Haibah The Spirit of Dubai 2017

Strangely, Haibah opens with a blast of animalic barnyardy oud. I say strangely, since there are an apparent FIFTEEN top/head notes that are supposed to temper the oud's strong opening. I don't perceive any.

The mid is also pretty oud-dominant, with not too many other notes coming through. Only about an hour in do you really get a sweetness and some floral notes in the mix. There is a bit of smoky gaiac in the base, along with a powdery sweetness that I usually associate with vanilla; strange that is not in the note listing. Longevity is fine but the sillage drops off heavily after the strong oud note is gone, about an hour in, not sure about why there's a 8.8 sillage rating at the time of writing this review.

All-in-all, Haibah is another case of Spirit of Dubai, or Nabeel, or whatever they want to be called, making false claims about complexity when the fragrance itself is rather simple. There is definitely real oud in here, but nowhere near the amount that artisanal houses like Areej Le Dore for example use, so the reason for the price being so high is not simply the cost of the natural materials. Haibah is not more complex than a Roja or Amouage fragrance, so the reason for the high price is also not the artistry/perfumery. It might be a decent choice at the $200-300 mark, compared to for example the price that Sultanate of Oman or Opus XIII - Silver Oud are available at discounters (though I prefer those two over this, but I can see someone preferring Haibah). But the lowest I was able to find Haibah in stock at a reputable discounter was $740 at the time of writing this review. Even if you compare retail prices, the high-end oudy Rojas and Amouages come in at around the $500 mark while Haibah and the others in this collection are over $1,000. Perhaps if you love the presentation you might pay the premium. I, for one, think the bottles are vulgar.

See my Baz review for my thoughts on this line in general.

For each of these fragrances I review, I'm going to provide a notes listing of the notes I actually perceive in the fragrance, since the actual note pyramid is less than useless:

Top notes:
Oud

Heart notes:
Amber, lily of the valley, iris, mossy notes

Base notes:
Indian oud, musk, gaiac wood, vanilla

Haibah is the rarest of diamonds, something unique and precious.
Well certainly this is a unique fragrance, basically marked by an Oud which is made earthy, humid and animalic by the notes that contour it, turning out really, and I am telling the truth, the hardest and strongest fragrance I have smelled.
Truly for a few noses who love notes and fragrances with extreme personality.
This creation has the totally oriental dna: opulent, a new discovery, which I find for my original conception and really for those who wanted something incredibly strong.

The last two weeks have been really tough. A fragrance has been celebrated for months, boasting so many notes that one might think it could only be purchased in a liter size, which is also reflected in the price. But no, it's actually "only" 90ml. So I let Malte push me into the shark tank and eagerly awaited the scent package with the olfactory pleasure drops from Dubai. Well, yesterday it finally arrived, and so I write these lines with the best of knowledge and conscience, without being disrespectful. So I sprayed… once, not on paper, but directly on my wrist. This spray landed not only on my skin but directly in my central nervous system, and my olfactory receptors immediately pulled the emergency brake collectively. The words of my wife, uncut and uncensored: “It smells like an underarm after six weeks in a cast.” Because Haibah does something that many luxurious orientals do: it confuses mass with depth.

The top notes don't sound bad at first. Woody notes. Rose. Pineapple. Apple. Freesia. Smoked wood. Leather. Lime. Peach. Bergamot. Pear. Indian basil. Ginger. Saffron. Spicy notes. But my God, why so much at once? The problem is: when everything is loud, nothing is interesting in the end. Some people love to talk about "complexity," as if every second fragrance suddenly became a philosophical work by Dostoevsky. But complexity doesn't mean throwing 48 raw materials on the skin at once and hoping that the brain eventually gives up and simply says "luxurious." True complexity arises from composition. From structure. From transitions. From tension. A good fragrance develops like music (thanks, Devainos). It builds something up, plays with contrasts, leaves space, surprises, calms, escalates in a controlled manner.
The fruits in the top notes don't smell fresh or elegant but slightly fermented. A sour-fruity mix of pineapple, apple, bergamot, and lime that desperately tries to simulate freshness while behind it a burning leather camp is already collapsing. My God, this leather, in the top notes. Leather in perfume can be beautiful. Dry, smoky, soft, elegant, dark, warm. It can remind one of high-quality gloves, old bound books, the interior of a classic car, or a jacket. The leather in Haibah, however, smells like a leather jacket in a damp cellar. It has something musty. Something sweaty.
And in the midst of this entire chaos, Oud appears. Heavy, dominant, completely incapable of fitting in harmoniously. Oud has become the gold of the perfume world. Everyone talks about it. Everyone automatically considers it profound. And somewhere, a guy is guaranteed to come around the corner and say: “Oud is not for beginners.” Or worse: “Oud is a journey.” No. It is not a journey. Oud is body care with resin. This whole language surrounding Oud has become incredibly clichéd. Oud is often treated like an elitist secret society for fragrance snobs. As if one had to pass an olfactory initiation test to be "ready" for it. But Oud is simply a fragrance material. Sometimes nice, sometimes difficult, sometimes medicinal, sometimes smoky, sometimes soft, sometimes brutal. Nothing more and nothing less. Haibah pretends to be profound, although it is actually just maximally stuffed. Haibah carries everything at once. Fruits. Smoke. Leather. Flowers. Truffles. Saffron. Oud. Musk. Herbs. Woods. Earth. Amber. Rose. More rose. Even more oud. Even more wood. Even more animal. And yes, this animalistic aspect is REALLY remarkable FOR ME. Not in an elegant way. Not "slightly animalistic," which I actually don't have a problem with. There is something dirty in it. Something slightly sweaty and earthy that, together with the leather and the fermented fruits, creates a combination that seriously reminds me of trampled roses next to a rotten fruit crate.
The fascinating thing is, however, that despite all this criticism, I completely understand why people love such fragrances. Really, because Haibah is by no means boring. And boredom has become a real problem in the modern perfume world. Many mainstream fragrances, and I don't just mean designers, but also those scents that call themselves ultra-niche, smell today like sterile optimized shower gel fantasies with focus group approval. Everything is clean, pleasing, smoothed out, and so carefully formulated that no one feels disturbed. Fresh and completely exaggerated Ambroxan clouds, sweet vanilla mass production, fruity designer perfumes that become completely interchangeable after exactly twelve seconds. In this context, a monstrous oud beast like Haibah can almost feel liberating, simply because it has personality, but a problematic personality for me, a demanding personality. Haibah has character, a terrible character, but character.
I think the problem only begins when fans of such fragrances start to automatically interpret every overload as art. Because not every difficulty is depth. Not every weight is complexity. And not every oud perfume is automatically a masterpiece of oriental fragrance culture. Sometimes a fragrance is simply overloaded, and Haibah is definitely overloaded. It lacks discipline, and that is actually the core of the problem. A good perfume knows when to stop; it knows its limits. It lets individual materials breathe. Haibah, on the other hand, feels like every perfumer in the lab was allowed to add "one more thing" quickly. A bit more smoke. A bit more rose. A bit more oud. A bit more fruit. A bit more leather. A bit more musk. That is no longer fragrance architecture.
And yet there are moments, and I mean this very seriously, when Haibah almost works, late… very late. When the aggressive fruits slowly die down. When the smoke becomes softer. When the leather dries, suddenly something interesting comes through. A warm, dark wood-musk accord with remnants of rose and resinous depth. For a few minutes, one suddenly understands what this fragrance might have wanted to be. An opulent oriental signature. Dark. Mystical. Rich. Heavy. But then some musty truffle comes around the corner and destroys everything. And yet I respect the complete uncompromising nature of this fragrance.
Taste is strange, and fragrance taste even more so. But that's exactly why one should remain honest. Haibah is not a spiritual revelation. No "journey." No olfactory enlightenment for advanced users. It is simply an absurdly overloaded, animalistic, leathery, fruity-smoky oud colossus with the elegance of a gilded sledgehammer. And perhaps therein lies its strange fascination. Because somewhere between fermented fruits, trampled roses, musty leather, truffle madness, and olfactory receptor apocalypse, something truly peculiar emerges: personality. A demanding, loud, completely oversized personality. But at least a real one. My "journey" ended after about four and a half hours. I think it could have accompanied me for days, with a volume that would have eventually made me deaf. I scrubbed my hands and scented myself with my €8 ultra-niche: "Verveine Cédrat | Jeanne en Provence."

What discussions have already taken place about this fragrance. From masterpiece to catastrophe, all opinions are represented, but especially with this composition, comments often slipped remarkably frequently into a personal level. More than once, critics were admonished for not giving the fragrance enough time. It was explained how noses need to get used to certain notes, and that otherwise one should not allow oneself any judgment.
I have mostly read all of this with amusement, partly with astonishment.
To my shame, I must admit that I am not completely emotionless about this topic either. I have caught myself reacting with incomprehension to a poor rating of a fragrance I love. But I would never think to explain to the tester that the fragrance is indeed wonderful. Or that they need to test it more often. Or during a full moon.

Back to the test subject: aware of all this discussion, I was prepared for the best or worst, and I was not disappointed. It was bad.
Fermented fruit buffet in a cow barn at 30°C. Adorned with tastelessly overloaded floral bouquet under the motto everything goes in. Yes, this opening definitely divides opinions.
BUT - this triggered my actual astonishment - after 30 minutes, this theater was already over, and what remained was a surprisingly unspectacular oriental mishmash. No masterpiece, but also no total disaster. But also nothing worth arguing about so passionately. All these notes create a mush. Nothing sets the tone. Is this the art now? There was often reference to the mass of notes, but what good are they if I can't recognize any of them? Let's not kid ourselves, labeling such a multitude of notes is just as much a marketing strategy as naming only 3 or 4 notes. Here, the complexity of the fragrance is supposed to be emphasized. That a complex fragrance arises from this is obviously not a given. For me, there remains only a highly unspectacular base note. Oriental soup with all the spices the kitchen has to offer. With a lot of imagination and good will, I get a hint of leather (?) and woods at the back. All layered on flowers.
The fragrance perhaps wants to be everything, but therefore achieves nothing. Meh.
So was the whole time just a debate about the first 30 minutes? Because only there does the fragrance have a certain potential for dispute. Genius or head-shaking, everyone can decide for themselves; I shake my head vigorously. Most of all about the banality.

I really thought long and hard about whether I should even write something about Haibah - it feels like everything has already been said. But after four months with the fragrance, I want to share my thoughts now.

When I first tested it, to be honest, I was a bit overwhelmed. A cheesy note? Something between oud, pineapple, and… something aged. The first 15 to 30 minutes were really exhausting for me. I could hardly believe that such a high-priced fragrance could start so strangely.

But then came that moment, after about half an hour - suddenly everything became rounded, warm, deeply oriental, noble. And by now, I hardly notice the cheesy opening anymore. Either I've gotten used to it or it was never as bad as I thought.

What has occupied me even more than the fragrance itself was the price. 1,000 euros for a perfume?! Phew. I really struggled with myself for a long time. But the sample wouldn’t let me go, and eventually, it became clear: I want it. It hurt - but I don’t regret it one bit.

It’s not necessarily for everyone, not for people who play it safe. It’s loud, it’s present. Two sprays are more than enough. But that’s exactly what I love about it. A fragrance that sticks with you. And in the best sense.