La Rhapsodie Noir
Parfums Dusita is a brand that does its best work in the herbal-aromatic vein (see: Issara, Erawan, Le Pavillon d’Or) because the perfumer, Pissara Umavijani, brings a Thai sensibility full of exotic herbs, woods, and spices to bear on traditional Western tropes, such as the fougère or the ‘oriental’ (ironically, a model created by the Western gaze upon anything east of Istanbul). And it is this touch that makes La Rhapsodie Noir sing.
La Rhapsodie Noire comes by its coffee note honestly, via the interplay of sunburnt lavender and sage that produces a similar effect to the topnotes of Eau Noire (Dior), minus the immortelle, which removes all danger of maple syrup. The impression is therefore of a waft of dark, fresh coffee on the air on a hillside in Southern France, rather than the sticky, burnt ‘coffee shop’ glop that plagues most coffee fragrances. It is gently herbal and aromatic rather than gourmand, which is what makes it a really elegant wear.
Belying the complex notes list, I find this fragrance to be almost stylishly simple. The grainy coffee darkness loosens gradually into a creamy, medicinal tonka bean paste, itself quite aromatic and rugged. It is ultimately similar to other aromatic-herbal tonka bean fragrances I love, like Eau des Baux (L’Occitane) and Lothair (Penhaligon’s), their main charm lying in that tug of war between the spicy vanillic warmth of tonka and the insistently sharp prickle of aromatic notes (cypress, lavender, black tea). La Rhapsodie Noire is a more refined distant cousin of these scents, but a member of the family nonetheless.
Montri
A stunning oud perfume that – for once – is bringing something new to the oud conversation rather than repeating what other, cleverer people have already said. I have to spray this over and over again to understand what’s truly going on here. There is something of the briny, inky plastic funk of Le Labo’s Oud 27, but this is immediately smothered with the scent of dying roses, their slightly overripe, fleshy scent walking lockstep with the deep, fungal-brown smell of the rot in the heartwood of the Aquilaria tree.
Unlike the goaty, bleu cheese sourness of the oud in Oudh Infini, the oud here is not animalic or creamy, but dry and deeply fragrant, like the aroma of oud wood heated gently over a burner. This accord is buffeted by wafts of gentle spices (saffron, nutmeg) and a sort of dried fruit nuance, but these notes stay in the background, their main role being to hustle the oud forward. Towards the end, the fragrant aroma of the oud wood grafts itself seamlessly onto a soapy, dried orris root powder that feels almost like a clean, white musk, but isn’t. It’s a soft, supple leather, clean of any animal fats or flesh.
The whole thing is set ablaze by a rubbery oregano note that performs the same role as in Ambre Sultan, which is to say it lends a spine-stiffeningly herbal, fuel-like twang to a mélange that might otherwise be too sweet or too soft. The oregano note makes Montri strangely edible, in a savoury kind of way. Parts of the perfume also smell like gripe water or hawthorn, a nuance I am crazy about. As time wears on, I recognize a distant kinship between Montri and Oudh Osmanthus (Mona di Orio), linked by that edible but watery dill-like nuance.
I think Montri is one of the best oud-themed perfumes to be released in the niche space for years (probably since the brand’s own Oudh Infini, which is now discontinued) for three reasons. First, despite being a rose-oud, it smells like a new variety. Second, it is full of character. Third, it smells great as a personal perfume – neither shockingly animalic or too out there to wear. I really love this and it has gone straight to the top of my wish list.
Rosarine
A special occasion rose fragrance that is beautiful from every angle. Because it is neither strange nor pretty, it risks being overlooked by indie connoisseurs in the first case and by casual wearers in the second. Though the notes list seems to promise a lychee-rose in the spirit of Delina (Parfums de Marly) or Chloe, the first few minutes of this fragrance puts forth a massive, truffled red-black rose that tilts at black velvet.
Underscored by a dry, grappa-like ambrette musk that adds some sparkle, this remains a rather serious, lush rose affair, one that is really quite vintage in style. It is not light-hearted or particularly girlish, despite the slight rosewater and raspberry jam notes flitting around. The drydown is earthy and slightly cocoa-ish, with plenty of leafy patchouli and benzoin opening up new pockets of darkness at the edge of the pulpy red rose. I imagine that anyone captivated by Eau Capitale (Diptyque) or Portrait of a Lady (Frederic Malle) but wishing for something more focused on the beauty of a lush rose as found in nature, would love Rosarine.
Pelagos
Pelagos is a very interesting perfume because I thought I knew what genre this was until I didn’t. Perhaps it was a perfumer’s answer to a riddle in a drinking game – something like, how do you take orris butter, bergamot, jasmine, tonka bean, and benzoin, and turn it all into something that smells initially like a marine fougere? It is astonishing to me that Pelagos smells so much like a fresh, almost aquatic men’s fragrance in its first minutes. It is sharp, aromatic, and somehow deeply ‘blue’ in tonality, despite the clear presence of pine. But even in the topnotes, I can smell how this is indeed a different animal, because there is also a waxy-herbal note here that smells like beeswax or freshly milled pencils. Indeed, this was my first clue that that Pelagos is actually an iris fragrance and not a marine fougere.
Of course, wait half an hour for all the spiky aromatics and citruses to die back, and the fact that this is an iris fragrance becomes obvious to the point I feel kind of stupid for thinking it was anything but. The fragrant, silvery, paste-like scent of orris butter spreads out on the tongue like fat from an A5 wagyu steak. It is an expensive aroma.
I suppose that the reason why this iris masqueraded (to my nose at least) as a marine fougere so successfully must be that the fragrance plays around with the extreme minerality of iris – its wet cement, salty dough, and stone dust nuances – to the exclusion of all the material’s more traditionally pleasing aspects, meaning its powder, suede, lipstick, or violet-like tones. There is also a citric, high-toned edge to the iris that might be interpreted as masculine, or at least herbal or green, though the scent remains this cool, foggy grey colour in my mind’s eye. I have not seen this side of iris since Iris Bleu Gris (Maître Parfumeur et Gantier).
Funnily enough, for a scent so cold and sharp, it finishes up in a sort of cloudy, mammalian warmth that might or might not be an amber resin with a dash of civet or ambergris. The contrast between the balsamic roundness of the base and the ice pick chill of the rest make Pelagos a very interesting fragrance to wear. I find Pelagos to be a unique, or at least it seems to be so framed against my admittedly thin experience with masculine fragrances.
Source of Samples: Sent to me kindly free of charge by the brand for review. My thoughts are my own.
Cover Image: Photo by Kseniia Ilinykh on Unsplash
Read more: Parfums Dusita: New Reviews
Read more: Parfums Dusita: New Reviews
