Glossary & Basic Guide to Perfume Terms

Posted on December 19, 2012 by Kafkaesque

A lot of people rely on a perfumes’s list of notes to figure out if it’s something that they’d like or even want to test out. But, sometimes, it’s not so easy. Some terms are less familiar or obvious than “rose” or “vanilla.” For example, I highly doubt the average person has ever heard of “opoponax,” let alone know what it is or smells like. As perfume houses increasingly seek the latest new thing, and as synthetic compounds continue their sharp rise in use, perfume notes are getting much more complicated to figure out at a quick glance.

We’re not all experts and we all have to start somewhere. I’m no exception to the need for some refreshers or definitions from time to time, so I thought I’d give a list of terms to help out. They will be basic, nutshell explanations with a simple description of what the ingredient is supposed to smell like. (I owe much gratitude to the experts at NST, Fragrantica and elsewhere whose explanations, knowledge and definitions I’ve learnt from and have quoted frequently below.) I will constantly update the list or add to the descriptions, so it will be a work in progress in some ways.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS:

Malaysian Agarwood.

Agarwood. (Also referred to or known as Aoud or Oud.) Agarwood is an extremely ancient element found in the East. No-one explains its heritage, characteristics and its current usage half as well as the experts at CaFleureBon, so I will just link to their marvelous, brilliant analysis of it here. To make a long story short, however, Fragrantica states that Agarwood ”is reputed to be the most expensive wood in the world” and that Oud is the “pathological secretion of the aquillaria tree, a rich, musty woody-nutty scent that is highly prized in the Middle East. In commercial perfumery it’s safe to say all ‘oud’ is a recreated synthetic note.” Its scent ranges from freshly bracing or crisply cool, to vegetal, and, in many cases, quite medicinal. Almost like bandages. (For more information on what it smells like, you can read my post on Oud fragrances.)

Aldehydes. Aldehydes are essentially organic compounds. Chanel No. 5 became famous for having the greatest percentage of aldehydes (fatty aldehydes to be specific), but almost all perfumes have it to some degree or another. On me, the smell is something intensely soapy with floral and lemony undertones. The varying definitions or explanations are either too simplistic or far too complicated (and with too much chemistry), so I’ll just rely on the best one I’ve found which is from Bois de Jasmin: “Aldehydes are organic compounds present in many natural materials (eg. orange rind, rose, cinnamon bark). Various aldehydes can also be synthesized artificially. There is hardly a fragrance without some type of aldehyde in it; however, it is the vividness of aliphatic aldehydes (a specific subgroup of the aldehydes family) that gives Chanel No 5, Lanvin Arpège, Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche and other floral-aldehydic fragrances their characteristic impressionist sparkle. Their scent ranges from metallic, starchy and citrusy to green, fatty and waxy (for instance, aldehyde C-11 commonly found in rose and cilantro smells like metal and dirty hair to me, but in tiny quantities it adds an impressive lift and freshness to fragrances.) […]Chanel No 5 became famous for its unprecedented overdose of several different aldehydes (a total of almost 1%.)” Common descriptions of aldehydes range from: “a champagne-like, sparkly, fizzy odor that makes the fragrance fly off the skin” to a waxy, citrusy or rosy aroma, like snuffed-out candles” — but it’s usually a bit more complicated than that. (See, Perfume Shrine, here.)

Ambergris

Ambergris. Essentially, sperm whale vomit. No, I’m not joking. NST explains as follows: “Ambergris: a sperm whale secretion. Sperm whales produce it to protect their stomachs from the beaks of the cuttlefish they swallow. Ambergris was traditionally used as a fixative, but in modern perfumery, ambergris is usually of synthetic origin (including the synthetic compounds ambrox, ambroxan (see), amberlyn). Ambergris is described as having a sweet, woody odor. Today, the term “ambergris” is used nearly interchangeably with ‘amber.’” To replace natural ambergris, a synthetic compound was created called Ambroxan.

Ambroxan. A synthetic compound created to replace Ambergris. (See above.)

Aoud. (See Oud below or read my post on Oud fragrances.)

Aromatic Fougère. (See also, Fougère.) “Aromatic Fougère” isn’t an ingredient but a sub-set of the Fougère category of perfumes. To quote Wikipedia, fougère “is one of the main families into which modern perfumes are classified. […] The class of fragrances have the basic accord with a top-note of lavender and base-notes of oakmoss and coumarin. Aromatic fougère, a derivative of this class, contains additional notes of herbs, spice and/or wood.”

Artemisia Absinthium

Artemesia. (Also known as Wormwood.) Acording to NST, Artmesia refers to a “category of diverse family of plants, so named because at one time they were used to prepare worming medicine. The latin name is artemisia, and in perfumery, wormwood and/or artemisia often refers specifically to artemisia absinthium, one of the key ingredients of Absinthe.” Artemesia is supposed to smell pungent, extremely green, sharp and bitter. Some say it smells like tarragon concentrated to the umpteenth degree. It is said to bring down the cloying nature of some notes, like civet, but it can also be extremely pungent by itself. Basenote commentators say that it acts like a filter to diffuse out some stronger, sweeter notes and to let you smell the more subtle ones, especially when it is used in perfumes with an oakmoss, leather and/or patchouli base. It is a strong feature in many classic scents, particularly chypre perfumes, and is one of the key characters in such scents as Robert Piguet’s Bandit, YSL’s Kouros for men, and Krizia Uomo.

Balsam. Balsam is the dark, oozing secretions from a tree that differs from “resin” mainly in terms of its form and method of preparation. When something is referred to as being Balsam-like or Balsamic, it means the scent has the aroma is like a resin which can range from sweet, amber-y and vanilla-like, to vanilla, cinnamon, though usually of a slightly woody nature. Degrees of sweetness, bitterness and/or smoke may vary depending on the type of tree that is used.

Bergamot. The smell of bergamot falls between orange and lemon, and is most closely associated with Earl Grey tea. It can turn a little woody and some people can occasionally smell hints of lavender lurking around.

Benzoin. When perfume notes list “Benzoin,” they really mean Benzoin resin. (See below) Technically and scientifically, there is a difference, since “Benzoin” is an organic compound that is not used in perfume. So, when you see “Benzoin” listed, they are really referring to a type of residue from a tree.

Benzoin Resin. (See also Styrax.) Benzoin is a type of resin and, as such, evokes the scent of amber. Depending on the type of resin, it can be both sweet and smoky, or just incense-y and slightly woody. Types of Benzoin resins are, for example, Siam Resin or Sumatra Resin. Wikipedia states the following: “Benzoin resin or styrax resin is a balsamic resin obtained from the bark of several species of trees in the genus Styrax. It is used in perfumes, some kinds of incense, as a flavoring, and medicine.” Bois de Jasmin explains further: “Benzoin has a clear vanillic fragrance (it contains vanillin, just like vanilla beans) as well as a hint of cinnamon. It is one of the most versatile notes among other balsams, and it is used in most amber, vanilla and oriental accords. It also can be found all over the fragrance wheel, from citrus colognes to woody blends. I especially love its sweet vanillic note in Chanel Coromandel and Serge Lutens Vétiver Oriental, where paired with incense, it creates a gilded, plush sensation.

The berries, buds and leaves of the Black Currant plant. Source: Perfumed Shrine.

Black Currant or Black Currant Buds. Also known as Cassis, black currant has a scent that is tarter some of its sweeter fruit companions (like plum). Depending on what parts are used, it can also come off as greener. The Perfume Shrine has a good explanation of the scent as well as the occasional tendency for some people to smell sour, almost urine-like ammoniac notes: “[c]ompared to the artificial berry bases defined as “cassis,” the natural black currant bud absolute comes off as greener and lighter with a characteristic touch of cat. Specifically the ammoniac feel of a feline’s urinary tract, controversial though that may seem. Black currant absolute comes from the bud… but also from the distilled leaves of the plant … and is extracted into a yellowish green to dark green paste that projects as a spicy-fruity-woody note retaining a fresh, yet tangy nuance, slightly phenolic.” Black currant or its buds are featured in a number of extremely popular, famous fragrances. A few examples are: Black Orchid by Tom Ford, Chamade and Champs Elysees by Guerlain, Gucci Rush II by Gucci, Escape by Clavin Klein, First by Van Cleef & Arpel, Beautiful by E.Lauder, In Love Again by YSL, Fan di Fendi by Fendi, and Rock & Rose by Valentino. (Source: Fragrantica.)

Bulgarian Rose: Bulgarian roses belong to the damask rose category which usually have a heady, richer, darker element to them than something like a tea rose or a Moroccan rose. (To my nose, at least.)

Calone. According to NST, calone is “an aroma chemical that adds a ‘sea breeze’ or marine note” to perfume. It was first used in large quantities in Aramis New West (1988). Some of the many perfumes that contain calone are: Davidoff’s Cool Water, Dior’s Dune, L’eau d’Issey, Kenzo Homme and Calvin Klein’s Escape.

Cassis. The French term for black currant. (See above.)

Castoreum. Castoreum is the excretion from the anal sacs of beavers. Again, I am not joking. I couldn’t possibly attempt to describe or define this one on my own, so I will simply quote large chunks of an article on it from Beauty.About.Com: “Used by the animal during scent marking and mating, this bitter, strong-smelling, orange-brown secretion is dried, ground and put into alcohol to produce the aromatic castoreum resinoid used in perfumery. The undiluted secretion from the beaver is said Beaver Anal Glands to have a perisistent, bitter and penetrating odor. In its resinoid form, as a perfume ingredient, castoreum imparts an animalistic note that approximates the scent of dried leather.” For animal cruelty reasons, I’m sure that the scent used in modern perfumes is all synthetic. If the thought of beaver anal sacs has completely put you off, you might be surprised at the list of extremely famous fragrance names which use Castoreum. In women’s perfumes: Chanel Cuir de Russie, Coty Emeraude, Lancome Magic Noire, Givenchy III, Guerlain Shalimar, Jean Patou 1000, Guerlain Jicky, Frederic Malle Une Rose, Juliette has a Gun Midnight Oud, Paloma Picasso Pure Parfum, and Robert Piguet Bandit. “A selection of men’s fragrances starring castoreum include Profumo Castoreum, Le Labo Labdanum 18, Chanel Antaeus, Amouage Epic Man, Caron Third Man, and Estee Lauder Aramis.”

Chypre. Chypre is one of the main categories or families of perfumes. Chypre scents are usually (but not always) considered to be women’s fragrances. They begin with citrus top notes, have labdanum as one of their middle notes, and conclude with oakmoss (in conjunction with other ingredients) as their base. The oakmoss is key and a signature part of chypre perfumes, but the base also often includes musk or some sort of animalic note. The NST website states it best and most succinctly: “Chypre: pronounced ‘sheepra’, French for ‘Cyprus’ and first used by François Coty to describe the aromas he found on the island of Cyprus. He created a woodsy, mossy, citrusy perfume named Chypre (launched by Coty in 1917). Classic chypre fragrances generally had sparkling citrus and floral notes over a dark, earthy base of oakmoss, patchouli, woods and labdanum. Modern chypre fragrances usually use less (or no) oakmoss because of regulatory restrictions; sometimes they use synthetic substitutes.” Wikipedia adds, “Chypre perfumes fall into numerous classes according to their modifier notes, which include but are not limited to leather, florals, fruits, and amber. Modern chypre perfumes have various connotations such as floral, fruity, green, woody-aromatic, leathery, and animalic notes, but can easily be recognized by their ‘warm’ and ‘mossy-woody’ fond which contrasts the fresh citrus top, and a certain bitterness in the dry-down.” As Wikipedia notes, the basic notes usually consist of: citrus (bergamot, neroli, lemon or orange); oakmoss (woody and mossy); patchouli; and musk (sweet, powdery and animalic). The overall “composition is usually enhanced with a floral component through rose and jasmine oil.” The chypre family includes some of the most famous scents in the world, from such fruity chypres as Femme by Rochas and Mitsouko by Guerlain, to leather chypres like Bandit by Robert Piguet, floral chypres like Knowing by Estée Lauder, and green chypres like Givenchy III.

Cistus. Cistus really refers to Labdanum. The small cistus shrub is native to the Mediterranean and Middle East, and the distillation of its leaves produces a dry resinous, faintly woody smell that is called labdanum in perfume. Essentially, labdanum is another resin like amber, but it has more of a masculine toughness to amber’s sweetness. Labdanum can be dirty, animalic and almost reminiscent of sex at times, while other compositions can bring out a more leather-like smell. It is also known as Rockrose. One perfumer and research scientist described it as follows on her blog, Perfume Project NW: “Some people think it smells like goat. Others think it smells like ambergris, or leather, or pine rosin, or musk. Yet others think it smells like strange, rotten fruit. Some people think it must be the smell of heaven, and others think it’s the smell from hell. Everyone seems to have a different reaction to rock rose, otherwise known as Cistus ladaniferus (also spelled ladanifer).”

Clary Sage. Clary sage is a herbaceous plant, and not the same sort of sage that you Clary Sage Salvia sclarea (Labiatae) use in cooking. According to a helpful discussion on Basenotes, the regular sage that you use in cooking is called Dalmatian sage. A number of people find clary sage to be sweeter, fresher and with a hint of peppermint, while Dalmatian sage is more bitter, biting and aromatic. Clary sage is also said to have elements of lavender in its odor profile and, sometimes, even of green tea. Fragrantica, however, describes the plant as having a “bracing herbaceous scent that smells like lavender with leathery and amber nuances, thus very popular from old times for perfumed products.”

Coumarin. (See also, Tonka Bean.) Wikipedia states that Coumarin is a fragrant plant substance, found in many plants in the grass family and found in particularly high concentrations in the tonka bean. It goes on to explain that: “[t]he name comes from a French word, coumarou, for the tonka bean. It has a sweet odor, readily recognised as the scent of new-mown hay, and has been used in perfumes since 1882.”

Elemi. Elemi is a type of tree from the Philippines that is closely related to those which give us Frankincense and Myrrh. Surrender to Chance says: “[w]hen the leaves sprout, it exudes a natural resin that yields an oil and stops when the last leaf sprouts.” Elemi resin is pale-yellow with honey-like consistency and initially has a lemony aroma that later gives way to something that is variously described as either a nutmeg-like scent or (more commonly) to something like pine needles. It is sometimes called “the poor man’s Frankincense” because it definitely has an incense component to its aroma. The Perfume Shrine states: “The overall scent of elemi can best be typified in perfume lingo as ‘terpenic‘, an aroma typified by fresh pine needles, clean, green with citrusy and coriander undertones. It’s therefore not unusual to see it featured in the context of ‘pine’ compositions or in masculine fragrances, as well as in incense blends.” There appears to be a difference in aroma between the oil — which is more lemon-y and fresh — and the resin which is more peppery and smoky. The Perfume Shrine says: “elemi resinoid on the other hand has the spicy peppery and woody-grassy facets more pronounced making it pair perfectly with pepper, woods (patchouli and vetiver especially), and sweet grass, while its constituent elemicin is shared with nutmeg.”

Fougère. Fougère isn’t an ingredient but a category of fragrance. Fragrantica states: “Name of the olfactive group ‘fougere’ derives from French word ‘fougere’ or ‘fern’. Coumarin can be found in the center of compositions. Perfume-originator of this group is Fougere Royal by the house of Houbigant, created by Paul Parquet in 1882. The perfumer extracted the synthetic component coumarin and used it in perfumery for the first time. Coumarin can be found in nature in several plants, such as Tonka beans, and it possesses intensive scent of freshly mown grass. Fougere compositions include notes of lavender, geranium, moss and wood. This group primarily includes perfumes for men.”

Frangipani

Frangipani. Frangipani is also known as plumeria, a flower common to tropical climates like Mexico or South America but also to such exotic islands as Fiji, Tahiti and Hawaii. It has a very heavy, heady, lushly ripe, extremely sweet scent similar to magnolia, gardenia and tuberose. It can also bring to mind coconuts. Frangipani is often described as an “indolic” scent, meaning heady, narcotic and, sometimes, over-ripe, sometimes to the point of decay. (See entry for “Indolic.”)

A white version of frankincense being burned.

Frankincense. (See also, Olbanum.) According to NST, frankincense is “a gum resin from a tree (genus Boswellia) found in Arabia and Eastern Africa. It is harvested by making an incision in the bark; the milky juice leaks out and is left to harden over a period of months before it is collected.” It smells dark, and smoky, and was often used as incense in religious ceremonies. It has some similarities to Myrrh but, to my nose, myrrh is softer and sweeter, not as sharp and dark. For a great article on the two and their history, you can go to CaFleureBon and read their analysis here. In general, however, the smell of frankincense encompasses a wide range: woody with pine and sometimes lemon undertones; sweet and nutty; thick, sticky, very dark and heavy, like an old, somewhat dusty church where a lot of incense was used; earthy, sharp, peppery and dusty; or some combination of the above.

Galbanum

Galbanum. Galbanum is a gum resin from certain Persian plant species that resemble large fennel or anise plants. The perfume site, I Smell Therefore I Am, has an excellent, extremely helpful explanation of its scent: “With its penetrating, pine-like top note and slightly bitter, woody base, galbanum makes green pop, as if one of the green chypres had slapped you hard in the face with a chunk of bundled stems. […] Part frankincense, part vetiver, its leafy terpenoid astringency ventilates the pastures of Carven’s Ma Griffe, Cellier’s Vent Vert, Ivoire de Balmain, Pheromone, Devin, Chanel No. 19 and, most spectacularly, Estee Lauder’s Aliage, which is more gale force than languid breeze. […] Galbanum is mercurial, effecting compositions in subtly different ways. It smells modern, though, along with aldehyde, it was the previous generation’s equivalent to the fruity accords which buoy contemporary florals to varying degrees and towards often vastly different ends. The smell is intensely, viscerally green, smelling of grass and aromatic weeds and herbs. It penetrates your consciousness and roots there, a vivid inhalation of the great Out There.”

Guaiac Wood – one of the hardest woods in the world.

Guaiac. Guaiac (or Guaiac Wood) is the heartwood of a Palo Santo (Bulnesia sarmienti) tree. Fragrantica states: “Odor Profile: Exotic wood note that has tar-like, phenolic facets, imparting smoky, tarmac notes.” A Basenotes commentator agrees, stating that Guaiac wood has a: “rosy, honeyed-sweet and slightly smoky and waxy-oily slightly rubbery aroma. It is used often in tobacco scents.” Another thinks it smells like “pepper and burning leaves.” In all cases, however, it differs in scent from oud or agarwood.

Immortelle. Source: The Perfume Shrine.

Immortelle. Immortelle is known by a variety of names such as “Everlasting Flower” or Helicrysum. It is sometimes even known as the “Curry plant,” though it has nothing to do with curry or the spices in it. It is a sunny, yellow plant from the Meditteranean, particularly Corsica and Italy. The Perfume Shrine describes its smell as follows: “The odour of immortelle absolute is difficult to describe, somewhat similar to sweet fenugreek and curcuma, spices used in Indian curry, with a maple-like facet. Quite logical if you think that the essence contains alpha, beta and gamma curcumene.” In addition, it also has “[r]ich scents of dry straw, dusty amber, coffee, burnt licorice, syrupy and powdery, and spices (reminiscent of celery, fenugreek and curry[.] … Like burnt sugar and dry straw combined is a suitable effort at conveying immortelle’s nuanced profile, but the more the oil warms up on the skin, the more it reveals human-like, supple nuances of honeyed notes, waxy, intimate… It pairs well in chypres and oriental fragrances, where it pairs with labdanum, clove, citruses, chamomille, lavender and rose essences.” The maple syrup comparison is repeated by the Perfume Posse who adds that the analogy “doesn´t really do the smell justice, because it´s more complex and peculiar than “maple syrup” would suggest. Here are some other common descriptions: a strong straw-like, fruity smell; straw, honey and tea; as well as words like warm, sweet, caramel, coumarin, fruit-honey, tonka. Osmoz.com says ‘essence of immortelle gives chypre, floral and amber compositions a particular charisma” and characterizes the smell as “red fruit, syrupy, nut, honey-flavored, tobacco.’ ”

The organic Indole compound found in certain white flowers like jasmine or tuberose. And, apparently, in pork liver too!

Indolic. (Or Indoles.) Indolic is a term that is usually used to describe certain heady, rich, lush, almost creamily ripe scents. It’s most commonly associated with certain white flowers like tuberose and gardenia, though jasmine, lilac and honeysuckle are also create ver indolic scents. Bois de Jasmin explains it as follows: “Jasmine, lilac, honeysuckle, gardenia, and orange flower all have diverse olfactory profiles, yet they share the presence of indole, which gives them a rich, narcotic fragrance. Without this unique material, which in pure form looks like white diamond dust, it would have been impossible to recreate the true scent of blooming flowers. A tiny amount of indole is all it takes to infuse life into a composition of floral notes, to make an abstract, vague petally form to appear as a lush, nectar suffused flower. Indole is often described as ‘fecal and animalic,’ which is a complete misrepresentation. In its pure form, indole smells like moth balls, possessing the same heavy, sweet, tar-like pungency. In fact, it is so strong, suffocating and diffusive that smelling it pure one is hard pressed to imagine that it could be a lovely floral note. Yet, indole changes dramatically in dilutions. It suddenly displays its radiant, floral quality. The suffocating moth ball effect disappears to give way to a completely different image–a handful of gardenia petals or a branch of jasmine flowers. The opulent, narcotic effect of indole is employed whenever a perfumer wants to create a floral effect or else to give a lift to a heavy, oriental composition.”

ISO E Super. Source: Fragrantica

Iso E Super. Iso E Super is a synthetic chemical used to perfumers to boost the strength and longevity of scents. I’ve written a full post about the aromachemical, as well as the perfumes which contain it, and the potential headache-inducing aspects to the note. You can find it here. Chanel’s in-house perfumer, Jacques Polge, is one of those who loves to it, particularly to amp up florals. NST states that it’s “described by International Flavors & Fragrances as ‘Smooth, woody, amber note with a ‘velvet’ like sensation. Superb floralizer. Used to impart fullness and subtle strength to fragrances.” (Source: NST) To my nose, however, it can often be extremely peppery, antiseptic and medicinal in aroma with a strong underpinning of rubbing alcohol. Some people are completely anosmic to the scent (meaning they can’t detect it at all), while others get terrible headaches from it. It is rarely listed as an official note in perfumes but more and more fragrances nowadays have it. You can read my post for more information on it, along with a list of some of the perfumes that include the note.

Labdanum. (Also known as Labdanum Ciste or Cistus.) Labdanum comes from the small cistus shrub which is native to the Mediterranean and Middle East. The distillation of the cistus leaves produces a dry resinous, faintly woody smell that is called labdanum in perfume. Essentially, labdanum is another resin like amber, but it has more of a masculine toughness to amber’s sweetness. Labdanum can be dirty, animalic and almost reminiscent of sex at times, while other compositions can bring out a more leather-like smell. Labdanum is also sometimes referred to as Rockrose. One perfumer and scientist described it as follows on her blog, Perfume Project NW: “Some people think it smells like goat. Others think it smells like ambergris, or leather, or pine rosin, or musk. Yet others think it smells like strange, rotten fruit. Some people think it must be the smell of heaven, and others think it’s the smell from hell. Everyone seems to have a different reaction to rock rose, otherwise known as Cistus ladaniferus (also spelled ladanifer).”

Moroccan Rose. Moroccan roses are a type of cabbage rose and, as such, have a sweet, honey-like scent.

Myrrh

Myrrh. Like Frankincense, myrrh is a gum resin. It has a smoky but sweet element and, to my nose, is not as sharp or as acrid as frankincense can (occasionally) be. For a great article on the two and their history, you can go to CaFleureBon and read their analysis here. One type of myrrh used in perfumes is Opoponax. (See below.) In general, however, the smell of myrrh encompasses a wide range: resinous and sweet; medicinal and bitter; licorice or aniseed-like; incredibly soapy, cool, and white; or sharp and dusty.

Oakmoss

Oakmoss. Oakmoss is “derived from a lichen (evernia prunastri) that grows on Oak trees. The use of real oakmoss is restricted (but not prohibited) due to regulations meant to avoid allergic reactions.” (Source: NST) One site explains the smell of this incredibly important ingredient as follows: “Oakmoss has a strong, earthy-mossy aroma. It imparts a wet forest floor scent that is very true to nature, with dry, earthy, green, and bark-like qualities, and a leather-like undertone. Oakmoss is highly valued as a fixative agent in perfumery, for its ability to anchor more volative fragrance notes, and add a rich undertone and smoothness to all perfume types (oriental, floral, chypre, etc).” Oakmoss is not only highly regulated now in terms of quantity under the IFRA regulations, but its amount may be lessened even further under additional and new regulations that are to take effect in 2013.

Olbanum otherwise known as Frankincense. (See above.) According to NST, olbanum/frankincense is “a gum resin from a tree (genus Boswellia) found in Arabia and Eastern Africa. It is harvested by making an incision in the bark; the milky juice leaks out and is left to harden over a period of months before it is collected.” It shares some similarities with Myrrh.

Opoponax

Opoponax. A type of myrrh that NST states is also known as “sweet myrrh” and “bisabol myrrh.” NST adds that Opoponax “has a sweet, balsam-like, lavender-like fragrance when used as incense. King Solomon supposedly regarded opoponax as one of the ‘noblest’ of all incense gums.” (Source: NST)

Oriental Fougère. Oriental Fougère is not an ingredient but a classification or category of perfume. “Fougère” is a type of aromatic perfume or cologne that has lavender, coumarin and/or oakmoss. So, an Oriental Fougère is, essentially, a fragrance that has oriental notes mixed with woody ones. (See, Fougère up above for more that category of perfume,)

Iris and the Orris root

Orris (or Orris root). Orris root is the root of the iris flower ,and is often used in perfume or makeup as a fixative or base. It has a richly floral, heavy scent, often evocative of violets.

Oud. (Agarwood, Aoud, or even Oudh.) Oud comes from Agarwood which is an extremely ancient element found in the East. No-one explains its heritage, characteristics and its current usage half as well as the experts at CaFleureBon, so I will just link to their marvelous, brilliant analysis of it here. To make a long story short, however, Fragrantica states that Agarwood ”is reputed to be the most expensive wood in the world” and that Oud is the “pathological secretion of the aquillaria tree, a rich, musty woody-nutty scent that is highly prized in the Middle East. In commercial perfumery it’s safe to say all ‘oud’ is a recreated synthetic note.” (For information on what it smells like, you can read my post on Oud fragrances.)

Patchouli. NST states that patchouli is “a bushy shrub originally from Malaysia and India. […] Patchouli has a musty-sweet, spicy-earthy aroma; modern patchouli is often molecularly altered to remove the musty components.” (Source: NST)

Peru Balsam. From my reading of Fragantica’s explanation, Peru balsam is a type of wood whose essence has a cinnamon and vanilla smell. At the same time, it has a green olive base which exudes an earthier, as well as bitter, aroma. It shares some similarities with Siam Resin. (See below.) Both smell like sweet vanilla but Peru Balsam has a cinnamon aspect too, along with that earthy, bitter edge. In contrast, Siam Resin — which used to be burned as incense — is more smoky and woody. Bois de Jasmin states, in comparing Peru Balsam to Tolu Balsam: “I find Peru balsam spicier and smokier. The smoky note can be introduced by processing methods when the raw material is boiled in water over a wood-burning fire. It is quite a dark, heavy material, and it is usually blended with other balsamic and ambery notes as in Hermès Elixir des Merveilles, Serge Lutens Amber Sultan, Lorenzo Villoresi Incensi, Yves Saint Laurent Opium or Nicolaï Sacrebleu Intense.” In short, Cinnamon Vanilla with bitter green earth -vs- Sweet Vanilla with smoky, incense and wood. Tolu Balsam or Balsam of Tolu is similar to the Peru Balsam.

Petitgrain. Petitgrain refers to “oil distilled from leaves and twigs of a citrus tree, usually the bitter orange tree.” (Source: NST) Essentially, it’s the slightly bitter, woody part of the orange blossom tree, and it adds a masculine touch to fragrances.

Plumeria. See Frangipani.

Resin. (See also, Balsam, Benzoin or Siam Resin). Resin is the dark, oozing secretions from a tree that differs from “balsam” mainly in terms of its form and method of preparation.

Rockrose. (Also known as Labdanum, see above.) One perfumer and research scientist described it as follows on her blog, Perfume Project NW: “Some people think it smells like goat. Others think it smells like ambergris, or leather, or pine rosin, or musk. Yet others think it smells like strange, rotten fruit. Some people think it must be the smell of heaven, and others think it’s the smell from hell. Everyone seems to have a different reaction to rock rose, otherwise known as Cistus ladaniferus (also spelled ladanifer).”

Siam Resin. Siam Resin is a type of dark, balsam-ic secretion from a particular type of tree in Thailand, and is supposed to be more smoky and dark than other types of resins. It shares some similarities with Balsam or Peru Balsam. Both smell like sweet vanilla but Peru Balsam has a cinnamon aspect too, along with that earthy, bitter edge. In contrast, Siam Resin — which used to be burned as incense — is more smoky and woody. In short, Cinnamon Vanilla with bitter green earth -vs- Sweet Vanilla with smoky, incense and wood.

Red sandalwood or Indian Mysore sandalwood.

Australian sandalwood

Sandalwood: NST describes sandalwood as: “an oil extracted from the heartwood of the Sandal tree, originally found in India. One of the oldest known perfumery ingredients, the powdered wood is also used to make incense. Indian sandalwood is now endangered, so many modern perfumes use Australian sandalwood or synthetic substitutes.” (Source: NST) The best type of sandalwood is supposed to be red Indian sandalwood, also known as Mysore sandalwood. Australian sandalwood is usually not as rich and sweet. The scent of Sandalwood can vary depending on the type used but generally, it has a sweet, slightly cedar woodsy smell with sharp, sometimes acrid vanilla undertones. It can sometimes take on a faintly medicinal note, but there is always an underlying sweetness and vanilla element lurking at its heart.

Sillage. Sillage refers to how much a scent emanates. Can you smell the perfume only if you’re very close to someone, or can you smell it from across the room? If a perfume has very little sillage, people say it’s “close to the skin.”

Soliflore. Soliflore refers to “a fragrance which focuses on a single flower, or which tries to recreate the aroma of a single flower. Soliflores may in fact have more than one floral note, however.” (Source: NST)

One type of Styrax tree which creates the resin used in Tubereuse Criminelle and in other fragrances.

Styrax. Styrax is essentially yet another type of resin. Bois de Jasmin states as follows: “It is a beautiful dry, smoky, spicy note, with a distinctive leather and incense facet. It is the least sweet and vanillic out of the balsams I have described here. A beautiful note of styrax can be noticed in the drydown of Serge Lutens Cuir Mauresque, Bois Oriental and Tubéreuse Criminelle. It is generally a supporting character, but smell Bond No.9 Broadway Nite, and the presence of leathery styrax is unmistakable right from the top note, where it is given a nice lift by the violet and aldehydes. Also, many leather accords like Chanel Cuir de Russie, Dior Fahrenheit, and Tom Ford Tuscan Leather rely on the leathery darkness of styrax.”

Tiaré. A type of gardenia.

Tolu Balsam. (See also Peru Balsam.) Tolu Balsam is another type of resin that comes from an injured tree. Bois de Jasmin states: “Tolu also has a vanilla and cinnamon fragrance, but I notice a strong smoky and sweet note. Tolu is reminiscent of almonds and leather, a seemingly darker note than benzoin. Tolu balsam is the leading player in Ormonde Jayne Tolu as well as an important supporting note in Cartier L’Heure Defendue. A smoky, warm touch of tolu balsam in Donna Karan Gold and Robert Piguet Fracas lends their florals a spicy, rich quality, which is further augmented by other sensual, oriental notes.”

Tonka Beans

Tonka Bean. According to Wikipedia, the tonka bean comes from a species of flowering tree in the pea family that is native to Central America and northern South America. Its seeds are known as tonka beans. “They are black and wrinkled and have a smooth, brown interior. Their fragrance is reminiscent of vanilla, almonds, cinnamon, and cloves.”

Tuberose

Tuberose. A extremely heady white flower that, like Frangipani, is a very indolic (tending to a lushly narcotic, sometimes over-ripe, full-blown smell). That potential to be indolic is why extremely creamy, ripe tuberose scents can — on some people — bring to mind feces, mothballs or a cat’s litter box. (See entry for “Indolic.”)

Vetiver. Vetiver (sometimes spelled as “vetyver”) is the essential oil from the root of a type of grass, most commonly found in India. Chandler Burr, the New York Times perfume critic, explained it for GQ as follows: “[i]n the most basic sense, it’s a grass native to India that grows in bushes up to 4’x4′. It’s also related to lemon grass, as you can tell when you smell it. The stuff—it’s the grass’s long, thin roots that they distill—is infinitely more interesting though: deep, shadowed, astringent, earthy like newly tilled soil, and balsam-woody. It can be warm like tobacco leaves, it can have a crushed-green leaves freshness, or it can be cool like lemon verbena. Haiti produces about 80% of the vetiver oil in the world, although sometimes you’ll be putting a bit of Indonesia or Brazil on your arm as well (Haiti’s is more floral, Java’s is smokier). […] Like wine, the scent of vetiver oil improves as it ages: the best of it is made with roots that have been aged somewhere between 18-24 months; the oil costs around $200/kg when it hits the market. American scent maker IFF makes it three ways: with steam (resulting in vetiver essence, which is dryer and lighter), solvent (which produces an absolute and is darker, with the scent of rich dirt), and a new technology called “Molecular Distillation” that uses carbon dioxide to yield a scent that’s extraordinary—strongly grapefruit, fresher, zestier.”

Ylang-ylang.

Ylang-ylang. Ylang-Ylang comes from a bright, banana-yellow flower and has a rich, heady, sweet, floral smell that is slightly fruity and custardy. One commentator called it “the eccentric sister to jasmine” but it’s also often compared to such flowers as tuberose, frangipani, and tiaré. Personally, I think it has a richer, fruitier and, definitely, spicier scent than any of those flowers. As a side note, the smell of ylang-ylang has long been considered to be both an aphrodisiac and soothing.

Reviews En Bref – Boucheron, Montale, Caron, & Annick Goutal: From Average to Terrible

Posted on December 18, 2012 by Kafkaesque

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m verbose. 😉 I can’t seem to help it and, frankly, it often exhausts me as much as it probably overwhelms (terrifies?) you. So, from time to time, I thought I would offer brief thoughts and conclusions on a wide range of colognes or perfumes. Sometimes, they will include fragrances that I plan full reviews for down the line. Other times, like now, it’s for perfumes that I don’t like and find it difficult to sum up the enthusiasm to write a full review.

BOUCHERON:

Boucheron For Men Eau de Parfum is a scent I should like, in theory. It’s a powerhouse citrus aromatic that is most definitely unisex, regardless of what’s written on the bottle. I didn’t like it. It opened with too much soapy citrus and was utterly overwhelming. I’m not easily overwhelmed and usually like powerhouse perfumes. This one is justifiably considered by some to be utterly unbearable. (For the sake of balance, others adore it. It’s definitely a very split opinion.) Boucheron became much better as it developed but not enough for me to like it. Bottom line: nothing special and somewhat nondescript in the end.

MONTALE:

I’m glad I tried Montale’s Oriental Flowers if only to prove to myself that my intense dislike for Montale scents thus far has nothing to do with oud. The two Montale oud fragrances that I’ve tried (and reviewed here) were nothing short of Chernobyl on my arm and made me desperate for a Silkwood shower. A close friend recently tried Montale’s Amber Aoud and commented: “Montale clobbers you over the head and drags you back to a cave to roast you on a rack.” So, clearly, it’s not just me. Oriental Flowers is better — but that’s not saying much. It’s sharp, screechy, and very synthetic (to me, at least). For a floriental, there is a note that suspiciously calls to mind the oud in Montale’s other fragrances.

Perhaps it’s the very synthetic lime note that keeps appearing in the Montale perfumes, even though there shouldn’t be lime in any of those that I’ve tried thus far. I think “sharp, hostile lime” is how my nose processes the extremely synthetic florals and ouds in the Montales. Regardless, I find the rose scent in Oriental Flowers to be synthetic and screechy too. Over all, the perfume gave me a headache and I wanted it off me. It wasn’t the unrelenting horror and nuclear explosion of the Montale ouds, but it was damn unpleasant. And, even worse, it simply won’t go away. There is just no escape from Montale scents, no matter how microscopic the amount.

CARON:

Perfumistas and bloggers rave about Nuit de Noel, a favorite particularly around Christmas time and a fragrance that Karl Lagerfeld allegedly sprays around his house to get him in the holiday mood. Huh. Maybe I need to try the vintage version, because I’m in the clear (and tiny) minority on this one. Consider me utterly unimpressed, though so, so desperately eager to like this one. Dammit, why don’t I?! It’s a floriental whose spice is supposed to evoke marron glacés, old-fashioned Christmases with gingerbread men, sugar and spice, baking cookies, and cozy fireplaces. Even Goth Christmases and the 1920s. The superb blog, Perfume Shrine, had an absolutely delicious review (which convinced me to buy it) and which reads, in part, as follows:

Caron’s Nuit de Noël (1922) is a soft oriental built on an accord of rose absolu and Mousse de Saxe perfumer’s base (i.e. a ready-made accordof ingredients producing a specific effect), with the addition of 25% sandalwood, jasmine, ylang ylang, lily of the valley, vetiver, amber and iris. It’s prismatically constructed around 6-isobutylquinoline, a leathery molecule.

The fragrance emits a cozy, inviting scent poised between the starch of marrons and the bitterness of the iodine/leathery note(hence my Fernet Branca evocation) fading into musky woods. Indeed the famous “Mousse de Saxe accord” is comprised of geranium, licorice (created with anise), isobutyl quinoline (leather notes), iodine and vanillin (synthesized vanilla). If older Carons, especially in their superior vintage form, are characterised by a signature “Caronade”, a common thread that runs through them, Nuit de Noël is a good place to start this escapade into one of the most chic and historical French perfume houses.

Less incensey than similarly oriental Parfum Sacré, less abrasive or bold than straightforward leathery En Avion or Tabac Blond, Nuit de Noël has a sheen that starts and ends on an unwavering tawny pitch. The spiced rum-licorice notes aplified by musk (a musk comparable to that in Chanel’sNo.5 and Bois des Iles) take on a rich saturation; the fragrance dries down to a powdery warmth redolent of the bourgeois scents of a festive evening spent outdoors.

Every single one of the reviews mentions things that are right up my alley, and make me wonder about my own judgment. (Did I mention that I’m desperate to like Nuit de Noel?) Unfortunately, as I wrote to an inquiring friend yesterday, I actually regret having bought a full bottle. A small sample would have sufficed. I only get fleeting notes of a few of the things mentioned by others, if at all. Plus, there is a very surprising bit of an underlying coldness and dryness to it. Someone called it “melancholy” but in a good way; I’m not sure I would go that far. Now, again, the vintage may be very different, but the bottom line is that my version is nothing particularly special. It’s perfectly nice, nondescript and pleasant, but I don’t want “pleasant.” There are too many perfumes in the world for unenthused “pleasant.”

Montaigne by Caron is one I’m on the fence about. It’s not a perfume I reach for often and, when I do, I think to myself, “I should wear this more.” It makes me think of Cannes, mimosa flowers under a brilliant blue sky, and Van Gogh paintings. It’s a floriental and the notes are described as follows: Top notes are jasmine, coriander, bitter orange, mimose and tangerine; middle notes are narcissus and black currant; base notes are sandalwood, amber and vanille. It’s sunny, elegant, and incredibly powerful both in terms of sillage and longevity. I have no clue why I don’t like this more. Perhaps it’s going to take a lot more tries, though that didn’t work for Nuit de Noel.

ANNICK GOUTAL:

Grand Amour is a perfume I should adore, and not solely because of the incredibly romantic story behind it. It’s a perfume that Annick Goutal created in 1996 for herself as an ode to love and her husband. Lucky Scent says: “Grand Amour is the perfume that encapsulates the serene passion Annick experienced with her husband, the cellist Alain Meunier, who would bring her a bouquet of white flowers every week. A dense perfume with flowery chords, amber, and musk that speaks of love, because “love is everything.” It’s another floriental (can you see a theme in my tastes?), and according to Fragrantica: “[t]he composition is based on three accords: floral, amber, and musk. In the floral bouquet, lily, honeysuckle, and hyacinth lead the way to Turkish rose, French jasmine, and Indian mimosa, with a touch of fruity notes. Oriental accord (amber) is represented by the notes of amber, vanilla and myrrh. In the base the sensual musk united with precious rare balsams create a very long trace.”

Hmmph. If they say so. To me, Grand Amour has a painfully green opening. It is the filthy, fetid, murky green remnants of a week-old vase of flowers whose water has not been changed and started to stink. At the same time, it’s a bit powdery and soapy. After a queasy hour or two, it turns softer. But now it’s musky soap and powder, but with leather and balsam. There’s something about it that I find unpleasant. I bought it because I love hyacinth, amber and myrrh; because the rest of the notes sounded completely up my alley; and because it was reported to be one of the rare Goutals that has good longevity. Well, the longevity isn’t bad, but it’s an utter ordeal and chore to wear it. It’s hardly akin to the sheer horror that is Montale (nothing is), but it’s one of the few perfumes I own that I want to sell. Not only do I not want to have anything to do with it, but I need to have that full bottle stop staring at me so hauntingly and reproachfully.

Perfume Review – Alahine by Téo Cabanel: Ambered Moroccan Palaces & Opulence

Posted on December 18, 2012 by Kafkaesque

Alahine was meant to evoke opulent oriental palaces, and it certainly succeeded in that endeavor. I see a Moroccan palace, shimmering in the heat under a turquoise sky, and surrounded by gardens of roses and ylang-ylang, lined with large silver urns billowing out smoky amber and incense.

Alahine comes from the French perfume house, Téo Cabanel, founded in 1893 in Algeria by Théodore Cabanel. Upon moving to Paris, he developed over 150 different perfume formulae and soon came to the attention of high society. He was a favorite of the Duchess of Windsor — the woman for whom King Edward VIII gave up the English throne — and she would order enormous amounts of his fragrances (Julia and Yasmina). Unfortunately, over time, the house faded away, but it was essentially reborn in 2003 under the direction of Caroline Illacqua who had a distant connection to Cabanel’s daughter. Illacqua brought in the perfumer, Jean-Francois Latty (who had created fragrances for YSL and Givenchy), and together they launched Alahine in 2007.

Latty describes Alahine as a soft amber, but it is technically a floral oriental (or floriental). Téo Cabanel’s website lists Alahine’s notes as follows:

bergamot, ylang ylang, jasmine, Bulgarian rose, orange tree, pepper plant, Morroccan rose, iris, cistus, patchouli, benzoin, vanilla, sandalwood, and musk.

Some perfume sites have suggested other ingredients as well. Basenotes adds lavender to its list of top notes, but I’m a bit skeptical and believe it may be just how bergamot smells to some people. Luckyscent includes sandalwood as one of the base notes; that one, I can well imagine.

As the NST website noticed, Téo Cabanel claims that the perfumes contain “100% pure and natural ingredients.” Technically, that’s not really possible as musk (or civet) comes from animals and, as such, is off limits in its natural form.

In an interview with Sniffapalooza magazine, Ilacqua clarified that Téo Cabanel’s fragrances contain between 85% and 95% natural ingredients, and its amber and musk are synthetic.

For those who can’t immediately place some of the natural notes or what they smell like, here’s a brief nutshell description that may be useful later in explaining the depth and layers to Alahine. The smell of bergamot falls between orange and lemon, and is most closely associated with Earl Grey tea. It can turn a little woody and some people can occasionally smell hints of lavender lurking around. Ylang-ylang comes from a bright, banana-yellow flower and has a rich, heady, sweet, floral smell that is slightly fruity and custardy. One commentator called it “the eccentric sister to jasmine” but it’s also often compared to such flowers as tuberose, frangipani, and tiaré. Personally, I think it has a richer, fruitier and, definitely, spicier scent than any of those flowers. As a side note, the smell of ylang-ylang has long been considered to be both an aphrodisiac and soothing. Moroccan roses are a type of cabbage rose and, as such, have a sweet, honey-like scent. In contrast, Bulgarian roses belong to the damask rose category which usually have a heady, richer, darker element to them. (To my nose, at least.) Benzoin is a type of resin and, as such, evokes the scent of amber. Depending on the type of resin, it can be both sweet and smoky, or just incense-y and slightly woody. “Cistus” really refers to Labdanum. The small cistus shrub is native to the Mediterranean and Middle East, and the distillation of its leaves produces a dry resinous, faintly woody smell that is called labdanum in perfume. Essentially, labdanum is another resin like amber, but it has more of a masculine toughness to amber’s sweetness. Labdanum can be dirty, animalic and almost reminiscent of sex at times, while other compositions can bring out a more leather-like smell.

The real reason that I took this detour into the notes is because the complexity of Alahine required me to take a refresher! The perfume is so expertly blended, and the scents fold so well into each other, that at times I struggled to figure out what ingredient was responsible for what! It was almost too much at times for me to distinguish what was going on. And a big part of that problem stemmed initially from a very big mistake I made: I sprayed on too much!

Do you want to know how much is “too much” for Alahine? Well, three spritzes where I just barely depressed the plunger! Three small spritzes of Alahine sent my nose into a tailspin because this is one seriously powerful perfume! I had to wait for the smell to fade on one arm before I could try again a few hours later with it on the other. This time, I gingerly and fearfully used one tiny spray, resulting in a few droplets. (And I never use one tiny spray! Ever. I always use 3 good spritzes spread out all along my arm and I do so for every perfume when testing it out, given how my body consumes perfume.) But trying Alahine in a small amount let me have a much better understanding of the notes. (Did I mention that this is powerful?!)

Alahine opens with a trumpeting blast of booziness, bergamot, orange, and what definitely smells like peach. After re-reading the definitions of some of the notes, I realise the peach (and some other lingering faintly fruity smells) have to be the ylang-ylang, though none of the ylang-ylang I’ve smelled (and loved) in the past ever evoked such a smell. In my first go round, I smelled such a sharply intense, screeching smell of smoky incense and black pepper that I was convinced there had to be frankincense in there as well. (There isn’t, but that is apparently what happens when you spray too much Alahine on your first try and sniff. It totally blows out your nose.)

In those opening minutes, the citrus and ylang-ylang fruits are joined by what smells like cloves, cinnamon and a fainty soapy muskiness. There is almost a medicinal note from the cloves, but also a heavy, (heavy!), thick viscous, gooey, treacly element that has to be the amber! It’s heavy and black enough at this stage that I wonder if perhaps I’m really smelling the patchouli? It’s hard to know at this stage, but if that is really just the amber, colour me impressed.

Ten minutes in, the heady smell of roses and iris appears, followed a bit later by the jasmine. Alahine is softer now, less shrill, gentled perhaps due to the powder notes that are also there. And yet, there is also definite black pepper behind it all, pepper that is biting, faintly woody, almost balsam-like. I suspect this is from the pepper plant they used. And I still smell peach!

As Alahine develops over time, it turns more into a predominantly amber-y scent, combined with the rose, musk and powder. But this is like few amber fragrances that I have come across. There is a distinctly boozy nature to the element that brought to mind very aged bourbon and rum, almost cognac-brown in their richness and sweet thickness. (I wonder if it’s the labdanum that is responsible?)

I’m not the only one who thought of alcohol. The blog Perfume-Smellin Things noted: “[t]he intense, almost liqueur-like center of this perfume’s universe is Bulgarian and Moroccan rose essence of high quality that gives it a rounded and almost fruity quality overall.” She attributes it to the rose notes but I have to wonder. It seems more an attribute of the various resins at play here, particularly as the boozy accord is accompanied by perpetual smoky, incense-y notes with an almost bitter-chocolate earthiness. (Now, that’s definitely the labdanum!)

I should admit that I didn’t completely understand the enormous fuss over Alahine on my first try. (I’m going to blame that on using too much – illogical as it may be.) It was absolutely lovely, yes, but the incredible raves and almost crazed gushing?? I couldn’t see it. But my second try showed its real beauty. And that is something that has happened to others, too. The chap at the Nathan Branch blog was initially unimpressed, but repeated pleas from perfumistas he respects made him give it another shot:

At first, nothing struck me as extraordinary. The pieces all functioned properly, the mix was good, the scent pleasant, but I didn’t get a particularly noteworthy vibe. I’ve learned, however, that first impressions can be deceiving, which was the case with Alahine. What seemed initially a little lazy or derivative of its betters became much more than that with repeated wearings.

But after more than one wearing, his reaction was, “Yowza! How did I miss all this?” Perfume Posse said something similar:

I was charmed by Alahine´s transformation. It starts out with a ladylike floral note, a generalized citrus/jasmine/ylang, very classic and expensive smelling. […] From there Alahine only gets better as the pepper, iris and the naughty bits start to bloom, but it’s sexy in a subtle way, the woman in the corner of the room who catches your eye, and suddenly compared to her quiet chic everyone else looks a bit overdone.

[Update 4/14 — I have to add to this review because, in the 18 months since I wrote this review, I have noticed the same pattern mentioned by Nathan Branch and others happening again and again with readers who have tried Alahine on my recommendation. It’s happened so often that I wanted to raise the issue directly, and not just in the comment section where this is frequently discussed. It consistently seems to take 4 tries for people to fall for Alahine. I’ve actually lost track at this point of the number of people who were wholly unimpressed at first, only to subsequently become utterly obsessed. That includes men, as well as those who normally can’t stand fragrances with roses.

I’ve concluded that Alahine seems to involve some form of Stockholm Syndrome. It may also help to go easy on the application at first, since the intensity of the boozy spicebomb can be quite overwhelming if you spray with reckless abandon. But what matters most of all for Alahine is a little patience. You really need to try it four times before it suddenly seems to transform before your eyes into the most intoxicating brew you’ve encountered.]

So, what really is Alahine, beyond just a changeling? NST‘s review (linked up above) described Alahine, in part, as “ylang-ylang crème brulée lightened with rose and dusted with powder.” I think that is true, but far from the whole story. For me, Alahine is far more than the scent they describe:

Alahine is an oriental treatment of ylang ylang. Alahine takes the flower’s cold cream-like scent and spins it with amber, sandalwood, and vanilla. The result is a ylang ylang crème brûlée lightened with rose and dusted with powder. It’s warm, thick, sweet, and feminine — comforting without being maternal. Its sillage is moderate, and its lasting power is excellent.

Alahine isn’t edgy or surprising, but in some ways that’s an asset. Think of it as the camel coat fashion magazines are touting as a major trend for this fall. People have been wearing camel coats for a good long time, and they’ve always been appropriate and sometimes even stylish, even if they’re only sporadically fashionable. Alahine is like that. You’re always correct (and warm) in Alahine.

One of my disagreements with that summation is that it omits the incredibly smoky, boozy, incense-y, viscous nature of the perfume. Basically, Alahine is far too intense and powerful to be a mild camel coat — no matter how chic or expensive it may be. And “comforting”? Please! I think it’s too seductive to be comforting (let alone maternal!). This is a fragrance to wear with a black dress. Not a revealing, little black dress, but a tailored one that is cut tantalisingly low, or perhaps with a very long slit up the side. Or it’s a fragrance to wear with a slinky, slightly revealing cashmere sweater over a short black skirt, with opulent jewelry and sky-high stilettos. (I have no idea what men feel is their ideal elegantly sexy attire when seeking to subtly and quietly seduce, so I will leave that up to my male readers to determine.) Alahine is not about the full-on reveal and Bada-boom, but about the most sophisticated, elegant seduction. It’s the scent of a Bond girl — but one of the quiet ones who lures James Bond into her web. Camel coats…. bah!

I also disagree with NST’s assessment of its sillage. My body consumes perfume and this one well-nigh consumed me at first! (Did I mention those first 3 sprays were small?!) Yes, Alahine does become close to the skin…. but 6 hours later! (On me!) And the longevity? I can still smell it almost 12 hours later. On someone else, I suspect this perfume could easily go 16 hours or more. In fact, depending on amount used, a full 24 hours wouldn’t shock me at all.

One area where I actually do agree with NST is the issue of edginess. This is not an edgy perfume, particularly not in that occasionally disturbing, disorienting, or intentionally different way that some niche scents can be. There are some very classique elements to Alahine’s elegance and opulence. I’ve read some comparisons to the legendary Bal à Versailles; and the minute I saw them, I thought, “Ah, yes. They have a point.” This is like Bal à Versailles, but it’s much less soapy and powdery than my memories of BaV. Alahine is more resinous, spicy, smoky, fruity (the ylang-ylang) and incense-y. Other comparisons have been to Parfum d’Empire‘s Ambre Russe, though that is supposed to be boozier and more intense. I don’t have it (yet) to be able to assess that claim.

Alahine is marketed as a perfume for women but it is absolutely unisex, in my opinion. From the opening bergamot notes to the thick, resinous amber, patchouli, incense and faintly woody base, this is a scent that I think would be very sexy on a man. (And, according to his blog, Nathan Branch’s boyfriend thought so too.) I also have quite a number of male friends who wear Alahine, and don’t think it’s “feminine” at all.

For me, this is a perfume that I would well consider buying as a full bottle. In all honesty, if I could, I would do so right now. This minute. There is just something about Alahine that makes me feel happy and sunny. I think it’s too opulent to be “cozy” and “comfy,” but it makes me feel like purring. It brings to mind visions of Morocco, turquoise and roses, smoke and mirrors, spice and life. Try it. You’ll see.

[IMPORTANT UPDATE March 2017: This fragrance has been reformulated, and very badly at that, too, in my opinion. I bought a back-up bottle which smelled completely different. The roses were clearly synthetic, and smelled like very cheap, low quality versions to my nose with a very shrill and thin character. In addition, there was now a massive amount of very synthetic cedar front and center, and it, too, was very shrill. Finally, the jasmine, spice, and amber levels were completely altered and slashed. To make certain that the changes were not limited to my new bottle, I later purchased a cheap set of 15 manufacturer samples on eBay, and they all had the exact same, new, reformulated composition, so it is clearly not an anomalous situation. The changes are so immense, in my opinion, the scent is so different from the original one talked about in this review (in Alahine’s original bottle design), and the new reformulated version is so unpleasant to my nose that I refuse to wear it and have given away my new second bottle. I don’t know when precisely and exactly the changes took place, because companies never give official statements admitting reformulation, but I would advise caution before buying the current Alahine. Test it first to see if it suits your tastes.]

DETAILS:

General Cost & Discount Prices: Alahine comes in Eau de Parfum form (which is what I reviewed), but also in Extrait de Parfum. For the EDP, it costs $130 or €95 for 1.7 oz/50 ml as of 11/12/2013. The price for the larger size used to be $145 for 3.3 oz, but I’m not sure as to is current cost as of this November 2013 date. The parfum extract version was $220 for 0.5 oz/15 ml, but it may have increased from the original time this review was posted. However, Alahine is also available at huge discounts from a variety of online retailers: LilyDirect sells a large 3.4 oz bottle for $82, and they are a very reliable, reputable perfume retailer. EvePerfumeStore sells it for $102. Small 1.7 oz bottles can be found on eBay for about $50, while large 3.4 oz bottles are easily found for around $70 (instead of about $145).

U.S. Vendors: Luckyscent now carries the whole Teo Cabanel line. It sells Alahine for $130 for a 50 ml bottle. You’d do better to order the large 100 ml bottle for $82 from LilyDirect. The Posh Peasant also carries Alahine, but the bottles sell out quickly so you will have to check.

Teo Cabanel: The Teo Cabanel website (in English and French) also has a separate e-shop boutique. They show a list of retailers who carry their products by country, so whether you live in the Netherlands or say, Japan, you should be able to find someone who sells their perfume. I don’t know their shipping prices, however, and I could not find any information on it.) Prices are €95 and €120, depending on the size of the bottle. A 7-Piece Sample Set is also sold of the complete range for €8.5.

Overseas: In London, you can find Alahine at Bloom Perfumery which sells Alahine in two sizes: 50 ml/1.7 oz for £89.00, and 100 ml/3.4 oz for £113.00, along with a 2 oz sample vial for £2.00. Elsewhere in London, I’ve read that Téo Cabanel is carried at Fortnum & Mason’s, but I don’t see it shown online. Liberty’s states that Téo Cabanel fragrances are available only in their actual store. As a whole, for European readers, I saw it online at Parfums MDP (which I think is in the UK?) for the same €82 and €101 price as the company’s website. They say that there is “free worldwide postage” which I find to be stunning (and hard to believe)! For Canada, the Cabanel’s website lists Fritsch Fragrances as a vendor but I cannot find a website for the store. Elsewhere, I’ve also that Teo Cabanel perfumes are available at: Galeries Lafayette, Douglas (France, Lithuania, Russia), Kadewe Berlin, Oberpollinger Munich, and Albrecht in Frankfurt. In Australia, I saw the large 100 ml/3.4 oz bottle of Oha on GetPrice for AUD$109.65. For all other countries, you can try to use the company’s Retailers guide on their website.

Samples: Samples are available at Luckyscent for $4 for a 0.7 ml vial. Surrender to Chance sells Alahine starting at $3.99 for 1 ml vial, and going up in size to 15 ml/0.50 oz for $51.87. Shipping costs around $2.95 within the U.S. (no matter how small or large the order), and approximately $12.75 for overseas.

Perfume Review – Monsieur de Givenchy by Givenchy: Vintage vs. Modern

Posted on December 17, 2012 by Kafkaesque

I like to wear men’s colognes. I admit that quite proudly. In fact, the modern commercial trend towards generic sugar bombs and gourmands has made me resort more and more to men’s cologne of late. So, from time to time, I will post brief reviews or impressions of ones I enjoy. One of them, deeply ingrained in the memories of my childhood, is the 1959 classic, Monsieur de Givenchy (which I’ll just call “Vintage” or “MdG-V” from now on) by Givenchy. My father used to wear it, along with a number of other classic, legendary men’s fragrances. (In fact, it’s thanks to my father that I ever developed a nose for men’s cologne to begin with!) Recently, a dear friend of mine recently sent me a very large decant of the vintage version, circa 1970s judging by his box. And it was as amazing as I remember.

Being inquisitive and also lucky to have a father with a nice selection of colognes, I decided to poke through his current collection. There, I saw a new-ish bottle of Monsieur de Givenchy (hereinafter “Modern” or “MdG-M” with the “M” standing for “Modern.”) My father dates it to about 2004 or 2005. So, I temporarily stole his bottle and decided to do a side-by-side comparison. Bottom line: I think there is clearly a huge, HUGE difference between the two fragrances. And one of them is terrible.

First, I need to make a point of clarification about the different versions. MdG may have been reformulated a few times over its 50 year history. The array of boxes shown on different Basenotes threads could be a hint of that.

Modern version of MdG on the Left, Vintage version on the Right. Source: Basenotes.

Modern version on the Left, Vintage version on the Right. Source: Basenotes.

(I’ve seen at least 3 different ones.) Making matters more complicated, Basenotes states that Givenchy issued a fragrance called “Monsieur de Givenchy II” in 1993 as an updated version of the classic, but then discontinued it, before finally just re-issuing it as Greenergy. It is a totally different scent. So too is Givenchy Gentleman (1974). Givenchy Gentleman and Monsieur de Givenchy are complete opposites. The Gentleman is heavier with patchouli and leather, while the MdG is a citrus chypre. If you’re still with me, I fear I may lose you when we get to 2007.

2007 was when Givenchy launched Les Parfums Mythiques – Monsieur de Givenchy Givenchy for men, a fragrance that has very different ingredients listed.

Mythique version.

For example, the carnation, cinnamon, and pepper in the top notes are now gone. And, by all reports, the oakmoss heart has been so diluted that it has essentially vanished. Despite these huge changes, Les Mythiques appears to have completely replaced the MdG — whatever its prior formulations. Adding to this belief is the fact that Givenchy’s Mythiques line consists of a number of its classical colognes like Xeryus and Vetyver; it would seem to be a complete rebranding and modernisation of all its oldest fragrances. So, for the purposes of this review, when I refer to “MdG-M,” I’m referring to the final version of Monsieur (1990s to 2006) prior to its reformulation as Les Mythiques. And the Vintage version refers to the 1970s/80s formulation (or older) that is the true MdG, in my opinion.

One thing I can assure you: you can easily find the Vintage version on eBay. And, in this case (perhaps even more than usual), the vintage version is best. It is absolutely something you will want to seek out if you love aromatic citrus scents that are very discreet. But onward and upwards, to the fragrances themselves.

MdG (in all its permutations) is commonly classified as “Citrus Aromatic.” Its notes are not so clear beyond the basics which are: lemon, lavender, bergamot and sandalwood. The details, however, vary from site to site. Fragrantica lists the notes for MdG-V as follows: “Top: carnation, cinnamon, pepper and lemon; middle notes are lavender and lemon verbena; base notes are sandalwood, musk and oakmoss.”

Basenotes has even less details, with no reference to the carnation and cinnamon, let alone the geranium and civet that I know is there. NST has a much more complete list, though it’s completely unclear to me which version of MdG they’re talking about. Nonetheless, this is how NST described the original scent:

A hesperides lover’s dream come true, Monsieur is composed of bergamot, lemon, lime, petitgrain, lavender, clary sage, orange, basil, musk, civet and cedar. Don’t worry — if it sounds herbal, it is, but only slightly.

That’s for the Vintage version. In contrast, the notes for the Modern version are a quarter of that. Fragrantica lists them as follows: “Top notes are bergamot and lemon; middle notes are lavender and lemon verbena; base notes are hinoki wood and oakmoss.” (I have absolutely no idea what “hinoki wood” is, but Google informs me that it’s Japanese cypress.) My father’s bottle of MdG-M essentially lists the same, only with the inclusion of “coumarin” (a classic Fougère element), oak moss “extract,” and “cinnamal.” (No sight of anything resembling “hinoki,” by the way.) Observe how different the ingredient list for the Modern scent is from both Fragrantica and NST’s listings for the vintage. For the Vintage, I think we should go with NST’s fuller version of the ingredients because they seem much more accurate to my nose.

I put on a 3-4 average splashes of the Vintage (circa 1970s or early 1980s) on my right arm, and about 3-4 sprays of Modern (circa 2004) on the left. From the very opening splash of the Vintage, I got a sparkling, super bright explosion of green. Green, green and more green, but never in a linear, one-note manner. There was lemon, verbena and mossy greens with depth, complexity and a lovely herbal note. In contrast, my 3-4 squirts of the Modern led me to actually mutter out loud: “What the hell is this???!” It was watery and diluted beyond belief. The difference was mind-boggling.

There was such a wimp factor that I hurriedly sprayed 2 more bursts, then an additional 2 to 3 for good measure. So, now, I’ve got about 7 or 8 sprays of the Modern on my left arm and about 3-4 good splashes of the Vintage on the right. And I still smell the Vintage more! The Modern version was all watery lemon with absolutely no oakmoss from the onset. After 15 minutes, I suppose you can say that it had turned into lemon-lavender soap. I suppose. There is really so little to say about it.

In contrast, the Vintage version had started to open up. The lemon, verbena and oakmoss accords began to include geranium and lavender. They emerged quite prominently, along with the carnation and a faint touch of soap. I wonder if I can smell the sage and basil, or if I’m imagining it, but it doesn’t matter. Oh, lordie, is that geranium lovely! I can smell no cinnamon or orange, but I’m glad for it because I think it would detract from the lovely green, herbal woodiness. The petit-grain also helps in creating that impression. (Petit-grain is the result of distilling the twigs from citrus trees, creating a bitter, woody, masculine scent.) The result is an incredibly balanced, harmonious and sophisticated composition that oozes elegance and class.

An hour in, the vintage version has turned to a lemon lavender musk with soap, some lingering geranium and wood (especially the cedar). There is also some warmth. The musk, civet and sandalwood start a quiet purr. Some have said that the vintage contains real santal oil, and I can believe it because there is a real depth and richness to the warmth.

I think these base notes are what separate MdG-V from another fragrance that it is often compared to: Chanel‘s classic, Pour Monsieur (1955). Pour Monsieur is much, much soapier. It’s also greener and has spice (ginger, cardamon, coriander, basil) at its base, while there is none in MdG. Instead, MdG-V has warmth (sandalwood) and musk (civet). MdG-V is actually closer to Dior‘s legendary Eau Sauvage (1966) in its vintage form.

However, it is all very discreet. Verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry discreet. Everyone always says that MdG is fleeting (in all its formulations), and that is especially true on me. While most give the vintage about 4-5 hours in longevity, on me it starts to seriously fade 2 hours in. A little after the fourth hour, I can smell it faintly on the skin only if I touch my nose to my arm and inhale forcefully.

In contrast, the MdG-M version died about 2 hours in. Died completely, if I may add. Dead as a door nail. And I have little to say about the rest of its development prior to that point. I think it’s an utterly undistinguished, worthless, and watery scent that is easily superceded by most drugstore lemon-lavender soaps. Yes, there is a hint of civet that adds some muskiness later down the line but, really, this thing is a travesty to the name of Monsieur de Givenchy! Others think that there is no difference between vintage MdG and its later incarnations but… bah, humbug! Not in my opinion. (And one can only shudder to think of how bad the Mythiques version must be, given the reports of even further dilution.)

However, I firmly believe that the MdG-Vintage is worth a small effort to track down on eBay. I am usually someone who opts for orientals, spice and warmth, but I can’t help but really like MdG-V. Despite its limited sillage and fleeting longevity, it’s pure class and refinement. I see MdG as something Cary Grant would wear with a Saville Row bespoke grey suit, double-breasted and with a discreet ,white pochette.

And, yet, I hear that it was Freddie Mercury’s signature scent. Freddie Mercury! Queen! Tight, red leather pants, a bare, hairy chest, bouche à pipe lips, and hot, smoldering sexuality! Freddie Mercury, the original sexpot rebel that Adam Lambert only wishes he could be. Freddie Mercury and MdG!!! Honestly, there aren’t enough exclamation points to convey the incongruity of that pairing in my mind. One thing is for certain: it proves that MdG is not necessarily your grandfather’s cologne. So, if you like herbal citrus colognes and you’re in the market for a refined office scent that is both sophisticated and elegant, you may want to consider this one.

But I don’t promise that anyone will think you’re Freddie Mercury….