Marvelous retro ’60’s incense rose that starts out loud and aldehyde-soapy out of the bottle, then gets animalic–but it’s a purring kitty, rather than a hissing one–a few feet off the wrist, accompanied by a sneezing fit or two. After several hours the blooms fade to a lovely woody benzoin on the skin for the rest of the day.
Recommended to anyone who enjoys the classy pin-up mystique of Rive Gauche and Climat, and to cats–mine found the civet intriguing.
Love Mimosa is almost sporty in its freshness out of the bottle–but the orris gives it a nice luxe creaminess that keeps it from being overtly chemical. Loud at the start, then settles down to arms length sunny florals and laundry softener for most of the day.
The first Amouage that I don’t like, even though it’s rather similar to my cherished L.L. Amarena Whim. The muddled amber at the bottom somehow cheapens it for me–like it’s trying too hard to be chic and popular. (At my age, I’m trying too hard to be young and beautiful, so maybe I’d have appreciated more depth to the rose?)
Almondy floral tonka all day on the skin with a roomful of projection, and candy syrup on the cuffs all night.
A burst of citrus, juicy unfiltered pulp and zest everywhere, then huge jasmine and ylang-ylang grow, so heavy and heady that they’re animalic and grubby underneath–except there’s enough lily-of-the-valley green suds hidden inside that everything fluctuates between dirty and clean, indolics vs. aldehydes, flora to fauna. Metallic amber and earthy sandalwood try to give some support, but they’re overtaken by the chaotic florals that rise to outer space and last all night long.
Brilliant, but too much for me–Ubar’s flowers would swallow me whole and spit out my bones like tangerine seeds.
Incense that’s been soaked in sweet wine, an antique spice chest with gilt hinges, a library of flowers pressed in rare books–
Fills the room at first, labdanum fueling soft animalics, then slowly fades to the skin. Wormwood takes the sweetness from the cloves to make them leathery and rich, but roses soften the edges, making it feminine.
Lasts all day, and even longer in the hair, vintage luxury at its best.
Emaan Zadjali is an American-Omani online sensation who calls her music “trap-soul.” I like this smoky tune.
First breath is sangria and smoke, a quick break between acts on the side door sidewalk of the theater, then sticky honey sweets to soothe the throat as the lights flicker–Places, please!–and meanders back to leather and walnut-wood seats and gaslight.
Stays close, and lasts on the skin with benzoin and incense for ages.
Very topographical–at arms length an easy breeze, in personal space it becomes new blooming roses edged with silvery musk, and on the skin it’s budding orchard trees and soap lather–and lasts that way for hours.
Some scattered herbs keep it organic, and a touch of incense smoke gives it a bit of body.
Lovely, but for me, spring is usually March storms and mud-season, messy and chaotic. This is too refined.
This breezy-but-refined song topped charts in 2002, when Amouage first released Dia.