By Kilian Sacred Wood

Posted on April 27, 2014 by Kafkaesque

The joys of Mysore sandalwood are ostensibly and supposedly replicated in Sacred Wood, the latest fragrance from By Kilian. Not in my opinion. Not even remotely.

Source: lamasatonline.net

Sacred Wood was created by Calice Becker, and I think the story behind its creation is essential to understanding the limitations of the scent. As Luckyscent explains, Calice Becker originally intended the scent to be nothing more than a base for other fragrances. Kilian Hennessy loved it so much that he decided it should be a solo scent, all by itself, and with nothing else added. Sacred Wood is therefore meant to be a simple soliflore designed to recreate the smell of Mysore sandalwood via other means. To quote from Luckyscent:

No longer available to perfumers since it was over-harvested, Mysore sandalwood (Santalum album) is one of the ingredients they miss the most. Calice Becker had long been working on a blend that would reproduce its complexity: the warm, rosy, smoky, creamy, spicy facets that make the legendary wood such an irreplaceable material.

Though originally intended as a base, the composition worked so beautifully on its own, and within the theme of the collection, that Kilian Hennessy snapped it up for the last episode of his Asian Tales. Sacred Wood conjures the mystical scent with amazing accuracy: like its model, it is so rich and facetted it is a fragrance in and of itself. Its silky, sensuous scent is amazingly long-lasting, though never overwhelming. It is the answer to the prayers of all sandalwood lovers.

Personally, I think Luckyscent is completely delusional if they think Sacred Wood conjures up the mystical beauty of Mysore sandalwood with any accuracy. Regardless, they provide the following list of notes for the scent:

Steaming milk accord, sandalwood, carrot, cumin, elemi, cedar wood.

Source: graphicsbeam.com

Sacred Wood opens on my skin with green Australian sandalwood and sandalwood synthetics. The wood is green — very green — with grassiness and a miniscule touch of medicinal, herbal sourness underneath. It’s infused with the steamed milk accord which smells very authentic. Raw carrots and a touch of dry cedar lurk at the edges.

There is a distinct whiff of synthetics underlying the scent. Elena Vosnaki of The Perfume Shrine recently had a wonderful article on Fragrantica called “Synthetic Pathways to Sandalwood Notes,” regarding the various sandalwood substitutes on the market. I encourage you to read the piece in full if you’re interested, but I’ll quote some relevant sections here:

Several synthetics rose to the task of replicating [Mysore], often at a quite elevated cost despite their man-made aspect, and many times entering into venerable “modern classics.”

Nowadays many of those synthetics are used in combination with or attendance of the harvests of Mysore-identical sandalwood trees being farmed on Australian soil. These are trees of the India native species and not of the different, native Australian sandalwood (Santalum spicatum, such as the one used in Le Labo’s Santal 33 which is a different species with a different, sharper and lightly smoky scent profile, nor of the New Caledonia sandalwood variety (steadily gaining in popularity). […][¶]

Among synthetic sandalwood notes, Polysantol, a former Firmenich trademark, is quite popular thanks to its intense diffusion and realistic replication. Otherwise known as santol pentenol due to its structure, it enters many a fragrance composition thanks to its part herbal, part lived-in warmth. Beta santalol or technically (-)-(1’S,2’R,4’R)-(Z)-beta-santalol is also a nature identical typical sandalwood note. […][¶]

Ebanol [(1S,2’S,3’R)-Ebanol], a Givaudan trademark, is noted for its potency. Symrise proposes its Fleursandol which has a very strong, animalic-laced sandalwood note with floral elements surfacing. […][¶]

Ebanol via Givaudan

Javanol via Givaudan.

Javanol, Ebanol, Sandela, Santaliff (IFF santal mysore core), and Santalore are extremely powerful and true to sandalwood synthetics. In fact this might explain the curious effect one experiences when handling them: it was enough to smell a 10% dilution to anesthetize my nose for several hours later, a state I was taken out of by squeezing fresh lemon juice. A perfumer must be cautious and restrained when using them in order not to end up making the wearer of the finished fragrance tired and anosmic to them. Extreme dilution (even lower than 0.5%) is recommended, as alongside Iso-E Super (woody cedar) and methyl ionone (violets) those notes cause rapid nose fatigue.

At least one of those synthetics is present in Sacred Wood, and noticeable in varying degrees from the perfume’s very start to its dying moments on my skin. And no, it does not authentically recreate the smell of Mysore sandalwood. There is a comment to the Fragrantica article where “Eeyore III” quotes Luca Turin on why chemical synthetics fail to properly reproduce the scent of actual Mysore wood:

The reason synthetics don’t smell (that much) like sandalwood has been explained, chemically, by Luca Turin: “(Z)-(-)-beta-santalol, the molecule present to about 25 per cent in natural sandalwood oil and largely responsible for its gorgeous smell, is, synthetically speaking, a real back-breaker. The best total synthesis to date is an eleven-step affair, and any research chemist who tried to talk his production colleagues into making this would be quickly shouted down.“– L. Turin,The Secret of Scent p.77.

What I smell in Sacred Wood is green — all the way through. And greenness is not what I associate with Mysore sandalwood. It is redness. Dark, rich, red spiciness, with slightly smoky creaminess. I grew up in a time when Mysore was in almost every Oriental perfume, while shops sold Mysore beads, Mysore boxes, Mysore sculptures, and everything else in sight. I know what Mysore smells and looks like. And not one iota of that smell is evident in Sacred Wood.

Mysore sandalwood. Source: Fragrantica

Before you mention the new Australian plantation with its Indian Mysore trees, let me say that I’ve smelled that, too. I was sent a small bottle of the oil by the company as part of what was meant to be a coordinated multi-blog review or Basenotes article to praise its merits. I could not do so, and wrote bluntly that it did not smell at all like Mysore to me, so my comment was not used.

My bottle of the Australian plantation oil. Photo: my own.

To me, that Australian plantation wood was green. Green, green, green with sour buttermilk and grassy undertones, along with an occasional medicinal touch. The trees may ostensibly be Mysore, but they’re incredibly young. I think it’s going to take another 60 years, at a minimum, for them to age enough to take on a true Mysore aroma. They are not there yet, not even remotely. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sacred Wood contains some oil from that lone Australian plantation, because I have mentioned the word “green,” yet?

I will admit with all honesty that I’m the wrong person to be writing a review of Sacred Wood. I am a die-hard Mysore sandalwood snob, and I cannot stand the Australian varieties — whether the Santalum album from that plantation, or the Australian Santalum spicatum cousin. I dislike both green sandalwood, and the generic beigeness of the Australian variety. I don’t think the latter even deserves the name “sandalwood” at all.

Source: blinds-wallpaper.net

In fact, I sometimes think that all perfumers should stop using the word entirely and substitute “beige woods” unless they are spending a king’s ransom on the actual stuff. Neela Vermeire has done so for her perfumes, with the spectacular Trayee having the greatest amount, and so has Laurent Mazzone for LM Parfums‘ Hard Leather. Chanel‘s beautiful Bois des Iles supposedly has no sandalwood in it at all, but Jacques Polges has successfully recreated the smell through some miracle, so he gets a total pass from me and much worship for his wizardry. All the rest of the perfume houses should bloody well call the wood something else entirely. Yes, it is that much of a sore point for me.

Sacred Wood did not put me in a good mood, as you may have noticed. I tried to like it, I really did. I simply couldn’t get past the greenness, or the synthetic twang in the base. At one point, I told myself to approach it like a non-sandalwood fragrance, and to see the good in Sacred Wood. So, the rest of this review will be me trying my best, lying to myself, and pretending to be someone else.

Source: seriouseats.com

Sacred Wood’s opening is interesting, I suppose. The steamed milk accord is truly authentic in feel, though it occasionally flashes as “sour milk” on my skin, in a way that replicates badly boiled milk a little too closely for my liking. The cold carrots remind me a little of how iris can be; I’m not crazy about that aspect, either. The cumin doesn’t appear in a distinct way at all, and the elemi initially doesn’t translate either as something lemony or as the wood’s more common smoky, dry, peppered features.

For the most part, Sacred Wood’s opening on my skin is merely a blend of boiled milk, green Australian wood, and cold carrots with a synthetic twinge. It’s a very strong bouquet initially, but thin in body, light in weight, and sheer. It lacks oomph or much character, if you ask me, and I’m saying that in my pretend role as someone who supposedly doesn’t know or care about Mysore sandalwood.

Sacred Wood changes at the end of the first hour. The elemi’s smoky, peppered sides rise to the surface, the perfume turns smokier, the milky accord starts to fade away, and the carrots vanish. The sour undertone to the fragrance remains, though it waxes and wanes in its visibility over the next few hours. Oddly, the sweetness and spiciness of the “sandalwood” also vary. Sometimes, the wood seems to have turned sweet and spicy, to go with that new touch of smokiness. The majority of the time, however, it’s either sour, the grassiness reappears, or the perfume just continues on its simple trajectory of green “sandalwood” with elemi smoke.

Source: Micks Images. http://www.micksimages.com/Smoke-II(2399572).htm

One thing to be said for Sacred Wood is that its greenness turns creamy. Roughly 2.5 hours into the perfume’s development, it lies just an inch above the skin as a very creamy, smooth, slightly smoky sandalwood and elemi fragrance. The synthetics retreat fully to the sidelines, and… well, that’s about it. For hours. And hours. Creamy green woods with elemi. At the end of the 7th hour, the elemi starts to fade away, and the first touch of the sandalwood synthetics returns. By the start of the 9th hour, Sacred Wood is green santal with synthetics. And it remains that way until it finally dies away 12.75 hours from the start.

Source: polychemcoatings.com

I was bored out of my mind, and spent a good deal of that time fantasizing about anything else I could put on my skin. Even as someone pretending not to have issues with Australian “sandalwood,” Sacred Wood doesn’t come across as anything particularly interesting. It is a bloody one-note trajectory that starts as boiled milk green sandalwood, turns into lightly smoked green sandalwood, and then ends as green-beige sandalwood. I always say that there is nothing wrong with linearity if you like the scent in question, but I obviously don’t. And, come on, this is a simple base accord that Kilian Hennessey would like to charge you $245 for the supposed privilege of wearing. I realise there are cheaper refill or travel options, but no thanks. To any of it.

Yes, I’m being peevish, and yes, perhaps that’s unfair. But, dammit, I’ve been a die-hard Mysore sandalwood lover for over 30 years, and it’s really hard to wrap my head around a scent like this one. It’s not even trying to fix the problem or to compensate for the limitations by adding more elements to create an end result that is closer to the real thing. That’s the real kicker for me. Plenty of perfumers do that, like Serge Lutens in some of his santal creations where additional spices or accords are brought in to bridge the gap between the Australian wood and the synthetics. Not here. It’s a simple, occasionally creamy, green wood base that somehow Kilian Hennessy thinks is sufficient all by itself. It’s not. And I feel the same way about it as I do when L’Oreal tries to pass off the disgusting modern “Opium” as the real thing. It’s adding insult to injury.

At least one blogger out there seems to understand. Robin at Now Smell This says in her review of Sacred Wood, “if you’re an old-school sandalwood fiend looking for a fix, it might not hit the same spot.” No, it bloody well doesn’t. Parsing her review carefully, and noticing her statements in the comment section, I suspect she feels the same way as I do about Sacred Wood, but she’s simply tactful and diplomatic in a way that I can’t be. She writes:

Sacred Wood opens on citrus-y, spicy wood; it’s not a dead ringer for my long-time love, Diptyque Tam Dao, but it reminded me of Tam Dao right away: the opening has that same sheer but wood-focused feeling, at the other end of the spectrum from the more ornately decorated sandalwood trio from Serge Lutens (Santal Blanc, Santal de Mysore and Santal Majuscule). As the citrus burns off, Sacred Wood moves to the middle: it gets spicier and more milky-creamy, but at the same time, the woods get softer and more indistinct.

It’s closest to the ‘olfactory impression of an authentic Sandalwood from Mysore’ in the middle stages. Eventually, it’s a mild woodsy blend, reasonably sandalwood-y but without the richness of old-school sandalwood fragrances. If you’ve never smelled an old-school sandalwood fragrance, that won’t matter to you, but if you have one on hand, you’ll notice how comparatively thin the base of Sacred Wood is. I wore Sacred Wood next to a drop of Santal Blanc and a drop of Chanel Bois des Iles extrait,2 and the Sacred Wood, smells, well, modern. Obviously, you may or may not prefer it that way. […][¶]

Verdict: I was expecting a sandalwood-bomb, and Sacred Wood isn’t exactly that. It’s a lovely quiet woods scent, though, very wearable, and not at all dull[.]

We shall have to agree to disagree on everything, but how Sacred Wood doesn’t measure up to actual “old-school sandalwood fragrances,” and how “thin” its base is in comparison. I suppose her feelings can be understood, given how much better her experience and version of Sacred Wood was to mine. Green-beige woods and synthetic sandalwood in a dead flat-line are most certainly dull, in my opinion.

The best thing that can be said for Sacred Wood is that it’s smooth and I suppose it’s wearable, especially if you have never experienced Mysore sandalwood. That may be why it has some very enthusiastic reviews on Fragrantica. You can read them if you’re interested. I’m having great difficulty in not writing, “Meh” to everything, or banging my head against a wall. So, it’s probably best that I end this here and now. I shall seek comfort in the arms of Crabtree & Evelyn‘s vintage, discontinued Extrait de Mysore Sandalwood, and mourn.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Sacred Wood is an eau de parfum that costs $245, £177, or €185 for a 1.7oz/50 ml bottle that comes in a black, wooden box. A cheaper “refill” option is available for $145, along with a travel set of 4 x 0.25 minis for $155. In the U.S.: you can purchase Sacred Wood in any of the 3 options from Luckyscent, the Kilian website, and department stores like Bergdorf Goodman or Saks. Outside the U.S.: you can purchase Sacred Wood from the International Kilian website for €185 for the proper bottle, €80 for the refill, €105 for the 4 travel sprays, or €65 for a single travel decant in a silver container. In the U.K., you can find it at Harvey Nichols in the regular bottle and the refill option for £177 or £70, respectively. In Paris, the Kilian line is carried at Printemps. In the UAE, you can find Sacred Wood at the Paris Gallery. Elsewhere, you can find the Kilian line at Harvey Nichols stores around the world, from Dubai to Hong Kong. As for other locations, By Kilian’s Facebook page lists the following retailers and/or locations: “HARVEY NICHOLS (UK, Honk Kong, UAE, Saudi Arabia, Koweit, Turkey), Le BON MARCHE (France), TSUM (Russia), ARTICOLI (Russia) and HOLT RENFREW (Canada).” Samples: Surrender to Chance sells Sacred Wood starting at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.

By Kilian Apple Brandy

Posted on January 4, 2014 by Kafkaesque

Source: dailymail.co.uk

Some fragrances are not meant to be practical, versatile, daily experiences. They’re intended to be playful whimsy, a bit of a laugh for those with very deep pockets who can afford to indulge in a rich man’s expensive luxury once in a blue moon. I think that’s perhaps the best way to interpret and approach Apple Brand, the brand-new, recently released perfume from By Kilian. It is a fragrance that really isn’t something practical for most people to wear on a daily basis, unless you want your boss to think you’re an alcoholic and write you up to HR, or a police officer to look at you askance and subject you to a breathalyzer test. In a nutshell, Apple Brandy makes you smell like you were smeared from head to toe with a 1000 plates of Crepe Suzette, and then fell into an oak barrel of cognac after an all-night bender.

Source: Instyle.com.com

Apple Brandy is an eau de parfum that was created by Sidonie Lancesseur, and was released at the end of 2013 as a scent exclusive to Kilian Hennessy‘s new store in New York’s meatpacking district. As the Kilian website description makes clear, the fragrance is both a playful wink at the “Big Apple,” and an homage to his Hennessey cognac heritage:

BRANDY is the term used to designate “Cognac“ when your product is not actually produced in the region of Cognac. In order to recreate this very specific “Cognac” scent that belongs in Kilian’s olfactive memory, Sidonie created an accord combining the smoked wood from the Oak casks – Cedar wood from Texas, white Cedar from China and Labdanum from Spain – and the sugar from the alcohol – Vanilla and Ambroxan.

APPLE is of course a wink to New York, the “Big Apple”. In order to create an “Apple accord” that would not be anecdotal or too simplistic, we created an “Apple liquor” that would blend, rather than contrast, with the “Oak cask” accord.

The complete list of notes is as follows:

Oaken barrel, Texas cedar, Chinese white cedar, Spanish labdanum, Vanilla, Ambroxan.

Source: NYTimes.

Apple Brandy opens on my skin with a tsunami of pure, hard alcohol. I absolutely adore boozy notes, but Apple Brandy takes it to a whole new extreme and level, to the point where I actually said, “Whoaa…..” out loud. For an instant, the opening note is of apple — tart, crisp, and tangy like a Fuji — but it is almost immediately covered with cognac. The liqueur is sweetened with an extremely nutty, toffee’d undertone, and has traces of oak and a thick amber as well. It’s nice, but, my God, is there a lot of it! It’s intense, almost to the point of rawness, and beyond any “booziness” that I’ve previously encountered.

Source: yumsugar.com

The overall effect is exactly like a caramelized apple at a fair, covered in heavy, dense toffee, and then dunked into an oak barrel of alcohol. Perhaps a more precise comparison is to Crepe Suzette, the kind were the apple-stuffed crepes are doused with sugar, then flambéed to a caramelized crisp with copious amounts of brandy. On the side, and all around the plate, is a luxurious crème anglaise sauce of slightly eggy, rich vanilla.

Crepes with creme anglaise. Source: foodspotting.com

The intensity of the alcohol tsunami softens after 5 minutes, losing some of its rawness and undiluted, hard edge. I still smell like apple Crepe Suzette, but it’s after some of the brandy has been burned off. The first time I tested it, Apple Brandy was actually quite enjoyable as a cozy, warm, dense, boozy gourmand. I liked the ambered apple compote, and I have a particular weakness for crème anglaise sauce. The vanilla isn’t a huge part of the scent on my skin, but the flickers of it at the edge provide a lovely richness that makes Apple Brandy feel like a decadent indulgence. My favorite part, however, is the oak which really evokes oak barrels in the strongest way possible. It rather brilliant, in my opinion.

Oak Barrel with 1973 GC Le Peu Hennessy cognac/ Source: blog.cognac-expert.com

Apple Brandy is an enormously linear scent with very little change throughout its lifespan. It never transforms in any substantial way, but there are variations of degree that occur after the first hour. The fragrance’s apple tonalities weaken and slowly fade, while the oak barrels become much more dominant. There is something incredibly appealing about the oak when doused by the caramelized apple and the heady, boozy cognac. The wood is extremely smooth, slightly smoky, and rich, adding a layer of depth to the otherwise simplistic scent. The cedar never appears on me in any distinctive way, but I think it works indirectly from the edges, heightening the oak with that subtle smokiness. Really, the wood parts are beautifully done as a counterbalance to the Crepe Suzette and hard liqueur.

Ambroxan. Source: Aromachemicals.net

At the end of the first hour, Apple Brandy becomes increasingly drier and woodier, particularly as the Ambroxan starts to stir in the base. The synthetic, alas, is a little difficult for me. According to the Good Scent Company‘s olfactory database, Ambroxan’s strength is assessed as “high” or intense, and its aroma is: “ambergris, old paper, sweet labdanum, dry.” Here, it initially adds a warm, sweet, ambered feel to Apple Brandy’s opening, but the dryness takes over about 90 minutes into the perfume’s development. I am much more sensitive to aromachemicals than the average person, and Ambroxan is no exception. The inside of my nose hurts each time I sniff my arm up close, but it’s thankfully not an extreme reaction. As a whole, the aromachemical is well-blended into the fragrance, and doesn’t seem hugely excessive. Still, it’s enough to make Apple Brandy a much drier scent than it was originally.

At the start of the third hour, Apple Brandy is a blur of sweetened booze and woodiness on a very dry base. The caramelized apple compote note is muffled, and soon fades away entirely. The vanilla really never showed itself on my skin outside the opening hour where it was more of a supporting player on the sidelines. As for the other notes, they feel quite indistinct and abstract, lacking delineation and overlapping each other, with only the brandy really dominating. The sillage — which was initially quite intense with only a small amount of perfume applied — now drops, hovering only an inch or so above the skin.

Hennessy’s aged, cognac oak barrels. Source: graperadio.com

That’s really the sum total of Apple Brandy’s development on my skin. From the third hour until its very end, the fragrance is merely a dry, semi-sweet, woody, oak and cognac bouquet. In its final drydown, Apple Brandy is just an abstract smear of woodiness tinged with some vague sense of booziness. All in all, the perfume lasted just over 9.5 hours, with generally good sillage that only became a skin scent at the start of the 6th hour.

Source: autoblog.com

I enjoyed parts of Apple Brandy a great deal, but I have numerous caveats and issues with the scent. I live in a place where I cannot go anywhere without driving, and where the jackbooted police are notoriously aggressive over the smallest thing. I simply would not dare wear Apple Brandy outside my house for fear that — were I ever to get pulled over — the police would think I’d been drinking and driving. Knowing the police here, there is no way they’d believe my protests, “Officer, it’s only my fragrance.” I wince just imagining the scene.

I also would not be comfortable wearing the scent to social occasions either, lest people think I’d been on a bender or had alcohol problems. The smell of liquor is simply so intense from a few dabs, especially in the first two hours, that regular application might smell as though I’d doused my clothes with an entire bottle of expensive brandy. Lastly, as an attorney whose speciality was employment law for big corporations, I would strongly advise against wearing Apple Brandy to any workplace, period. This is the sort of thing that would lead to HR problems, because it really does not convey an appropriate, professional image.

Source: it.123rf.com

On the upside, Apple Brandy might be a lovely scent to wear in your own home on a chilly, snowy winter’s night. It is the perfume equivalent of having a brandy while sitting before a fire. Yet, even as I write that, my brains whispers the other problems with the scent: it’s linear, it’s a novelty act, and it would get boring very quickly. I enjoyed parts of Apple Brandy quite a bit the first time around, especially before the dryness and Ambroxan kicked in. The second time around, however, I was less enthused and a bit bored. There is a somewhat exhausting quality to the scent; it beats you over the head at first, and you’re quite awed by both the intensity and the novelty. Later, though, its unchanging nature wears you down a bit, and you’d like something a bit different than just the incessant clamour of brandied oak barrels. In short, Apple Brandy’s playful, exuberantly celebratory act is perhaps something best suited to a rare occasion.

All of that brings me to the next issue: price. Apple Brandy costs $235 for a small 50 ml bottle, and unlike many other Kilian fragrances, I don’t see the (relatively) cheaper refill option listed. I personally would never spend $235 on a fragrance I wouldn’t dare to wear outside the house, and to which I’d turn only once in a blue moon as a novelty. On the other hand, in the same way that a really expensive bottle of brandy can be an occasional indulgence, so too is Kilian’s perfume equivalent. Parts of it are truly enjoyable at times.

At the end of the day, price is a subjective matter, so if you have no problems spending $235 to smell like flambéed Crepe Suzette and Hennessy oak barrels, go for it. Just don’t spray on a lot, or you may appear like an alcoholic on a bender. And, for the love of God, don’t drive while wearing Apple Brandy!

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Apple Brand is an eau de parfum that costs $235 for a refillable 1.7oz/50 ml bottle that comes in a black, wooden box. I don’t see the actual, and usually cheaper, refill option listed. The fragrance is said to be exclusive to the new Kilian store in New York, but you can purchase it from the US Kilian website. You can’t find it in Europe, or from the Kilian International site. However, you can always try to call the new boutique in New York to purchase it by phone. The store’s address and phone number are: 804 Washington Street, NEW YORK CITY, NY, 10014. +1 212-600-1298. Samples: I obtained my sample of Apple Brandy from Surrender to Chance where prices start at $6.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.

By Kilian Playing With The Devil (In The Garden of Good and Evil)

Posted on September 11, 2013 by Kafkaesque

The Devil slinks into the Garden of Good and Evil, cloaked in red, emitting fire, and adding a painful bite to everything he touches. He curls his way around the cedar tree that smells mostly of green freshness with a tinge of damp earthy sweetness, entwines himself around branches carrying lychees and cassis, and breathes a hot red mist of chili all over it. Then, he vanishes in a puff of crimson smoke, leaving fruits that are sweet with a slightly poisoned, synthetic touch. But his crimson present barely lasts, and the evil drains quickly from the Garden of Eden, returning it back to a state of fruited sweetness. It’s an increasingly abstract “goodness,” a fresh blur of fruits that soon takes on a creamy tone with vanilla, before turning into powdered and a little bit sour in their staleness. That’s what happens when you are Playing with the Devil.

Michelangelo, “The Temptation and Expulsion of Adam & Eve.”

The impact of the Devil in the Garden of Good and Evil has been turned from a whimsical allegory into concrete perfume form by Kilian Hennessey. This month marks the release of Playing With The Devil, an eau de parfum created by Calice Becker. The scent is the fourth edition in Kilian’s In The Garden of Good and Evil collection that was first launched in 20012 and which is centered around a common theme. According to the original press release for the collection (quoted by Now Smell This) and Playing with the Devil‘s description on Luckyscent, “it is the myth of original sin” where “the world of perfume enters into the garden of Eden and shows us another side of the story” with a “tribute to forbidden fruits.”

Source: Fragrantica.

LuckyScent gives the following notes for Playing with the Devil:

Blood orange, black currant, white peach, lychee, pepper, pimento [chili pepper], cedar, sandalwood, patchouli, Rose, Jasmine, tonka, benzoin, vanilla.

Playing with the Devil opens on my skin a burst of lychee and tart, juicy, zesty, slightly sour blackcurrant. (I’m used to calling it “cassis,” so that’s what I’ll go with from here on out.) There is an unexpected touch of damp earth underlying the scent, which symbolically melts into the very green, leafy images I get from the fruits. On their trail is a fiery chili pepper (pimento) that feels as visually red as the most brutally piercing Scotch Bonnet or Ghost Chili on the market. It’s a very funky, odd, fascinating note because its bite feels a little like the capsaicin that you’d experience if you nibbled on a pimento pepper. Yet, the second time I tested Playing with the Devil, it was largely overwhelmed by a very fresh, clean scent that sometimes borders a little on the soapy, powdery aroma that you’d get from a deodorant. I actually own a deodorant that has some similarities, so it made me grimace a little, I must confess.

Lychee. Source: fanpop.com

In its opening stage, Playing with the Devil is primarily a lychee and cassis fragrance with that fiery chili pepper bite lurking underneath. Minutes into the fragrance’s development, the peach makes its quiet, very muted debut, feeling white, delicate, pastel and almost liquidy like a thin nectar. It’s followed by a slightly smoky, dry, woody note that initially doesn’t feel like cedar but which soon takes on that tree’s aroma. It smells of bright greenness, mixed with pencil shavings and a light touch of smokiness. The blood orange isn’t a very noticeable note at all on my skin. At best, there is something that feels like the suggestion of its tart, citric nature, but it’s only a vague, fleeting impression. Increasingly, however, Playing with the Devil is dominated by the cassis with its tart, sometimes sour freshness leavened a little by the lychee’s watery sweetness.

Source: splendidtable.org

The note that fascinates me the most is the pimento, a type of chili pepper. I’m rather obsessed with how it appears here, though not always for positive reasons. You see, I tend to have an allergic reaction to the chili peppers where my lips swell up in response to the capsaicin that is so much a part of them. Here, with Playing with the Devil, I feel a slight burning in my throat, a sensation I’ve gotten from some chili peppers on occasion, but also, from some synthetics on a much more common, frequent basis. I find it difficult to believe that Calice Becker used an essential oil derived from chili pepper distillation in Playing with the Devil, so I’m venturing a guess that the pimento note here is largely an aromachemical. Well, congratulations on mirroring the sort of physical reaction that I get from the real thing.

Source: free-hdwallpapers.com

On the other hand, a more sincere, genuine congratulations are in order for such a brilliant piece of symbolism. The intellectual conceit or theory here is damn clever, and I absolutely love the thought of the fiery, red-hot pepper representing Satan in the Garden of Eden, thereby turning it smoky and evil. Intellectually, I was impressed with every bit of it. Perfume wise, I find it an extremely interesting, wholly original counterpoint to the lychee and cassis.

Personally, however, it’s a whole other matter, because I’m not swooning over any of it. Playing with the Devil is pretty on some levels, and I like the effect of the cedar in adding an increasingly dry counter-point to the fruits, but none of it really wows me. I also enjoy the liquidy sweetness of lychee, but that alone is not enough to make the overall fragrance something that really knocks me to my feet. Moreover, the clean, fresh, slightly soapy, faintly powdered aspects of the beginning are most definitely not me. It’s a pretty opening, but perhaps you have to really adore fruity fragrances to really love it, and I’m afraid I’m not one of those people.

At the end of the first hour, Playing with the Devil starts to shift. At first, it’s just the slow stirrings of vanilla in the base, adding a different sort of sweetness to the zesty, tart, slightly green, fresh top notes. At the same time, the fiery, red kick of the chili pepper recedes to the background. There is the vaguest hint of something floral wafting about, but it’s so muted, it’s virtually impossible to really identify. The dry woodiness in the base starts to increase, as does the hint of powderiness. Playing with the Devil’s sillage drops, the notes start to overlap each other, and the fragrance starts to feel a little abstract. These issues were especially noticeable the second time I tested the fragrance, when I put on substantially less of Playing with the Devil. With two small smears, instead of about 4 large ones, the fragrance turned vague and abstract far sooner, became a skin scent more quickly, and the nuances in notes were significantly harder to detect. The capsaicin chili pepper element was also substantially less noticeable, though the burning sensation in my throat remained in a faint way.

In both tests, however, Playing with the Devil became a total blur of fruity notes quite quickly. The first time around, with the large dose, it took about 1.25 hours for the fragrance to turn into a generalized, somewhat abstract haze of tart, sweet fruits atop vague woodiness with vanilla. The most you can really single out from the lot is cassis. Underneath, in the base, there is the start of something synthetic lurking about that isn’t clear or distinguishable, along with a touch of fruited patchouli. The peach, and lychee have largely faded away, replaced by hints of blood orange. The chili pepper has disappeared entirely. The whole thing is a soft bouquet of fresh fruits with patchouli, cedar and vanilla that hovers just barely above the skin in an airy, gauzy blur.

Playing with the Devil continues its subtle changes. By the end of the second hour, the soft, leafy, green feel of the fragrance is joined by a shadow of a dewy, pale, watery pink rose, but it’s an extremely muted note. As a whole, the scent is a soft, cozy, fruity vanilla with an increasingly synthetic patchouli note that burns my nose when smelled up close. Playing with the Devil loses its dryness as the patchouli overwhelms the cedar, and the fragrance takes on even greater sweetness. For some strange reason, I have the subtle impression and feel of green tea, only in a creamy ice-cream version. It comes and goes, however, during the third hour, then dies completely as Playing with the Devil becomes increasingly fresh and clean.

Source: popularscreensavers.com

Starting at the fourth hour, the Garden of Eden is a place where all traces of the Devil have been wiped away. The Luckyscent description of Playing with the Devil talks about how naughtiness wins out in the fight between good and evil, but not on my skin. The fragrance is now a completely nebulous haze of clean, fresh sweetness with fruity vanilla and some powder. The latter soon takes over completely. By the 4.5 hour mark, Playing with the Devil is abstract floral-fruity powder with a slight tinge of vanilla underneath. At the 6 hour mark, the powder takes on a slightly sour, stale characteristic, and the fragrance remains that way until its very end. All in all, Playing with the Devil lasted 9.75 hours with a very large dose (4 very big smears) and just over 7.5 hours with a small one (2 small smears). The sillage throughout was moderate to soft.

Playing with the Devil is far too new for there to be extensive reviews out there. On Fragrantica, only two people seem to have tested the perfume, writing:

smells exactly like “Enchanted Forest” but the blackcurrant note isnt as loud. if you want loud blackcurrant buy Enchanted Forest. if you want a more softer blackcurrant note buy this.

Fresh, peachy, fruity, bright and feminine. If you like fruity (but not sticky sweet) fragrances, you must try Playing with the devil.
I can detect all the fruits, the peach, cassis, blood orange and lychee. The rose is present but is subtle not overpowering
This is how fruity fragrances should be done. Thumbs up!

My experience with The Vagabond Prince‘s The Enchanted Forest was quite different because I had quite a lot of pine develop on my skin, but I do agree with some of the commentator’s assessment: this is a much softer cassis note. I wasn’t a particular fan of The Enchanted Forest, and I’m not of Playing with the Devil, either, and the reasons are somewhat encapsulated in the second Fragrantica review: it’s a fresh, feminine fruit cocktail. Playing with the Devil is also powdery, somewhat synthetic, quickly abstract, and rather boring. If that fiery pimento had really lasted, maybe my reaction would be different, but I highly doubt it.

I think you have to really love cassis, and “fresh, clean” scents to appreciate Playing with the Devil. You also have to be one of those people for whom blackcurrant doesn’t turn urinous or into “cat pee” on their skin. You’d be surprised how many people have that problem with the note, so I’d definitely counsel testing Playing with the Devil before you buy it. It’s not a cheap fragrance — and, in my opinion, Playing with the Devil is rather over-priced for what it is — but at least there is a more affordable refill option at $145 if you really love fruit cocktails. I don’t, so I shall play with the Devil elsewhere.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Playing with the Devil is an eau de parfum that costs $245 for a 50 ml bottle or $145 for a 50 ml refill bottle. The fragrance is not currently listed on the Kilian website, so I don’t know its Euro retail price. In the U.S.: Kilian fragrances are usually available at a variety of fine department stores, but Playing with the Devil seems to be too new to be listed on the websites of either Bergdorf Goodman, or Saks Fifth Avenue. However, you can order it at Aedes or Luckyscent, though both vendors seem to be back-ordered at the time of this post. Outside the U.S.: Playing with the Devil is not yet listed on By Kilian’s international website. In London, Harvey Nichols always carries the Kilian line, but they don’t have Playing with the Devil listed on their website yet. Elsewhere, you can find the Kilian line at Harvey Nichols stores around the world, from Dubai to Hong Kong. In Paris, the Kilian line is carried at Printemps. As for other locations, By Kilian’s Facebook page lists the following retailers and/or locations: “HARVEY NICHOLS (UK, Honk Kong, UAE, Saudi Arabia, Koweit, Turkey), Le BON MARCHE (France), TSUM (Russia), ARTICOLI (Russia) and HOLT RENFREW (Canada).” Samples: you can find Playing with the Devil at Surrender to Chance where prices start at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.

Perfume Review – By Kilian Musk Oud: Cardamom Rose

Posted on June 21, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Kilian Hennessy. Source: Metro.co.uk
http://metro.co.uk/2012/11/27/kilian-hennessy-the-perfume-industry-is-too-obsessed-with-packaging-549545/

Consider me surprised. I actually like Musk Oud, a fragrance from the luxury house, By Kilian. I don’t think it’s a fantastic, complex, original, nuanced — let alone impressive — fragrance, but it actually smells really good. And that is truly a first for anything that I’ve tried thus far from Kilian Hennessey, the grandson of the founder of LVMH. Of course, since it is a By Kilian fragrance, my feelings come with all sorts of huge qualifiers regarding sillage, longevity and an even more ridiculous price than usual, but you could have bowled me over with the feather when I kept sniffing my arm appreciatively.

The newly released Musk Oud is the fifth (and last) in Kilian’s Arabian Night Collection of oud perfumes which first launched in 2009. Unlike all the rest of its siblings, Musk Oud was created by the legendary perfumer, Alberto Morillas, who was recently awarded the very first FiFi Lifetime Achievement Award from the U.S. branch of the Fragrance Foundation. He’s a fantastic perfumer and co-created my favorite oud fragrance thus far: the spectacular (and sadly discontinued) forerunner of the whole oud trend, YSL‘s M7. The Kilian website describes Morillas’ latest project as follows:

An animalic perfume with a sensual feminity

Musk Oud is a perfume built on the contrast between a liquorish Rose and an animalic Oud accord of great sensuality. In the opening, the Lemon and Mandarin bring a ray of light warmed by Cardamom and Coriander. The heart is an explosion of Roses made syrupy and intoxicating thanks to the Rum extract CO2. A trace of Frankincense and Indonesian Patchouli bring a smokey facet to the composition saturated with dry woods.

Source: Luckyscent

Musk Oud’s full list of its notes, as compiled from LuckyScent, is as follows:

Lemon, mandarin, cardamom, coriander, cypress, Bulgarian Rose, geranium, davana, Rum extract, frankincense, Oud accord, Musk accord, patchouli.

Musk Oud is the furthest thing from complicated and, on my skin, it is also the furthest thing from either an animalic musk fragrance or a true oud one. It opens on my skin with a rich, beefy, dark red rose that drips thick, jammy juices and which is lightly infused with lemon and a touch of orange. The whole thing is covered with a heavy layer of gorgeous cardamom, and sits upon a quiet, woody base of cypress tinged with patchouli.

Crimson Rose by Karen Betts. Source: redbubble.com

Seconds later, like a crocodile’s tail moving in muddy water, there are tiny ripples of animalic musk. To my slight unease, it smells very much like dirty, unwashed hair. However, the note is not only incredibly subtle, it essentially vanishes for most of the perfume’s development. It subsequently pops up only two more times, gives a brief bow for a few minutes, and then disappears completely. I was actually surprised by how evanescent it was since one blogger (who admittedly loathes anything animalic) was completely traumatized by the note in Musk Oud. Since my skin actually amplifies both animalic and base notes, I’d fully prepared myself to be overcome by every possible filthy, dirty, raunchy, unwashed, fetid aroma imaginable. Never happened. Not once. And if it should happen to anyone, it should happen to me with my wonky skin that amplifies animalics. Instead, there were only the most minuscule of stirrings in the brown waters of Musk Oud’s base. Perhaps a more accurate analogy would be to compare it to a mosquito in water instead of a crocodile’s tail.

Cardamom. Source: kitchenheadquarters.org

The primary, overwhelming impression of Musk Oud in the first hour is of a cardamom-rose fragrance with other notes just dancing in the sidelines. The richness of the rose is accentuated by a darkly liqueured note, while the cardamom… oh, what cardamom! It’s sweet, nutty, a little dusky, and very spicy. So much so that it almost feels as though it’s accompanied by a fiery red saffron. Undoubtedly, that is just my mind interjecting things, since saffron is often the third twin to the rose-cardamom combination, but Musk Oud does feel as though there is saffron in there, too. As for the dry base, the cedar is lightly sweetened by patchouli and entwined by subtle tendrils of black smoke. There is absolutely no oud at first, and it takes ten minutes for the note to show its face. It’s slightly medicinal but, like all the other elements in the base at this stage, it is extremely muted and serves only to add indirect depth and body to the overall fragrance.

Things start to go down hill a little near the end of the first hour. It took all of 40 minutes for Musk Oud to become a complete skin scent on me. I tried the perfume twice — which wasn’t hard to do, given the usual, below-average longevity that I experience with all Kilian fragrances — and the second time, I applied double the quantity. This time, Musk Oud took one whole, whopping hour to become so glued to my skin that I had to inhale at my arm like a rabid animal to detect its nuances.

Frankincense smoke via iStock photos

And, in truth, those nuances were few and far between — in both tests. Just over an hour into the perfume’s development, the base notes come to the foreground as frankincense and oud emerge as the dominant duo. However, neither note is very rich or deep. There is still a heavy sprinkling of cardamom, but the rose note has receded somewhat to the background. Occasionally, it will pop up and become more noticeable, then vanish, then come back to take over the whole scent for about five minutes, then retreat…. and so on. The animalic musk makes a brief appearance around the 90 minute mark, but quickly decides to throw in the towel completely. So, those simple, repeated notes with their varying fluctuations are really the sum total of Musk Oud. The citrus notes had departed long ago; ditto for the cedar; and there was never any geranium or davana to begin with. As for the rum and patchouli, both are essentially undetectable in any distinctive, individual way, except in helping to create that liqueured base to the rose.

After a brief period of time as an oud fragrance with tablespoon of cardamom, a teaspoon of rose, and a pinch of smoke, Musk Oud turns into a simple, more abstract, woody fragrance. There are subtle flecks of oud and cardamom with just a light whisper of jammy rose, but the whole thing feels quite muted and is extremely hard to detect given the nonexistent sillage. Then, Musk Oud dies entirely, having lasted no more than 3.5 hours with my usual dose and 4.25 hours with my larger one. Neither number is very impressive.

I had been curious to what extent Alberto Morillas’ co-creation of the fabulous M7 might have influenced the smell of another spicy agarwood fragrance. The answer is none at all. With the exception of the citrus, cardamom and oud, the two fragrances have no familial olfactory resemblance at all. To my surprise, it is a wholly unexpected perfume house which comes to mind: Guerlain. Kilian’s Musk Oud really evokes early parts of Guerlain‘s Rose Nacrée du Désert from Les Déserts d’Orient Collection. The first hour of Rose Nacrée has the exact same sort of rich, darkly liqueured, jammy, beefy rose infused with cardamom that dominates Musk Oud. Of course, the two perfumes eventually part ways, with the Guerlain turning into an overly syrupy, sugared, almost gourmand fragrance, while the Kilian turns into frankincense and oud. I’m sure there are even more cardamom-rose fragrances out there that resemble Musk Oud (especially from Montale) because, the truth of the matter is, it’s not a very inventive fragrance. It smells great for what it is, but it treads some well-worn ground.

Going by my experiences, the name “Musk Oud” feels like a misnomer. For one thing, on my skin, there was almost no musk in it. For another, the quantity of agarwood was hardly enough to render the scent a true oud one. It reminded me Kilian‘s Amber Oud which, to my nose and on my skin, had virtually no oud in it at all. Musk Oud has more of the note, but it’s all relative. In fact, given how the fragrance is such a skin scent, what little oud there is may be even harder to detect.

There aren’t a lot of in-depth blog reviews out there for Musk Oud. The fragrance is so new that I couldn’t even find a Fragrantica entry for it. However, out of the two comments on Luckyscent, both focused on the musk issue. One poster loved the scent, writing that Musk Oud was “[j]ust the right balance between the oud and the musk, neither too animalic nor too clean.” The other tried hard to be polite and mask his disdain:

Not impressed. I love rich, deep musk scents. My favorite perfume is Musc Ravageur. So when you name something Oud Musk, well I’m expecting something rich and dark and almost dirty. There is nothing unique about this. It’s not a clean musk mind you, it does have the dirtiness but its done in an oddly sheer way. I will say however, that that is probably perfect for some people. A polite, dirty musk. I guess there is a place for it.

Both commentators thought that the perfume had outstanding longevity and wrote that it “lasted all day.” I think that may be the first time I’ve ever seen that said about any Kilian fragrance, but, hey, I’m happy there are exceptions.

How you feel about Musk Oud will depend solely on two things: how you feel about animalic notes, and how your skin deals with them. The second review on Luckyscent is significant because it underscores that point. If you’re someone who loves a scent like Frederic Malle‘s Musc Ravageur (or, even more extreme, Parfum d’Empire‘s Musc Tonkin), then Musk Oud will be disappointing child’s play. If you’re someone like me whose feelings about musk can depend on its treatment, you may greatly enjoy Musk Oud, especially if your skin chemistry decides to play nicely with the note. But if you’re someone who can’t stand any animalic notes whatsoever, then Musk Oud may be a nightmare regardless of chemistry.

That was the case with Lucas of Chemist in a Bottle whose traumatized account of the fragrance reads, in part, as follows:

The opening act of By Kilian Musk Oud is a tidal wave of musk on my skin. I smell raw, animalic if not a fecal kind of musk. It has that dense, powerful structure that will be definitely too much for those who are not infatuated and obsessive by this raw perfume material. I definitely don’t belong to that group! Couple of minutes later I start to smell trouble. Double trouble because here appears the oud. In the whole oud fragrances trend I am quite lucky that oud notes don’t manifest themselves too bold on my skin. However Musk Oud doesn’t classify as one of those. As I write this my arm is almost dripping with oud. No joke! [¶]

[Later] I was attacked by a hard to describe smell that to me, in the closest comparison, was a mix of unwashed, sweaty clothes and sticky, greasy hair. So gross and so off-putting.

As you can see, a wholly different experience from either myself or the two chaps on Luckyscent. The odd thing is that my skin normally amplifies both musks and agarwood to the point where it can overwhelm a perfume, while Lucas — in testing the exact same fragrance — can find them to be completely minute and tolerable. So, I’m not quite sure what happened here to flip the situation so much on its head but, for me, Musk Oud was neither a musk fragrance nor an oud one. (It certainly was nothing like my experience with Opus VII, the animalic, musky oud fragrance from Amouage!) Where my experience does parallel (a little) that of Lucas is in terms of sillage and longevity. Musk Oud lasted 6 hours on him, and he found the sillage to be very low.

Musk Oud, 50 ml bottle. Source: Aedes.

I very much enjoyed the cardamon-rose aspects of the fragrance, but I would never buy Musk Oud. I think it’s ridiculously over-priced for what it is, and simply isn’t special enough. Kilian’s prices are high to begin with, but the Arabian Nights Collection takes it to ridiculous levels given the generally uncomplicated, bare bones, and sometimes mundane nature of the scents. (Yes, Amber Oud, I’m looking at you.) Normally, Kilian charges $235 for a small 50 ml/1,7 oz bottle of one of his fragrances, like the recent Flower of Immortality. However, Musk Oud — like all the oud scents in the Arabian Nights Collection — retails for $395 (or €295), with the “cheap” alternative options starting at $185 for a refill bottle. Until Mr. Hennessey corners the world supply of either jammy roses, cardamom, musk or oud, I see nothing in this simple, relatively linear, fleeting, and sometimes impossible to detect fragrance that is worth $400 (more, with tax) for a tiny bottle, or even $185. There are half a dozen fragrances from Montale alone that are based on oud, rose, cardamom, frankincense and/or musk; they cost $110 for the same size bottle, have projection, and last forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrever!

That said, I do think Musk Oud is pretty enough to be worth a sniff or a small decant. However, given the sillage, longevity, cost, uncomplicated and non-oud nature of the fragrance, it may not be worth more than that.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Musk Oud is an eau de parfum that costs $395, $235 or $185 (depending on the form in which you buy it). The lovely lock-box version is 1.7 oz/50 ml of fragrance and costs $395; the refill bottle is $185; and the travel option is $235. In the U.S.: Musk Oud is available at Bergdorf Goodman (in all 3 options), Saks Fifth Avenue (2 options) and Aedes (just the $395 lock box). All 3 options are available at Luckyscent, along with samples for $5 for a 0.7 ounce vial. Outside the U.S.: Musk Oud is available on By Kilian’s international website where it costs €295 (with VAT included) for a 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle. The site also has the more affordable options. In London, you can find Musk Oud at Harvey Nichols which carries the 50 ml/1.7 oz size lock box version for £265.00 or the 50 travel refill for £110.00. Harvey Nichols stores around the world, from Dubai to Hong Kong, also carry the Kilian line. In Paris, the Kilian line is carried at Printemps. As for other locations, By Kilian’s Facebook page lists the following retailers and/or locations: “HARVEY NICHOLS (UK, Honk Kong, UAE, Saudi Arabia, Koweit, Turkey), Le BON MARCHE (France), TSUM (Russia), ARTICOLI (Russia) and HOLT RENFREW (Canada).” Samples: Samples are available from Surrender to Chance where prices start at $4.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.