This section contains reviews of pure oud oils[1] only. Review sections for oudy mukhallats[2] and oudy concentrated perfume oils[3] are forthcoming.

 

 

Photo of pure oud samples, photo my own (please do not use, circulate, or repost without my permission)

 

Port Moresby (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Papuan (Gyrinops)

 

 

Port Moresby is one of the most lauded oud oils ever to be produced by Ensar Oud.  Distilled from stock of older, more densely-resinated trees of the Gyrinops species from Papua, the oil displays an interesting dichotomy.  On the one hand, it features all the usual green, vaporous, and almost sparkling facets of steamy Papuan oil, and on the other, it smells aged, buttery, and round in the way that some aged oils do.

 

Therefore, what one smells on the skin immediately is green and tart, like the skin of unripe green mangoes, mint, and basil cordial, but also deep and smooth, like a well-aged plum brandy.  And it is this juxtaposition that makes Port Moresby such an intoxicating wear.  This oil is reputed to replicate the smell of green kyara chips being heated on a burner.  I wouldn’t know if this is accurate or not, but based on smell alone, Port Moresby certainly is a mesmerizing experience.

 

There are no off-putting sour or barnyard notes in Port Moresby.  You are delivered directly to its core of vaporous green woods, with that subtle current of hot buttered leather, oiled antique furniture, and red wine pulsing beneath.  It puffs away on the skin calmly and quietly, its own little forest world unfurling on your hand and gifting you with a piece of portable Zen in a fretful, unkind world.  It is oils like Port Moresby that remind you why essential oils are so commonly used for healing, meditative, and spiritual purposes.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Kym MacKinnon on Unsplash

 

Purple Kinam (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian

 

 

Purple Kinam was distilled from very high quality pieces of Malaysian Malaccensis by a skilled distiller who works almost exclusively with kinam wood.  Ensar commissioned him to distill this particular oil as a sort of experiment to see if it was possible to wrest the flavors of a kinam oil from non-kinam wood.  The result is, as even the distiller himself agreed, so high quality – kinam -that it justifies the name of this oil.  (The word kinam, when used as a grading descriptor for an oud oil, usually means that the oil comes from densely-resinated, aged oud wood that is of the highest quality, superior to even the best oud wood found in that particular geographic area).

 

Kinam is generally understood to mean oil from wild Aquilaria Sinensis trees that have reached full maturity (over 80 years old) in Vietnam, but as with Purple Kinam and Qi Nam 2005, Ensar seems to be on a mission to prove his theory that kinam-quality oils can be produced from any type of wood (including Malaccensis) and in any region, as long as you have a distiller who knows what he is doing.  In other words, he believes that kinam oils can be produced through the magic of alchemy – a skilled distiller turning metal into gold.

 

And the result, Purple Kinam, is indeed very beautiful.  Though keep in mind that I have never smelled kinam and therefore have no true baseline against which to judge.  It is a clean oud oil with absolutely no funk or dirtiness. There is even a floral (rosy) and citrus hue to its golden shallows.

 

An undertone of mustiness and stale lunchbox lurks in the upper registers, but even this aspect is pleasant.  Lightly vaporous, the oil first emits high-toned fumes of wood, glue, solvent, and grain alcohol boiling in open vats, before settling down to a smooth, light finish.  In many ways, it reminds me of the fine-grained woodiness of Borneo 2000 or even Oud Yusuf, indicating that this oil may possess some aspects of the Borneo aroma profile.

 

Purple Kinam is placid and easy to wear.  I recommend it to anyone looking for an entry point to oud.  Its light, clear golden texture and vaporous quality also qualifies it as a rare oud you could wear to work.  If I could afford it, I would buy this oil to wear every day, as there is an easy-going, sunny grace to it that suits the daylight hours.

 

 

 

Pyrex Nepal (Blend) (Feel Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Mixed

 

 

Pyrex Nepal, a blend of various oud oils, initially doesn’t smell like oud oil at all.  Instead, it charts a course between the flavor profiles of green curry oil, jasmine, and melted plastic, switching out one flavor for the next each time the nose returns to the skin, confused and searching for meaning.

 

It is a disorienting but not unpleasant experience.  Pyrex Nepal is the kind of thing that makes me shake my head in admiration, not only at the intrinsic variability of oud oil but at the skill of artisan distillers like Russian Adam who are unafraid to push for a result that might annoy the hell out of oud purists.  I am by no means a traditionalist, so I quietly cheer for this lack of deference and for these odd, boundary-expanding experiments.  But if you are a traditionalist, tread carefully with this one.

 

Given an hour or two, Pyrex Nepal settles into a more recognizable shape of oud, with a plasticky, green, and airy quality that is quirky as hell but still recognizably oudy.  Underneath, there stirs a powerful undertow of cumin, for that touch of heated female flesh.  

 

Overall, Pyrex Nepal reminds me somewhat of the acidic, cumin-flecked woods of Al Rehab’s Khaliji and several of the woodier Le Labo fragrances.  It is certainly oud oil, but all its usual references have been thrown askew, asking the wearer to fill in the gaps with their own imagination.  An unsettling experience, but highly recommended. 

 

 

 

Qi Nam 2005 (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Chinese

 

 

Qi Nam 2005 is a rare Chinese oil that was the predecessor to the famous Ensar Oud Royal Kinam.  In pure oud circles, the words ‘kinam’ and ‘kyara’ are generally understood to denote the highest grade of agarwood, a particularly resin-rich, packed, dense piece of oud wood from the Aquilaria Sinensis species that originated in China.  But kyara or kinam agarwood can also be found in other species and in other geographical areas, such as Vietnam (home to the most revered kyara).

 

There are heated arguments over what makes a piece of wood kyara or kinam.  Some argue that it must come exclusively from wild Aquilaria Sinensis trees that have reached full maturity (over 80 years old) in Vietnam, but others maintain that it can come from an Aquilaria Sinensis tree grown anywhere, like China or Borneo, or even India, as it is the quality of the wood pieces – their density of hard, packed resin – that matters more than where the tree grows.  In the quality-over-geographical location argument, the prime factor that makes a piece of wood kinam or kyara, therefore, is that the wood from which the oil comes is of unusually high quality compared to the rest of the wood found in that particular area.

 

Royal Kinam was released by Ensar Oud under that name to denote its superiority over all other oud oils, even within the Ensar stable itself.  Subscribing to the view that kinam simply means top-notch, aged, heavily resinated wood from the Aquilaria Sinensis species – no matter where the tree was grown – Ensar sourced a batch of Chinese-grown A. Sinensis wood to undertake this particular distillation (and make his point).

 

And actually, it makes sense to look for Aquilaria Sinensis – which translates to ‘of Chinese Origin’ – in China.  However, given that Aquilaria Sinensis is itself extremely rare and almost extinct in China, only a tiny amount of Chinese oil from a piece of China-sourced Aquilaria Sinensis could ever be produced.  In fact, the small quantity of Royal Kinam produced was quickly sold out on the Ensar Oud site and is now only available if a private collector decides to sell.

 

I have never smelled Royal Kinam, but its predecessor, Qi Nam 2005, is an experience I would wish for everyone new to the oud genre.  In some ways, it is redundant to provide a description knowing that this oil is not available for purchase.  On the other hand, my description might prove useful to buyers in terms of what they might expect if they come across an oil described as ‘kinam’ in their journey.

 

Qi Nam 2005 initially smells like a piece of Reblochon cheese flash-grilled till runny and drizzled with acacia honey – a restrained but ripe aroma full to the brim with sweet, savory, sour, and umami flavors all rolled into one.  This unbearable ripeness of being is quickly over, the oil settling into cruise control within minutes.  The main body of Qi Nam 2005 is redolent of a dark and supple piece of leather, a fantastically gloomy and pleasing aroma that reaches back to tickle the far corners of the brain.  There is nothing raw, animalic, or rotting about this aroma at all.  It slides out of the bottle perfectly aged, all its edges smoothed down, fully-formed, and reading Voltaire in impeccable French.  Compared to a young Grana Padano for grating, this is a 36-month-aged parmesan cheese so rich in nuance that the only respectful way to savor it is by allowing tiny silvers of it to melt on your tongue.

 

There is a lovely sense of completeness to this oud.  There are no sticky, honeyed red fruits or green tree sap or sour, rotting wood – no one accord that jumps out to identify it as belonging to one region or another.  Aside from a slightly antiseptic topnote, it is not medicinal in character.  It does not correspond to any one style, but man, it has style.

 

Qi Nam 2005 is a mellow essay on the pleasures of deep brown woods and old leather.  Picture a battered leather chair in a professor’s office that has sat there for generations, quietly absorbing nuance upon nuance over a period of four decades.  Worn to a silken thinness over time, the leather exudes the quiet aroma of privilege.  There is something spiritually comforting about Qi Nam 2005, but not in a distracting way.  Wearing it would simply be conducive to having a happy, productive day.

 

 

 

 

Royal Seufi Oudh (Arabian Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Hindi

 

 

Like George Clooney, Royal Seufi Oudh is greatly improved with age.  Seufi is a word that vaguely implies something reserved for royal use, thus the name of this oil suggests both quality and the use of Hindi oud oil.  However, the blend and aging of the oil has made it so buttery that it is difficult to identify any Hindi characteristics at all.  It could be Hindi, or a mixture of Hindi with other oils, including Laotian and Cambodi – but really, who knows?

 

Honestly, this is so nice that I don’t care, and neither should you.  Its fifteen years of aging has created an impeccably smooth mélange of creamy, woody notes that retains all of its depth of its pedigree and none of the raw, dissonant stink of younger Hindis.  It has a glossy caramel-like texture, and the barely-there sweetness of long-cured meats and leather.

 

But first, you notice the fruit.  A wave of berry flavor bubbles up joyously under the nose like champagne – sweet red cherries, pears, and luscious blackberries.  The initial effect is that of breaking down a stick of Juicy Fruit gum in the mouth, really getting deep into the mouth to activate those salivary glands.  The fruit melts away into a rubbery leather note that gets ‘burnished’ and more supple with time.

 

There is a slightly creamy plastic facet here that reminds me of the Laotian oud used in Oud Velvet Mood by Maison Francis Kurkdijan, as well as a hint of goat curd.  However, these aspects simply add an interesting textural dimension to the buttery leather of the oud.

 

 

 

Photo by Jonas Hensel on Unsplash

 

Semkhor – Wild Hindi – First Fraction (Imperial Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Hindi (wild)

 

 

Imperial Oud was fortunate enough to get their hands on a portion of wild agarwood excised from the few remaining wild Aquilaria trees in Northern India not shipped directly to the Emirates for sale in the Arab market.  Semkhor Wild Hindi – First Fraction, an oil distilled in situ by a local distilling partner on behalf of Imperial Oud, is the glorious result.

 

Distilled from wild trees on the border between Assam and Manipur, this is an unmistakably Hindi oil.  But to my nose, it is different  (in a good way) to many of the Assamese or Hindi oils I have previously smelled.  First, though there is the fiercely pungent, hay-like twang of a traditional Hindi up top, it does not take on the heavily fermented odor of wood that has been left to soak until it rots, falling apart into foul-smelling water.

 

Instead, the leather-hay notes here are bright and clear-gold, like raw honey, with a tantalizing hint of air-dried fruit and dark cocoa playing second fiddle.  There is a smattering of a dry spice – hot black pepper crushed with clove or cinnamon – sifted over the bright hay and leather notes.  There is a nugget of fermentation, writ small, in the fabric here too, but this is the pleasing sourness in a bite of kimchi, rather than the foulness of compacted dung. 

 

Everything in Wild Hindi is playing at low volume, so it reads as subtle and almost light on the skin.  The sour barnyard funk of a traditional Hindi is missing in action, which, in all honesty, will get the hardcore ouddicts scratching their heads or worrying at their beards a little.  But it would be an excellent oil with which to indoctrinate beginners into the Hindi genre.  As someone who is not tremendously keen on the famous Hindi funk, this is one of a handful of Indian oils that I myself would wear without hesitation.  Beautiful work.

 

 

 

Singgalang – West Sumatran Wild (Imperial Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Indonesian (Sumatra)

 

 

Singgalang is a Sumatran oud oil, distilled from wild resinated A. Microcarpa trees, a little known species of Aquilaria.  There is something quixotic about this oil.  It is hilariously impolite and refuses to stay within the lines.  In fact, it is more a physical sensation than a smell, especially in the opening few minutes before the oil settles.  A tiny smear of the oil unleashes a tidal wave of putrefying fruit and cheese so overripe it threatens to leap over the table and slap your face.  A layer of cloying dust clings to the back of these garbagy foodstuffs, a clove-like spiciness that tickles the nose.

 

However, once the intensity of the opening begins to bank down, it becomes easier to pick out individual notes.  These include, to my nose at least, a bright curl of citrus peel, camphor, and a hint of apricotty osmanthus.  Once fully ‘broken in’, Singgalang coasts along in a middle register of core oudiness – smoky and chewy, with a good balance between sweet and tart.  In the far drydown, it creams up again, albeit minus the rotting fruit and cheese overtones this time.  The creaminess here is vanillic and clean.

 

Singgalang is a striking and unusual oil.  It is definitely one to put on the test list if you like assertive flavors like decaying fruit and cheese in your oud.  However, although the creamy leather drydown is gorgeous, you do have to appreciate the cheesiness of Laotian-style oud oil to like this in its entirety, and I really do not.

 

 

 

Sinharaja – Ceylon 2016 (Imperial Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Sri Lankan, with some elements of Borneo and Chinese style

 

 

Sinharaja is a Sri Lankan oud oil distilled from incense-grade wood, which means that only the best quality agarwood was used to fill the still.  This oil is interesting because, to my nose, it displays the characteristics of two different terroirs (or styles) in one.  The first is a bright, clean, almost minty island-style profile (Papuan or Borneo), which then folds into the second profile, namely the spicy fur-leather profile common to Chinese oils.

 

The opening is bright with delicate, smooth plum and grape notes, backed by a tannic wisp of lapsang souchong tea and the green, vaporous quality of a Borneo or Papuan oil.  As the oil develops, it flips the usual trajectory of an oud oil, becoming more rather than less animalic.  Past the sparkling topnotes, therefore, Sinharaja darkens in tone, picking up a plethora of stale, earthy, and leathery nuances, as well as a sullen backdrop of dusty spice – cloves, cinnamon, and saffron.

 

Clove is a note that can be animalic in its own right.  It is dusty, metallic, slightly cloying, and ‘oniony’ in aroma profile.  However, a current of steamy tropical fruit nuances moisten and smooth out the spice, tucking it seamlessly into the next phase of the oil’s development.  Once Sinharaja settles into its final form, you will notice that it has pulled out of its rather challenging phase of pungent leather and spice, and mellowed into a smooth, sweet woodiness that is kind of to die for – lightly smoky, aged, but not dusty or dry.  The animalism of the spicy leather fades into the ether, leaving you with the whisper of wood moistened with plum wine and tart, red cherries.  Very nice work. I would recommend Sinharaja to people specifically seeking a non-linear oud oil experience.  Intermediate level, for sure. 

 

 

 

Photo by Ripley Elisabeth Brown on Unsplash

 

Sutera Ungu (Agar Aura)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian

 

 

Distilled from wood from the Terengganu region of Malaysia, Sutera Ungu displays both characteristics from the fruity Crassna and the typical Malaysian structure.  Cutting past all the gobbledygook, what this means is that there is a complex series of shifts from top to bottom, often separating into two layers – smoke on top, and fruity leather beneath.  Agarwood from the Terengganu region is said to be particularly perfumey and rich, a theory borne out by this particular oil.

 

Immediately, I can smell smoke and fruited wood, backed by a smoky incense quality.  Once the Goethean drama of the opening settles a bit, it is possible to discern subtle little gradients of color and tone.  There are waves of freshly-stripped bark, clear furniture polish, green apple skin, and fermenting dried fruit, all dispersed within a boozy vapor akin to dried fruits soaking in brandy for Christmas pudding.  You get all this and more, filtered through a haze of incense smoke.

 

As pure oud oils go, this is perfumey in the way of an older Chanel extrait, and I am thinking of vintage Coco Parfum in particular here (something about the rich fruits in brandy feel).  In the heart, the smoke parts to reveal an earthy myrrh note, old wooden chests, and, darting through the darkness, the reddish iodine snap of pure saffron threads soaked in oil.  None of these materials exist in Sutera Ungu as notes, you understand, just their nuance.  

 

But the show is not over just yet.  In a whiplash move, the oil circles back on itself to the dry, incensey woodsmoke that greeted the nose in the topnotes.  Sutera Ungu is a rich, complex, and thoroughly enjoyable Malaysian oil experience from top to bottom.  It is both an oud oil and a proper perfume in its own right.

 

I highly recommend Agar Aura oils to beginners because they are exceptionally smooth, light-to-medium weight in terms of darkness and possessed of a depth of flavor that does not sacrifice legibility. 

 

 

 

Tawau Al Awwal (Feel Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian and Borneo and maybe a bit of Hindi thrown in for good measure

 

 

 

Tawau Al Awwal, a blend of oils from wild Malaysian and Borneo trees, provides an interesting jumping off point for discussing the difference between oud ‘terroirs’.  Borneo ouds are green, woody, and vaporous, with a creamy vanilla mouthfeel in its lower register.  Malaysian oils are often darkly smoky up top, and smoothly leathery underneath.  A further clue to the way this oil develops lies in the species of wood from which it was distilled, namely, Microcarpa, a low-yielding species that has intrinsically animalic characteristics.

 

So, with all of that information in the pot, how does Tawau Al Awwal actually turn out?  Interestingly, while it displays facets of both Malaysian and Borneo terroirs at different stages of its development, the opening notes clearly recall the spicy barnyard notes of a classic Hindi profile.  Confused yet?  I wouldn’t blame you.  But bear with me.

 

It helps if you look at Tawau Al Awwal as a feral child with absolutely no control over their tongue.  In the opening moments, you would be forgiven for thinking this was a Hindi oil fresh off the still.  It is monumentally animalic, with the pungent miasma of stinking leather, barnyard waste, and soiled hay roiling off the skin two minutes into application.  It also smells sourly dusty and stale, like clothes folded away while damp and not shaken out for six months. 

 

This unexpected ‘Hindi’ phase lasts for an objectionably long time.  But towards the end of the first hour, there appears a very nice smoke aspect that ennobles the barnyard honk somewhat, mopping up the worst of those wet, fecal leather notes.  It becomes drier and smokier as time goes on, and dare I say, far more pleasant to wear.  The smoke notes are associated with the Malaysian profile of agarwood, so that fits.  However, there is no sign of the characteristic Borneo notes at all until far down into the base when a faintly vanillic creaminess appears, as well as camphor, mint, and herbs.  This minty creaminess never fully subsumes the smoky, dirty leather notes, but it does soften the harsh roar of the opening.

 

Although I personally find Tawau Al Awwal a bit too unhinged to wear with pleasure, I admire the adventurous spirit with which Russian Adam distills his oils.  He is unafraid to tinker with the boundaries familiar to us and is cheerful about the dismantling of sacred cows.  He is not reverential, which can only be an advantage to people looking for an oud experience that colors outside the lines.  Tawau Al Awwal is an excellent example of how innovation and taking risks can pay off.  Specifically, it demonstrates that you can distill wood from one terroir in such a way as to make it mimic the characteristics of a completely different terroir.  I like the cut of his jib.

 

 

 

Photo by Prchi Palwe on Unsplash

 

Thai Leather (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Cambodi-style Crassna grown on Thai Plantation

 

 

Thai Leather, made from organic oud wood grown on a plantation in Thailand, has the fruity Crassna vibe of most Cambodi-style oils.  This makes sense since the majority of Thai plantation trees are Crassna.  What that gives this Thai oil its character is a core of gummy fruitiness that smells like a pan of apple caramel boiled hard to leave a layer of compressed fruit leather.  The official description for this oil notes that it is not fruity, but, baby, I beg to differ.  It is balanced by the sourish leather notes beneath the caramel, but some fruit is clearly present.

 

In the case of Thai Leather, the fruit/sugar element smells like green apple caramel.  This layer of sweetness disguises a smooth, smoky leather note that emerges after the first hour.  It is not animalic or challenging in the slightest, but there is a pleasant hint of sourness to the leather, which acts as a necessary counterbalance to the fruits and caramel.

 

In the far drydown, the fruity leather note grows slightly grimier, like a leather saddle that’s been sitting on a sweating horse for miles.  To my nose, it smells quite similar to the far drydown of some sambac jasmine oils.  This nuance is not disturbing or unpleasant, and in fact, lends a grungy sort of gravitas that’s sorely missing from the affable topnotes of fairground caramel apples.

 

 

 

 

Thai Pa Pa Kea (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Crassna (wild harvested in Thailand)

 

 

Thai Pa Pa Kea is a special distillation from one of JK DeLapp’s distillers in Thailand, who also happens to be the royal oud distiller for the Thai royal family.  Given this distiller’s access to some of the premium pieces of agarwood on the market, he was able to source wood from a wild, 190-year-old Malaccensis Crassna tree in Thailand, and used to it distill a single batch of oud oil.  He offered a small amount to JK DeLapp, which is how this rare oil came to be offered through Rising Phoenix Perfumery.

 

So, what does an oil from one-hundred-and-ninety-year-old wood smell like?  Immediately, the aroma is very strong and diffusive, far more so than Rising Phoenix Perfumery’s other oils.  It contains all the fruity hallmarks of a classic Crassna but is much smoother and rounder.  It smells like a rich, golden pear that has been fermented for years and then deep-tissue massaged into a piece of wood.

 

There is a hint of sourness at the start, although this comes across as tannic – flower petals floating on black tea – rather than ureic.  A soft fur-like note flits at the corners of the aroma, adding a touch of drama.

 

Mostly, though, Thai Pa Pa Kea is pear leather with a golden oolong tea nuance in the background.  It is syrupy and thick, with a distinctly furred texture, but not at all dark in tone.  Three hours in, the fruity brightness dims a little, allowing a smooth honey nuance to slot into place.  Strong and sweet in a clean, bright manner, Thai Pa Pa Kea will please those for whom projection and volume is as important as the oil’s actual aroma.

 

 

 

Photo by Andres Vera on Unsplash

 

Thai Roast (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Crassna grown on Thai Plantation, Seattle coffeehouse style

 

 

Thai Roast is an interesting experiment on how you can alter the basic aroma profile of oud oil through tweaks to the treatment of the wood prior to distillation.  Wishing to imbue the oil with the aroma of black coffee, JK asked his distilling partner to char the wood prior to distillation.  This gave the wood – and its resulting oil – an intensely dark, almost burned aroma similar to that of fossilized amber and burning frankincense.

 

Weirdly, Thai Roast truly does smell like coffee.  It has the smooth, dark-roast effect of coffee beans ground by an experienced barista in front of you.  Many oils and perfumes claim to capture the smell of fresh, dark coffee, but they mostly fall apart in the details.  This does not.  As far as authenticity goes, Thai Roast batters all other coffee scents into the ground.  A dab of this will jolt you awake as surely as a double espresso.

 

Delving deeper into the coffee aroma, some individual facets begin to take shape, including charred, dry wood, bitterness, smoke, hot metal, licorice, and dark chocolate.  It is a peculiarly intense experience, and truth be told, one that has the potential to tire your nose out very quickly. 

 

But then, I notice something unusual.  Take your nose away from the coffee, then return it, and suddenly your nose now discerns the coffee aroma as a knot of frankincense and myrrh smoldering softly on a priest’s censer.  What was once coffee is now something less prosaic – High Mass.  This switch in perception swings the wearer 180 degrees from the coffee shop to the gloomy insides of a church after mass, incense lingering in the air.

 

If this is what the future of plantation looks like, then it gives a glimmer of hope as to what can be achieved through creative distilling.  One criticism might be that Thai Roast smells nothing like a pure oud oil.  And to be fair, it really does not.  However, as a coffee-resin distillation, it more than succeeds.  Thai Roast will be of value to anyone interested in the world of possibilities opened up by tinkering around with distillation style. 

 

 

 

Thai Suede (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Crassna grown on Thai Plantation

 

 

Thai Suede is similar to Thai Leather, described above, but there are three key differences in how they evolve on the skin.  First, the fruity caramel this time around is more red berries, peaches, and plums than the green apple-magnolia vibe of Thai Leather.  Second, the tone is denser, with a winey, fermented depth missing in Thai Leather.  Lastly, the suede core of Thai Suede is accompanied by a slightly synthetic smoke note, something that is not noticeable in Thai Leather.

 

That is not to say that Thai Suede contains synthetics, but that there is a note suggestive of modern smoke or leather aromachemicals.  This is probably just a feature of the wood from which the oil was distilled, or even the materials or mineral content of the water used in the distillation, but it is worth mentioning.

 

 

 

Tigerwood Royale, Tigerwood 1995 (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian

 

 

Tigerwood is so-called because of the densely resinated ‘tiger’ stripes of oleoresin that run through certain heritage stocks of wild Malaysian agarwood.  The story behind this is that Ensar came across a distiller who had distilled these Tigerwood oils, one in 2001 (the Tigerwood Royale), and the other further back in 1995 (the Tigerwood 1995).

 

Tigerwood Royale, although younger in age than the 1995, is actually a much deeper, more resinous scent than the 1995, thanks in part to the much higher grades of tigerwood that were used for the distillation.  But both oils are roughly similar, sharing a certain evergreen freshness at their core, as well as a very classic Malaysian aroma profile.

 

Both oils open up with a very medicinal scent, which remains remarkably intact despite many years of aging.  The aroma that develops in both cases is robust, earthy, and oudy to the core, meaning a very classic profile of notes and nuances (leather, woods, greenery, incense).  The texture of both oils is silky thanks to the many years of careful aging.  However, the two tigerwoods diverge on some key points, and it is important to talk about them here.

 

First and foremost, Tigerwood Royale has a salty funk to it that makes me think of heavy deer musk or ambergris tinctures, whereas Tigerwood 1995 stays clean all the way through.  Tigerwood Royale also has a furry sourness that carries a whiff of the barnyard more characteristic of Hindi oils than Malaysian oils.  

 

Tigerwood 1995, on the other hand, follows up on the medicinal brightness of its opening with a heart that is very green.  It is heavy on the camphor, mint, and forest-like sappiness of some Borneos.  Although the oils diverge in the heart, the drydowns bring them back together, united in an almost creamy oudy-leather drydown with nuances of camphoraceous woods peeking out every now and then.  Personally, I find Tigerwood Royale too animalic to enjoy, and both Tigerwoods deeply masculine, so they are not my favorites from Ensar Oud.  (Keep in mind that I am female and my tolerance for animalics is quite low compared to the average oudhead).    

 

 

 

Photo by Ethan Rheams on Unsplash

 

Trat Jam (Feel Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Trat (Thailand)

 

 

If you have ever travelled in the former Yugoslavia, then you have probably been offered fruit juices as a refreshment.  These gusti sokovi are so thick you could stand a spoon up in your glass.  Trat Jam smells exactly like these homemade cherry, pear, and plum juices taste – dense, grainy, and sweet.  It teems with an autumnal richness that approaches that of a thirty-year-old sherry.

 

Trat is a border region of Thailand, and oud oils from this region tend to be fruity in a treacle-ish fashion that can get old quick (some accuse Trat oils of possessing a bubblegum-like flavor).  But Trat Jam, while indeed very sweet and very fruity, has a dark, textured tonality that balances out the syrup and renders it suitable for adults.  Along with the plummy flesh of the stone fruits, therefore, you also get the slightly furry, bitter skin of the fruit and a suede-like mouthfeel.  A richly saliva-like honey note swims languorously in the background.

 

Normally, distillers will soak Trat wood in water for a minimum of one week to introduce some sour, rotting aromas to counter all that berry jam.  But Feel Oud wanted a distillation of un-soaked wood, thus setting free an over-the-top cornucopia of red, winey cherries, plums, and apples.  Friendly and approachable, this oil is first date material.  Highly recommended to people who love gourmand fragrances, fruit, and all things harvest-related.  Although you can wear oud oil in all seasons, this one just cries out for autumn and long scarves and even longer walks in the park, kicking over piles of fallen leaves.

 

 

 

Yunnan 2003 (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Chinese

 

 

Yunnan 2003 comes from a very rare distillation of the revered Chinese agarwood (a collector’s item) and this batch is, at the time of writing, now almost twenty years old.   Even before applying, I notice the aroma of unripe apricots and their tannin-loaded skins, tart and fuzzy but also distinctly fruity.  This scent reminds me keenly of osmanthus absolute, an impression that only deepens when I apply it to warm skin and its immense coils of leather and cow barn aromas are released.

 

It is immediately and intensely animalic, with a barnyard muskiness vying with leather, tallow, and goat hair for attention.  In fact, wearing Yunnan 2003 made me realize that some oud oils can masquerade as genuine deer musk. They share a dark furriness and an aroma so thick that you feel you might reach out and touch it with your fingers.

 

The opening to Yunnan 2003 makes me feel like I am standing in the middle of a herd of cattle in a shed, packed tight with the scent of warm, breathing animals, their fur, compacted hay and straw, mixed in with two weeks’ worth of piss and shit.  To a certain extent, your reaction to the first half of Yunnan 2003 will depend on the sort of upbringing you have had, and specifically if you have ever spent time on a farm.  

 

There are some high notes present in the swell of darkness, however, most notably the pleasant scent of peach, black tea, and citrus peel.  The balance of the fetid fur-and-fat notes with these delicate fruit and tea notes is fantastic because it makes you feel like you’re being served tea and scones by three-piece-suited waiters – even while there is a cow chewing the cud noisily over your shoulder.

 

Yunnan 2003 fades gently over the course of the day, getting smoother as time goes on.  The tone is tenebrous and somber – not dark exactly but certainly shadowed, austere, and a little forbidding.  In the far distance, there is the siren call of resin.  Zero sweetness, however.  Yunnan 2003 has one of the most enjoyable (and protracted) dry downs in the oud business.  A head-spinning experience, for sure, and one that is exclusively for the brave and the already initiated.  Beginner beware.

 

 

About Me:  A two-time Jasmine Award winner for excellence in perfume journalism, I write a blog (this one!) and have authored many guides, articles, and interviews for Basenotes.  (My day-to-day work is in the scientific research for development world).  Thanks to the generosity of friends and acquaintances in the perfume business, I have been privileged enough to smell the raw materials that go into perfumes and learn about the role they play in both Western and Eastern perfumery.   Artisans have sent vials of the most precious materials on earth such as ambergris, deer musk, and oud.  But I have also spent thousands of my own money, buying oud oils directly from artisans and tons of dodgy (and possibly illegal) stuff on eBay.  In the reviews sections, I will always tell you where my sample came from and whether I paid for it or not.

 

Source of samples:  Most of the pure oud samples I am reviewing in these chapters were kindly provided to me free of charge by oud artisans and distillers, namely: Ensar Oud, Feel Oud, Al Shareef Oudh, Rising Phoenix Perfumery, Imperial Oud, and Kyara Zen.  I purchased all Agar Aura samples myself directly from the Agar Aura website. 

 

Note on monetization: My blog is not monetized.  But if you’d like to support my work or show appreciation for any of the content I put out, you can always buy me a coffee using the little buymeacoffee button.  Thank you! 

 

Cover Image: Photo of pure oud samples, photo my own (please do not use, circulate, or repost without my permission)

 

[1] Oud oils are pure essential oils (or ruhs), distilled directly from shards of agarwood loaded into a still. They have not been tempered, diluted, or mixed with any other material.

[2] Mukhallats are blends (mukhallat being the Arabic word for ‘blend’) of essential oils and other raw materials that were distilled or compounded elsewhere. Some of them include carrier oils and synthetics, while others do not (price is a factor). The mukhallat is a uniquely Middle Eastern form of perfumery, while the attar is a traditionally Indian one. Note that for most of the perfume-wearing world, the words ‘attar’ and ‘mukhallat’ are largely interchangeable (read about the actual differences here and here).

 

[3] The reviews of oudy CPOs will cover all of the (mostly Western takes on) perfume oils with a headlining oud note. Concentrated perfume oils are not attars or mukhallats, partially because of their construction but also because the objective of the whole exercise is different. Read how exactly here. People wear mukhallats for reasons of religion, culture, and tradition, while people wear perfume oils just to smell great or to tap into a specific image or fantasy.

Cult of Raw Materials Oud Review Single note exploration The Attar Guide

Pure Oud Oil Reviews: L-O

11th April 2022

 

 

Oud-heads and oud newbies, check out the introduction to oud here, which covers everything from how oud is distilled, its uses in oil-based and commercial perfumery, and the different markets that consume it.  Also, read my Oud Primer, consisting of Part I: The Challenges of Oud, Part II: Why Oud Smells the Way it Does and Part III: The Different Styles of Oud.  Also, don’t miss Pure Oud Reviews: 0-C and Pure Oud Reviews: D-K.

 

This section contains reviews of pure oud oils[1] only. Review sections for oudy mukhallats[2] and oudy concentrated perfume oils[3] are forthcoming.

 

 

 

Photo of pure oud samples, photo my own (please do not use, circulate, or repost without my permission)

 

 

Layth (Al Shareef Oudh)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Cambodi with a Chinese distillation ‘edge’

 

 

Layth is an unusual Cambodi, for several reasons.  First of all, it was distilled from actual Cambodian A. Crassna agarwood, as opposed to wood from other species or other regions, to give it a deliberately recognizable Cambodi style (fruity, caramelized, medicinal, bright, jammy, etc.).

 

Second, it was distilled in China using Chinese methods of distillation, which traditionally focus on drawing out the medically-useful properties of the material being distilled.  In other words, the focus here is all on the traditional healing properties the Chinese believe agarwood to possess rather than its inherent aroma properties.

 

The Chinese medical-therapeutic angle bears out in the topnotes of Layth, which feature the special medicinal funk of old Chinese apothecaries, complete with dried monkfish, raw musk pods, and pungent herbs.  This dusty (and pleasant) medicinal opening is brief, giving way almost immediately to an explosion of luscious red berries and figs, pulsating as violently as an insect infestation in an arm.  The fruit is bright, loud, a little plasticky, and above all, exuberant.  It is a pleasure to let this friendly little pup of an oil clamber all over you.

 

Layth has a slightly salty undertone that cuts the density of the berry-fig onslaught and gives the caramel a lascivious edge.  This is how all good Cambodis should be, i.e., medicinal, fruity, honeyed, and ultimately, as friendly as a toddler.

 

 

 

Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

 

Limau Hijau (Blend) (Feel Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: mixed

 

 

Limau Hijau is a blend of oud oils.  Its opening runs acidic, in a sly nod to the citrus hinted at in the name.  Once the brightness tamps down a notch, what emerges is a scent profile that is remarkably similar to the scent of several high-end Western oud fragrances such as Le Labo Oud 27 and Montale’s Aoud Cuir d’Arabie.  In other words, a pleasantly stale leather accord dipped in industrial solvents, glues, and tanning agents and then left out overnight to dry.

 

This pleather aroma is hot and vaporous, emanating slightly gassy, high-pitched fumes.  If you love Montale’s Aoud Cuir d’Arabie but want the same aroma in oud oil format, then give Limau Hijau a shot.  One criticism I would have of this oil is that it is quite light and one-dimensional.  Once the plasticky leather, solvent, and diesel fumes die back, there is very little in the way of depth or base.

 

 

 

Low Quality Thai Oud (Al Haramain)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Thai

 

 

Forgive the name.  Obviously, there is no such thing as Low Quality Thai Oud in the Al Haramain stable, unless companies have suddenly started to use total honesty in marketing, in which case we can expect to see ‘Generic and Less Tasty Coca-Cola Knockoff’ and ‘Slightly Chemical but Perfectly Serviceable Handsoap’ appearing on our supermarket shelves any day now.  The sample came to me marked thus, so this is what I am calling it.  A better detective than me might be able to figure out which oil this actually is.

 

In any case, it is not nearly as bad as the name implies.  It is a Thai oud oil that initially hits you with a sour, animalic aroma before revealing a jammy fruitiness at the core.  I am guessing that, being a Thai oil, it was distilled from the A. Crassna species of agarwood.  The berry tonality, although definitely present, is less exuberantly sweet than a Cambodi-style Crassna and there is something metallic in the background.  So far, so Thai.

 

To my Plebian nose, this oil is actually quite pleasant to wear.  It is not overly barnyardy.  However, it is not at all polite in its initial stages and will surely be off-putting to innocent bystanders.  Therefore, newcomers to pure oud oil or even to oud mukhallats would be wise to sample before buying.  If you can find the one I’m talking about, of course. 

 

 

 

Malay Penyulingan 2004 (Rising Phoenix Perfumery)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian

 

 

Malay Penyulingan 2004 is one of the standouts of the Rising Phoenix Perfumery pure oud oils.  A vintage Malay oil, it comes ready-formed with a hit of smoke smeared onto a core of softly barny leather.  Once the smoky, green aura of the topnotes bank down, the barnyard elements seem to swell in size.  It is not massively dirty or anything, but there is definitely an undertone of freshly-mucked out goat stalls to contend with.

 

The core of Malay Penyulingan 2004 is warm, leathery, and above all, smooth.  The buttery texture is pinched here and there with touches of stale dust that cling to the nostrils.  The soft leather notes deepen and become muskier over time, taking on a fuzzy, soft-focus animalic quality.  But it has none of the fecal sourness associated with more barnyardy oils.  The drydown is deeply smoky, leathery, and balmy, with a satisfyingly ‘chewy’ texture.  

 

 

 

 

Photo by Dustin Humes on Unsplash

 

Malaysia Classic (Kyara Zen)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysia

 

 

Malaysia Classic is hands down my favorite of the Kyara Zen-curated oud oils.  If oud oils possess a color equivalent to their olfactory profile, then Malaysia Classic would be a deep green.  Typical to many good Malay oils, it opens with a damp forest vibe, full of wet soil, juicy black bark dripping moisture, pine, camphor, sweet woods, and a swipe of smoke.  It is immediately transportative, taking me to the depths of a medieval forest after a tropical rainstorm.

 

Malaysia Classic develops in a pleasantly complex manner typical of a good Malaysian oil, namely an earthy, sweet, foresty top that settles into a layer of woodsmoke, and finally, into a layer of steamy, tropical woods and fruit.  It is a satisfying oil to wear, because it is such an immensely wholesome smell.  It smells like taking in a lungful of air during a hike in the woods and feeling the cells in your body fill up with centuries of sap, smoke, soil, and dampness.  Wearing an oil like this is what allows us to tap into more primal, unconscious connections with the natural world.

 

Malaysia Classic is distilled from the A. Malaccensis species of the Aquilaria tree, which is the same tree that produces most of today’s Borneo oils.  While not initially similar in scent profile, the lingering sweetness and forest-like tones in Malaysia Classic do seem to provide a tangential connection to the Borneo style of oud oil.  Beautiful, stirring work.

 

 

 

Malaysian Oudh Royale (Arabian Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian

 

 

Malaysian Oud Royale opens with a liquid slurry note that is surprisingly sunny and easy to digest.  Although it is ripe, it is also immediately grassy, thus breathing some good countryside air into the barn.  Overall, I would describe the oil as friendly, and suitable for oud beginners.

 

Later on, the oud develops some lovely redcurrant and dark wine facets, as well as subtle leathery dimensions.  Balmy and smooth, it makes for a pleasant wear, and is not demanding in the slightest.  What I appreciate about Malaysian Oudh Royale in particular is that it is not one of those oud oils where you have to wait for it to become more presentable.  Malaysian Oudh Royale is very expensive at over $350 for a quarter tola.  But since it has been aged for twenty-five years and is exceptionally smooth, it is money well spent.

 

 

 

Photo by Nastya Kvokka on Unsplash

 

Mamberamo – North Papua Gyrinops (Imperial Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Papua (Gyrinops)

 

 

Mamberamo opens with a head-filling rush of green tea and steamy jungle vines, as well as something almost camphoraceously bitter.  Hard, unripe fruits, green (freshly-stripped) wood, and herbs nip at its ankles, clamoring for your attention.  These vaporous green notes are what one normally associates with Papuan and Borneo-style oud oils, and it is no surprise, therefore, that this North Papua Gyrinops oil stays so true to its roots.

 

Given a moment to shake out of its default ‘island’ mode, Mamberamo develops into a very interesting ‘brown’ smell that reminds me of a country cottage with its low ceilings, open hearth, and soot-blackened walls.  This place seemed to breathe baked lamb and soup out of its very pores, the greasy walls releasing wafts of thousands of good meals, peat smoke, and whiskey.  In fact, in feel, this oud oil is remarkably close to that of Annick Goutal’s amazing (and sadly discontinued) Vetiver. 

 

This seems to be only a short diversion indoors, as Mamberamo takes us out again into the sharp, herb-filled air of the humid forest.  Dry and leafy, it recalls the unripe tartness of cold black tea and plum skin, aromas which merge effortlessly with the flighty, solvent-like tang of Papuan-style oud.  Mamberamo is light, elegant, and easy to wear.

 

 

 

Old School Thai (Feel Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Thai

 

 

Old School Thai opens on a hot, bilious note that smells hilariously bovine.  Thai?  More like one of those super animalic, crazy hot Chinese ouds with ropey veins of marine funk and fur running through them.  It smells untrammeled, a cornucopia of aged leather and ripe, runny cheese, all sweating under cover in a hot cattle pen.

 

Sensing a theme here?  Yes, the word ‘hot’ appears a lot.  It sounds weird, but some aromas are intrinsically cold, while others are hot.  And Old School Thai feels hot.  Thick with spice and humid hay, you can almost feel the heat roiling off it.

 

I presume that the wood for this oil was soaked in water for a very long time to introduce that rotting, spicy sourness so prevalent in Thai and Hindi oils.  The long soak is a tradition among oud distillers and is responsible for what many believe is the true ‘oud’ aroma.  Personally, I am not a fan of the long soak and find it almost unbearable at times.  And unfortunately, while I respect Feel Oud’s distillation expertise, this is one of those times.

 

To its credit, the extreme barnyard funk of Old School Thai lasts only about twenty minutes before relenting and revealing a cluster of warm, smoky leather, incense, and rich earthy nuances.  This would make for an excellent introduction to the animalic Thai style currently being produced using plantation wood.  It may not be beginner-friendly, exactly, but the briefness of the animalic topnotes means that the oil moves swiftly into more wearable territory.

 

 

 

Photo by Noah Kroes on Unsplash

 

Oud #1 (Kyara Zen)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Hindi

 

 

Lightly sour and leathery up top, Oud #1 has some of the hallmarks of a Hindi style but none of the grungier animalic features that might intimidate beginner noses.  There is an initial hit of smoke, goat hide, and black pepper to contend with, but this oil quickly zooms in on a handsome ‘new’ leather accord.  This is an almost squeaky clean leather, with the lingering scent of tanning chemicals clinging to its underbelly.  Picture a leather goods store where a shipment of new skins from the tannery has arrived and is being offloaded.

 

There is something piercing about the aroma.  But, counterintuitively, it is this solvent-like pitch that makes the oil so light and elegant.  And by light, I mean that it is far less full-bodied than some of the other KZ oils, drying down to a faint shadow of itself within the space of an hour.  What remains, however, is ethereally lovely – a buttery suede dusted with bitter cocoa.  The subtlety of Oud#1 makes it a perfect candidate for those situations when you need your oud to speak with an indoor voice while all the time thrilling you with a private hum of spiced, suedey goodness.    

 

 

 

Oud Ahmad (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian

 

 

Distilled from a bundle of Malaysian kinam (incense-grade) wood, Oud Ahmad is said to replicate with faithfulness the purity and intensity of a piece of best quality oud wood smoked gently and slowly over a burner.  It is also reputed to be one of only two oils in the world distilled from one hundred percent incense-grade wood.

 

Oud Ahmad is a beautiful oil with a deep, bosomy trail that displays that Malaysian disposition towards two different stories knitted together – musky, smoky fruit on top, and incense resin underneath.  This provides for an interesting and varied experience that keeps the nose going back to the skin for hits throughout the day.  Immediately upon touching the wand to my skin, I smell high notes of fermented peach wine and champagne, grey buttery glove leather, and the tannic, apricot-skin aroma of osmanthus.  It is lightly sour and smoky, with the varnish-like notes of steamy jungle wood joined with fermented fruit and sake.

 

The deepening sourness of the leather, fruit, and booze are wrapped up in a furry musk note, vaporized cloud of dark chocolate and deer skin.  A friend of mine finds Oud Ahmad to be very sexy and I can see why he thinks that.  There is something carnal about the muskiness here.  Once the fruited smoke and tannins die back, a velvety base of sweet, tarry resin like labdanum, copal, and even some honeyed pine sap steps forward to take up center stage.

 

Oud Ahmad is a great example of a multi-faceted, complex oud oil that will keep you guessing until you have figured out what the constituent aromas are and how they slot into each other.  Occasion-wise, this oil is the equivalent of a glass of really expensive whiskey enjoyed in a book-lined study at the end of a busy day.  

 

 

 

 

Photo by Alexandre Trouvé on Unsplash

 

Oud Dhul Q (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Thai mixed with Cambodi

 

 

Oud Dhul Q is a distillation of organic, plantation-grown Thai oud wood and a batch of incense-grade Cambodi wood.  In other words, a mixture of farmed and wild wood.  It is very much related to Aroha Kyaku but far smokier, woodier, and darker in tone.  It is also one of the most enjoyable Ensar ouds I have had the pleasure of trying, and the one I can realistically imagine owning myself one day.  (Of course, it will probably have been sold out by the time I get around to buying it.)

 

Up top, there is a long, drawn-out smoke note, fused with aged oud wood, tobacco, and the bright saltiness of ambergris.  But there is also a labdanum-style thickness and sweetness behind the opening.  This smells like burned toffee mixed with liquid tar and leather.

 

The smoke and tobacco place Oud Dhul Q in the same general arena as Aroha Kyaku, but smelled side by side, clear differences emerge.  Oud Dhul Q leans towards the saline side of the flavor wheel, while Aroha Kyaku’s cherry leather makes it both sweeter and brighter.  Yet, in Dhul Q, there is clearly something thick and syrupy at play behind the opening bouquet of smoke.  This syrupy density is as salty-bitter as molasses, chestnut honey, or even labdanum itself.

 

There are no cherries or fruit in the heart, just a buttery leather smeared with tar and honey as seen through the fiery blaze of campfire smoke.  The Heathcliff of pure oud oils, Dhul Q is a smoky, saturnine beauty that demonstrates that oud oil can be as complex and as ‘perfumey’ as a Chanel extrait.  Its haunting umami quality makes me think of kinam wood kept in Japanese vaults, an image that persists in jumping to mind even though I have never been within five hundred kilometers of either Japan or a piece of kinam agarwood.  

 

 

 

 

Photo by Alejandro Duarte on Unsplash

 

Oud Haroon (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Cambodi

 

 

Oud Haroon is a feat of modern engineering that employs a new approach to farmed oud, arriving at a result that mimics the scent of a wild Cambodi or Thai oil from the seventies.  Made using plantation wood from naturally-inoculated trees that were left to grow for between twenty-five and thirty-seven years before harvesting, there are no sour or off notes to spoil the exuberant red berry aromas that jump out of the bottle at you.

 

But when we talk about a Cambodi aroma, it is important that we know what that refers to.  I have been lucky enough to smell a sample of real Cambodi oil from 1976 (also thanks to Ensar), before everyone started oxidizing their oils to replicate the aroma of the oil from trees that no longer exist.  The 1976 Cambodi oil smelled deeply fruity, but also like medicine, which if you think about it, makes sense because the oud resin itself is the medicine the tree makes to fight off infection.  It also smelled sweet and fruity without any of that sickly caramel smell that most Cambodi-style oils have these days, and definitely none of the sour ‘radiator dust’ note that modern force-aging creates in modern Cambodis.

 

Oud Haroon smells like a rich, plummy medley of purple grapes, sour cherries, prunes, plums, and apricots all mashed together and boiled up into clear, golden nectar.  There is a noticeable undercurrent of medicinal wood, so sour and rich you feel it might dry up a mouth ulcer on the spot.  Unlike the 1976 Cambodi, there is a thick coating of either honey or caramel to the aroma, but it is not sickly sweet or unbalanced in any way.  It simply forms part of the rich backdrop of Port wine fruits.

 

Best of all, there is no hint of any harsh or off-putting aromas like stale dust or unhealthy, plasticized air that one can sometimes pick up in modern Cambodi-style oils.  In general, this is a bosomy fruit explosion set deep into clean honey and medicinal woods, with no smoke or leather to distract the nose.  An incredibly friendly and generous-smelling oud oil, I recommend Oud Haroon to anyone who likes those big 1980s floral-ambery-balsamic scents (Opium, Cinnabar, Coco). 

 

 

 

Oud Hindi (Abdul Karim Al Faransi)

Type: pure oud oil (ish)

Style or Profile: Hindi

 

 

Oud Hindi is both less refined than Dehn al Oud Cambodi and more authentically ‘oudy’ in profile.  It hits all the marks of a great Indian oud, but in broad brushstrokes rather than detail, running down a checklist of smoke, leather, fermenting hay, and the horny funk of rutting animals.  It is animalic but not obnoxiously so.  It is as if all the barny stink has been hung out to dry in a smoke hut, causing it to cure slightly and shed the rawest, wettest parts.  The resulting aroma is that of a rich leather.

 

Lurking underneath the barn, leather, and smoke, there is a layer of fermented fruit that catches me off guard, as fruit is not normally associated with the Hindi profile.  The smoky fruit note makes me wonder if this might be a mix of Thai or Malay oils aged in such a way as to specifically coax a Hindi flavor out of the oil.

 

Either way, this is a good, fermented Hindi-style oil that wears nicely on the skin, a trickle of smoke threaded through it to keep the nose awake.  At a price point this reasonable, it is likely that Oud Hindi is more an oudy mukhallat than a pure oud oil, but it smells pretty authentic.  My one criticism is that its structure is a bit flabby, i.e., it unravels substantially with every passing hour, shedding richness and complexity.  However, at this price, one simply reapplies, darling.  Slather it on.

 

 

 

Oud Royale 1985 (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Indonesian (Sumatra)

 

 

Oud oil from the eighties is special.  Back then, high-quality, densely-resinated wood was still widely available and it was even reasonably priced, even if the resulting oud oil was not.  Better yet, the wood arriving out of the jungles at the time was being cut from much older wild trees than those that are still growing today, so the content of oleoresin was more densely-packed, more evenly threaded throughout the wood, with far less bunkwood than today, and the quality generally superior.

 

Oud Royale 1985 comes from that generation of wood, and specifically from Sumatra.  Like the 1976 Kambodi discussed here, this part of our collective oud heritage is not available anymore.  Oud oil of this tenor is not a renewable resource, coming as it does from old trees that are long gone and a micro-climate that cannot be re-simulated.  Smelling it must be like being alone in the British Museum and unwrapping Tutankhamen’s bandages for the first time.

 

So, what does it smell like, this eighth wonder of the world?  Let’s just say that there is no substitute for a genuine, thirty-year aging of an oil in the bottle, especially an oil that was already excellent when it went in.  Old school techniques, top notch wood, dense oleo-resin, unpolluted microclimates…. perfect genes meet unimpeachable preservation.    

 

It inches out of the vial reluctantly, with a consistency closer to blackstrap molasses than to oil.  You have to prod and poke and plead to coax even a tiny smear of residue onto the dabber stick.  It pastes onto the skin like a dab of desiccated wood varnish.  And immediately, you smell the heart of the oud wood – there are no topnotes, no undertones, just the core of what it is.  Oud Royale 1985 smells like damp, hummus-rich earth, and ancient wooden chests freshly dug up.  Once opened, these wooden chests, wet and already disintegrating at the corners, exhale the smell of intense rot, stale air, and the earth from whence they came.

 

The aroma is gentle yet deep, with hues of truffles, cèpes, myrrh, aged patchouli, humus, prunes soaking in ruby port, tobacco, and oiled leather suitcases.  There is also a smooth, dark chocolate texture and the faint trace of animal fur far removed from its animal origins but retaining the musty warmth of the flesh.  It smells incredibly smooth and round, like an aged wine or a leather jacket so well-loved that it has worn down to the fineness of silk at the elbows and collar.  It smells rested and full, like a person after a good meal.

 

There is no bristling braggadocio here, no howling animalism or raw paunchiness.  This is an old oil and it takes its own damn time.  Later on, a wisp of smoke and autumn leaves appear, pasted onto the rich, black earth, both deepening the dark humus-like aura of the oil.  It smells like wet bark thrown on a far off campfire, and the moist air of a steaming forest when the sun hits the ice.  Both atmospheric and noble, this is, along with the 1976 Kambodi, Oud Dhul Q, and Qi Nam 2005, my favorite of the Ensar Oud oils.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

 

Oud Sultani (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Malaysian

 

 

Oud Sultani is one of Ensar Oud’s ‘Oud Legends’, meaning oils distilled from special, incense-grade resinated wood (in this case, wild sinking-grade Malaysian wood) and using different materials (in this case, a copper distilling pot) to imbue the oil with unusual qualities.  Oud legends are available in tiny quantities and most sell out very quickly.  Oud Sultani is therefore unavailable to buy at present, unless you pick it up from a private collector and are willing to pay up to ten times what it originally sold for.  It is somewhat close to the aroma profile of Oud Royale 1985, but with a far airier texture and a golden, floral tinge.

 

Oud Sultani opens with a stark medicinal wood and some of the rich, thick humus notes from Oud Royale 1985.  The earthy spark of the resin backbone suggests myrrh but there is a toffee-like, golden sweetness that makes me thick of creamier labdanum resin.  When I smell Oud Sultani, I visualize white flower petals scattered on a slow-moving river of honey, picking up nuggets of labdanum resin, myrrh, and benzoin from the riverbed as it flows on.  It is mellow and complex, with a rich backbone of spice.

 

Hints of minty camphor, cinnamon, and dried fruit cling to the corners of the aroma, which, when merged with the hints of flowers, honey, and ambery resin, makes Oud Sultani seem more like a composed perfume than merely an essential oil.  I find Oud Sultani to be unusual in that it is simultaneously (a) clean and transparent, (b) rich and deep, and (c) complex in a perfumey way.  Picture a spicy carnation trapped in a bright, clear tree amber resin, preserved for all time to come.  Oud Sultani is the scent of that resin when heated between one’s hands – earthy, minty, camphoraceous, benzoin-like, leathery, and yet with a spicy, golden floral feel that makes you think of the old Caron extraits, like Tabac Blond and Bellodgia.  A marvel!   

 

 

 

Oud Yusuf (Ensar Oud)

Type: pure oud oil

Style or Profile: Borneo-style oud with Cambodi characteristics

 

 

Oud Yusuf is perhaps the most immediately likeable of all of the pure oud oils I have ever smelled.  Ensar himself calls it ‘the prettiest oud you can wear’ and that’s fair.  Although it is thoroughly identifiable as oud oil, and not, say, a floral absolute or essential oil, it contains such an astonishing array of fruit and flower notes that one might be forgiven for thinking it is a blend, rather than a pure oud oil.  That means that, although it is an easy oud for a beginner to enjoy, it offers a depth and complexity that will keep even experienced oudies intrigued over the course of the day.

 

Oud Yusuf is a testament to the skill of the composer who can gently and delicately coax out the various facets he wants from the wood via minor adjustments here and there to wood he puts in the still, to the distilling times, to the purity of the water he uses for the distillation, to the very material the still is made out of, and so on.  Otherwise, who might suspect that out of a block of wood could come such a range of fruit and flower notes?

 

Although Oud Yusuf is a Borneo-style oud with Cambodi characteristics, it does not have any of the sweet, sticky berries of the Cambodi profile.  Instead, it is a cornucopia of ripe stone fruit, specifically pears, peaches, and apricots.  These lush fruit aromas, packed into the opening phases of the oil in particular, have that thick, almost fermented quality of the thick fruit juices enjoyed in summer all over the former Yugoslavia and Russia.  These juices are so grainy that you imagine they put all of the fruit in there, including the core and skin, and so thick that you could stand a spoon up in them.  These notes are what clearly come across in Oud Yusuf, overlaid with a slight tinge of camphor or wintergreen, even mint.

 

Three or four hours in, the oil develops a smoky, woody quality that one associates with the smell of oud, shedding most if not all of the stone fruits and mint notes from the first phase.  It is more traditionally oudy at this stage, but not at all animalic or sour.  It boasts the refined darkness of soft black licorice or leather.

 

Positioned halfway between dry woods and balmy supple leather, the latter half of this oil reminds me quite a bit of the drydown of Vikt by Slumberhouse or the amazing Blackbird by House of Matriarch, both Western fragrances that contain a small amount of real oud oil.  They are not smell-alikes, of course, but there is a similar consistency to the aroma of the oud at this stage – dark, balmy, leathery, but not desiccated.

 

Finally, a flourish of delicate floral notes appears just as you believe the oud is in its demise.  Although I do not clearly smell lilies or lilacs like many do with this oil (including Ensar himself), I do smell something like a creamy magnolia or champaca, something with a tinge of crème anglaise to it, a vanillic heft.  The florals are not fresh or green, but warm and mature.  They bloom directly out of the wood, carrying that slightly sour, smoky woodsy note in the breath of their petals.

 

 

About Me:  A two-time Jasmine Award winner for excellence in perfume journalism, I write a blog (this one!) and have authored many guides, articles, and interviews for Basenotes.  (My day-to-day work is in the scientific research for development world).  Thanks to the generosity of friends and acquaintances in the perfume business, I have been privileged enough to smell the raw materials that go into perfumes and learn about the role they play in both Western and Eastern perfumery.   Artisans have sent vials of the most precious materials on earth such as ambergris, deer musk, and oud.  But I have also spent thousands of my own money, buying oud oils directly from artisans and tons of dodgy (and possibly illegal) stuff on eBay.  In the reviews sections, I will always tell you where my sample came from and whether I paid for it or not.

 

Source of samples:  Most of the pure oud samples I am reviewing in these chapters were kindly provided to me free of charge by oud artisans and distillers, namely: Ensar Oud, Feel Oud, Al Shareef Oudh, Rising Phoenix Perfumery, Imperial Oud, and Kyara Zen. The Abdul Samad Al Qurashi samples were sent to me free of charge by a distributor.   

 

Note on monetization: My blog is not monetized.  But if you’d like to support my work or show appreciation for any of the content I put out, you can always buy me a coffee using the little buymeacoffee button.  Thank you! 

 

Cover Image: Photo of pure oud samples, photo my own (please do not use, circulate, or repost without my permission)

 

[1] Oud oils are pure essential oils (or ruhs), distilled directly from shards of agarwood loaded into a still. They have not been tempered, diluted, or mixed with any other material.

[2] Mukhallats are blends (mukhallat being the Arabic word for ‘blend’) of essential oils and other raw materials that were distilled or compounded elsewhere. Some of them include carrier oils and synthetics, while others do not (price is a factor). The mukhallat is a uniquely Middle Eastern form of perfumery, while the attar is a traditionally Indian one. Note that for most of the perfume-wearing world, the words ‘attar’ and ‘mukhallat’ are largely interchangeable (read about the actual differences here and here).

 

[3] The reviews of oudy CPOs will cover all of the (mostly Western takes on) perfume oils with a headlining oud note. Concentrated perfume oils are not attars or mukhallats, partially because of their construction but also because the objective of the whole exercise is different. Read how exactly here. People wear mukhallats for reasons of religion, culture, and tradition, while people wear perfume oils just to smell great or to tap into a specific image or fantasy.