MA-1 Flight Jackets, "Fragrance Addiction," and How the Internet Is Saturated With BullSh*t

My Heritage Fit Alpha Industries MA-1 Jacket

Fragrance isn't my only love. I'm also passionate about MA-1 flight jackets. No, I don't own 250 of them, so my collection is nowhere near as ridiculous (I have a paltry 3), but I love and read about them just the same. There are countless Reddit threads on MA-1 jackets, and when I really want to go in-depth, I visit The Fedora Lounge. This is a widely loved garment with a rich history, and it's fun to wear. 

The internet isn't always the best place for information about it, however. As with fragrances, online forums can lead me astray with flight jackets. I have two examples of this. The first involves what Alpha Industries calls their "Slim Fit" MA-1. When I first started getting into these jackets in 2018, people were posting ad nauseum about how preferred the Slim Fit version is over the "Heritage Fit," which is the regular cut. I fell for it and purchased a new olive Slim Fit Alpha on eBay for only a few bucks under retail. 

When it arrived, I was mostly satisfied with it, but a little disappointed as well. It fit perfectly and I loved the color (olive is easily their prettiest color), but the garment wasn't very puffy. I wanted more puff. I was looking for the same puffiness as the sage green MA-1 worn by Steve McQueen in The Hunter. Slim Fit MA-1 jackets intentionally tone down the puff. In fairness, I had read that this is the case. I just didn't realize how much less puffy it actually is compared to the Heritage Fit. Despite my ennui, I still own and wear the Slim Fit, but its deflated profile bugs me every time. I would discourage anyone from buying one.

My second example of how the internet lied to me about this jacket type is a bit more complicated. Overall, the MA-1 flight jacket is more of a jacket genre than any one specific garment by a singular brand. The jacket has standard military specifications, and companies either adhere to them and manufacture a version of the spec jacket, or they tweak the specs and sell their evolved version. Alpha Industries is the most popular spec manufacturer because they held a US Air Force contract for its production, and they continue to make the jackets to a high standard for civilians. 

Another manufacturer with wide distribution is Rothco. Here's where the internet comes in: Rothco MA-1 jackets are made to the same specs as Alphas, with only very slight variations. According to the internet, these variations break Rothco. According to the chattering class on the interweb forums, Rothco MA-1s, despite being made of basically the same materials to the same dimensions, are crap. I read all the time comments like, "I wouldn't buy anything from Rothco, their build quality is garbage," and "I'd go with Alpha over Rothco anyday." The message is clear from most that Rothco MA-1 jackets suck. 

I believed this for many years, and avoided even trying Rothco jackets. Then one day recently I saw that a local Army/Navy store carried them and thought, what the hell. Why not take a peek and see what the whole Rothco thing is really about? So I went and tried them on. The shop had three colors—sage green, black, and camo. I gravitated to the sage green first, and as soon as I put the jacket on, I could immediately tell the difference between Rothco and Alpha. And, at first, I thought the internet was 100% correct about the disparity in quality between these brands. 

The sage green Rothco in large and medium sizes did not fit correctly. The medium technically fit fine, but the waistline looked wrong. Too loose. So I tried the black medium, and I noticed something funny—the fit was very different. The black jacket had a better classic blouson profile, with the little taper at the beltline, and it just seemed to be cut better overall, including in the chest. Black just looked better, period. I didn't bother with camo, although maybe someday I'll take a look at those, too. I ended up purchasing a black medium for about a third of the price of a new Heritage Fit Alpha. 

I took it home, steamed it to lose the wrinkles, and tried it on again. And here's the thing: despite years of comments saying Rothco jackets are garbage, I actually like my Rothco! It's very puffy, and puffiness is what I'm after with these jackets. Way puffier than my Slim Fit Alpha, of course, and it complements my middle-aged body pretty well. It looks warm, and it is warm. The quality of materials is not quite as high as Alpha's, but it's not garbage, either. Nylon is nyon, but there are different types of nylon, and Alpha uses a very soft and pliable (and quiet) material. Rothco's nylon is a bit thicker, not as soft, and considerably noisier, making shooshing sounds with movement. 

The wrist cuffs and waistline fabric are different also. I have no complaints about the cuffs on my Rothco—they're a different style and the material is thick and warm—but the waist material is noticeably flimsier than an Alpha. It doesn't hug the waist the same way, although it does hold in well enough. It's a weird thing to see that they put money into the cuffs but completely cheaped out on the waist. But I'll be honest here and say that nobody will know that they cheaped out by looking at the jacket. Yes, the nylon is shinier and a little rougher than the competition, and the leather pull on the zipper is a joke compared to Alpha's, but otherwise the Rothco MA-1 is perfectly fine and looks great. 

My sense with the sizing issue is that Rothco's quality control isn't up to snuff, and this is what gives it its bad reputation online. I'll wager most of the guys who shit-talk Rothco jackets only ever tried on one jacket, and it happened to not be cut well. Perhaps most of them aren't cut well. The sage greens that I tried in the store weren't cut well. I spent a good 45 minutes trying on jackets, which is how I came to the black model that I bought. The jacket I bought is cut well. So that's definitely a demerit for Rothco, with an asterisk. Rothco jackets suck. *Until you find one that is cut well, in which case Rothco jackets are very good. It's a brand that requires extra time to try on, which isn't a big deal. 

All the other complaints about Rothco are untrue. Garbage builds? Poor material quality? None of this is true. The nylon and polyester fill are all perfectly fine. The zippers are fine. Stitching is fine. The cloth around the waistline is the only cheaper element, but even there, it functions fine. The cuffs are arguably just as good, and possibly better than the Alpha's, feeling snugger and thicker. So overall, my Rothco MA-1 is an inexpensive but quality jacket, and I don't regret my purchase one bit. I would recommend a Rothco jacket to any MA-1 enthusiast, with the one caveat that you need to spend some time trying on several jackets to find one that fits correctly and looks right. 

I'll throw in a bonus example of how the internet lead me astray with these jackets. I recently bought a black medium Heritage Fit Alpha, pictured above. Same dimensions as my Rothco, and puffier than my Slim Fit Alpha. People are constantly comparing their body types and asking about sizing online, and my body type has most suggesting a medium for Heritage MA-1s. My black Alpha fits fine, but once again, and to my total surprise, I'm disappointed in its puff! It's not as puffy as my Rothco. The puffiness is what I'm looking for with these jackets, and now I own two Alpha Industries MA-1 jackets that aren't as puffy as I want them to be. Now, granted, the black jacket is far puffier than my olive Slim Fit, so I prefer it over that jacket. But it's not as puffy as the Rothco. Dare I say, I actually prefer how the Rothco looks on me? 

One remedy for this might be to ignore what people say about fit and try a size up with Alpha. I may or may not do that in the future. Not sure I can be bothered at this point. I could also lose a few pounds and see if that helps how the Alpha looks, and my guess is it would help a bit. Other than the lack of puff, I think the Alpha is a great jacket. It's well made, with much tighter stitching than the Rothco, far better beltline cloth (more spandex) and an overall warm and fitted feel. It's a quality garment, and it's certainly manufactured to a higher standard than the Rothco, but the difference isn't enough to justify the disparity in price. I was fortunate to buy the jacket on eBay for a steep discount, and also fortunate that it's a 2000s vintage instead of brand new—brand new Alphas are apparently not as well made as they used to be, if the internet is to be believed. 

Is the internet to be believed? Well, clearly one needs to proceed with caution with MA-1 flight jackets. But one should proceed with similar caution with fragrances as well. I noticed recently that YouTube influencers are posting video after video about "Fragrance Addiction," a term I had not seen used much until this past month. Suddenly everyone is talking about it. There are videos with titles like, "I Spent All My Money on Perfume," and "How to Break Your Fragrance Addiction." All of these videos presuppose that fragrance addiction is a real thing that saps people of their finances and requires "breaking." 

The truth here is not as clear cut as it is with my jackets. With the clothing, the claims are qualitative. You can simply go out and try the clothing yourself to determine how true the quality assessments made by strangers online are. But with "Fragrance Addiction" as a DSM-5-TR term, the situation is considerably murkier. First, what is "Fragrance Addiction" and how does one identify if they have it? It stands to reason that isolating the term "addiction" and using its known meaning is the first step in understanding, but how does it apply? Is it true that a person can become addicted to buying and wearing fragrances, to the point where they can't control themselves? 

For some people, possibly yes. I can see how there could be individuals who compulsively purchase perfumes, wear them once, stick them in a closet, and then repeat the cycle, over and over again. Perhaps they blow hundreds of dollars a month. Maybe they're in deep credit card debt over it. Maybe their houses are bursting at the seams with bottles, and stepping into their homes is like stepping into an episode of Hoarders. There can be a material horror element to this, and it's not that hard to imagine. I could see how someone could descend into a certain level of madness by chronically purchasing fragrances, stashing them, and losing themselves to the financial cost. 

I think my problem with this idea isn't the picture I just painted. After all, anything is possible, especially when it comes to people and their psychological issues. My problem with the idea of "Fragrance Addiction" as these influencers are portraying it is that "addiction" is the wrong word. They're describing the feeling of constantly needing to buy the next and newest thing, of never being satisfied with what they already have, and of spending a metric fuck-ton of their savings on this "hobby." What they describe isn't "addiction." What they describe is a lack of discipline. 

If you're a fragrance collector, your collection exists, and it probably grows. This is the nature of collecting. You have the collection, and the act that creates the collection. With fragrances, there should be an overarching reason for it: you love perfume. This statement, "I love perfume," is abstract in its meaning. What does loving perfume entail? The description of the feeling is fine, but then how does that manifest in the real world? One entailment of that statement should be, "I love perfume, therefore I seek interesting and unique perfumes." The "interesting" qualifier is subjective, of course. What is interesting to me may be bog standard boring to many others. But my interest is all that matters here, to me, and to my collection. I'm not collecting for anyone but myself. 

Finding interesting perfumes takes time and effort. I'm not a YouTube influencer. These influencers are all relatively young (under the age of 40) and they apparently have either plenty of disposable income, or, if you're an Eau d'Erica type, plenty of corporate admirers who ceaselessly send them free bottles to review. Their personal collections aren't growing because they're adding bottles of interest. They're growing because their chosen endeavor is fragrance influencing, and the only way to influence with any impact is to stay current with every new release. They have so many bottles because there are so many releases, and the danger there is very real. Some of these influencers must have their own distribution system. Guys like Ash from Gents Scents have thousands of bottles but must also have a way to either give away or sell thousands of bottles so as not to literally drown in them. They're collectors with no growth controls. They control for loss instead. 

In other words, they exist in a discipline vacuum. There can be no discipline against acquiring the newest, hottest thing when reviewing the newest, hottest thing is your bread and butter. The only way to make money as an influencer is to exist in a reality where money doesn't matter. You can flash the latest Amouages at literally $375 a bottle and it doesn't matter to you. You got the bottle for free or your system involves selling two or three other bottles to swap out with the new Amouages (an Ash tactic). The collection recycles itself, and this is where the discipline comes in if you're interested in having any. I don't know if Erica has a system for managing her bottles, and I imagine it's difficult. Companies send Ash free stuff, but I believe Erica gets way more freebies because many corporate media managers are young men with boners. 

My view is that these influencers are living in a self-made bubble, which creates the illusion of fragrance addiction for them that isn't shared by the majority of collectors. When I look at myself in comparison to these people, I consider how obvious the visible differences are between us. Erica only started out in this "hobby" in the last ten years. When she first started, she had something like forty bottles behind her, and she was often sticking to the smallest size bottles she could find. Then, after hobnobbing with Mr. Smelly and several others in that sphere, her popularity skyrocketed, and now she has hundreds of bottles behind her, and by her own admission, hundreds of bottles behind the camera as well. She's been a serious YouTube presence for all of 4 years, and in that time her collection has exploded. By the way, the bottles are all niche and high-end designer. 

Compare that to little old me. Putting aside that I'm obviously not a 25 year-old blond bombshell, I've been at this now since 2008. Nineteen years. Almost as long as Erica has been alive. My collection started in earnest in early 2009, and in the time since then I have seen it grow to about 260 bottles. This is a large number, and it's massive compared to any normie. When you put me next to the average guy who owns one or two bottles, I'm a total freak. And I know this about myself. I'm obsessed, and I'm okay with it. If you were to ask me why I'm obsessed, I'd give you my love line, and I'd mean it, but it wouldn't matter. Why I own so many bottles is irrelevant to anyone but me. 

This gets to the crux of my issue: I'm in this now for nearly two decades and I'm averaging about fourteen bottles a year at that pace. My collection, compared to Erica's, is tiny. She easily has four or five times as many bottles. Maybe more, and I'll bet she's averaging around 100 a year. Ash? Same thing. He's been in this world for longer than Erica, because he's older and a little more intellectual about it, which in a weird way slows him down some, but at this point his collection is also outrageously huge. But if you walk into my house, you won't find a room dedicated to the collection. You won't find shelving from floor to ceiling on all four walls with LED lighting and "showcases" for my most valued pieces. When you walk into my house, don't really see any fragrances at all. Your first thought wouldn't be, "He's a frag freak." 

My collection is small enough that it fits into a few built-in cupboards in a corner of my basement. Doors closed, you can't even see it's there. You could walk through every area of my house, and potentially not even know I have a fragrance collection. It's not because I'm not obsessed—I spend nearly every waking hour thinking about perfume—and it's not because I'm not already far gone, because even with only 260 fragrances, I'm in the danger zone for what is reasonable. But I've kept my collection manageable and relatively modest because I'm disciplined about what I buy, and why I buy it. 

I buy fragrances that intrigue or interest me. I only buy what I think I'll wear. I only own things that are desirable to a collector of my age. You won't find me buying trendy designers like Sauvage or Legend because I'm not in this to be trendy. I buy what I like. You'll find me pursuing rose fragrances, violet fragrances, green fragrances, vanilla orientals, and either American or Italian drugstore classics. Some niche, but only wearable niche. Some designer, but only because of historical relevance. Some luxury, but only when it's truly "luxurious." Creed when I can afford it, because I personally love the brand. And that's it. 

I know I'm not addicted because I stop when I want to, and I stay "stopped" for as long as I want to be. I don't just purchase willy-nilly. I don't curse myself for compulsively purchasing another $80 fragrance that I know I don't want or need. I don't even own a credit card. My money is spent on what I've researched and developed an interest in, and in some cases I go years wanting a perfume without buying it, even though it's affordable and readily available. For example, I've wanted Mancera's Amber & Roses for a decade, and only recently purchased a bottle. The same with anything from the La Petite Robe Noire range. I've wanted Jicky since 2008, and didn't get around to buying it until this year. 

The moral of all this is that the internet is a dodgy place for the truth. With perfume, as with flight jackets, you get people who just spout ill-informed or utterly uninformed opinions en masse, and it's wise to take it all with a grain of salt. 

The Dove Fragrance Fiasco and What It Says About American Greed

A few months ago, Unilever announced that it had heard the clamor and would finally deliver. For decades, women around the world have pined for a perfume version of Dove's original beauty bar, a creamy alternative to traditional soap that cleans mainly through synthetic detergents blended into a super-dense cream rather than through saponification. Unilever long ignored the pleas, choosing instead to stick to its beauty bars, and I think that was wise. A perfume version of an iconic soap like Dove, Irish Spring, or Coast is a compelling concept, but I understand why executives would balk at the prospect of losing a fortune on a marketing or distribution miscalculation. 

If your expertise is soap, you do soap. Still, Dove bars are hugely popular with women and far less so with men, and when women are faithful to a product, as they are to Dove, the circumstance is rare enough to demand special consideration. Men are usually the ones who glom onto a product and refuse to let go (my dad has been wedded to Irish Spring for fifty years), but we are less likely to accessorize across product types, moving from soap to matching deodorant and fragrance, and sales figures suggest that the return on investment in us is too uncertain. Women also rarely go matchy-matchy with cosmetics, but when they do, they really do, so a product that has made them do so for decades is special, and Unilever decided the risk was worth taking.

Dove Original Fragrance went on sale exclusively online on October 27 at noon ET, priced at $19.57 in homage to the soap's 1957 debut. There was a waiting list, then a queue: people hovering over their keyboards, sweating bullets, waiting for 11:59 to draw its last breath. Card numbers were pasted in and buttons pressed, and within 60 seconds Unilever informed millions of women (and perhaps a few thousand men) that the fragrance was sold out. I had predicted to friends and family that bottles would appear on eBay and Mercari for over $300 within forty-eight hours, and that is exactly what happened. The $19.57 fragrance suddenly cost as much as the latest Creed. 

One seller started an auction at $2,200, and the top listing price is currently $500, which is utterly insane for a 50 mL bottle, however collector-friendly its pretty white box may be, with a front flap that opens to reveal a shelf for the bottle. The few buyers who got one offer a reality check on Fragrantica: yes, it's good; yes, it smells like Dove soap; no, it's not worth hundreds. Several women find it less creamy than the bar and a bit more floral, or "sharper," which isn't great. The challenge in a Dove perfume is to capture a gentle floral sweetness enmeshed in a cloud of creaminess. Unilever seems to have come close but opted for a more traditional perfume treatment, amping up the floral at the expense of the cream, perhaps to hold down formula costs.

Several women argue that scalping should be illegal. I disagree. It's skeezy, but what kind of moron falls for it? Who in their right mind goes on eBay and pays $130, $160, or $500 for something that cost $19.57 five minutes earlier? I've said for years that the tactic is as transparent as Stretch-Tite wrap and just as thin: one scalper buys and marks up, then sells to another who marks up further, and so on until the last scalper finds that the fragrance has hit a wall and no longer sells at a profit. But the greed doesn't rest with the scalpers alone. Like me, Unilever knew exactly what would happen. It knew the fragrance would sell out in forty-five seconds, that most women would be left with an empty cart and a day's worth of disappointment, and that scalpers with VPNs would snatch up 75% of the stock and hold legitimate buyers hostage with ridiculous resale prices. This was predetermined, and Unilever set it up that way. Sold out? Better luck next time.

There is a rumor that Unilever will reissue the fragrance next year in far greater numbers. I'm skeptical, because a reissue wouldn't redound to Unilever's advantage. The money is made in the scarcity, and without it, a relatively unlimited supply sees the remaining buyers dry up and becomes a liability sitting in warehouses. The leftover bottles then migrate to downmarket discounters like Burlington and Ross Dress for Less, and with only so many women in the world willing to buy a Dove perfume, the endpoint is reluctant discontinuation. Hype like this can be red-hot for the five minutes anyone has a real chance of buying, then as cold as leftover pancakes. The perfume might sell briskly for six months, even a year, but in a global market, the sheer manufacturing numbers point to a slow, steady decline in revenue until oversupply is plainly the problem, by which point it's too late to reverse course. 

The gray market then stops being the dominion of the demented, as legitimate retailers like Beauty Encounter and ForeverLux suddenly overflow with bottles at a modest markup of perhaps $25. Imagine being the scalper who went apeshit buying a couple of bottles, only to watch ForeverLux undercut him with a $45 listing thirty or forty spots above his $250 Hail Mary. It has happened before: scalpers wanted up to $200 for Red for Men by Giorgio Beverly Hills while it was discontinued, until EA Fragrances reissued it, and the miserable bunch had to close shop within a week.

All of this illustrates a common misconception in the fragrance world: that a high price equals desirability. It's backwards. Quality is worth a high price, and quality products are desirable, so high-quality products tend to be expensive. Those that command a luxury premium are desirable but not necessarily attainable. A man who earns $32K with annual expenses of $29K can drool over such an item and never buy it, even at a discount, because the price keeps it permanently out of reach. That premium limits buyers to those who have recognized an item's worth and are willing to spend their hard-earned dollars on it. Ironically, those with money to spend tend to feel the pinch more than the reckless, broke influencer who just wants to up his rizz. When you're broke and stupid, you are the exception to all the rules here.

Everyone knows Dove Original Fragrance isn't especially high quality. It's not junk, but it's nowhere near the league of Roja Dove, Amouage, or Creed, and it retailed for under $20, for God's sake. So no, those bottles can sit on eBay and Mercari at absurd prices as emblems of American greed, existing only because a massive company like Unilever was clever enough to pull the oldest and greediest sales trick in the book. The irony is that anyone desperate to know what it smells like need only stop at the local grocery store and buy the beauty bar for $1.95.

Jaguar for Men Ultimate Power (Givaudan)

There isn't much to say about this one. It's sort of an Aventus-inspired freshie, except when you really put your brain to what you're detecting, almost none of it resembles Aventus. There's a bit of allyl amyl glycolate in there, which creates that familiar pineapple fruitiness, but that's pretty much it. No further Creed comparisons can be made.

The rest of Jaguar for Men Ultimate Power is just a minty-herbal arrangement, which smells green and fresh, but also weak and synthetic. I get some green apple esters and a drop of lemon, and there's a super thin base of patchouli fraction and white musk. It goes on skin smelling bright and sparkly, and credit where it's due—it's not very sweet. But it peters out quickly and unless you bathe in it, Ultimate Power loses power within forty-five minutes and is barely there. Even for a cheapie, this is disappointing. 

If you're interested in Jaguar (the fragrances) and haven't smelled any of them before, I would advise you not waste too much time or money. Most of the flankers get middling to poor reviews. Ultimate Power actually gets good reviews, but not here. The original Jaguar is the only way to go. That one is very crisp, rather potent, and possesses a brightness and complexity that is well worth it. This stuff? Forget it. 

Continuum [12:00 GMT] (Tumi)

I don't know what to make of Tumi fragrances. Atlas is very fresh, quite a bit woody and green, and reminiscent of a '90s masculine, with actual oakmoss in the formula. Yet I rarely feel like reaching for it. Continuum keeps turning up at a steep discount at rack stores, and it gets good reviews, with people like Derek (Varanis Ridari) saying it's excellent and complex, so for $30 (down from $125 retail) I picked up a 100 mL bottle.

Catherine Celig of Takasago perfumed Continuum [12:00 GMT] for its 2021 release. I will say that Tumi's packaging is exceptional; the box is solid and supports the bottle with stiff inner leaves, and the bottle itself is copper-hued glass, quite hefty and with an even heftier metal cap that locks in place. How these managed to filter downmarket is beyond me. On packaging alone, they should remain at or near their retail price point. The liquid is atomized in succinct little bursts, and I feel the sprayer could be a little more generous, but whatever, first world problems. The perfume opens with a puff of transparent mandarin, a dash of cinnamon, a speck of sweetness from pink pepper, and some resinous and woody-green depth from olibanum. Kinda reminds me of a super high-def interpretation of Hot Spice by Arion (see my 2017 review) in those first few minutes, but that doesn't last.

What unfolds after forty-five minutes is quite impressive: Virginia tobacco leaves, flue-cured and honeyed, dominate the drydown, which lasts for hours on end. I get over 12 hours out of Continuum, with modest application. The tobacco is bolstered by a bit of cedar, and a bit more by a healthy dose of frankincense. The ultimate destination here is rich tobacco and incense, and it hums along beautifully, smelling crisp and bright, only a little sweet, a little earthy, with hints of white smoke via the incense. Continuum is basically a straightforward tobacco fragrance, and a damn good one. Some compare it to vintage Amouages like Jubilation XXV, but I get none of that. Did Amouage do tobacco? Older Amouages were rich and complex. This smells simple but natural, a solid all-day wear. Something tells me I'll be reaching for Continuum quite often . . . 

Club de Nuit Maleka (Armaf)

"We worked with outstanding naturals, chosen for their purity and depth." So says Olivier Cresp, master perfumer, of Armaf's 2025 Club de Nuit Maleka, gesturing to what looks like crushed olibanum, pink pepper, and orris root on a table while violins play in the background. This perfume is "refined in every detail" and clearly aims for aristocratic women, despite being poured into a cheesy translucent-purple version of Armaf's fugly Club de Nuit bottle. Curb your expectations. Aristocrats are Gen Z now.

Maleka is the first truly original perfume in the line; it isn't a clone of anything. Adding to its mystique is the name behind it: Olivier Cresp, the man behind the 1989 Femme Rochas I reviewed a few days ago, and the original Angel for Mugler (1992). He's more than a master perfumer; he's a legend. From Champs-Élysées for Guerlain, to Dune pour Homme for Dior, to Kokorico for Jean Paul Gaultier, to Light Blue for Dolce & Gabbana, his credits are huge. So how did Armaf snag him?

It's unclear, but I have a theory: the formula preexisted Armaf's brief. Cresp proudly did PR for Maleka, including video shorts aimed at Middle Eastern and European clients (unlike the rest of the line, it was never widely channeled into North American grey markets), and by all accounts, including his own, it's his work. But I suspect that when Sterling Parfums came calling, he rummaged through his back catalog of unused mods and handed over the best match. Maleka smells high-end designer, a major departure for Armaf: soft, elegant, and devoid of the rougher edges typical of CdN. In a shapely Carolina Herrera bottle or wrapped in a Lancôme bow, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. Only the rose construction ties it to Armaf: the same sweet-and-sour, syrupy, weirdly transparent rose found in CdN Intense for Women and Club de Nuit Élite, which Cresp may have been obligated to tuck in. But Maleka is more a modern iris perfume than a rosy Delina wannabe.

The iris is gorgeous: fresh, airy, and sweet, redolent of midnight-blue blooms on a cool May night, with a gentle, slightly powdery grape-sugar quality that pulls at my nose hairs. The "lychee" and pink pepper opening is sweet, pert, and rosy, but the iris steps forward within five minutes and never steps back. I get eight hours. By afternoon, the nondescript "praline" sweetness so many perfumers rely on asserts itself in the base, but it's discreet and beautifully blended. As the iris fades, the gentle woodiness of Ambroxan and synthetic sandalwood buzzes by, subtler and notably more expensive-smelling than the Ambroxan in any other CdN.

How did Cresp manage this on a low-end Armaf budget? At $55 retail, Maleka is cheap even by designer standards. I'd guess he had the mod ready and merely adjusted materials and proportions to fit Sterling's formula budget; time is money in perfumery, as in all business. Technology has also advanced so far that rendering notes like bergamot, raspberry, and iris, and making them smell realistic and coherently blended, is not as expensive as you might think. That Armaf charges so little speaks more to the grift of the big niche and luxury houses than to a product shorcoming. Luxury is now "fast."

My verdict: a soft-spoken fruity iris made with good materials, masterfully blended. Wear this one to relax. It isn't groundbreaking, which may be why Cresp had it sitting around without a haute couture buyer, but it avoids the powdery, lipsticky trappings of Prada Infusion d'Iris, Lancôme Trésor, Hermès Hiris, and Frédéric Malle Iris Poudre. It's a tender little piece of floral euphony, the sort of tune that draws you in long enough to close your eyes and savor the soft, sweet music. 

" Wolf " (Rayhaan)

I deferred to my fiancée on this one. Azzaro’s The Most Wanted EDP Intense came out in 2021, and around then I was gifted a 30 mL flacon that I never wear. Nothing is wrong with it; it’s a decent fragrance that smells good. But with its Batman bottle and ridiculous name, it is as “basic butch” as it gets. That’s right: Basic BUTCH. Clout-chaser clubbing juice.

It doesn’t get more basic. Intense bubblegum orange blossom opens the fragrance, with just enough cardamom to add a woody-spicy dimension. Next comes a toasted-sugar interlude that Azzaro calls “toffee” but that smells like more grapey bubblegum, all resting on an unabashedly synthetic, vanilla-soapy “amberwoods” base that drums along like the Energizer Bunny for hours. It’s less a fragrance than an olfactory texture: smooth.

But smooth gets boring, and the human brain, ever in search of meaning, starts combing that near-featureless landscape for anything that breaks the monotony. By hour six, the cheap chems Azzaro smudged together are jangling in your nasal canal like Marley’s chains on Christmas Eve.

For some ungodly reason, Rayhaan decided to clone it. Why? Who the fuck knows. A large bottle of the Azzaro runs about $70 if you apply yourself. That’s not cheap, but it’s hardly Creedy, I-blew-this-month’s-rent niche pricing. If I can hop on eBay and get it for the price of a discounted Montale, and it smells good (which it does), I’m solid . . . right?

Well . . . Rayhaan may have done the rarest of rare things and created a clone that is effectively superior. They aimed low and somehow bullseyed it. The fragrance has no printed name, only the striking relief of a wild canine on both box and bottle. It’s easily the most gorgeous bottle in my collection, and it deserves some sort of award. If I found it in a stranger’s luggage, I’d be slightly unnerved; it’s a container fit for Victorian vampires. Yes, the graphics are A.I., and yes, that kinda sucks, but it just works. It looks badass.

The fragrance? Basic Butch. It’s 99% Azzaro, minus the cardamom and with a more distinct toffee note in the heart. Without the cool spice, it’s smoother, more balanced, and warmer than its template. The top is little more than concentrated orange blossom and that same toasted sugar: sweet, a bit grapey, a bit floral. Expensive chewing gum.

My fiancée, who has a great sense of smell, called the Rayhaan “rounder,” “softer,” and, interestingly, “more complex.” She almost favored the Azzaro but found it too loud and piercing, and said she’d prefer it toned down. To her, the cardamom was indistinct yet detectable, a spice that enlivened things. The Rayhaan struck her as sweeter, more vanillic, and warmer, while the Azzaro, despite its spice, smelled cooler. She found that counterintuitive until I explained that cardamom is considered a “cool” spice. Her verdict: too close to call. The Azzaro is fresher and less sweet; the Rayhaan is richer, with a more resolute candy thing going on and a smoothness that never relents.

Here’s what Rayhaan figured out. When smoothness goads the brain into picking a fragrance apart, an unlikely spice like cardamom eventually addles that brain into submission. Keep it sweet all around, and the dissection becomes sensory quicksand. The more you fumble for something solid to grab onto, the deeper you sink into the sugary morass, only to realize that dying a smooth death is sweeter than living a spicy life.

The cardamom in the Azzaro is an interesting note, but because my brain seeks it out, it becomes THE note. Removing it leaves a simple chord of grape bubblegum, butter toffee, and woody amber that is truly coherent, the olfactory equivalent of a T-shirt and ballcap. I feel weird wearing it, since I don’t drive a tricked-out Subaru and I don’t call everyone “Bro.” But I still like it. It might just be the perfect clone.

Club de Nuit Iconic (Armaf)

Bergamot, Tobacco, Ginger, & Vetiver

I went into this one expecting a Creed clone, and I wasn’t disappointed. Club de Nuit Iconic (2022) hit YouTube and TikTok as a supposed Bleu de Chanel clone. Countless broccoli heads and fragbros made the comparison not because they believed it, but because everyone else did.

Having owned and worn Creed’s Tabaróme Millésime (2000), I saw Iconic in a different light. Tabaróme Millésime was important to the fragrance zeitgeist of the 2010s, arguably in Aventus’s league, yet nobody recognizes it as such, because it’s understated, pallid, and overlooked even among Creed fans. It’s also simple: bergamot, ginger, tobacco, and vetiver over Ambroxan, tied together by a watery melon à la Millésime Impérial. Bleu de Chanel (2010) is more complex, with pink pepper, nutmeg, mint, ginger, jasmine, grapefruit, labdanum, incense, patchouli, and synthetic sandalwood. It smells beefier, mintier, and far more woody-floral, with a flinty whiff of smoke from the incense. Vintage Bleu was Aqua Velva on steroids.

Weirdly, Tabaróme Millésime smells like a simplified Bleu. Whether it’s the interplay of bergamot, ginger, and slightly sweet tobacco leaf, or the way the nutty vetiver plays off the aromatics, it reads to me as a precursor to Polge’s Chanel. Likewise, Club de Nuit Iconic smells virtually identical to vintage Tabaróme Millésime, making it yet another Creed clone by Armaf, and a damn good one. It offers crisp lemon and bergamot, ginger root, light and grassy Virginia tobacco (tea-like in nature), and vetiver, with a restrained (for Armaf) Ambroxan and white musk in the base. It isn’t heavy or dense, and it’s just as watery and indistinct as Tabaróme Millésime. A nondescript melon note flutters somewhere in the heart, but it feels like a molecule and never resolves into a definite fruit.

Does it smell like Bleu? Only as much as Tabaróme Millésime does, so yes, sort of: a weaker, simpler, proto-Bleu de Chanel. The blue bottle makes everyone assume a Chanel clone, but I think it’s a successful misdirection by Armaf. Market it as a Tabaróme Millésime clone and fewer guys will bite. Make them think it’s cloning Bleu, and social media lights up as if Fragrantica’s review section were Kevin McCallister’s house.

Femme, 1989 (Rochas)

Femme has a long and storied history as Edmond Roudnitska's breakthrough chypre. According to legend, it was created in a dusty old warehouse that doubled as a lab in war-torn Paris, 1943. One imagines perfumer's alcohol being stored in used bottles of Vichy water, but I digress—one spray, and my first thought was, Mitsouko!

Except it's Mitsouko with warmth and carnality. Instead of Guerlain's laser-focused bergamot, I get cumin, fistfuls of cumin. There are conflicting accounts of how the cumin accord came to pass. Some sources claim that Olivier Cresp of Quest International singlehandedly added the cumin when Femme was reformulated and reissued in 1989, which led to Roudnitska crying, "They stole my Femme!" Other accounts suggest that Cresp worked closely with Roudnitska on the '89 formula, and that the Master Perfumer asked him to utilize a cumin accord similar to what Roudnitska had formulated decades earlier for Eau d'Hermès. I tend to think that this story makes more sense. Roudnitska was still working in the late '80s, and there's no reason why Cresp wouldn't have deferred to him. The cumin is both skanky and fresh; the citrus, bergamot and mandarin, smells rich and perfectly rounded, offsetting the sweaty spice just enough to keep the top of Femme smelling subversively French. Think freshly washed vagina in perfume form. 

Armchair historians also claim the cumin was never in the original formula of Femme, but I'm not entirely sure that's accurate, either. There is no definitive description of the formula for Roudnitska's Femme, and given that he explored cumin as a "fresh" note, I wouldn't be surprised if 1940s bottles contained some. Perspectives on vintage Femme are somewhat indirect and inconclusive, and anything is possible. Once the superlatively spicy top begins to evaporate and melt into the aldehydes c-14, c-18, and the Prunol base, Femme gets very vintage Guerlain in vibe, and a familiar (and rudimentary) chypre accord emerges and dominates. Yet, where Mitsouko feels cold and aloof, Femme feels warm and personable. Mitsouko is a marble mausoleum in the misty woods of a forgotten cemetery; Femme is a hunter's blind at midnight in the same woods, with a roaring campfire illuminating a russet chiaroscuro of reds and browns and burnt greens. The chypre forest of Guerlain is haunted and silent, save for a subdued peach light from deep in the gloaming; the woods of Femme glow creamy and sweet, and are redolent of a post-summer harvest. 

I own two bottles of Femme, both nearly identical to the version pictured above, with the only major differences being that mine have black caps, and their liquid is much darker. More of a reddish-brown than a golden amber. There is no oakmoss in either bottle, and I detect that a patchouli accord was used to compensate for its absence. My bottles are the 1989 formula, and the cumin is dirty, but good dirty, evocative of how women smell on an intimate level. Were Cresp and Roudnitska attempting to replicate the natural perfume of a young woman's loins? Seems like a "yes" to me. Having had my fair share of sensual encounters, I recognize, with some amusement, that the first 30 minutes of Femme nails her deep musk. Then Prunol steps forward, and the fruitiness of the composition explodes on skin, a veritable basket of plum, prune, peach, and apricot, with the zest of mandarin still whispering in the wings. The edibles are joined by flowers: of chief importance are Bulgarian rose, jasmine, ylang, and immortelle. The immortelle lends the heart a curried sweetness, not unlike raw honey. And, of course, there's labdanum. 

In lieu of oakmossy powder, the base instead hews into cedarwood and birchwood, with a faint smoky angle from the birch, a brightness from the cedar, and that dollop of patchouli to smudge everything together. Benzoin and a dash of vanilla further cement the chypre structure, and Femme endures as a woody-sweet glow for well over 20 hours. This is a classic of French perfumery, ideal for cool autumn days and evenings. It's so good that if, like me, you are loath to replace your bottle of Mitsouko when it's finished, there is no cause for worry, for Femme is the sexier, friendlier, and more complex chypre.

La Petite Robe Noire Black Perfecto EDP (Guerlain)

This is a short review because there's really only one thing I can say about Black Perfecto that doesn't bear much in descriptive excess. I think you know where I'm going with this. For everyone out there who likes Creed's original 2008 Love in Black (LiB), but can't afford it, well, here's your fragrance. Guerlain's 2017 release in the seemingly endless La Petite Robe Noire (LPRN) line is very affordable these days at roughly $45 per 50 mL bottle, and it is 99.9% Love in Black. And, like '08 LiB, it's discontinued. 

The only difference between the Creed and the Guerlain is in the choice of fruit. Love in Black contains a somewhat abstract blackcurrant and cranberry accord that doesn't quite elucidate either fruit. Guerlain opts for a black cherry accord that smells perhaps a tick sweeter and a few ticks clearer, but which basically does the same thing. The rest? Virtually identical to LiB. I mean, these two are really, really close to each other. But the kicker is that Black Perfecto actually smells more natural, and thus feels a bit more luxe, and I can't believe I'm writing this, but I actually prefer it. 

The niche for this scent profile is hard to pin down. Guerlain's PR pushes Black Perfecto as the LPRN line's "rock chick" flanker, with supposedly clear accents of leather. I don't really get any leather. Instead, I get violet, iris—a ton of iris—and that dry, powdery, gothic gloaming of wilted roses and cedar chests. A haunted mansion somewhere in the hills, with a gorgeous widow forever grieving, still wearing the funeral dress from when her beloved died 140 years ago. Her dress, her hair, and her breath, all reek. 

But her perfume? To die for.

La Petite Robe Noire Eau de Parfum Absolue (Guerlain)

At the age of 44, I've finally developed a full appreciation for Guerlain. It took a while. For many years there, I wasn't convinced of the supposed quality behind their perfumes and was perhaps a bit blinded by the outrageous quality of 2000s vintage Creeds. We can't expect people to spend ungodly amounts of time macerating micro-batches, nor can we demand that they spend insane amounts of money on unnecessarily premium materials to make said micro-batches, so a little maturing on my part was in order.

I came around to the La Petite Robe Noire (LPRN) line when I realized that my bottle of Love in Black (LiB) was running low and I didn't feel like coughing up $140 for another one. If you're familiar with LiB, you know that it's a gloriously synthetic concoction of cheap-smelling violet ionones and all the sweet musks required to achieve an intense violet/iris accord, and that this unmitigated trashiness is the appeal. It's so cartoonishly "goth" and dark in its brooding floral sweetness that it works perfectly on a guy. No Guerlains promise that exact vibe . . . but a few come pretty close. La Petite Robe Noire Eau de Parfum Absolue, released in 2023, is one such Guerlain. (There's another that actually comes even closer to LiB, but that one is for a future review.)

LPRN EDP Absolue is "rich college chick" juice. She's 20 years old. She's working toward her psych major. Gorgeous, not because of any inherent qualities, but because rich people can afford to be genetically choosy. And she bathes in LPRN fragrances. The EDP Absolue is just her latest love, and she gushes about it to all her girlfriends and wears it to class religiously. But here's the thing: this fragrance is complex and really well made. Like LiB, it uses the Biolandes orris extract to render its slightly bready iris accord. But unlike LiB, it elicits a wide array of comments from people around the wearer, ranging from "a nice fruity smell" to "smells like pancakes and syrup."

I even had someone tell me it smells like Axe body spray. This speaks to the loudness of the fragrance more than to any deficits it may have. While I wouldn't call it "top tier" Guerlain, Absolue inhabits the Made-for-American-Girls category of dumb-reach fruity-florals that influencers can correctly characterize as "elevated." Yes, it's just another casual mall juice, something best worn for weekend errands. Yet Guerlain manages to infuse it with a level of material quality and blending that puts it in femme Creed territory. You'll get the same mileage out of this as you'd get out of Love in Black. It opens with bright, juicy cherry. Smells stunning. Laced through the juiciness is violet, which balances the tanginess with some floral sharpness. I also get the orris and a pleasant pink rose that doesn't smack you over the head. It slides like fine silk along steampunk sugared-cherry curves, a floral texture more than a living bloom.

There's a freshness that lifts the composition into another hemisphere, and that freshness is black tea. It's a touch tannic and smoky, even a little aquatic, in a freshwater way. There are subtle hints of licorice and not-so-subtle hints of marzipan, but then the heliotropin takes over, and a slightly leathery cherry-almond heliotrope accord carries the fragrance through the rest of the day. While not quite as pitch-black as Love in Black, Absolue feels sophisticated and sexually moody, sort of the way an indie French film from the '90s starring Juliette Binoche feels. Men can manage this fragrance thanks to its eerie aloofness, but wear with caution—this stuff fills large rooms.

Spectre Wraith Eau de Parfum (French Avenue)

A shot . . . of Espresso

Luca Turin once bluntly said, "Coffee fragrances don't work." This was after a year or two of waxing poetic about several fairly expensive coffee fragrances. It left me wondering if he'd been overly enthusiastic about the advent of coffee perfumes, only to realize with some chagrin that most of them smelled outré, chemical, unwearable. Thierry Mugler's A*Men was the world's first and only mainstream coffee frag, a mid-nineties attempt at saturnine gourmand accords that today reads as a bit harsh and crude, but back then was exotic and undeniably artistic. Its saving grace was an intentionally chemical interlude between its minty-bright opening accord and mocha-bean patchouli base, which manifested as a "tar" note of indescribably macabre weirdness. 

French Avenue, which is really just the label name for a company called Fragrance World Perfumes, operates out of the United Arab Emirates and has a small niche line of "clone" fragrances under the Spectre moniker. These include Spectre and Spectre Ghost (both 2023). While Spectre gets some cult love for its rendition of Matière Première's Falcon Leather, and Spectre Ghost gets oodles of heart emoji for being a damned close chromo of Ani, Nishane's brown study in wet oils, Spectre Wraith (2024) straddles the midline in popularity, garnering faithful adherents on one side, and dismissive regrets on the other. Ostensibly a copy of By Kilian's Black Phantom, Wraith aims to be a sultry coffee-based gourmand. I will say that its bottling presentation is one of the most creative I've ever seen. Wraith's matte black bottle, "shot" by a bullet that retained its casing, is striking. 

The fragrance matches. Wraith opens with a semisweet cherry cordial accord, rather like one of those pricy dark chocolates with the even darker fruit filling, and in those first five minutes, Wraith smells quite mesmerizing. It's like Wayne Szalinski shrunk me down to the size of an ant, took a bite from just such a choco-cherry confection, and dropped a glob of it on my head. It surrounds me in a rich haze of mellow sweetness, and I have to admit, it's pretty amazing. If it stopped there, I'd say it's merely a unique but linear crowdpleaser, but it doesn't stop there. The whole things morphs into an esoteric niche frag of black coffee with buttercream, and smells like a smoother and more refined version of A*Men's tar. This is something that will appeal to a relatively small subset of fragrance aficionados, and it should—it's abstruse but beautifully made, and perfect for cold autumn and winter evenings. This coffee fragrance does work.