Parfums Rétro Grand Cuir

Posted on November 9, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Source: lonelyplanet.com

A rocky mountain road with long, winding curves lies ahead of you, the wind blows through your fingers as you rev the throttles on the motorcycle, and all around you wafts the birch, pine and herbs of a nearby forest. They mingle with the scent of a leather jacket that is at once raw and refined, dark black and aged brown. The leather changes from the hard edge of tarry birch, to the quiet rumble of animalic, feline muskiness, the sweet glow of amber, and the refinement of the most expensive Italian suede. The bouquet contrasts with the clean freshness of skin that still carries traces of the soap you used in your early morning shower. It tames and softens the leather’s edges, creating the illusion of polite refinement over the lion’s quiet rumbling.

Source: Luckyscent

Contradictions and paradoxes lie at the heart of Grand Cuir, a fragrance from Parfums Rétro that explores leather from one end of the spectrum to the other under the most civilized and sophisticated of veneers. It starts as raw leather coated with birch tar and pungent herbs before turning into the expensive, new black leather of a biker’s jacket, then burnished, softly aged leather with amber, before ending up as the most refined of Italian suedes infused with lavender. It’s a journey that is at once animalic and clean with a fragrance that starts almost as an aromatic fougère with leather, before it transforms into something very different. And the whole thing is done sotto voce, with the quiet firmness of a confident man who doesn’t believe he has to be flashy and loud to draw attention to himself.

Jeffrey Dame. Source: Fragrantica.

Grand Cuir is an eau de parfum that was released in June 2013 from a new company created by a veteran of the business. Parfums Rétro is the creative venture of Jeffrey Dame, a man who has more than 30 years in the perfume business in all its aspects: extensive involvement with Caron, Estée Lauder, Tuvaché and Neiman Marcus; actual perfume development for a number of houses; the creation of Perfume of Life (one of the very earliest online perfume forums) in 1999; his role as the President of Hypoluxe, a distributor of such well-regarded niche perfume brands as M. Micallef and Andy Tauer; and, now, his own perfume house with Parfums Rétro.

I should say at the outset that I know Mr. Dame (though we’ve never met in person), and I find him to be utterly charming, funny, direct, down-to-earth, and kind. He’s also a wealth of knowledge about the perfume industry as a whole, as he’s had a front row seat to observe its changes over the last 33 years. And he has definite ideas about how a perfume should progress, how it needs to have body and “movement,” and how many mass-market, commercial fragrances lack a distinctive character.

Ewan McGregor via The Daily Mail.

As a result, I was excited to see what his own creation would be like. Grand Cuir was developed in collaboration with the perfumer, Hugh Spencer, who has had a similarly long career in the business. At the same time, though, I rather dreaded what would happen if I hated the fragrance; I’m always honest, even if it doesn’t serve me well. So, it’s a huge relief to say that I think Grand Cuir is a genuinely good fragrance that has both the refinement of Chanel‘s legendary Cuir de Russie, but also, a sexy animalic growl. For me, Grand Cuir conjures up a good guy, with a slightly wild streak, clean cut sexiness, and sophistication under his leather. The fragrance straddles a variety of genres, and I found parts to be a mesmerizing balance of contrasts. I think men will love it, and that leather-wearing women would enjoy it as well.

In an interview with Ida Meister of Fragrantica, Jeffrey Dame described Grand Cuir as:

A fragrant composition in four parts:

A leather soul from start to finish.

Spicy and herbaceous accents.

A multi-dimensional floral heart.

A comfortable, relaxed base.”

The notes according to Luckyscent and Fragrantica include:

orange blossom, labdanum, birch tar, clary sage, lavender, carnation, rose, violet leaf, geranium, cinnamon, tarragon, pine moss, sandalwood, rosewood, patchouli and musk.

Source: yvelledesigneye.com

Grand Cuir opens on my skin with an aromatic, herbal, citric, fresh start. It may not be in the notes, but I smell bergamot, though it is quickly overwhelmed by a blast of dark, tarry, phenolic birch. It is followed by piquant, peppery, spicy notes from the geranium, carnation, and sharp lavender. Moments later, there is the sudden appearance of fresh, clean soap which contrasts with the dark tar of the birch. Running like a vein through it all is a dark-grey, mineralized, slightly fusty oakmoss.

It’s a start that very much straddles different perfume genres. Grand Cuir opens like a traditional aromatic fougère with lavender and citrus, but also like a crisp, clean, soapy cologne with aldehydes. Yet, Grand Cuir is also most definitely a leather fragrance with smoky, rubbery, tarry, and, at times, slightly raw undertones. The bundle of contrasts is soon complemented by other notes, stirring in the depths. There are hints of warmth and sweetness from the amber, then the merest whisper of patchouli, all lurking deep down. In the middle level, the rose and cinnamon flicker quietly, as does a suggestion of violets.

Source: philiphartiganpraeterita.blogspot.com

The leather rumbles through it all. For the most part, it never feels like purely raw, untreated leather, and it certainly never has the fecal aspects of some leather fragrances. On occasion, though, the birch tar does create a faint tinge of rubberiness and a dark smokiness. In essence, Grand Cuir smells like a very expensive, new, black leather jacket that still has something of an unbroken feel to it. It’s masculine and hard, but also soft and refined at the same time.

Photo: my own.

I think it’s Grand Cuir’s soapy, aldehydic undertone that helps create that impression because there is a certain fizzy cleanness that makes the leather feel “new.” In many ways, Grand Cuir feels like a much smoother, softer version of Chanel’s Cuir de Russie. On my skin, that legendary fragrance manifested itself as mounds of fecal horse manure under a thick blanket of soap suds. Thankfully, Grand Cuir completely avoids those unpleasant extremes with a much defter, smoother handling of the birch tar, leather, and soap. That said, as most regular readers know, I have a slight phobia about soapiness, and I would generally prefer none of it in any fragrance. The same goes double for aldehydes. Despite that, however, I admit that the amount in Grand Cuir’s opening phase was generally manageable, even for me.

Plus, the soapiness serves a very useful, positive purpose: it smooths out the leather’s distinctly animalic edge. While the leather note is never purely raw or untamed like in Montale‘s Aoud Cuir d’Arabie, it does have a very subtle undertone that verges on something urinous. It is much like civet, to be frank, but it’s not extreme, and certainly nothing like a men’s urinal. If you can handle a slightly feline whiff of civet in vintage fragrances, this will be child’s play to you. The note here is much more like the subtle touch in Dior‘s Leather Oud, or perhaps fainter. I like it, and find that it adds a bit of an animalic growl to Grand Cuir’s underbelly.

Clary Sage. Source: TreeFrogFarm.com

Aldehydes and leather are not Grand Cuir’s sole focus at this stage. The herbal accords are equally significant. Tarragon provides an anise-like freshness, while the clary sage adds a spicy, herbal, creamy touch. It has a nuance of both lavender and leather that works well to complement those other notes, while its aromatic freshness also helps undercut some of the darkness of the birch tar. My favorite part, however, may be the piquant, biting, peppery nuances to Grand Cuir’s top bouquet which consistently evokes the dark, green, fuzzy greenness of geranium leaves. The green visuals are underscored by a very subtle note of pine trees that lurks about Grand Cuir’s edges.

Thirty minutes in, Grand Cuir slowly shifts. A more orange-y element begins to stir. The notes start to merge into each other to create a well-blended aromatic, herbal, green, leather fragrance with tarry bits and aldehydes. The leather is incredibly smooth and refined for something so full-bodied. At the end of the first hour, the labdanum appears, adding a slightly animalic, musky, sexy touch to Grand Cuir. Its ambered warmth with its faintly nutty side counters the masculine, faintly raw edges of the leather, creating a smooth balance.

Source: topiphonewalls.com

At the 1.5 hour mark, Grand Cuir settles into its next stage. It has lost much of the herbal, pungently green, somewhat tarry elements of its opening, and is now sleekly stalking out of the gates as a plush, smooth, deep leather with just a faintly animalic, musky growl and a lingering patina of soapy aldehydes. It’s as though that dark, new, black leather jacket has turned into a broken-in, burnished, soft leather that is warm, and rich. Grand Cuir is now flecked with amber, lightly dusted with sweet cinnamon, and is firmly ensconced in a woody embrace. It has the sensuous aspect of Serge Lutens‘ Cuir Mauresque but with much more animalic touches, no jasmine florals, aldehydes instead of powder, and a much more woody base. Grand Cuir’s sillage also changes, dropping quite a bit to make the perfume hover just an inch above the skin.

Ewan McGregor for Belstaff. Source: Twitter.

The fragrance continues to soften and to transform on the leather spectrum. Grand Cuir feels masculine, but soft, clean, and musky at the same time. It’s leather that is turning to suede, but with still a bit of a sexy edge. In some ways, it evokes a clean-shaven man, more than one sporting stubble, if that makes sense. In fact, I have the perfect mental image in my head of the man who symbolizes Grand Cuir, but I couldn’t find an image to fit. (Apparently, men who wear leather don’t shave for fashion shoots!) It’s not James Dean in Mendocino, no matter what Luckyscent’s ad copy for Grand Cuir might say; James Dean is far too pretty. It’s also not Humphrey Bogart (too leathery, old, and rough), Robert Redford (too pretty again), or Leonardo di Caprio (too boyish and soft). George Clooney is very close, but I don’t associate him with leather or with a devil-may-care edge. It might be a dark-haired version of Steve McQueen in “The Great Escape” with the charm of Ewan McGregor and a dash of George Clooney, perhaps.

Steve McQueen in “The Great Escape.”

Whoever the perfect masculine representation may be, Grand Cuir turns utterly addictive at the start of the 4th hour. It’s the most fascinating mix of musky and clean, animalic and refined. Something about the leather is as soft as the most expensive Italian suede, while still maintaining the feel of really well-polished, expensive leather shoes, and the confident swagger of a guy in a biker jacket. None of it is too much, either in terms of brashness, refinement, elegance or sexiness. And, believe it or not, I think that oddly clean, soapy patina may be the reason why. It keeps all the competing elements in check, balancing them out, taming the hint of civet-like sourness to the leather, and adding a sophisticated smoothness. For my tastes, this amount of aldehydes or soap is perfect — and perfectly chic. I wish it had been that way initially, but, again, I’m phobic about soapiness.

Source: seasonalcolor.yuku.com

Grand Cuir continues to soften further, turning into the palest, creamiest suede. It sits over a base of amber that is warm, but not heavy or thick. It is also supported by a faintly woody undertone, though it’s too nebulous to be easily distinguishable as rosewood or something else. Finishing things up is a fluctuating degree of animalic edge, and a lingering muskiness that feels clean. At the start of the 8th hour, Grand Cuir is suede with a sweet-sour edge over sheer, woody amber, but with the surprising return of the lavender and clary sage. I tested the perfume twice and it was the same situation on both occasions: Grand Cuir turns into a beautifully soft, refined suede infused by the perfect touch of creamy lavender and slightly floral clary sage. I loved it, and was very happy that the fragrance remained that way largely until its very end. In its final moments, Grand Cuir was just a faint blur of lavender with some abstract suede-y sweetness.

Grand Cuir has enormous longevity on my skin, but very soft sillage. It lasted 12 hours on my perfume-consuming skin with three sprays, and 10.5 hours with two small ones. The sillage began at the moderate end, wafting about 3 inches above the skin, before dropping around the 1.5 hour mark to something much smaller. It was a skin scent on me by the end of the 2nd hour. All of this is intentional. Jeffrey Dame has explicitly said that he didn’t want a blustery, loud scent, but, rather, one that was discreet:

I realize that inobtrusive has ceased to be a positive attribute these days—but I intend it here as a great compliment. We aren’t howling patchouli here, or musk-monster, either.

My personal tastes actually do run towards “howling patchouli,” and I like perfumes with a sonic boom, but there is a time and place for refined, discreet elegance as well. If Grand Cuir didn’t have such a distinctive character and such movement across its stages, I would be less enthused, because who wants bland, boring discretion? But it does have those things on my skin. It has the refinement that I sought in Cuir de Russie before I came to a skidding, horrified stop at the enormous mounds of horsey manure and soap that emanated from my skin. (Yes, yes, I know that’s heresy. Stone me if you will. I fully recognize that I’m in a tiny minority on Cuir de Russie!) Grand Cuir also has the sex appeal of Cuir Mauresque, one of my favorite leathers and Serge Lutens fragrances. And then, it ends on the expensive suede softness of Parfum d’Empire‘s Cuir Ottoman, only without the gourmand vanilla touches but with woody notes or creamy lavender instead. For all that, I’ll put up with the discreet sillage.

I think the different aspects and facets to Grand Cuir make it something that women can wear as much as men, so long as they like leather. There are numerous women who worship at the altar of Cuir de Russie; they should certainly try Grand Cuir. However, women who don’t like perfumes with an animalic edge, or who prefer more purely suede affairs boosted by gourmand touches would probably struggle a little with Grand Cuir. I suspect that is why Luckyscent seems to have designated the fragrance as a “masculine” one.

That said, 40% of the sales of the perfume are by women, so don’t let the categorization put you off. If you can wear Etat Libre d’Orange‘s very intense leather Rien, if you like birch tar in various woody fragrances like Andy Tauer‘s Lonestar Memories, and if you enjoy herbal, aromatic notes, then Grand Cuir will be easy. The key is how smooth and seamless the fragrance is, how none of the notes are out-of-balance or bullying. From the leather to the birch tar, it’s all done in a manner that is intentionally less forceful or intense than in its compatriots. Grand Cuir wants to speak sotto voce, in everything, believing that refined subtlety is best.

Reaction to Grand Cuir is generally positive. On one early Basenotes thread, at the time of the perfume’s release, there are a number of appreciative comments. One example, from “Buzzlepuff” reads:

This is a fantastic leather fragrance – I think. I am smelling rawhide realism, aged lived-in character, depth of tone, highs and lows, cowboys, floral civilized character points, lots and lots of growl in here. Yes I am liking this leather sample. This is leather for big boys and girls! Don’t even try it if you aren’t ready for the real thing.

In the official Basenotes entry for Grand Cuir, reaction is more mixed, with some people struggling in particular with the perfume’s opening. They found it smelled like “muscle ache rub” or “cold cream.” Yet, even one of those commentators liked the fragrance as it developed, writing

It becomes a very excellent natural leather fragrance, if you let it. […] If you make a snap decision about this, you will hate it. If you give it some time you might love it. It is not as strong as Knize 10, or most of the Spanish leathers out there; nor as flowery as Cuir Pleine Fleur by Heeley. It is very subtle, natural and captivating. I don’t know how it is “retro” but it seems fairly modern to me, but not austere or sweet. This is very much worth a try, after a rather strange opening.

A poster called “TheBeck” responded on how the problematic “cold cream” note is the clary sage, then wrote a positive ode to the well-balanced, “unique” elegance of Grand Cuir. It’s too long to quote here, but, in essence, he finds that the soapy aspect “gives us that fresh juxtaposition against the leather and birch tar base which makes this so intoxicating. […] Grand Cuir is perfectly balanced. How the ‘nose’ got all those spicy herbs, florals and leather to blend so seamlessly was no small task. But the results are fantastic.”

On Fragrantica, the same dichotomy exists: a few people found the perfume too soapy, while others write lengthy raves about how it’s a highly refined leather with substantial depth, body, and transitions. I think the key is to get past the opening stage, especially the first 40-minutes, when the soapy element and the herbs are most distinct. The subsequent phases are worth it if you’re a fan of leather or suede fragrances. And the ending is really lovely.

DISCLOSURE: My sample of Grand Cuir was provided courtesy of Parfums Rétro. That did not impact this review. I do not do paid reviews, my opinions are my own, and my first obligation is to my readers.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Grand Cuir is an eau de parfum that comes in a 100 ml/3.4 oz bottle and costs $155. For the moment, it is in exclusive distribution via Luckyscent which also offers samples for $4 a vial. Starting in 2014, however, Parfums Rétro will be available in the UK and the EU at various perfume retailers.

Perfume Giveaway: Oriza L. Legrand & 10 Travel Sprays!

Posted on November 8, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Oriza logo.

I’m incredibly excited to announce that Oriza L. Legrand (“Oriza“) has generously offered a really huge giveaway of ten (10!) prizes. Ten winners will each get one 10 ml travel spray of their choice of Oriza eau de parfum. There are no geographic restrictions, either, so you can be anywhere in the world.

Oriza is an ancient, once-renowned perfume house whose history goes back to Louis XV and 1720. It made perfumes for the Tsar of Russia, and numerous European royal families, as well as winning prestigious prizes in World Fairs of the late 1800s and early 1900s. The perfume house died in the 1930s, but it has been brought back to life by its current owners, Franck Belaiche and Hugo Lambert. I’ve met them both, they are true gentlemen, and, for them, Oriza is a labour of love. They want to return Oriza to its old glory while staying true to its heritage and history by offering its original fragrances, only with lightly tweaks to appeal to modern tastes.

One of the ancient Oriza bottles, in baccarat crystal as many used to be. This one seems to be for “Violets Prince Albert” and the winner of the First Place prize at the 1900 World Fair winner. Source: lylouannephotos.blogspot.com with the original on Flickr.

Each of the fragrances is sophisticated, unusual, and smells like absolutely nothing else on the market. One of them — Chypre Mousse — stopped me in my tracks on my way to Serge Lutens, made me turn back, and buy it then and there without any further testing. Those of you who know me (and my feelings about Serge Lutens) will understand just how remarkable that is. Chypre Mousse is one of my absolute favorite chypres, an otherworldly foresty, leafy, damp, green, mushroomy fragrance that feels like a homage to Nature itself.

Source: wallpaperup.com

The rest of the fragrances in the line range from an Oriental patchouli-cognac-amber, to a Serge Lutens-like twist on white lilies, to incense-y High Church fragrances, to a delicate green floral that evokes Spring, and more. All of them are unusual, and all of them have a long history going back to their original release date in the early 1900s. Oriza’s modern fans include Catherine Deneuve and Isabelle Adjani, and, hopefully, now, some of you as well.

THE PRIZES:

Ten (10) readers will each get ONE (1) purse spray of 10 ml/0.33 oz of the Oriza perfume of their choice. Just to be crystal clear, the prize is not a full bottle, but a travel spray of 10 ml.

Reve d’Ossian bottle. Source: Oriza L. Legrand website.

If you’re unfamiliar with Oriza L. Legrand, you can read my three-part series on the house and its perfumes. The reviews include other people’s impressions of the fragrances as well:

Part I – Oriza, its Paris store, and the return of its fragrances;

Part II – Reviews for Chypre Mousse, Horizon & Reve d’Ossian; and

Part III – Reviews for Relique d’Amour, Oeillet Louis XV, Jardins d’Armide & Deja Le Printemps.

You will find below a cursory, nutshell synopsis of my thoughts on the seven Oriza fragrances. You should be aware that my very brief description doesn’t cover the full (and very lengthy) list of notes in each perfume, or any possible issues of sillage and longevity:

Source: photocase.com

Chypre Mousse: This one is almost impossible for me to describe, a perfume that isn’t really a “chypre” in the way that we usually understand it. It has notes of wet leaves, damp earth, mushrooms on the forest floor, moss, violet leaves, and dark resins. That description still doesn’t really convey just how unusual the fragrance is, or its haunting beauty. It’s truly spectacular. Some of its many notes include: violet leaves, galbanum, oakmoss, pine needles, vetiver, fern, clary sage, chestnut leather, green shoots, wild fennel, wild clover, resins, and labdanum.

Horizon. Source: Oriza L. Legrand.

Horizon: a patchouli fragrance with aged brandy and cognac, candied mandarin, spices, smoke, hints of leather, tobacco, ambergris, and vanilla. This is my second favorite from the line and the fragrance that I had originally intended to buy before Chypre Mousse swept me off my feet. Horizon is a beauty, a true patchouli oriental with discreet sillage after an opening burst of aged cognac. Unfortunately for me, it didn’t last a huge amount of time on my skin, but I find it really beautiful.

Reve d’Ossian label. Source: Oriza L. Legrand.

Reve d’Ossian: Frankincense, pine woods, dust, myrrh, resins, cinnamon, leather and amber. For me, this started out as a High Church fragrance in the vein of Bertrand Duchaufour’s Dzongkha before turning into a warm, ambered, cinnamon fragrance centered around myrrh.

Isabelle Adjani.

Relique d’Amour: a very twisted lily that feels like something Serge Lutens would do. Another fragrance that starts out feeling like an old monastery infused with cold white smoke and dust, it soon turns into a sweet white lily fragrance infused with pollen, incense, myrrh, wax, woods, a touch of soap and powder, and green notes. It’s as though a ray of light shone through a monastery window to light on a vase of lilies, release their aroma, and have it mix with the other notes in a complete paradox. This is a another favorite of mine. It is also Isabelle Adjani’s perfume.

Relique d’Amour poster. Source: Oriza L. Legrand website.

Oeillet Louis XV: Oriza’s homage to their original patron, King Louis XV, this fragrance is centered around white carnation with rose, powder, cloves, iris, and many other notes. On me, it opened sharply like Serge Lutens’ carnation fragrance (Vitroil d’Oeillet) before turning into something much more powdery, in the vein of a very old Guerlain creation, atop some mysterious green, fresh parts and a light, woody musk. You have to like carnations and powder for this one, but it’s very well done.

Source: Oriza L. Legrand.

Jardins d’Armide: hardcore powder and floral soap. Too much so for me, though the fragrance has its fans in Ida Meister of Fragrantica. This one is the most dated of the seven, in my opinion, and feels very much like something from the 1800s. I had to scrub it, but I have no tolerance for intense powder or soap. The notes include: iris, iris powder, old rose, violet wild, glycine, carnation, almond, tonka, musk, and more.

Catherine Deneuve.

Deja Le Printemps: a green floral with galbanum, mint, fig, vetiver, cedar, moss, orange blossom, clover, grass and more. On me, it opened exactly like Serge Lutens’ Iris Silver Mist. I can’t explain it, especially as the fragrance contains no iris (let alone that funky iris nitrile that Serge Lutens used), but it was shockingly alike on my skin. Then, the galbanum and other green parts take over, creating very much a Spring bouquet that people say evokes a walk in the countryside. This one is Catherine Deneuve’s fragrance.

If you’re interested in trying the whole line, Oriza offers a very affordable sample set of all seven perfumes. I have further details at the end of the post.

ENTRY REQUIREMENTS:

Vintage Oriza poster. Via Oriza Facebook.

To enter, all you have to do is leave a comment about what you found interesting or appealing about Oriza L. Legrand, its history, and its new mission — or — a comment about whichever one of the perfumes struck your fancy thus far. You won’t be tied into your perfume choice. If you win, you can always change your mind, and choose something different for what you want as your 10 ml travel spray.

WHEN DOES IT START & END:

The entry period starts today, Friday November 8th, 2013 and lasts until the end of Wednesday November 13th, 2013 at 11:59 p.m. Central Standard Time (CST) in the U.S. which is -6:00 GMT (Greenwich Mean Time).

WINNERS & EMAILS:

The 10 winners will be chosen by Random.org, and will be announced sometime the next day on Thursday, November 14th.

Once I post the winners, you have THREE (3) days to contact me with your shipping information. Deadline is end of the day, my time, on Saturday November 16th. Please send an email to Akafkaesquelife @ gmail . com (all one word, scrunched together) with your shipping details and your choice of perfume. I will then forward the information onto Oriza L. Legrand.

If you don’t contact me, and if I fail to hear from you within the deadline, I will give your prize to the next person on the list.

SHIPPING:

Oriza L. Legrand will send the prizes directly to the winners, and pay for all shipping costs. Given that Oriza is located in the Paris, it may take some time (up to 2 weeks, depending on your location and Customs processing) for you to receive your gift. It may take even longer if your country has really nightmarish customs issues.

Please be aware that neither Oriza L. Legrand nor I am responsible for items that are destroyed by customs or that are lost in transit for some reason.

FINALLY:

I’d like to express my enormous gratitude to Mr. Hugo Lambert and Mr. Franck Belaiche of Oriza L. Legrand for their generosity, kindness and thoughtfulness in offering so many fantastic gifts. Some companies may give away a small sample, but travel sprays of such a wonderful size and to TEN readers all around the world without restriction?! Amazing! I cannot thank Oriza enough. My real excitement, however, stems from the fact that more people will get the chance to experience a really unique perfume house whose high-quality creations are done with elegance, finesse, and sophistication.

Good luck to everyone! May the perfumed winds take you back in time to the very heart of French history and to Oriza’s royal European courts.

GENERAL ORIZA DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: All Oriza L. Legrand fragrances are eau de parfums with about 18% concentration. They come in a single size, 100 ml or 3.4 oz, and cost €120. You can buy them directly from Oriza’s e-Store that also offers perfume samples. All 7 fragrances in the range are offered in a single Sample Set for you to try. Each fragrance comes in 2 ml spray vials, and the whole thing costs a low €9. Shipping is listed as €9 extra, but a friend said he was charged only €7. Oriza ships globally, as I’ve had readers order the sample set from all over. Other vendors in Europe: Oriza’s perfumes are also sold at Marie-Antoinette (which was my favorite perfume shop in Paris), as well as one store in Sweden and one in the Netherlands. For details on the Swedish store, you can check Oriza Points of Sale page. The Netherlands retailer is Parfumaria.

Histoires de Parfums 1899 Ernest Hemingway

Posted on November 2, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Source: Wikipedia

1899 is the year of Ernest Hemingway‘s birth, and also the name of the newest fragrance from Histoires de Parfums, a French niche perfume house founded by Gérald Ghislain. It is a company whose perfumes are often entitled simply with a date in history, the year in which a legendary figure was born. This fall, they tackled Ernest Hemingway. I absolutely loathe the man for his personal life and character, but I was intrigued by how his essence might be encapsulated on an olfactory level. So when I saw a bottle of 1899 while visiting Jovoy Paris, I eagerly tested it on paper. My initial impression was far from favorable, but scented strips rarely tell an accurate tale, so I asked for a sample. I thought things might change upon a proper test. They did not, in large part. While I now see more to 1899 Ernest Hemingway than I did then, I’m still not particularly enthused.

Source: Luckyscent.

1899 is the creation of Gérard Ghislain, and is an eau de parfum. Histoires de Parfums’ full description for the scent, along with its notes, is as follows:

The top notes of Italian bergamot, juniper and pepper are intended to be the aperitif that sparks the conversation and awakens the palate in anticipation of the meal. Following “Papa” from Spain to Italy with Mediterranean scents that evaporate to leave place to a darker mood, where the amber and vetiver mixed is reminiscent of the waxed wood of a Cuban bar top. The exotic meets the familiar, the tropical heat is cooled off by a glass of scotch.

Top Note: Italian bergamot, juniper, black pepper

Heart Note: Orange blossom, Florentine Iris, Cinnamon

Base Note: Vanilla, Vetiver, amber

Juniper tree needles with berries. Source: nhm.ac.uk

1899 Hemingway opens on my skin with a cocktail of salty sea crispness and hesperidic citrus freshness. First and foremost is juniper, yielding a green, pungent, pine-y, very outdoorsy aroma. It is infused with fruits, perhaps from actual juniper berries themselves, but also with crisp, lemony bergamot. I tested 1899 three times and, on the last occasion, juicy oranges were also quite noticeable, adding a fruited, sweet touch to juniper’s foresty, green, spicy, peppered aroma. Seconds later, black pepper, green vetiver, and a touch of floral iris join the mix.

Juniper.

1899 Hemingway has the initial profile of a very masculine cologne, but with greater heft and less thinness in its body. It is a profile that I struggle with, if I am honest. Juniper is not something that will make me jump up and down in ecstacy, and neither do black peppercorns or iris. Still, it’s a very rugged, outdoorsy, masculine aroma and I can see why they chose it for Hemingway.

Ernest Hemingway in Switzerland, 1927. Source: Wikipedia entry for Hemingway’s “Fifty Grand.”

Five minutes in, other elements become noticeable. Hints of orange blossom flit about with a slightly bitter, dark, pungent and piquant undertone that resembles neroli more than any indolic, lush, white floral bomb. In 1899’s depths, the vanilla slowly starts to stir. Up top, the vetiver becomes much more pronounced. It’s not earthy, damp, and rooty at all. Actually, when combined with the sharp, fresh citruses and the piney, almost cedar-like aroma of juniper, the vetiver feels very green. To me, the three notes together create the mineralized accord of the vetiver in Terre d’Hermès, only with a much more Alpine feel. During his first marriage, Hemingway went often to Switzerland, and there is something of that clean, fresh, crisp mountain air in 1899. You can almost see the vast forests of Switzerland before your eyes, only these are not snowy but dotted with orange and lemon trees as well.

1899 is a very well-blended fragrance that doesn’t always develop in the exact same manner. In my three tests, some of the notes varied in strength or in the order of their appearance. Take, for example, the iris. During my first test, it was barely a factor for most of 1899’s lifespan, popping up only occasionally at the perfume’s edges but without any substantial heft whatsoever. In my second test, it was quite pronounced in the end, adding a powdery touch to the perfume’s sweet final stage. In my third one, however, the iris suddenly appeared noticeably right from the start, adding its floral coolness to the Alpine meadows. Another note that seemed to vary in its character was the orange blossom which consistently seemed more fruited than floral, except the first time around when it manifested itself in both ways.

Abstract Green Fantasy by Bruno Paolo Benedetti. Source: imagesinactions.photoshelter.com

Nonetheless, 1899 does have some uniform aspects to its development. About 10 minutes in, the fragrance turns warmer and starts to lose its cologne-like sharpness. A touch of cinnamon appears, the amber awakens from its slumber, and the vanilla starts its slow rise to the surface. Warmth and sweetness slowly start to creep over 1899, like a wave inching up a sandy beach. The amber, vanilla and cinnamon may not be noticeable in any profound, individual way, but they have an indirect effect on the other notes. They make the orange blossom lose some of its piquant, bitter, neroli-like undertone, and soften the sharpness of the juniper, while adding a touch of spice. At times, the overall effect is almost like Viktor & Rolf‘s Spicebomb, but not quite.

Suddenly, 25 minutes in, the warm notes flood the surface and 1899 changes into a much different fragrance. Gone is the purely cologne-like scent with its crisp, citrus, woody, masculine profile. Now, there are oriental and floral touches. First up is the orange blossom which stops feeling purely like a ripe, juicy, sweet fruit, and more like the actual white flower. It adds a sensuous touch to Hemingway’s face, like a warm, seductive caress across his unshaved whiskers redolent of his woody, piney, vetiver, lemon aftershave. While the main note remains the peppery, spicy juniper, it’s now been infused with cinnamon and amber as well.

Ernest Hemingway with a bull in Spain in 1927. Source: middletontimes.com

1899 Hemingway’s shift is complete at the 40-minute mark when the vanilla bursts onto the scene like a white bull running into a Pamplona arena. From Switzerland, we’ve suddenly landed in Spain where Hemingway spent so much time in the 1930s. The land of Seville oranges, orange blossoms, groves of green, dry warmth, and languid sensuality — it’s all here, under the top layer of rugged, outdoorsy juniper-lemon cologne. I know Histoires de Parfums gives the perfume’s geographic trajectory as Spain to Italy to Cuba, but I’m sticking with Switzerland to Spain, with crisp Alpine forests taking on a more Mediterranean sensual warmth. I have to say, I find the olfactory symbolism quite impressive on an intellectual level.

Source: wallsave.com

I just wish I liked the actual smell. For me, the opening was too much like cologne, but uninteresting cologne. The juniper was too sharp and turpentine-like at times, and didn’t even have the appeal of a gin-and-tonic. I liked even less 1899’s new combination of vanilla with crushed juniper needles, trailed closely by cinnamon, then by orange blossoms, oranges, lemons and amber. Honestly, it made me feel queasy, each and every time. Something about the combination felt cloying in its sweetness, somewhat odd in its polar opposite parts, and simply not appealing at the end of the day. Perhaps I’m simply not a fan of juniper mixed with vanilla, gooey oranges, unctuous orange blossoms, and cinnamon. It is the main profile of 1899 Hemingway for hours and hours, and I really wanted it to stop.

Vanilla powder and essence. Source: food.ninemsn.com.au

1899 Hemingway brought to mind two other Histoires de Parfums’ scents, but for very different reasons. Like many from the line, the fragrance is not revolutionary or edgy, but has a gracefulness about it — regardless of whether you like the notes or not. Like its siblings, 1899 is potent at the start, while also being incredibly airy in weight and very well blended. In that way, it resembles Ambre 114. Yet, at its core, 1899 is thematically quite close to 1725 Casanova in its transition from masculine to soft, unisex, and almost gourmand in nature. It’s that powerful vanillic base that both fragrances share, after a very crisp start. However, 1899 is significantly more masculine in my opinion, even at its end, thanks to the woody juniper. 1725 Casanova is smoother, more truly unisex with its lavender, more gourmand at its base, and much better balanced in my opinion. It never felt cloying, or a war of extreme, opposite notes.

That brings me to what may be my fundamental issue with 1899 Hemingway: it doesn’t know who it wants to be. It took me a while (and three tests) to suddenly realise that the perfume is trying to be all things to all people. It straddles so many different genres: masculine cologne, oriental, woody outdoorsy, gourmand, and many hybrid versions thereof. But it can’t seem to make up its mind. I don’t have a problem with the fact that Histoires de Parfums has made a fragrance with a commercial, mainstream character — some people on Fragrantica think that 1899 is like Spicebomb — but I struggle with the perfume’s fragmented, confused identity. Perhaps that makes it very Hemingway after all; the writer was known to be a complex set of contradictions with a highly insecure, sometimes utterly neurotic side. (I am trying so, so hard to be polite about the man!)

Getting back to the perfume’s development, there really isn’t a lot more to say. Until its end, 1899 remains a scent that is primarily vanilla, juniper and some form of orange (or orange blossom) infused with a hint of cinnamon, all atop an amber base. At the 1.5 hour mark, its sillage drops, the perfume feels thinner, its edges blur, and the notes are not easily separable in a distinct, individual way. Three hours in, 1899 hovers just barely atop the skin. The sillage isn’t impressive as a whole with 1899 unless you apply a lot. Eventually, 1899 Hemingway fades away in some sort of sweetness and with an average lifespan of about 7.5 hours.

“Shades of Leaves,” abstract photography by Bruno Paolo Benedetti. Source: http://imagesinactions.photoshelter.com/gallery-image/abstract-impressionist-photography/G0000LzIQxYEISEo/I0000rdtpLoFmVPU

The very end, however, seems to differ in terms of its olfactory specifics from wearing to wearing, perhaps as a result of the quantity applied. In one test, using 3 average sprays from the small atomizer, 1899 ended just after 7 hours in a blur of woody, juniper and vanilla. In another test, using 2 tiny sprays, it took a mere 6 hours for 1899 to die, ending in a powdery, floral, iris-y vanilla blur. In my last test, using 4 big sprays, 1899 lasted longer, just under 9 hours, before fading away with orange-y sweetness and nothing else. The atomizer’s hole is very small, so the quantity applied is probably much smaller than from an actual bottle. It would probably range between 1.5 big smears from a dab vial to about 4 very small, narrow ones.

1899 Ernest Hemingway is too new for there to be comparative reviews that I can show you. The fragrance’s Basenotes entry (on the old Huddler Archive) doesn’t have any comments from those who have tried it. Fragrantica‘s early discussion thus far seems to focus on the extent to which it is like Spicebomb. Some think it’s a much better version. One person (“deadidol“) thinks 1899 Hemingway is well-done, but largely a bore. I agree with parts of his assessment:

More often than not, this brand misses the mark for me, and Hemingway’s a bit of a snooze. When HdP step outside they box, they truly innovate, but too many of their scents strike me as pleasant, run-of-the-mill affairs that are solid value for money, but aren’t contributing anything new. This is a mildly boozy oriental with a powdery iris note and a hefty amount of spices. There are some floral undertones that are met with a dry fruit note to spin the scent as opulent, but it’s linear and doesn’t really do anything to distinguish itself from the more powdery offerings of Dior, ByKilian etc. Also, the connection to Hemingway is a total mystery as there’s nothing rugged, troublesome or even narratalogical at work here, and it’s certainly not very masculine or virile. With that said, it’s a practical addition to the line as it’s big and amiable, bearing notable similarities to Bois d’Argent, but it’s not going to have much appeal for those who are hoping for another Petroleum, Marquis de Sade, Ambrarem, or Ambre 114. Durable and great value (another one of HdP’s strong points), but ultimately too pleasant, too powdery, and too prosaic.

I think 1899 Hemingway is much more rugged and outdoorsy than he does, but I do agree that the fragrance is merely a pleasant, “run-of-the-mill” scent with some “amiable” features. Just how amiable will depend on what you think of the central juniper note, and its interaction with the vanilla and spices. It’s not my cup of tea.

Nonetheless, I have to agree with another Fragrantica commentator in giving kudos to Histoires de Parfum for avoiding the usual, traditional clichés about Hemingway. It would have been all too easy to make a fragrance centered on cigars and rum. And, in my opinion, the company has actually succeeded in encapsulating parts of Hemingway’s life and contradictory character. They’ve created a perfectly pleasant fragrance that will probably be very sexy on some men’s skin. Unfortunately, I find it hard to sum up enthusiasm for more than that.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: 1899 Hemingway is an Eau de Parfum that comes in two sizes: 2.0 oz/60 ml for $125 or €87; or 4 oz/120 ml for $205 or €145. (Further decant or mini-sized options are below). Both full bottle sizes are available on the Histoires de Parfums website, which also has a fantastic sample program (6 samples of your choice) whose $20 price goes towards the purchase of a large 4 oz. bottle. Further details are available here as to how the process works. Shipping is free for all orders anywhere in the world for purchases over $130; below that, there is a $10 shipping fee. In the U.S.: 1899 Hemingway is available from Luckyscent in both sizes, along with samples. BeautyHabit also offers both sizes of 1899. The Perfume Shoppe (which has a Canadian division) sells 14 ml decants of 1725 for $36. Outside the U.S.: In the UK, you can find 1899 Hemingway at the Grooming Clinic for GBP £124 for 120 ml. Roullier-White in London carries some of the HdP line, but I didn’t see Hemingway on their website. For the rest of Europe, you can find it at Jovoy Paris for €87 or €145, depending on size, or at First in Fragrance which only has the larger 100 ml bottle of Hemingway at €145. For all other countries, Histoires de Parfums vast Store Locator lists retailers from South Africa to the Netherlands, Sweden and Kuwait. Samples: You can find samples at a number of the retailers linked to above. Surrender to Chance doesn’t yet carry the fragrance as it is too new, but you can order from Luckyscent in the meantime.

Arabian Oud Kalemat: Rivers of Gold & Affordable Luxury

Posted on October 31, 2013 by Kafkaesque

You have to buy this! I don’t usually start my reviews with that blunt, bottom line, but stylistic rules be damned. Kalemat from the company Arabian Oud is a gorgeous amber in a rich, heady, potent, incredibly long-lasting brew that is both affordable and utterly addictive. From its start as a molten river of caramelized amber creme brulée, Kalemat turns into a heady cloud that encompasses every nuance and range on the amber spectrum: a floral amber, a slightly fruity one, a woody one, a herbal one, a musky one, a sweetly honeyed one, and a lightly pipe tobacco and oud one. It’s beautiful, I bought it for myself, and the mere scent of it on my skin led a family member to purchase a bottle moments later! There are a few practical draw-backs to the Arabian Oud system, and you basically have to order blindly, but we’ll get to those issues at the very end of this review. The thing you need to know is that Kalemat is absolutely gorgeous, and if you love opulent amber Orientals, you really should consider it.

Source: rockgem-at-deviantart http://stock7000.deviantart.com/art/Stock-Texture-Molten-Lava-165584521

Having started with the end of the story first, let’s go back to the beginning. Kalemat (sometimes written as Kalamet and a few other linguistic variations) is an eau de parfum from the Saudi perfume house of Arabian Oud. I’d heard a lot about the fragrance from such perfume sites as Basenotes where it is a small cult favorite, so I couldn’t resist popping into Arabian Oud‘s Paris Champs-Elysées store upon my recent trip. I’ll talk more about that store and their bewildering array of options at the end, but all you need to know now is that Kalemat was actually the third or fourth on my list of favorites. I think that tells you something about the other three, as well as the quality of this perfume house as a whole.

One downside to the brand is that it is an organisational nightmare in terms of all practical considerations as an uninformed shopper or curious, prospective perfumista. There really is no other way to put it but the phrase “hot mess” — and even that doesn’t give you the full picture. Take the issue of perfume notes, for example. It’s not exactly easy to find out what is in each of the perfumes, as the accounts vary depending on site and source. In fact, the main Arabian Oud site has no description for Kalemat at all. Luckily, I stumbled upon the UK version thanks to the company’s (totally unused) Twitter account. It’s slightly easier to navigate and substantially more informative.

Kalemat with its box that opens like a book.

According to the London Arabian Oud website, the notes in Kalemat include:

Bilberry, anise, rosemary, Kashmir wood, musk, sweet amber, honey leaves.

Fragrantica gives a slightly different list:

Top notes are blueberry and anise; middle notes are rosemary, cashmere wood and floral notes; base notes are musk, amber and honey.

Kalemat opens on my skin with an enormous burst of richness and opulence. Two small squirts from my sample vial led to a heady, billowing cloud of amber infused with a fruity berry note. I’m not generally one for fruity fragrances — and Kalemat isn’t one at its core — but the berry element works wonderfully. If I didn’t know it was “blueberry” or “bilberry” (whatever that is), I would never have guessed it. To me, it smells more like a tangy, tart, juicy touch of black currant, mixed with a hint of blackberry. It’s never cloying or syrupy, though it initially feels as dense as the rest of the perfume.

Source: fr.123rf.com

Kalemat’s opening symphony is deepened almost instantly by a touch of honey and musk, resulting in an aroma of a creme caramel whose top has been lightly singed with a cooking torch to create a delicate shell of darkened, caramelized sugar. There is a touch of some fresh, aromatic green herbs, but it’s just a light touch that is soon overtaken by a rich Ta’if-like, ruby rose. Ta’if roses are a type of Damask rose but with 30 petals, and, according to Fragrantica, have an aroma that is significantly richer and deeper than most Damascena varieties. It is very common to Arab perfumery, and to attars in specific. Within a few minutes, the rose note has turned Kalemat into the loveliest, attar-like, opaque, boozy, floral amber with just the lightest hint of honey. Its richness feels like a running river of molten lava and gold. In fact, my skin actually has a light gleam and sheen from the concentrated oils that make up the fragrance. This is serious stuff.

Ta’if rose: perfumemaster.org

Yet, for all of Kalemat’s richness, I really don’t think it’s ultimately a heavy perfume in terms of its weight. The potent, heady, concentrated, and very narcotic cloud that billows out around one is not unctuous, gooey, or dense in mass. As an analogy, I would say that Kalemat feels less chewy or opaque than some Profumum Roma fragrances, but significantly more powerful in sillage, especially in the first two hours. At the same time, Kalemat is substantially heavier in weight to the LM Parfums line and, once again, stronger in initial projection. In short, it is very typical and representative of traditional Middle Eastern perfumes, and yet airier in feel than something like Amouage‘s concentrated attars.

Dried tobacco leaves. Source: colourbox.com

There is a subtle undertone to Kalemat that repeatedly reminds me of Serge Lutens‘ much adored, cult favorite, Chergui, only concentrated by a thousand. Something in Kalemat feels very much like sweet pipe tobacco, even if it’s just a subtle vein running below the perfume’s surface. Tobacco is not listed in Kalemat’s notes, but the reference to “honey leaves” (honey has leaves?) makes me wonder. Chergui’s aroma is, in part, of sweetened tobacco leaves set out to dry in the sun. Perhaps that is what Arabian oud means by its term? All I know for certain is that I was walking around Paris one evening, wafting Kalemat, and repeatedly wondering why the fragrance felt so familiar when I suddenly realised: concentrated Chergui! There is much more to Kalemat — and I was reminded of many other fragrances as well, as you will soon see — but I wouldn’t be shocked if there was a bit of some tobacco in Kalemat as well.

Kalemat isn’t a twisting, morphing creature with many stages, but it’s not completely linear either. The fragrance does subtly change, but over time and without fanfare. It is such a superbly blended fragrance that it slides almost seamlessly from one stage to another, rippling as smooth as water. In its very first opening hour, Kalemat is an opulently rich, custardy smooth, silky amber that is perfectly blended with fluid swirls of ruby Tai’if rose, dry woodiness, musk, honey, and hints of tobacco, herbs, and berries. There is almost a gourmand feel to the richness of the sweet brew, but it is not an actual gourmand fragrance as a whole. Perhaps a more helpful description would be to say that Kalemat’s opening phase comes close to straddling the Oriental and Gourmand genres, but never fully tips over into the latter.

The sweet, opulently over-the-top richness of Kalemat’s first stage explains why some people think the fragrance bears a resemblance to Tom Ford‘s Tobacco Vanille. Judging by what appeared on my skin, I think the two fragrances are different. On me, Tobacco Vanille has a plum pudding feel that is heavily accented with tobacco, and an almost potpourri-like blend of spices. Kalemat lacks those elements, along with the vanilla heart underlying the Tom Ford fragrance. To me, Kalemat seems much closer to Serge Lutens’ Chergui, only without the latter’s touch of powder and, as stated, a substantially more concentrated feel. It’s also much sweeter, deeper, and creamier than the Lutens.

To me, in the opening stage, Kalemat bears a closer resemblance to another famous amber fragrance — Hermès‘ Ambre Narguilé — than to the more heavily spiced Tobacco Vanille. If you took certain aspects of Ambre Narguilé, changed the type of fruit to a blueberry, combined it with Chergui, and reduced the overall mix down to a thicker, more dense, almost vicous-like attar, then you’d have Kalemat. I think fans of Guerlain‘s much loved Spiritueuse Double Vanille would adore Kalemat, as it shares some similarities in terms of richness, but with honeyed amber and woodiness as the focus instead of ambered vanilla.

Source: fr.123rf.com

Slowly, slowly, almost before you realise it, Kalemat turns softer, woodier and bit darker in visual hue. At the start of the third hour, the fragrance is gentler, more rounded, and a bit blurry around the edges. There is something like the most restrained touch of oud flickering just below the surface, along with a gentle, slightly fresh, green herbaceousness. Kalemat has lost more than half of its rose floral undertone, and is less sweet, less honeyed. Now, it slowly begins its second phase where it is primarily a woody amber infused with a whiff of oud, tobacco, musk, and herbs. Only the lightest fruity and floral elements remain, but they’re minor, light, and blended seamlessly into the larger whole.

Near the end of the third hour, Kalemat also feels softer in weight and projection, though that is only relative to the powerhouse opening of the first hour. Now, it hovers 2-3 inches above the skin, and is noticeable when you bring your arm near to your nose. It doesn’t announce its presence with quite as much fanfare in the space around you. Honestly, I find Kalemat to be so addictive that this lowered sillage phase always leaves me wanting to spray on more. More, more, more, until I have surrounded myself with a nuclear mushroom cloud. Luckily for me, Kalemat comes in a 100 ml/3.4 oz bottle because I have plans to lock myself in my house on the night that it arrives, insulate all windows and doors, and apply at least 10 sprays. The Mars Rover may be able to smell me in outer space, but I don’t care.

“Abstract streams of gold.” Photo: Jason Tockey. Site: jstimages.wordpress.com

Kalemat’s sillage continues to drop, though the perfume gives absolutely no signs of dying anytime soon. Around the 4.5 hour mark, Kalemat hovers just an inch above the skin as a woody, sweet amber. It’s as golden as a cloud, but still much richer than that comparison would imply. Oddly, I’m somewhat reminded of a honeyed, unpowdered, more opulent version of Ambre 114 from Histoires de Parfums. Kalemat has the same sort of golden aura that made Ambre 114 conjure up James Bond’s Goldfinger for me.

Yet, for all that visual similarity, Kalemat is now primarily a woody sort of amber. The oud element waxes and wanes in how noticeable it is at the very top layer of the fragrance, but it is always there. Around the 5.5 hour mark, Kalemat is an amber with slightly musky oud, vaguely herbal dryness, an occasional flicker of rose, and a lingering whisper of tobacco. At the 7.5 hour point, Kalemat turns into a complete skin scent. The notes are almost wholly abstract: amber, a blur of sweetened wood that is barely decipherable as something oud-y, and other indistinct, dry elements. In its very final moments, Kalemat is nothing more than lightly sweetened dryness.

Kalemat’s longevity is fantastic. With two tiny squirts from the atomizer, Kalemat lasted just a fraction over 12 hours on my perfume-consuming skin, though the sillage was moderate to low for about 7.5 of them. In the past, when I’ve worn Kalemat, I’ve applied a far greater amount, and both the longevity and projection were even higher. On one occasion, I applied 5 sprays (from an atomizer that yields much less than a normal bottle would, due to a small hole), and Kalemat lasted over 16 hours on me. As regular readers to the blog know, my skin is absolutely voracious when it comes to perfume and I struggle constantly to find things that will last. If Kalemat gives me these sorts of hours, I think normal people would get astounding results.

Source: wallsave.com

I think Kalemat is something that people should try for a number of reasons. First, it is a completely versatile, extremely easy to wear, very cozy, comforting fragrance. It is far too powerful to wear to a really conservative, perfume-phobic office environment, but it works almost everywhere else. Second, I think Kalemat would work wonderfully on both a man and a woman. While men seem to be the ones who talk about it the most on sites like Basenotes, it was a female family member who took one whiff of Kalemat on me, and purchased it ten minutes later. If you’re a woman who likes Tobacco Vanille, Chergui, or Guerlain’s Spiritueuse Double Vanille (and there are vast numbers of you who do), then you can absolutely wear Kalemat.

Third, Kalemat has the quality and richness of some incredibly expensive, very high-end perfumes. Kalemat is not comparable just to the prestige lines of such brands as Hermès, Guerlain, or Tom Ford, but also to such luxury perfume houses as Amouage. In fact, I’ve heard that some people think that Kalemat is very similar to Amouage’s Interlude Man, due to I think its second stage as a woody, slightly oud-y fragrance. I’m not sure I’m really qualified to speak to that, because, on my skin, Interlude Man was such a shape-shifter that it manifested itself differently on each of the 3 occasions that I tested it. It is such a complex chameleon that I could probably wear it 10 times, and experience 10 different versions.

However, judging by the three types I encountered, I think Amouage’s Interlude is different. Its herbal start can be enormously dominant, and sometimes aggressively pungent. Kalemat is hardly a herbal fragrance during any of its stages, and has only a little green touch in the background. With Interlude, its sharp greenness is then followed by a significant incense, smoky period, before ending in a stunning sandalwood drydown. Kalemat is substantially less complex. In addition, whatever smokiness it has is extremely subtle and seems merely to be the effect of other notes, instead of actual frankincense, let alone a lot of it!

Source: paradiseperfumesandgems.co.uk

There are other differences, too. Kalemat is more floral and fruited at the start; the oud is extremely mild; it has no sandalwood; but it does include some honey. I would say that all the individual elements are toned down more, and that the overall effect is substantially smoother. The elements also blend into each other more seamlessly. Yet, it does share the luxurious feel and richness of an Amouage fragrance. When you consider that you can buy 100 ml of Kalemat on Amazon at a discounted price of $59.99 (without shipping), versus the $290 retail price of Interlude Man, I honestly don’t know how you can beat this amount of richness, depth, body, and addictive opulence for the price.

The only drawback I can see to Kalemat is that the company simply does not make it easy for consumers new to the brand. I’m going to spend a bit of time on this issue because I think it’s important to understand what your retail options are, some of the practical difficulties in learning more about the line, and the reason why Arabian Oud may be a brand you’ve rarely heard discussed. I truly think that Western perfumistas are missing out in not trying some of the company’s amazing fragrances, and that easier, more straightforward access would make them a name on everyone’s lips. As it is, however, it’s an extremely frustrating situation.

In addition to Arabian Oud’s aforementioned disorganisational chaos on its website, there is no place where you can test it or sniff the perfumes outside of London, Paris, or Arabian Oud’s several hundred stores in the Middle East. The decant/sample site, Surrender to Chance, does not carry Arabian Oud. The Perfume Court offers a few of its fragrances, but not Kalemat. And Arabian Oud does not sell samples on its website.

In fact, trying to navigate Arabian Oud’s websites consistently makes me want to throw something at the monitor. The main Saudi version is in English, but it’s a hodge-podge of categories, it doesn’t list perfume notes in a particular perfume entry, and the similarity between some perfume names is confusing. The fact that “Mukallet” seems to be the term for an attar or perfume oil that is stuck on half the perfumes doesn’t help.

The real problem, however, is sheer, overwhelming quantity of selection. According to Fragrantica’s page for Arabian Oud, Kalemat is one of 160 fragrances (!!!!!) offered by the house. The fact that that long Fragrantica listing does not include three of my favorite Arabian Oud fragrances should tell you just how many fragrances we’re talking about. Fragrantica also says that the 160 perfumes were “all launched in 2012” — something which is not only highly unlikely, but also inaccurate. The 2012 mistake (along with Fragrantica’s description of the company as a “new” one) is undoubtedly yet another victim of Arabian Oud’s utterly disorganized state of affairs. While the Saudi site provides no details, the London version says the company’s history actually goes back to 1982 when it was founded by Sheikh Abdul-Aziz Al Jasser who opened his first store in the old Alzal souk of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

If you’re lucky enough to be in London or Paris, with easy access to one of the Arabian Oud stores, and want to just pop in for a sniff, you’re likely to be overwhelmed just as much as if you merely checked out the company’s website. When you go in, you’re confronted by shelves of elaborately ornate, fancy, decorated, Middle Eastern bottles which rarely seem to have an actual name on them. To give you an idea, I’ll share with you some photos I took in the store, though I need to repeat my frequent caveat that they won’t be great. As I’ve said elsewhere, my camera seems to have chosen this holiday to decide that it absolutely hates perfumery, so 6 out of every 10 perfume shots were wholly unusable. In the case of Arabian Oud, only two are decent (and a third is blurry), but a least it will give you an idea of things. Photos of just one small portion of the Paris store:

So sorry it’s blurry!

It is a testament to the quality of Arabian Oud’s products that Kalemat was actually not my favorite of the things that I tried. One of them, a perfume attar called Taj Mahal blew me out of the water. It is one of the most spectacular florientals I’ve tried in years, surpassing any and all Amouages (including Fate Woman) in its lush, deep, opulent beauty. Based on my memory of it, it was an orange blossom, jasmine, rose, sandalwood oriental oil that almost glowed in its rich sheen on my skin, and which cost (at its lowest, most affordable price) about €60 or $80 for a few drops. (Something like 4 ml. Its price on Zahras, the American-based website for Middle Eastern perfumes, is inflated to a ridiculous $371 for a tiny 6 ml bottle!) If I’d encountered Taj Mahal at the start of my trip, and had time to test it out properly on my skin, I would have bought that small vial without a qualm. As it was, I went to Arabian Oud on the last day of my holiday, after having purchased many other fragrances, and while wearing too many scents for a proper test, so the situation didn’t quite work out. The high price also made a mere sample impossible to obtain.

It is a true sign of Arabian Oud’s disorganized chaos that Taj Mahal is not even listed on the company’s own websites. (Neither is another one of my other favorites, Dinon or Dinan, whose name the salesman wrote down for me in a scrawl to ensure that I had the correct spelling!) Happily, interested parties can always call the Paris store directly to order it, and one day, I shall have my Taj Mahal. The third one on my list of favorites was Ghroob, a concentrated perfume attar which is listed on the original Arabian Oud site without any notes, but which isn’t listed on the London version no matter what sort of spelling variation I tried. (Are you getting an idea yet of just how complicated it is to try to order a perfume from these people without pre-existing, advance knowledge?!) [UPDATE: In the comments below, you can read more about Ghroob, its floral-oriental-sandalwood notes, and its supposed resemblance to Amouage‘s $350 Homage attar. I have reviewed Ghroob here, and don’t see an similarity to Homage. Arabian Oud has discounted it on Amazon at around $44, and offers a lower price of shipping if you purchase more than one item. Also, as a side note, if you are relying on the Zahras site that I linked up above for information, please be careful. The notes that they list are not always accurate or the same as what Arabian Oud lists for their fragrances.]

Thankfully for my fourth favorite, and the subject of this review, Kalamet is easily available not only on all the Arabian Oud company websites, but also on Amazon (U.S.). Arabian Oud is the actual vendor and seems to have discounted the listed retail price of $99.99 by 40%, selling the 100 ml bottle of eau de parfum (really more like pure parfum extrait, if you ask me!) for an incredibly low price of $59.99. There is a shipping cost of $16.48 for a total of $76.47, but I paid no tax, and the final price is still substantially lower per ml for any analogous pure parfum extrait of that quality. You’re essentially paying about .76 cents per ml, when Amouage’s stunning Tribute attar is available from decanting sites for $14.99 for a 1/4 ml! Granted, the two fragrances have substantial differences in notes, smell, ingredients and concentration, but still!

Helping matters further, Arabian Oud’s Amazon shipping (from Saudi Arabia?) seems to be both fast and extremely professional. The company’s Amazon rating is 4.8 stars out of 5 with 48 votes, and consistently positive praise from buyers. A friend of mine purchased Kalemat blindly on the basis of my passing raves about it, and he was extremely pleased with the speed of the delivery, the packaging of his bottle, and Arabian Oud’s polite service. Another reader of this blog, “Laird Angus,” bought Kalemat blindly and his gushing review on Amazon talks about both the perfume’s original packaging, and the beauty of its smell. It’s an extremely accurate assessment and the best one I’ve seen on the scent, so I’d like to quote a large part of it.

Calling Kalemat a “reference amber,” he writes:

In ancient times, books were rare and precious objects. The learned elite treasured them. Scholars and holy men spent countless hours transcribing and illustrating them. Calligraphy held a place at the high table of the arts.

Kalemat, which means “words” in Arabic, pays tribute to this lost era in its exquisite packaging. It arrives in a beautiful oversized box designed to look like an antique arabic book. When opened, the box reveals a smaller, ribbon-bound tome which contains the bottle of perfume itself. And so even before the first spray, you know that this an oriental perfume in its full glory–dramatic, confident, mysterious, exotic, precious beyond compare.

Inside Kalemat’s “book.” Photo via eBay.

The juice itself does not disappoint. Kalemat opens with a lush jammy berry accord, balanced perfectly by incense and a hint of dry woods. The berry note is apparently bilberry, which was new to me. It is sweet and perhaps slightly tart. Wonderful. Novel.

After 20 minutes or so, the berry notes recede, leaving behind a sumptuous base of incense, woods, and lightly jammy rose. This is the heart of Kalemat, and it is apparently inspired by the Middle Eastern hospitality traditions around bakhoor, a household incense of dried wood and rose. It reminded me somewhat of Jubilation XXV by Amouage, but Kalemat is somehow deeper and rounder. There are no jagged edges here. Although it is not listed in the ingredients or the notes, I am convinced that there is a trace of high quality synthetic oud in this as well. It is used here not as an individual note, but as a fixative and an amplifier of the other notes. Perfect!

Over the next 8-10 hours, the rose fades out, then the incense, leaving only the driest cedar-like scent, like the inside of an ancient chest found in an old Cairo apartment.

Kalemat is everything I had hoped it would be. I’ve been searching for an authentic and wearable Arabian scent. It is no easy thing! I’ve sampled virtually every offering from Amouage, a number of rare attars, low cost oils from al Rehab, and various western “interpretations” of middle eastern fragrances. None has come close to Kalemat. It is a deeply relaxing scent, perfect for stressful days at the office. It speaks something of eternal truths, of timeless values, of the cycle of life-death-rebirth that renders all of our transient worldly concerns puny by comparison. [Emphasis to the names added by me.]

I would hardly go so far as to say Kalemat speaks to eternal truths, but, yes, it is an absolutely gorgeous amber that is opulent, heady, full-bodied, and deeply comforting. That is why I will go to so far as to say that you should definitely consider a blind buy of Kalemat if (but only if) you’re a huge fan of any of the perfumes that I’ve mentioned in this review. If you love wispy, gauzy, sheer, light, fresh, clean scents, Kalemat is not for you. This is a fragrance for a die-hard lover of amber, oriental or oriental-gourmand fragrances, and I don’t think you will be disappointed.

You should consider a blind buy even more if some of those other fragrances I’ve mentioned have been out of your reach due to their high cost. I can’t recall if I have ever recommended that people buy a perfume blindly and untested, but Kalemat’s price is low enough that I’m breaking my usual rule. If you absolutely hate it or if your skin chemistry inexplicably makes things go wonky, I don’t think you’d have much difficulty in selling your bottle on eBay, where Kalemat is usually listed for almost double the Amazon price and rarely offered by US sellers.

If you’re located outside of the United States, I don’t know if you can purchase Kalemat at the discounted Amazon price and have Arabian Oud simply ship it to you elsewhere. I couldn’t find Kalemat on the Canadian, German or Brazilian Amazon sites, so I suspect that price is limited to U.S. buyers. Even without Amazon, though, it’s still not hugely expensive to buy Kalemat as it retails for $99, and you have several other vendor options. You can find the fragrance on the Arabian Oud site for 300 SAR which seems to come to a little over €58 at the current currency conversion rates, and I believe they ship internationally. On the UK Arabian Oud site, the perfume is offered for £52, discounted from £87. The site’s flash options don’t seem to let me use a direct, saved link to Kalemat’s specific page, but you can find it easily with a word search. (You may want to immediately mute the volume on the site as it plays annoyingly repetitive music incredibly loudly.)

For all other countries, you may can use the Universal Perfumes retailer in Kuwait that I introduced to you months ago, and which is very reliable. It sells Kalemat for $99, with a flat-rate, international shipping price of $6.99 for the first item. I’ve heard it takes about two weeks for its packages to come from Kuwait to the States, so I assume it will be around the same for other destinations. Lastly, you can always try eBay which has a number of British and Middle Eastern sellers who offer the fragrance.

At the end of the day, Kalemat is not a revolutionary, complicated, complex scent, but it is such an utterly addictive, luxurious, rich, comforting, soothing one, that I find it utterly irresistible. If you hear a bellow of joy on or around November 8th, you will know that my perfume package has arrived, that irrational amounts of spraying will follow, and that a golden mushroom cloud of amber will explode shortly thereafter from this part of the Western hemisphere. I cannot wait.

[UPDATE 3/23/2015 — I’ve just reviewed Kalemat Amber concentrated oil, and it’s even better. Simply outstanding! Kalemat Floral is equally lovely. There are also Wood, Musk, and Oud versions of Kalemat. Right now, Arabian Oud London is willing to help readers of the blog to buy the Kalemat oils (in any version) and to ship them world-wide. The details of the special deal are in my review for Kalemat Amber. The company no longer sells on Amazon, but some third-party vendors do have Kalemat eau de parfum. However, the oils are not available there from anyone. Kalemat Wood or Kalemat Musk are sometimes sold on eBay. However, the best of the lot from the ones I’ve tried are Kalemat Amber and Kalemat Floral.]