Wayofscent

Darkness doesn’t always fall with the night. Sometimes it seeps through borders, headlines, and the silence between explosions.

I’ve been wearing Shadid, Andy Tauer’s latest olfactory act, and it kinda haunts me. Not in the way ghosts do, but like memory, like conscience. The opening is a sharp whisper of coriander, quick to disappear.. Later on turns to a dry, musky woodiness, and the most prominent-nagarmotha, semi-sweet with vanilla added, but at the same time serious, like defiance rising from old soil. There’s ambergris too, though not the oceanic kind. No salt. Just heat. Resin. Ambery warmth that feels earned through grief. A sweetness that tastes like aftermath.

Shadid” (شديد)—“strong,” they say. But what is strength in a world that teaches restraint to some, and vengeance to others? Strength isn’t the roar of drones. It’s the quiet right to exist, to stand your ground without apology, even when history tells you to bow. When you’re cast as the victim without choosing it, without acting for it. Even when no one listens unless you burn.

There’s a rhythm to this scent. Like ruins breathing. Like a people who still dream, not of conquest, but of not being erased and free. You’ll find no bombs here-just the stubborn perfume of persistence. Balsamic, woody, slightly sweet... like peace, maybe. The kind carved out with bare hands.

In this part of the world, even some perfumes are political. But Shadid says nothing outright-it simply endures!

And sometimes, that’s the most radical act of all!

A beautiful leather fragrance and an intriguing take on the “Cuir de Russie” style of composition. At first spray, I was like, “Wow, what is going on here!?” There’s definitely a lot happening all at once—but not in a bad way. The notes seem to beautifully intertwine and evolve with time.

It opens with a lively burst of currant, quickly followed by a honeyed warmth layered with soft jasmine and violet—those are the notes I personally pick up most strongly from the initial spray. As it develops, the fragrance transitions into a compelling interplay of tarry leather and castoreum, grounded by oakmoss and Mysore sandalwood in the base where oakmoss reigns supreme.

I also want to highlight what makes the composition feel so cohesive and nuanced. There’s a great balance between isobutyl quinoline (IBQ) and the use of macrocyclic musks. These elements are often paired in perfumery, and here they likely contribute to that ambery, powdery, slightly earthy/mossy vintage “worn-in” feel that permeates the scent bubble around me.

I truly love how this is blended. It’s one of those rare compositions that smells polished, yet emotionally textured. Cheers!

First spritz and you're greeted by a mandarin so bright and nearly boozy with almost nutty undertones that bring a cozy warmth to the opening. Quite the bold start.

After the inital hit of mandarin you’re embraced by a lustrous saffron and a rose bouquet that’s anything but ordinary. The Bulgarian rose sparkles as if it’s been dusted with morning dew, while the Turkish rose here offers a drier, nearly restrained allure (think of Jazeel’s Ghala, but a tad more mysterious). There’s a delicate touch of jasmine lurking in the background, softening the richness, but never upstaging.

As it dries down, the fragrance takes on a shadowy dimension—woody and oudy, yet surprisingly balanced. Here, the Indian oud plays the lead, with just a subtle hint of Cambodi. And—thankfully—no sour or cheesy notes to be found! A seamless transition follows, with castoreum and patchouli adding an almost animalic warmth, softened by a rather polite touch of musk and silky Australian sandalwood that rounds things out.

Now, some might say, “Oh, another Rose Oud?” But honestly, this is no ordinary act. It’s a slow-burning beauty, unfurling with depth and grace.

Excited for what comes next from this brand!

Now, when I first took a whiff, I thought, “Aha, a rose and oud combo with a splash of whisky!”—you know, something that’s been aged in a barrel, smoky and a little mysterious. Well, turns out I was barking up the wrong (rose) bush, because there’s no rose here at all! That opening? It’s mandarin and black pepper, cleverly playing tricks on my nose. Cypriol gets in on the act too, giving off this rosy vibe without actually being rose. Cheeky, isn’t it? Focus on it long enough, and you really do realize it’s not rose at all, but it still has that bright, luminous kick to it.

Then we’ve got the real stars of the show—frankincense and woods, but they’re not the usual suspects. Think less church pews, more a smoky whisky barrel that’s been left to mellow in some old Scottish distillery. It’s dry, peaty, with that aged cork vibe. As it settles, benzoin and amber come in, adding a warm, semi-oriental twist to the mix. The oud is a proper gent—none of that heavy, overpowering stuff. It’s smooth, refined, with just enough edge and a bit of praline to even out the dryness. And of course, the whole thing finishes with Vallense’s signature musk and that earthy, sweet Holy Grass accord.

It’s fresh, modern, and a delightfully new take on the amber/oud fragrance—like seeing a classic in a whole new light. Bravo, Will, and the entire Vallense crew! You’ve bottled up a beauty, and I’m here for every drop!

It kicks off super likable with bergamot and eucalyptus, then after a few minutes, immortelle steps in. I know immortelle isn’t for everyone, but here it’s blended so nicely that even I wouldn’t skip it! Ambroxan, which usually likes to scream in newer niche perfumes, is perfectly balanced here, thanks to Cresp, ah that old trickster! A molecule that mimics salty water, along with oakmoss and musk in the drydown, keeps the bergamot alive till the end. At that point, it wouldn’t feel out of place next to Aqua Sextius by Jul et Mad. Fresh, blue, and just as the bottle suggests – oceanic or should I say adriatic!