Jaguar for Men (Pardis SA/Sodimars)

The more I read about this fragrance, the more confusing its history gets. Thierry Wasser is credited as having authored the original formula at the ripe old age of 19. But then in 2002, Dominique Preyssas reformulated it into Jaguar "Classic" which is the version I reviewed last year. However, Perfume Intelligence does not credit Wasser with Jaguar 1988. This suggests that Wasser was not the perfumer after all, and that Basenoters and others (including me) have spread yet another rumor as fact into the ether. 

We may never know who the actual perfumer was. I find it difficult to believe that Wasser, at 19, could have formulated the vintage version in my collection, which dates to the early and middle 1990s. The Sodimars formula smells very old-school in a great way, and the word that springs to mind is "plush." Rich but softly-rendered mandarin orange top note, followed by gentle but radiant accords of resinous evergreen woods and patchouli, with a hint of artemisia (the one note that does not appear in the reformulation), a sort of vague white floral that for some unknown reason people pretend to know is gardenia (again, I'm one of them), cloves, the dusky silhouette of incense through all the agrestic artifice. The main thing that separates vintage Jaguar from current is the obvious presence of oakmoss, and and overall powdery-green aura that recalls one of its contemporaries, Gucci Nobile. 

The reformulation in the darker glass with silver cap has a much more vibrant citrus accord that lasts and pervades the structure into the drydown, and for some reason the subtle shifts in focus from spicy-green (1988) to cedar-green (2002) slides my association from Nobile to Krizia Uomo. Preyssas's formula is soapy; the original formula is more powdery, and not soapy, although not very powdery, either. Between the two, the vintage is softer, its patchouli vibes with oakmoss in a quieter and more sophisticated way, while the reformulation is sharper, brighter, and could also be compared with accuracy to any version of Paco Rabanne XS pour Homme, while the vintage could not. An interesting fragrance that has been through some interesting permutations over the decades!

Archives 69 (Etat Libre d'Orange)

Christine Nagel of Hermès fame (H24 line) authored Archives 69 for ELDO in 2011, and I find a stylistic connection between it and Nagel's later work. She seems to favor creating bold and bittersweet accords that are abstract, durable, memorable. Much like modernist New York School painters, she deals in the spontaneous fluidity of individual artistic gestures. In H24, narcissus (daffodils) becomes dark green bananas; sclarene sage becomes citrus; rosewood becomes magazine ink. She subverts expectations by using disparate perfumery materials as a sculptor in 1954 used wire—twisting, tying, weaving—to create new forms not previously witnessed by man.

Archives 69 is more focused than H24 in that it isolates and then cultivates our perception of incense. Nagel allows incense the flexibility to become a bouquet of flowers, and a grinder full of exotic peppercorns, and even a synthetic machine-moulded polystyrene yogurt container. After a brief, peppered-citrus topnote, Archives 69 moves to a Day-Glo dab of olibanum, kaleidoscoping its spicy, sweet, smoky, resinous, floral, woody, milky, and bitter facets into a smoothly undulating central accord. Archives 69 invites an experience of movement, color, and depth that it abandons at the thirty minute mark, to become disappointingly weak and thin. In those early moments, I find genius in how Nagel portrays incense. It possesses not any one particular quality, but all the qualities lightened to a very low f-stop, an over-exposed brilliance that gives life to a material then tends towards leaden solemnity, at least in most ecuminically-minded perfumes. Various citrus and floral nuances float and drift in and out of perception, and the fragrance feels complex yet effusive and friendly, a 1960s hippie chick in a bottle. 

Then the deflation happens. Everything runs out of puff, the notes flatten, the accords suddenly feel frozen and vaguely chemical, and Archives 69 stalls. I blame the art direction of Etat Libre d'Orange more than I blame Christine Nagel for this; the brand clearly wanted a light and evanescent incense fragrance that one could imagine as patchouli-adjacent in true post-Summer of Love, Woodstock fashion. All fine and well. But if you want that, you have to make some practical concessions, and one of those would be to accept that the only way someone can give you an avant-garde incense cologne that actually smells good for a few hours is to let the materials say what they need to, for as long as they need to. Running out of steam after ninety minutes says, "We cut the budget," and for that sort of thing you're better off naming your fragrance Archives 79. Why do I keep feeling like this brand could solve its many problems by picking better names for its fragrances? 

Brut Cologne (Sodalis)

The Best Drugstore Brut in Years

I know. Another Brut review. 

Hear me out. You can't find this stuff on store shelves in Connecticut. Grocery and drugstores everywhere only carry the Splash-On formula, not the cologne. I have no idea why. Seems to me if you're selling the weaker formula, you can just as easily sell the stronger one right next to it, but no. Not in Connecticut. Here we are dead-set on providing only the bare minimum. 

I saw a bottle on eBay that I thought was High Ridge Brands’ Brut cologne and bought it. When it arrived, there was no mention of HRB anywhere on the label. Instead, it says it’s distributed by Sodalis USA in Westport, Connecticut. A quick search shows that High Ridge Brands was acquired by Sodalis in October 2024, and Sodalis took over manufacturing and distribution for several brands, including Brut. Like the HRB version, this one is made in Mexico for the North American market.

It smells great. It’s a slightly stronger take on the HRB Splash-On. That version leaned heavily into lavender, with a fresh, powdery feel. This cologne brings out more of the amber, but unlike the Idelle Labs releases, it doesn’t push too far into sweet, vanilla-heavy territory. There’s not much separating this from what was sold in the 1980s and ’90s. It’s fresh, ambery, lightly sweet, and a little musky. I like it a lot. It’s better than HRB’s reformulated Splash-On and probably the best plastic-bottle Brut I’ve smelled in years.

What’s interesting is that recent manufacturers seem to be steering the formula back toward an earlier profile rather than continuing down the cheaper path Idelle Labs took. My guess is that Sodalis has people closer to my age involved in these decisions, and they’re paying attention to what enthusiasts are saying online. Maybe they’ve seen discussions on forums like Badger & Blade, Basenotes, Fragrantica, or even this blog, and realized that people want Brut to have some swagger again. Whatever the reason, they made the right call, because this Brut actually smells quite good.

All I can say is, thank god Helen of Troy no longer makes it. Their final formula was absolutely abysmal. 

Brut Spray Cologne (Helen of Troy, Canadian/Northern Territories Formula)

There isn't much I can say of interest about this particular version of Brut, because let's face it, at this point in my career, I've reviewed Brut to death. They no longer make the plastic bottle spray cologne in North America to my knowledge, as High Ridge Brands hasn't released one, at least not in my neck of the woods. Back about ten years ago in Texas, Helen of Troy/Idelle Labs produced the plastic spray bottle pictured above for the Canadian market. I figured it would smell identical to the American Idelle formula from that time period (roughly the mid to late 2010s)—which is to say, cheap.

To my surprise, this version smells better. Much better. I don't know if atomizing it is what makes the difference, or if it's just my imagination, or if it's actually better, but despite remimisenses on the gradual crappening of Brut under Idelle's regime, this spray bottle version diverges from even my best memories of their American product. It opens brisk and minty, very crisp and bright, and the stearyl acetate materials smell very green and lavender-forward. This is a stark contrast to the vague, snowy top accord of the American formula, which I didn't mind, but always wished was better. From there, the Canadian stuff gets woodier and richer with understated vanilla and powdery tones. In this regard it swings closer to the Brut I remember, yet it somehow resembles Unilever's current glass formula more. The glass formula, by the way, is great. Weird.

Eventually it all calms into that familiar powdery vanilla 'n talc base, with noticeable ambery musks (things that replaced musk ambrette, perhaps Ambretone and/or ambrettolide) tucked in there for depth and staying power. Spray this stuff on fabric, and you get a decent 4.5 hours. Get it both on and under the shirt, and you can probably get through a 7 or 8-hour work shift while still catching faint whiffs of woody vanilla. By no means is this Canadian stuff, now semi-vintage and discontinued, anything to go crazy over, or even bother seeking out. But I'm here to tell you, if you can get a bottle of this for less than a bottle of the glass spray in any iteration, do it man. Do it now. 

A Man's Truth About Smelling "Classy"

When you get into the "hobby" of fragrance collecting, conversational pattern recognition kicks on at some point, and when people ask you for the fiftieth time about which fragrance is recommended for "black tie" events, you realize what you thought was true before has changed dramatically now. Prior to this pursuit, my view of what it means to smell "classy" invariably incorporated an association with expensive fragrances, things that would set you back no less than $100. Chanel, Dior, YSL. You had to pony up if you wanted to impress, especially if you were trying to impress women.

Several hundred fragrances later, I've come to a brutal realization that I'd like to share with you. There are some things that are open for debate—are chypres better than other genres, is Guerlain the greatest fragrance house to ever exist, will Pascal Morabito reissue Or Black in its original formula—and there are some things that aren't subjective at all. People will tell me that fragrance is about personal taste. Once upon a time, I agreed with them. Not any longer. I've had an olfactory epiphany, and it concerns the question of "class." Men are given to using fragrance the way male peacocks use their tail feathers, and the endless spectrum of options seem to muddy the waters in making a sound choice. Thirty years ago, certain fragrances could be chosen, and one's peers would wordlessly nod their approval. Eau Sauvage. Yes, go boy. Azzaro Pour Homme? Nice, see if you can rock it. Cool Water? Get 'em while they're young. 

Other fragrances would get short shrift, not because anyone considered them bad, per say, but because their caché was very much as defined: hidden. Old Spice? Yeah, an old standby, but really? Canoe? I mean, if you're that confident, and we meant that in a bad way. English Leather? Sure, I guess, if you're competing with thirteen year-olds. And Brut? Brut, the stuff in the plastic dark-green bottle? Bottom shelf at Walgreens? At least you didn't pick Lilac Vegetal, so I suppose it could be worse. The attitude back a few decades ago was that Brut and its contemporaries (and near contemporaries) was a lazy guy's pick. Sure, he could wear it, and nobody would mind. But it's for going to the mall, or just chilling with buddies, or playing cards. You don't wear Brut to stand out. You certainly don't wear it to smell like a winner. 

At 62 years old, Brut continues to sell globally in no fewer than 7 different formulas. Despite all odds, and millions of young people turning their noses up, Brut has achieved something even Old Spice couldn't manage: truism status. Brut is obviously a winning perfume. It has continued across 6 decades to rake in millions of dollars and retain slow-but-steady market share growth. Despite the comings and goings of other much newer things, stuff in the Axe line, the designer realm, and even the haute couture niche space, Brut endures, and it endures solidly. You could chalk that up to luck in the 80s, in the 90s, and by the 2000s you could mark it down to a crumby economy and luck, just as you might pin an ever-hitting pang of nostalgia in the 2010s. But in the mid 2020s? 

It's not luck anymore. Nostalgia doesn't really have anything to do with it, because most of the buyers aren't old enough to remember Brut in its prime, and the economy has been stable for years. At this point, Brut exists because Brut has earned it. And it hasn't earned it by being financed despite floundering sales, or by simply being so ubiquitous that even in discontinuation, it moves endlessly inexpensive units. Brut has made it to the objective and inarguably solid status of being an excellent fragrance, a genuine masterpiece, something that actually smells way better than everyday folks realize. Brut smells great. Brut smells masculine. Brut smells clean, fresh, green, powdery, sweet. Brut smells classy. 

We buy expensive and post-Aventus masculines because we live in a post-Aventus world, and of course, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. The men who buy and wear Chanel Boy aren't wrong. But you might debate the merit of Chanel Boy, and that conversation could be won in divergent ways. Not true Brut. There's only one right answer with Brut, and that answer is, "It smells good." Now, you can argue, "Yeah, but Aventus smells better." But I'd ask the ladies to weigh in, on a blind sniff test. I've received compliments from women while wearing Brut. Aventus doesn't even elicit a look from them. What's good for the gander isn't necessary good for the goose.

You're won't win awards for exciting, or get points for sexual bravado with Brut. You won't knock people on their asses and have your neighbor's husband asking you what it is you're wearing so he can find a bottle to impress his wife. Brut doesn't blow minds. But dress in a tux, cufflinks, smart car, the whole bundle, and then splash a little Parfums Prestige Brut aftershave on your face, and step out. That woody vanilla accord will embrace you in the cool night air, and its perfect balance, its beautiful simplicity, its absolutely anonymous masculinity, will elevate your aura and smell both classic and modern. A few spritzes of the EDT on your dress shirt seals the deal. 

Brut will smell better than any Amouage. Sorry, hate to bust your bubble after you spent $300 on that bottle of Omani art. Brut will make the single girl at your table wet. The artsy-fartsy oriental will likely repel her. And Brut will match any Creed. Sure, you can do pretty well with Original Santal. You'll do just as well with Brut. Furthermore, Brut works in the tradition of minimalist masterpieces like Rive Gauche pour Homme (now hundreds per bottle), Acqua di Parma Colonia, and Pen's Sartorial, and yet it's absurdly easier to use because it's ten times cheaper and infinitely more powerful for one simple reason: women will have a "This Man" moment of recognizing what they can't name or identify, and yet on a subliminal level they'll equate it with strength, confidence, and safety. 

Brut is, put simply, a basic traditional fougère with two unique flourishes—stearyl acetate on top (fresh-green) and soft white flowers in the mid (jasmine and ylang accord) that never gets too sugary, or too creamy, or too loud. The rest of Brut is structurally unremarkable, a simple anisic lavender with a splash of lemon, sweet coumarin, and woody vanilla, but the blend and balance are perfect. Your luck may depend on which formula you're using, but I recommend Unilever's Parfums Prestige neckchain version for straight-up best quality and execution of all the aforementioned accords. The squat bottle Unilever EDT, the Unilever aftershave, and the plastic bottle splash-on from High Ridge Brands are also all recommended. 

Brut is a great fragrance, and it's classy, black-tie worthy. If you're tired of wearing things that only satisfy in one or a few stages, but fall short in others, than Brut. If you wish your fragrance lasted without needing to be loud, than Brut. If you want to wear something that is endlessly versatile, than Brut. Yeah, I know. It's awfully cheap. How can a guy feel good about splashing a $9 cologne from a plastic bottle when he's going to a high stakes formal business event? Get over the package, and the price. Go with the smell. That smell has been carrying countless men to promotions since the Mad Men era. 

Remember, cheap has nothing to do with it. Not when the blend is perfect. And Brut's blend, as time has shown, is eminently flawless. 

Atlas [00:00 GMT] (Tumi)

Tumi is a Joe Connecticut luggage brand that sells luxury-priced bags to Joe Connecticut types. (If you don't know who Joe Connecticut is, come to Connecticut for a little stay and look carefully at the middle-aged white men in Polo shirts and chinos who drive Audi Q7s and Toyota Highlanders and have wives who look like birds.) Tumi apparently struggled during the pandemic—understandable given the circumstances—and turned to fragrance to keep the brand afloat. Atlas is just one of several EDPs they rolled out, and I figured it was time to give the brand a chance, and bought a bottle. 

What can I say about Atlas? It smells fine. Bright, minty ginger, a little metallic at the start and at the very end, with licks of grapefruit, amberwood (intense woody freshness), and cardamom for cool piquancy, followed by mintier geranium leaf and yet more ginger, all atop a mossy coumarinic base of semisweet amber and synthetic vetiver. The fake vetiver is forgivable because they put a good amount of IFRA-compliant oakmoss in here, which fleshes it out. I find it to be fairly lush and complex enough to warrant owning, but this style has been done a hundred times before, and often for less money. One example is Quorum Silver, which is about $20 for 100 milliliters and smells remarkably similar, and arguably better. Having said that, I think Atlas deserves praise for not succumbing to the ongoing designer trend of putting staid aromatics atop a basket of carnival burnt-sugar sweets. At least this carries a properly masculine character, expressed through a traditional yet contemporary bitter-green style.

I also find the packaging unique, another plus. Solid, heavy glass, with a very heavy metal cap that screws shut. I spent the first ten seconds of ownership tugging in vain at the cap; it took me a few to realize the trick. They should have an instruction manual for people with my diminished IQ. All told, Atlas is a decent woody-fresh masculine that smells like a stab at a 90s throwback aromatic fougère, or "nu-gère" as they were sometimes called, those bright and usually synthetic shaver scents that often intentionally excluded true lavender from the blend. I foresee my bottle gathering dust, and me sometimes pausing to look at it before deciding time and again to wear something else. 

ck One Essence Parfum Intense (Calvin Klein)

Asian Green Tea, ala Calvin Klein

This fragrance has flown under the radar since its release last year, and I’m not sure why. It’s excellent. I found a 6.7 oz bottle for $30, which is an absolute steal. My guess is its sharp, synthetic opening turned some people off, but if you give it a few minutes and let it get to the point, it really rewards you. According to Calvin Klein’s press release, Essence is the original ck One “intensified,” made with organic natural materials sourced from Italy and the Far East. Think of it as a millésime version of the original. The box mentions “upcycled” alcohol infused with natural essences of bergamot and blood orange from a family-owned farm in Calabria, which sounds a bit over the top in a good way. 

The opening is harsh, but it fades fast, and Essence settles into a much more dynamic blend. Hedione and amberwood play off each other, layered with rich green tea and bright, naturalistic citrus. The overall effect is modern, clean, and truly unisex. Imagine ck One with more depth and muscle.What sets Essence apart is its richness and complexity. The original is strong and diffusive, but it can feel somewhat monotone, very white-musk and white-floral in that distinctly 90s way. Essence leans greener, with a cool, almost silvery mineral edge running through the tea and citrus. I’d say it’s about 90 percent the original and 10 percent something fresher and more tea-forward. It feels like the same idea, just executed with higher-quality materials and a more nuanced blend. Alberto Morillas returned to compose this version, and whatever he was paid, it was worth it.

I don’t usually get sentimental about fragrances. I’ve smelled hundreds, and very few truly move me. But Essence does. Maybe it’s the idea of a perfumer revisiting his own creation three decades later and refining it into something more polished and luxurious. Or maybe it’s simply that ck One Essence smells beautiful and expensive. Either way, I want more of it. Of all the ck One flankers released over the years, this is the only one I think is truly worth owning, and if they dc'd the original and kept Essence, I'd be fine with that. 

Roses Musk (Montale)

Launched in 2009, Roses Musk is one of Montale's earlier fragrances in the rose canon, and has become the brand's flagship rose fragrance. This is unfortunate, as I don't find it to be a very good rose fragrance, especially compared to Mancera's Amber & Roses, which boasts a far richer and rounder rose accord. It's also unfortunate when one considers how many rose fragrances Montale has discontinued, things like Highness Rose and Deep Roses, and I'm puzzled by how Roses Musk survived. 

Roses Musk opens with a blast of alcohol and aldehydes, but they're not really citrus in feel. It's more of a chemical snow, a cold blast of hairspray with the isopropyl alcohol note especially prevalent. This does resolve into something warmer and "musky" in nature, but not animalic or sweet. It's like a silvery laundry detergent musk that smells intentionally chemical. Weird. This gradually segues into a bouquet of Damascus rose with some pink peony notes to brighten things, and the pink roses effect lingers in linear fashion for a few hours before fading away. Roses Musk leaves a halo of petals around you as you go about your day, and definitely smells far better when you sense its aura than when you smell it up close, although up close gives you a better idea of what's really going on. 

I can't say that I find anything wrong with Roses Musk per say, and I actually do like it—just not as a rose fragrance. I appreciate the way the floral notes mingle with the snowy musk, creating a cold abstract lift to the flowers they wouldn't have otherwise. I also like that Roses Musk isn't a foghorn that fills a room like Amber & Roses does, which makes it much easier to wear. I just wanted more of a true rose fragrance from this Montale, and instead I got a fairly synthetic arrangement of rose-like materials. Definitely well made and interesting, but perhaps better thought of as a "rosy musk" than a "musky rose." 

Safari for Men (Ralph Lauren)

Released as Ralph Lauren’s answer to YSL Jazz, Safari for Men has always occupied the scruffier end of the nineties fougère spectrum. It was the louder, brasher cousin, more Giorgio Beverly Hills Red for Men than Left Bank intellectual in feel; Safari was Lauren's own Polo Crest formula, readjusted (i.e., sweetened, cheapened) for broader global appeal. In today's version, the oakmoss is gone, and you feel its absence because this is exactly the kind of scent that wants that dark green bite. Still, the aromatic structure remains remarkably intact. The Cosmair-era bones are all there, and Safari smells essentially as it did when it first hit department store counters in the early nineties.

Do I like it? Yes. Safari represents a kind of masculine perfume that was once everywhere and is now oddly confined to luxury niche bottles priced north of $250. By comparison, the materials here still feel generous and even a little luxurious, and the construction more than elegant enough to justify modern designer pricing. It is unapologetically forceful, a true room-filler, so discretion is advised. This is not a scent for nervous sprayers. Safari is unmistakably retro, a fresh fougère with shoulders, and anyone wearing it should understand that. If you’re under 30, don’t leave it on your dresser expecting instant recognition. That said, I once spotted a bottle lurking in the background of a very chic New York twenty-something’s bedroom on YouTube, which suggests the usual fashion cycle may be doing its thing. What was once passé has a way of becoming compelling again, and Safari still has the confidence and presence to function as a signature.

What really sets it apart is the way its resinous and balsamic elements are staged. The opening is distinctive and slightly strange, built around cinnamon leaf and eucalyptus, softened by restrained touches of lavender, coriander, and bergamot. The cinnamon leaf hangs on for a good fifteen to twenty minutes before giving way to carnation, tarragon, and wormwood. These aromatics guide the scent through a dry, cultivated garden of rosy florals before it settles into a gently sweet base of mossy patchouli, sandalwood, amber, and musk. It’s confident, handsome, and oddly moving in its refusal to be updated. Gorgeous, and absolutely worth owning.

Eladaria (Creed)

People Like to Bitch, but I think Kering's Creeds are Sexy!

In 2019, Banana Republic released Peony & Peppercorn, a fragrance I own and still enjoy wearing occasionally. It is restrained with respect to peppercorn, instead foregrounding a bright, soapy, pink peony accord. While it does not read as conventionally masculine, I have never found it uncomfortable to wear. The fragrance was composed by former VP of Takasago,Vincent Kuczinski.

Last year, Creed introduced Eladaria, describing it as a “morning rose” built around dewy accords and cool textures. Having finally spent time with it, what immediately stands out is its striking similarity to Peony & Peppercorn. This is eyebrow-raising, particularly given that Carmina previously exhibited subtle parallels to Banana Republic’s Dark Cherry & Amber. In effect, Eladaria smells like a partial convergence of those two Banana Republic fragrances. Its rose accord appears to rely on the same structural framework used in Carmina, while its peony is rendered with the same bright, sudsy clarity found in Peony & Peppercorn. The difference is one of emphasis: in Eladaria, peony ultimately dominates, whereas rose jam with hints of lavender and orange zest leads in Carmina.

The handling of pepper distinguishes the two peony-forward compositions. In Peony & Peppercorn, Kuczinski’s formula barely acknowledges the peppercorn note, allowing peony to carry the fragrance from opening through drydown. Eladaria also privileges peony, but its pink peppercorns remain a consistent and defining textural element from the first spray through the base. Banana Republic’s fragrances are licensed by Maesa, and to my knowledge there is no formal relationship between Maesa and Creed. That said, one cannot help but wonder whether Vincent Kuczinski himself is the perfumer, or at least a main collaborator behind Eladaria.

If that were the case, it would explain a great deal. This particular Creed reads as a luxury refinement of Peony & Peppercorn, though it does not meaningfully extend the original concept. Instead, it remains faithful to the same pepper-and-floral architecture. I detect aldehydes and pink pepper at the top, followed by a faintly ambery sweetness—likely ethyl maltol used in a non-gourmand capacity—before an intensely soapy, citrus-free transition into a linear peony accord, anchored by the same firm rose structure present in Carmina, except here the rose is far lighter. Eladaria is a peony scent.

There is no question that Eladaria is beautiful, and it fully earns its name. Still, it is difficult to ignore the oddity of Creed seemingly mining the Banana Republic mod bank. Dark Cherry & Amber likely contained several viable formula iterations that went unused until Creed’s attention yielded Carmina (although I still think it's closer to Love in Black). Now Eladaria presents itself as an unmistakably close modification of Peony & Peppercorn. The addition of Ambroxan lends salinity and depth, reinforcing the familiar musk and cashmere wood base, but beyond that, the two compositions are uncomfortably close, frankly much closer than Carmina is to Dark Cherry & Amber.

Kuczinski has been VP and Senior Perfumer at MANE since 2011, and MANE perfumer Mathieu Nardin composed Delphinus (which I have yet to review), so there is proof that Creed has collaborated with Kuczinski's firm in recent years. I'll go out on a limb here and say that given this connection, it's likely that Kuczinski was in touch with Creed during Eladaria's development, and perhaps a notebook formula of his 2019 creation was purchased and Creed-ified into the scent. 

I would happily buy and wear Eladaria, but that is more a confession than a recommendation. More rational consumers might look at the price tag for this Creed, compare its scent to Peony & Peppercorn, buy the $20 fragrance instead, and live the based life. I say more power to them. 

Revisiting Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men

I recently purchased a new 120 ml bottle of Obsession for Men for twenty dollars and felt compelled to revisit this still formidable oriental relic of the 1980s. Even now, four decades after its debut, Obsession for Men remains the flagship masculine fragrance of the Calvin Klein portfolio. What strikes me most upon smelling it again is not merely its persistence, but its undiminished beauty. After a fallow period in the 2000s and early 2010s, when the scent seemed attenuated and somewhat coarse, my nose finds the current formulation restored and once again worthy of its reputation. Small mercies, indeed.

I recently watched a video review by Eau d’Erica that I found unintentionally revealing. Born at the tail end of the 1990s, she has no lived relationship to the cultural moment from which Obsession for Men emerged. Her initial reaction is ambivalent. She notes, correctly, that the fragrance is more animalic than expected, but quickly pivots to describing it as smelling like an “old man,” invoking nursing homes and decline. The response is understandable, if ultimately misguided. Obsession for Men is not a neutral or contemporary composition. It demands a certain temporal literacy. At minimum, one needs to be in their late thirties or forties to grasp that this fragrance is not simply “from the 1980s,” but is suburban America in the 1980s, rendered liquid and sealed in glass.

From the moment its citrus-spice opening meets skin, Obsession announces itself as an emissary from another era. There are no smartphones or ride-sharing apps where it comes from. Nights glow with neon. Streets hum with conversation rather than notification tones. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, omnipresent and unquestioned. Women wear dresses and heels; men wear sport coats and slick their hair back. Synthesizers sound futuristic rather than dated. Movies are events, not content. You do not attend them casually; you experience them. Everything feels alive, in part because attention has not yet been fractured by devices and the constant undertow of the internet.

And everywhere, the air smells faintly of Obsession for Men. From 1987 onward, when the fragrance reached critical mass among American men, it seemed to permeate daily life. You encountered it in cars, in homes, in classrooms, on sidewalks. It was an experience in itself, the Sauvage of its day, only denser, louder, and more unapologetic. The advertising campaigns of the late 1980s and early 1990s, particularly the now-iconic imagery featuring Kate Moss, sustained its prominence for years. Not since Drakkar Noir had a fragrance so cleanly and powerfully signified its era, an era that understood itself as irreducibly cool.

My father always kept a bottle on his dresser. He wore it often enough to matter, but not so often that he finished it. That bottle lingered for decades, gradually becoming more and more vintage, until one day he inexplicably discarded it. There was perhaps thirty milliliters left, the liquid darkened and sedimented, the splash top crusted with resinous residue. It was, by any modern standard, gnarly. And it smelled that way too: a funky, civet-heavy oriental that defied convention by grafting itself onto a fougère skeleton, layering smoky lavender over balsamic resins and woods. It was not polite. It did not attempt to be.

To call Obsession for Men nostalgic is accurate, but insufficient. I cannot pretend to evaluate it objectively. Yes, I think it smells wonderful, but when I inhale it, I am flooded with place and time. Dark kitchens. Earth-toned interiors. The lingering aesthetic of the 1970s. Big hair, broad shoulders, boxy cars with expansive windows. My parents visiting friends, their homes saturated with distinctive domestic odors, and threaded through all of it, Obsession for Men. The black-and-white, artfully severe commercials of the era aimed for timelessness even as they became inextricably bound to their moment.

Calvin Klein’s subsequent fragrances have largely been exercises in abstraction and synthetic minimalism. CK One, the 1990s counterpoint to Obsession, deserves equal respect. Most of what followed, however, feels like a meditation on elevated cheapness: competent, vaguely interesting, chemically fresh, and durable enough to persist on shelves without inspiring devotion. Obsession stands apart. The difference is immediate. The materials feel richer, more vibrant. The blending is more assured. Bob Slattery’s original conception, a reworking of the feminine fragrance infused with a heavy dose of lavender soapiness and animalic bite, may be lost to history, but the stewardship of subsequent reformulations has been surprisingly faithful. When I smell it closely, each constituent note asserts itself with clarity, and the whole feels alive. Wonderful stuff. 

It is evident that Calvin Klein still takes pride in this fragrance, and the current version is excellent. One final point deserves mention: Obsession for Men ages exceptionally well. It can be worn freely, given its modest price (it was far more expensive back in the day), but if used sparingly and left to rest, the liquid darkens and the composition grows smoother and more resonant over time. Oxidation performs a quiet alchemy here. I am struck by how good the present formulation already is, and I plan to keep one bottle in regular rotation while allowing another to mature undisturbed. When I return to it years from now, it will function as a genuine time capsule: musky, resinous, and deeply familiar, the scent of a vanished world and of my own childhood suspended in amber.