Profumo

Antoine Lie is not one of my favorite perfumers, but what he has created with his ambregris triptych, “Mxxx.”, “Escale en Indonésie”, and “Ambre Suprême” - hats off!

We owe the experience of one of the most legendary and myth-laden fragrance materials in an unprecedented intensity and glory to his acquaintance with Rémi Pulvérail, founder and owner of “L’Atelier Français Des Matières”. His company develops tinctures of the highest purity and quality using special processes, aiming to set a counterpoint against the ever-advancing leveling of the market through increasingly interchangeable ingredients.
Pulvérail's wife, Valérie, is the founder and owner of the much-acclaimed label “Les Indémodables”, whose fragrances wonderfully illustrate the benefits of having experienced perfumers access truly top-notch ingredients. In addition, these works naturally serve - a classic win-win situation - as perfect advertising vehicles for her husband's company.

Rémi Pulvérail now has a special ambregris tincture in the catalog that convinced Antoine Lie due to its balance of creaminess, saltiness, and animalic character. But he did not only choose this for “Mxxx.” from AFDM's portfolio, as Barbara Herman from Eris Parfums reports, but also a particularly rich, spicy, almost animalic cocoa from Trinidad, which has never been used in perfumery before, as well as a special “green” vanilla from Madagascar, which only achieves its extraordinary qualities through elaborate freezing and extraction techniques.

All of this flowed into the formula of “Mxxx.”, and I find you can smell it: a quantum leap compared to the already quite successful predecessor scent “Mx.”!
Do the two additional “x” stand for that?
No idea. “Mx.” wants to be the gender-neutral variant of “Mr.” and “Ms.”, as the scent understands itself - rightly so; without me wanting to delve further into the difference between “unisex” and “gender-neutral”, which would exceed the scope here.

“Mxxx.” starts spicy, dry, and with a slight sharpness. At the same time, the cocoa notes begin to bloom, almost without sweetness in tow, but rather unfolding a whole kaleidoscope of rather bitter, buttery, almost nutty aromas, flanked by bright, polished wood. After just a few minutes, however, the real player of this fragrance begins to stretch its tentacles in all directions like a many-armed octopus: the amber.

We all know well enough its synthetic, indispensable substitute from modern perfumery, which ultimately can only represent a fraction of the scent profile of the natural starting product.
Here, however, it unfolds in full regalia, multifaceted, amorphous, and hard to grasp: salty, smelling of warm, pulsating skin, the vastness of the ocean, old books, driftwood, slightly mineral, intoxicatingly animalic, and, and, and...
Hardly any fragrance component boasts (and confuses!) with such a diffuse profile, but the main task of amber was, in the past, when it was still abundantly available due to industrial whaling, rather different: it served to make a fragrance radiate, to widen, to intensify. It was allowed to act in the background, as a puppeteer offstage, so to speak. The same fragrance concept once with, once without amber, and all test subjects reliably choose the version with amber - so perfumers report from their work.
Fortunately, the protection of sperm whales came just in time before the last slaughtered specimens could have their amber directly extracted. From then on, one had to rely on searching beaches worldwide for oxidized whale vomit (or however the sperm whale excretes the indigestible remains of its food - no one knows for sure...) or to resort to a synthetically developed substitute that is whale-friendly, the so-called ambrein, which could already be isolated from natural amber in the 1950s and with whose help the ambroxan (along with countless successors) was later developed, which is now used as if there were no tomorrow.

But here, dear friends of olfaction, true gray amber is at play - real!
And you can smell it.

The image of the octopus fits perfectly for me with the effect of amber: with its tentacles, it encompasses all other fragrance components, draws them in, holds them close, but at the same time, like a chameleon, adopts their coloration. It does not overshadow everything; it has a much too unclear scent contour for that, but it permeates everything, lets it emulsify, shine, and only upon closer sniffing do you catch a glimpse of its outlines: the saltiness reveals it, the faint animalic hint that Antoine Lie extends into the base with a subtle pinch of hyrax, the hint of oceanic minerality, the warmth.

The much-praised predecessor scent “Mx.” was based on a comparable concept: a woody-spicy semi-gourmand, to which Venezuelan cocoa and leathery-animalic castoreum gave its special character. Although the term “semi-gourmand” is not entirely accurate, as both fragrances only brush the gourmand terrain with their respective cocoa nuances. These nuances are so bitter and herbaceous that they require a balsamic addition like benzoin to give the fragrances a certain roundness towards the base, which is completed in both cases with pronounced patchouli and a hint less prominent vetiver.

THE distinguishing feature between the two fragrances is, however, the use of amber, especially in such intensity (7% in the perfume oil content, which is a lot!). It transforms the already extremely sensual “Mx.” into a true sensuality bomb, whose heightened sensuality might be too much for some over time. But then again, the version without amber is ready.
For my part, I like “Mx.”. But I am truly excited about “Mxxx.”.

With its opulence and amber bliss, the fragrance almost has something of a vintage extrait, which speaks of long-gone golden times when fragrant ingredients were not yet scrutinized for consumer protection purposes and ethical questions regarding their extraction were disregarded.
Fortunately, such times are past!
But the fact that we can shamelessly sniff real gray amber with Antoine Lie's ambregris triptych (interestingly, it smells most intense in “Escale en Indonésie”, although only 5% is used, in an otherwise quite sparse environment) almost conveys a certain decadence to me, which today, due to all the balance and awareness, almost gives me a slight guilty conscience.
A very slight one.
No, actually none at all.

Before my stay in Israel, I was largely unfamiliar with the combination of coffee and cardamom. I knew that some people spice their hot drink with it, but I associated cardamom more with Christmas baking and Kanelbullar, Swedish cinnamon rolls. Since Israel, I have developed almost an obsession: whenever possible, cardamom MUST be in the coffee. Since I usually grind the beans fresh, I simply toss in a few cardamom pods that get ground up with them. The moment I open the lid and the scent of freshly ground coffee, infused with strong cardamom aromas, envelops me, it triggers a kind of olfactory orgasm in my nose every time - WOW!!
Simply stunning, this scent, yes, it is even better than the subsequent taste experience.

In this sense, it is only natural that I am particularly interested in perfumes that capture this olfactory experience: "Chypre Shot" would be one such case, a dream for me as a chypre junkie, but also "Tambour Sacré," a somewhat demanding, dry-oriental tuberose bomb, and also "Ruh" by Pekji, which takes a strong rose at its center.
Patricia de Nicolaï's latest creation, "Caravansérail Intense," now also attempts this, showcasing it as the defining main accord, albeit in a completely different olfactory setting than in my kitchen with the freshly opened grinder lid.

At first, berry and plum brandy notes are part of the mix, as if alongside the cardamom spice, a splash of slivovitz has found its way into the coffee, which has also been flavored with a pinch of cocoa.
Admittedly, I would have preferred the rough, untamed coffee-cardamom blast here rather than this sublimation attempt, but on the other hand, a Nicolaï scent would not be a Nicolaï scent if it were not characterized by this very sublimation. Of course, it all smells more sophisticated, complex, and noble than from my old grinder, but the sensual impact does unfortunately get somewhat lost, and the olfactory orgasm fades away during the foreplay.
But well, there is a difference between a scent and a perfume, and - free after Wowi - that's a good thing too.

What Madame makes of it further along is truly worthy of all honor - she can do it, as proven countless times, and here as well.
"Caravansérail" is a typical Nicolaï scent, equipped with a kind of Nicolaï DNA: a interplay of vanilla and tonka, accompanied by a bit of patchouli and a hint of cinnamon. This base can be found in hardly noticeable variations in many creations of the Guerlain descendant, such as "Vanille Tonka," "Maharadjah," "Sacrebleu," "Patchouli Intense," "Vanille Intense," and even in her iconic "New York." One could almost speak of a Nicolaïade, corresponding to the famous Guerlinade, which wafts towards us exemplarily in her new work.
Of course, it all smells wonderful, sublime, and with much French finesse, only, as I said: for me as a hardcore cardamom coffee fan, all those fruity and vanilla/tonka sweet garlands could have been spared. I drink my coffee black, without sugar and other spicing ingredients like cinnamon or clove - I don't need any of that, just cardamom. But "Caravansérail" is not meant to be drunk - which brings me back to scent (or taste) versus perfume.
No, it is all good as it is.

Recently, an English-speaking reviewer stated that "Caravansérail" is terribly masculine, almost harsh and extremely bitter. I don't know if we smelled the same fragrance, but in my perception, none of that applies. Especially at the beginning, "Caravansérail" is strikingly fruity, and the accompanying cocoa note contributes a gourmand sweetness that is ultimately picked up and extended by the vanilla/tonka base.
What one might perceive as bitter is the anchor accord itself: both coffee and cardamom are dry-spicy kaleidoscopic aroma complexes, as is the clearly recognizable patchouli, as well as a faint hint of immortelle towards the end, which could have been a bit more pronounced for my taste. All of them are bitter fragrance components, oh yes, but does that make the scent masculine?
No, I don't think so.

The scent that hits me from my grinder may be masculine: angular and rough through crunchy roasting aromas, coarsely striking with the bitter-soapy spice, but exactly this rough attack has been skillfully smoothed out, softened, and leveled by the perfumer, so that the scent can be worn by any gender, which the reviewer, of course, sees quite differently, as she can only imagine it on a man.
Strange, could it perhaps be due to the lack of flowers? No jasmine, no lilac, no ylang-ylang, nothing supposedly 'feminine'?
Maybe.
Whatever.

For me, "Caravansérail" is neither one nor the other, but a successful liaison of bitter spice, berry-plum sweetness, an elegant oriental base, along with a tolerable gourmand drift, typically blended and refined in a Nicolaï artisanal manner - what more could one want?!

Bravo!

First of all, there is nothing dark about this.
At least not in the way we know fragrant darkness all too well, sometimes to the point of exhaustion: tarry, smoky, bacon-like, dark-forested, dripping with resin.

Nothing of the sort.

Instead: incense, a lot of incense, of the bright, fine kind, not that sharp, creaky, Catholic nose-hair-raising type, but rather delicate, aromatic Omani incense, which also characterized the early creations of Amouage. Occupying the center of the fragrance, it is initially surrounded by green-coniferous notes and bitter citrus freshness, while backstage a lush exotic floral trio warms up: ylang-ylang, champaca, and especially frangipani, which increasingly emit a narcotic fruity-floral nectar, but fortunately are kept in check by the ever-present incense clouds. In this way, the incense proves to be an exceedingly compatible contrast to overwhelming sweetness and sense-clouding indolic notes, while beautifully merging with green-resinous conifer aromas and the fresh-bitter fruit complex of grapefruit.
On a slender, balsamically warm base that does not drift into predictable amber sweetness but anchors itself in the stable ink-moisture of a classic oakmoss chypre structure, this incense potpourri comes to rest quite leisurely after various pirouettes. It is astonishing how well the smoky facets harmonize with the earthy-mossy notes of lichen! In fact, a bit of oud makes an appearance here, in a homeopathic dose, just enough to create a nuance that captures the power of its own scent profile, picking up the incense mood and transitioning to an earthy finish - a kind of 'missing link'.

However, do not expect a power chypre like 'Mitsouko'. 'I Am Darkness' is clearly recognizable as a chypre, even if some Mitsouko fans will certainly dispute this, but the chypre character does not define the fragrance as such; it does not prominently come to the forefront but rather exudes its bitter and warm sound more in the background, or better: underground.
Nevertheless, the incense is somewhat what the peach is for 'Mitsouko': a congenial match partner for an unusual chypre variation. Not that such a thing has never existed; 'Lacrima' by Liquides Imaginaires is also an incense chypre, but 'I Am Darkness' is undeniably orchestrated with much more complexity and contrast, without appearing overloaded or too opulent. The fragrance remains rather delicate, sinewy, and without any imbalances - everything seems meticulously coordinated.
Here was someone at work who understands their craft in a tangible way: Nutt Wesshasartar, a young perfumer who carries on a Thai fragrance tradition in the fourth generation, which began in 1928 with a work called "Num-Ob Prung Chaokhun." In contrast to his compatriot and self-taught perfumer Prin Lomros, at least this creation by Wesshasartar (I do not know another, the man was completely unknown to me before) appears more balanced, classic, refined, and sublime than anything I have smelled from colleague Lomros so far. Together with Mrs. Wesshasartar, third generation (mother? aunt?), Nutt Wesshasartar launched a new line called 'Siam 1928' in 2019, which aims to bring the family tradition into the modern age. The fragrances all sound exciting, with all sorts of ingredients completely unknown to me, and even the water with which the alcohol is diluted, in which the perfume oils are dissolved, is apparently sometimes smoked, which I have never heard of before.
Well, perhaps these works will one day find their way to us - I believe there is something to discover here!

After reading that the founding fragrance of the Wesshasartar perfumer dynasty is still sold today in "Buddhist shops for use in traditional rituals since 1928," it suddenly seemed conceivable to me that this refers to a kind of 'darkness' that is not so 'dark' for our European noses (and even more so for our German lumberjack noses). But it is indeed. At least in a Thai or Buddhist context, where the fragrance alludes to a kind of introspective darkness that arises when one closes their eyes and begins to meditate. The space surrounding the meditator could be an open temple, surrounded by countless incense sticks that let their bright columns of smoke curl up, adorned with fruit-bearing trees and flowers. No matter how colorful and bright the incoming aromas may flash before the black canvas of closed eyelids, with increasing self-absorption, the meditative darkness will ultimately absorb the remnants of imagined brightness.
Whether I am right with this interpretation or not, the misleading naming seems a bit more plausible to me in any case.

There are certainly some convincing incense fragrances: 'Avignon' and 'Kyoto', 'Passage d’Enfer', 'Casbah' or 'Lacrima', each accentuating in its own way. 'I Am Darkness' now comes with a whole bundle of special accents: green, fruity, floral, resinous, aromatic, spicy, mossy, and so on - a fragrant kaleidoscope, whose numerous components puzzle together anew with every turn. I have not yet experienced a more colorful and multilayered fragrance of this genre, and moreover in chypre attire (without real oakmoss, however, probably with an unspecified substitute, e.g., Evernyl), which has completely captivated me.
'I Am Darkness' has a perfume oil content of 20%, can therefore rightly call itself 'parfum' and behaves accordingly - developing a beautiful, long-lasting, not overly loud volume.

Due to its striking floral facets, some may categorize it as a rather feminine fragrance, while others may see it as more masculine due to its (incense) smoky base mood. So let everyone decide for themselves - the complexity of the fragrance removes it from any simplifying categorization.

One can only hope that the Azman fragrances will be easier to obtain here in the future, as it would be a shame if works of this quality were withheld from a clientele that appreciates characterful perfume art. Husen Baba has certainly already shown a good hand not only with the selection of his perfumers, at least regarding the first four fragrances of the still young company (Canali, Matos, Lomros, Wesshasartar), but apparently also given them 'carte blanche' regarding the quality of materials and sufficient artistic freedom.
You can smell it!

I know, another rose-oud - enough already!
Hardly a combination that would be more reliably pulled out of the hat than 'dernier cri' whenever a new label pops up somewhere on this globe.
And yet the combination is beautiful, indeed, a wonderful contrast: smoky-woody oud, with its resinous, medicinal, and animalistic facets, and on the other side, the rose, dark, velvety-floral. Sure, there are many successful rose-ouds, but there are also many that are insignificant. Many that show clear signs of being hastily thrown together, lacking inspiration and with a tight budget.

Even Husen Baba, the man who founded Azman Perfumes, introduced his new company with a rose-oud, one that would surely have passed me by - being oud-weary as I am - if it hadn't been promoted alongside the perfumer: Cristiano Canali.
Since the Rubini scents, since 'Romanza' by Masque and 'Bee' by Zoologist, I have been a big fan of the young Italian. So, I could be sure that this was not just any random rose-oud. And then the name: 'Two Minutes After The Kiss' - what a poetic image!
Unfortunately, the fragrance was not available in Europe, but only in cursed Dubai or from the US retailer Luckyscent. Both times, customs fees would have applied, which I would have had to pay in a rundown customs office in the middle of a remote industrial area, and I wasn't in the mood for that. I've done that a few times, only to find out that I could have ordered the coveted works quite easily somewhere in the EU a year or two later.
So it is now: recently, the Azman fragrances have become available in a perfumery in Barcelona, and I quickly had it in my hands.

And what can I say: I was not disappointed, what a beautiful scent!
Full, round, soft, somehow buttery. Oud is present, yes, a complex oud (reportedly even real), showcasing its entire kaleidoscope of facets, but an oud 'with manners', so to speak: composed, civilized, balanced, not overbearing. As a counterpart, a velvety-soft rose, arching over it with floral freshness. But as much as oud and rose stand out, they have clearly recognizable companions that come into play quickly: cardamom, incense, leather, patchouli, labdanum - notes that I love dearly. Especially the multifaceted aroma of cardamom seems to me to be a kind of 'game changer' (to use a rather overused term...) here. Quite robustly, the delicate spice pushes itself between the just barely entwined rose-oud duo, accompanied by the finest, airy incense. Together, they expand the tableau, opening the scent. A delicate hint of beeswax - which Canali knows all about - becomes apparent: it fixes the floral, smoky, spicy, and resinous accents of the top and heart notes and emulsifies them with the balsamic-leathery-woody base.

Oud and rose remain present throughout the scent's development, but gradually step aside and slowly fade into the background, so that after a while I no longer perceive 'Two Minutes After The Kiss' as a rose-oud, but rather as a spicy-smoky-waxy oriental, not unlike Amouage's 'Jubilation XXV Man'.
While the scent initially brims with contrasts and conflicting aromas, everything increasingly merges into a beautifully balanced buttery-warm, subtly leathery-animalic base, the last hint of which I still perceive the next morning.

With a 25% perfume oil content, 'Two Minutes After The Kiss' can rightly call itself 'parfum', but it is still quite a distance from the much higher concentrated Guerlain or Chanel perfumes. Nevertheless, the Azman perfume behaves comparably: a slow, steady swelling of the scent aura up to a rich, but not overwhelming volume, with a long-lasting, not overly loud presence, culminating in seemingly endless fading.
The choice of materials, the versatile composition in classic proportions, while simultaneously avoiding overly ostentatious fashionable synthetics - all this pleasantly distinguishes 'Two Minutes After The Kiss' from the currently popular heavyweights like 'Encelade' and 'Uncut Gem'. No, this scent definitely does not try to show off.

The question remains, who is kissing whom here?
Miguel Matos, who also contributed a scent to the Azman line, notes: "Rose and oud are eternal lovers. This pair of notes is just magical, so it’s interesting how the name of the scent connects to this timeless love affair."
And what does colleague Canali do? He seemingly gives his 'eternal lovers' a break: enough with the smooching: enter cardamom, incense, beeswax.

Matos continues: "The more the scent lingers on skin, the sexier it gets."
Okay, they really are falling for each other...

Normally, fragrances with animalistic additions polarize - just think of 'Kouros'.
But even fragrances without significant animal components, like this one, seem to divide opinions irreconcilably. What separates both camps is primarily the question of how receptive one is to the stimuli of modern 'Woody Ambers', or whether one reacts more allergically to them. Lukewarm, indecisive attitudes are hardly found; instead, there is either recognition, even admiration, or head-shaking, up to outright rejection. 'Woody Ambers' are certainly not new, but they have gained dominance in the fragrance world wherever young men gather. All their grooming products smell of it: shower gels and deodorants, and of course their perfumes. In this respect, some form of stimulus adaptation should have long since withdrawn this sweetly woody synthetic from our attention, just like a hat one wears but no longer notices, as our perception begins to suppress the constant stimulus after a while to be open to new experiences.
Here, however, the aroma chemical 'Ambrocenide' from the company Symrise hits us with an intensity that allows no stimulus adaptation. Maurice Roucel has showcased it in 'Uncut Gem' in a larger-than-life way - it forms the pivot of the fragrance. The Holzminden company Symrise characterizes the scent of its product as an 'extremely powerful woody-ambery note', whose massive use would be akin to 'nuclear armament', according to Frédéric Malle.
That certainly raises eyebrows, especially in these times.

And indeed, a synthetic bomb detonates here like no other. Everything else the fragrance might hold, such as wonderful notes like magnolia, incense, angelica, labdanum: buried under nuclear Ambrocenide fallout.
At least that's my perception.
Others apparently detect a pronounced sharp-spicy ginger opening, a leathery-smoky finish, underpinned by a good amount of musk - and if anyone knows musk, it's Roucel: just think of 'Musc Ravageur', 'Dans tes Bras', and the two 'Helmut Lang' fragrances, the Cologne and the EdP!
Alas, I smell (almost) none of that.

What I smell is a brittle, sharp-woody aroma with plastic-like undertones and synthetic amber sweetness, a bitter-green, equally unnatural vegetal note that vaguely resembles galbanum, and after a long sniffing, indeed a hint of 'French Lover' - a faint touch of bitter-spicy angelica, some cool, smoky streaks, as well as a sterile artificial leather facet.
That’s it.
Admittedly, I belong to those who react allergically to 'Woody Amber' aromas beyond a certain intensity. Perhaps this is due to my age. I simply grew up in a completely different olfactory environment, and my olfactory socialization was shaped by leather chypres like 'Antaeus', aromatic fougères like 'Azzaro pour Homme', and even the later released dihydromyrcenol-saturated 'Cool Water'. Speaking of dihydromyrcenol: back then, my older colleagues found the Davidoff scent terribly synthetic, which I couldn't understand at all. However, since they had also experienced a different olfactory socialization, they were no longer receptive to the stimuli of the new fragrance molecule. I, on the other hand, could have bathed in it at times.
Over the years, the fronts have likely reversed, and today I belong to those who feel alienated by the currently popular aroma chemicals. This started years ago with 'Bleu de Chanel', ultimately culminating in the unbearably overwhelming 'Sauvage', which, due to its success, spawned countless hardly distinguishable offspring (just like 'Cool Water' back in the day).
And now: 'Uncut Gem'.
If the fragrance had been released by any random designer house, I wouldn't have been surprised; the need for ever-new 'Woody Amber' creations seems evidently too great, and their success still appears significant.
That a house like Frédéric Malle is now also riding this mass-appeal horse is, on one hand, understandable, as they simply want a piece of the pie, especially with an Estée Lauder corporation behind them, which likely insisted on opening up to the mainstream. On the other hand, the Editions de Parfums has always found its self-understanding in a distinction from the mass market, placing value on creating independent, wearable fragrance characters that are more rooted in the tradition of French 'Haute Parfumerie' than in the actual niche market, which pushes the fragrance palette much further, even to the point of unwearability.
In this tension between mainstream here and concept fragrance blessed niche market there, the Frédéric Malle house positioned itself with considerable success for many years and earned a very solid reputation, especially among fragrance aficionados.
This reputation has now begun to show cracks. When the well-groomed Monsieur Malle himself raves in the advertisement for 'Uncut Gem' about Marlon Brando and Elia Kazan's world that supposedly escapes this fragrance, this invocation of the gods becomes an attempt at damage control. Aside from the fact that I have always been suspicious of these 'celebrity washings', especially since the involved parties can no longer defend themselves against it. At the same time, another direction becomes apparent: against the zeitgeist of gender ambiguity, which seems to overwhelm older gentlemen! 'Uncut Gem' as a manifesto of clarity, celebrating masculinity unabashedly, letting its Uncut Gem hang out despite all 'Me Too'.

That name!

Of course, one wants to provoke a little, but this little provocation reminds me more of schoolboy jokes from lecherous retirees than of Brando's virile erotic force. Furthermore, the naming lacks any wink of flirtiness à la 'French Lover', even if one may hypocritically claim that it refers to the opposition of elegant and sophisticated versus raw and unrefined. However, when a bulging pants front is constantly shown, over which a hand casually dangles, one quickly suspects what it will soon encompass - 'Sticky Fingers' by the Stones sends its regards! With its charming frivolity, Andy Warhol's cover is, however, closer to 'French Lover' than to the comparatively sterile photographic quote (which, in terms of sterility, corresponds well with 'Uncut Gem').

Conclusion: an unnecessary attempt, in my view, to cater to the mass market, which Malle and Roucel - caution, stair joke! - seemingly have no desire for themselves, as which hordes of wealthy young men do they expect to find who are willing to shell out 300 euros for a single bottle when they could have three bottles of 'Sauvage' instead?

Apparently, Tom Ford is already working on a new fragrance: working title 'Cut Gem'.
A joke.