Hawas (Rasasi)

Metamodernism offers a more compelling alternative to the bleakness of the Postmodernist period. While Postmodernism focused on deconstructing overarching societal norms and Enlightenment values, Metamodernism seeks to bridge the gap between cynically fractured, self-referential truths and the idealism and sincerity of Modernism. It does so by reclaiming meaning, truth, and hope.

While this is positive news to me, I find myself scrambling at times to keep up with the trends of this new era, and I have yet to adjust fully to the "Bubblegum Amber" fragrances that have flooded the market since Paco Rabanne's 1 Million was released in 2008. Why is this type of treacly, overly-sugared masculine a metamodern trait? What is it that imbues it with a post-postmodernist air? Put simply, it's the same sweet amber found in at least two dozen fragrances since 1 Million, and the fact that it's sweet appeals to everyone's lizard brain. Feel free to forget "my truth" when every perfume brand is celebrating a universal truth: people enjoy wearing stuff that reminds them of food. 

This standard-issue bubblegum characteristic is present and accounted for in the heart of Rasasi's Hawas for Him (does anyone even wear the feminine?), which makes it part of the metamodern sensibility, but luckily for the cynics, it still manages to reference its native culture. This fragrance is made in Dubai, and as with most Middle Eastern perfumes, it is very loud, and very "fresh." It seems people are divided as to which version of Invictus is cloned by Hawas, the original or Aqua (oddly Hawas came out a full year before Invictus Aqua, so Rabanne may have copied Rasasi there). Trying it was a major gamble because I happen to hate Invictus, and the overall consensus is that it's a straight-up twin. I took the risk on a blind-buy because I had a hunch about Rasasi's interpretation, and it paid off.

Paco Rabanne's 2013 scent was a blockbuster when it first hit stores, and I recall thinking it smelled presentable enough, but synthetic, a bit scratchy, blobby, overly sweet, and altogether juvenile. It had that sickeningly beige brand of inedible sweetness that had somehow carried over from the worst of the nineties and morphed into an olfactory monster with infinite longevity and projection. While it was a total ralph-fest for me, I recall thinking something about Hawas when I first saw it advertised in 2015: "Well, they've taken Invictus and done it up Arabian style. Can't be any worse!" Turns out, it's actually a whole lot better. Where Invictus was clunky and aggressive, Rasasi's take it far more dimensionally nuanced and textured. This is Invictus with imagination.

It opens with a barrage of citrus rendered as indistinct notes, perhaps a splash of pink grapefruit conjoined with the sweetness of apple esters and "plum," which smells like purple grapes to me. There's also a distinct orange blossom with hints of orange zest in the periphery, which lends a striking balance to the duskier fruits, a ray of sunshine through the leaves. Aldehydes and something in the vein of Silver Mountain Water's metallic note lend shimmer and fizz to the first ten minutes, until the grapey stage takes hold. Of interest to me is how these notes manage to blend, yet the orange blossom dances apart from them in little snatches, and picking it out takes me back to my earliest days in this hobby. 

The heart stage unfurls the grand banner of bubblegum, but again, it's more interesting than it sounds. There are salty marine notes sparkling behind the sugars, and this kaleidoscope of contrasts persists for no less than ten hours, with the marine element gradually intensifying as the sweetness slowly fades out. Ambroxan is used in abundance, but instead of simply relying on Ambroxan to serve as its own note, the perfumer(s) tailored it into something akin to a true ambergris note, with a mineralic saltiness that feels "spikey" and salty to a degree that goes beyond the typical rendition. The sheer potency of this stuff is something to behold; I applied it at eight in the morning and it was still pounding at three in the afternoon. Hawas leaves an oil slick on skin when sprayed, so be cautious when applying to clothing, as it will surely stain. Perfume extrait strength, people. 

This is a cold, crisp, fresh fragrance, but it's also a bit of a paradox. The packaging says "The next sentence is true," and the fragrance says "The previous sentence is false." The sweet clubber image of "House" (English translation from Arabic) is belied by the unorthodox marine quality that pervades the composition. While aquatics are popular, they tend to not make the cut with the night-crawlers, probably because salty notes and alcohol consumption don't mix. Ambergris and intoxication is a recipe for disaster, in which case Hawas is an anomaly in tackling the customer who moonlights as a clubber. 

For me, it smells like a very youthful and metamodern composition, splicing a bunch of known quantities together to form one big smell that fills the room and attracts everyone born after 1998. Is it a good fragrance? With reluctance, I say yes. 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone. See you in 2025. 

Dark Cherry & Amber (Banana Republic): A Claude Dir Mod for Creed's Carmina?

When I was in high school, one of my so-called friends regularly invited me and a few others for rides in his 1980 Cadillac de Ville. He wasn't so much a friend as he was an experience: he wore the original Aramis, chain-smoked Marlboro Reds, chewed Wrigley’s Winterfresh gum, and when he wasn’t drinking cheap beer, he clung to Cherry Coke like it was an endangered elixir. Occasionally, he’d offer me a can. I almost always declined. Cherry Coke, for all its cultish charm, never resonated with me—its cherry flavor felt like a rumor, faint and unconvincing. It wasn’t just the soda. Cherries, whether eaten, scented, or artificially flavored, have always felt elusive to me, like an ephemeral note in a song I couldn’t quite catch. Even into adulthood, cherries remain little more than a passing suggestion, an essence that flits and fades before it takes root. This curious shortfall in my sensory lexicon is particularly relevant when it comes to Dark Cherry & Amber.

Cherry, as a perfumery note, has long been one I approach with caution. Tom Ford’s indulgent maraschino cherry fragrance, which I reviewed in January, was an exception, registering with clarity and punch. Joop! Homme, for all its brash artificiality, blares its cherry note with unapologetic gusto. Beyond those two, my encounters with cherry scents have been sparse. Enter Dark Cherry & Amber, a fragrance whispered about in perfumery circles as a hidden gem, praised for its quality at a modest price. For years, I’d spotted it at Burlington Coat Factory, an unassuming presence on the discount shelves. But then came Creed’s Carmina in 2023, and Dark Cherry & Amber seemed to vanish overnight, its elusive reputation only growing. The buzz around Carmina suggested it was an upscale reimagining of Claude Dir’s 2019 composition for Banana Republic. That theory gained traction when Derek (aka Varanis Ridari) likened the two with the assertiveness of a Brooklyn chess hustler. After I read his theory, finding a bottle of Dark Cherry & Amber became an obsession. Fifteen months later, my search finally bore fruit today, at a Burlington in Orange, Connecticut.

Of course, I have a problem: I’ve never smelled Carmina, so I can’t confirm the comparison. Still, there are clues. A user on Fragrantica, “ayshee_x,” described Carmina shortly after its release: 

“Smells kind of nostalgic, like cherry lip gloss and plastic but also floral and musky. There are better cherry perfumes out there that are cheaper. Banana Republic Dark Cherry & Amber is a great alternative and a fraction of the cost.” 

At twenty dollars, Dark Cherry & Amber certainly wins on price. But what about the scent? It opens with a juicy, lifelike cherry note that eschews the romanticized maraschino of Tom Ford for something startlingly natural. It’s as if someone bit into a ripe Bing cherry and waved it under my nose—your everyday table cherry, unvarnished and unadorned. While this might sound uninspired, Dir leans into its simplicity, rendering it strikingly authentic for the first hour. There’s a dusky, sweet-tart fruitiness to the note, accompanied by a faintly soapy “off” quality that mirrors the idiosyncrasies of an actual cherry. It’s an impressive feat for a fragrance at this price point, the Tea Rose of cherry perfumes.

After that start, the cherry begins to retreat, making way for a smooth, luminous vanilla amber. On paper, the amber reads as floral—cherry blossom, perhaps—while on skin it veers toward a warmth reminiscent of praline, though it never fully commits to gourmand territory. Beneath this lies a subtle woodiness, like a watercolor wash of sweet blossoms and watery cedar. The effect is delicate, almost ethereal, and I can’t help but wonder how many high-end niche houses passed on this gem before Banana Republic picked it up. At its core, Dark Cherry & Amber doesn’t pretend to be lavish. It doesn’t aim for the baroque richness of ultra-luxury niche brands. Instead, it offers something far more elusive: clarity. A lucidity that reminds me of my old Cherry Coke dilemma. Just as I struggled to taste the fruit in the soda, I find the cherry here to be restrained, a gentle presence rather than a cloying shout. I sense its tartness, its juiciness, but it often lingers at the edge of perception, never overwhelming. 

And that’s precisely why it works. Had the cherry screamed for attention, it might have felt cheap, like a budget air freshener cherry. Instead, it whispers, and in that quiet confidence lies its charm.

Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum (Prada)

The Luna Rossa Ocean line is intriguing, particularly because the concepts behind these fragrances are often misunderstood—sometimes wildly so. To put it simply, people expect these to be bog-standard aquatics because "Ocean" is in their name. There's also a forest-for-the-trees element, where folks mistakenly think that the artistry of perfume rests solely in note pyramids, while altogether missing that disparate notes like saffron and oak can be tied together to create a pastiche of something cool and salty, like the sea. While I won’t delve into those broader misconceptions here, Ocean Le Parfum serves as a prime example of how a fragrance can reveal people's “olfactory conditioning.” This so-called “Red Moon” fragrance is an aquatic—a profoundly good one—but much of the general public overlooks this because it doesn’t conform to aquatic tropes.

Many perceive it as a spicy-woody amber scent, full of cinnamon, saffron, and modern oriental flourishes. And yes, those elements are present, especially saffron, which is prominent. But the real magic is not in each note, but in how they all coalesce: they merge into a sparkly synthetic ambergris. The mystery perfumer combined materials like Amber XTreme (IFF) and Safranal (Givaudan), forming a silvery mineralic amber accord that creates its own little glittering in the nose, so to speak. The result captures the essence of summer beach air, cushioned with a warm freshness that’s far removed from the lavender and fruity notes typical of designer aquatics. This isn’t the romanticized scent of seawater or “blue” accords dominated by Calone and Melonal. Instead, it’s the sensory experience of being in and around the ocean. There's hot pepper for animalism, and a woody-amber sand. The concept is “Ocean,” but the execution captures how your body feels and responds to it, rather than directly mimicking marine notes, and that is what you pay for here. This fragrance is from the Ocean Rain school of aquatics, not Acqua di Giò.

It's also an exceptionally thoughtful birthday gift from two members of my family, and I cherish it even more because of that. With designer lines now priced alongside niche competitors, acquiring 100 ml of Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum would’ve been out of reach without their generosity. For me, this fragrance still leans “aquatic” in spirit, despite what others may say. And to those who insist it’s merely a spicy oriental, the YouTubers who write it off as not meeting their expectations because it isn't a member of the blue-bottle brigade, I say, just enjoy it. This is a truly unique creation. If you’ve never traveled or experienced the ocean, this scent will transport you there. Don’t let the red packaging mislead you—this is a 21st century ambergris dream.

Face à Face pour Femme (Façonnable)

I've often wondered what a feminine counterpart to Geoffrey Beene's Grey Flannel might smell like. The closest match in my admittedly modest collection is Silences by Jacomo. Grey Flannel is a dry citrus chypre, with a bittersweet violet note at its core. This violet is surrounded by a hazy bouquet of indistinct florals, where only lilac and orris stand out clearly. Over time, these blossoms take on a greener, more powdery character, ultimately giving way to a base of oakmoss and woods that is as dry and bitter as everything that came before. Silences mirrors this structure but allows its florals to shine more distinctly through its orris haze, offering a subtly warmer, rosy undertone. Yet, even with this warmth, it remains strikingly cool and aloof compared to the approachable feminine fragrances of its era. Neither fragrance conveys lighthearted cheer. 

Designer brand Façonnable launched Face à Face pour Femme and Face à Face pour Homme in 1996. While never particularly expensive, they were a step above bargain-bin pricing at the time. Slightly pricier than offerings from Jacomo or Beene, some of the cost likely went toward packaging—Façonnable favored embossed tins over standard cardboard boxes. Setting aside the presentation, the fragrances themselves are solidly middle-tier: competent and occasionally engaging but neither groundbreaking nor especially memorable, with materials falling a notch or two below those of Chanel or Dior. Face à Face pour Femme bears a surprising resemblance to Grey Flannel, reimagined with subtle adjustments for a more feminine appeal. Unlike the Beene classic, it omits citrus entirely, opening instead with coriander, which lingers through the top and early heart notes. This gives way to a crisp yet dry-green medley of rose, muguet, and jasmine. The green notes are stemmy, grassy, bitter, and powdery, while the floral tones remain dry, faintly sweet, slightly bitter, and heavily powdery. There’s little warmth or cheer here—this is a fragrance with a reserved, almost austere demeanor.

The sweeter, slightly brighter floral tones in Face à Face pour Femme evoke comparisons to both Grey Flannel and Silences. This is undeniably a "fresh" fragrance, but it’s a 1990s kind of fresh, so if you’re under 35, consider this fair warning. Don’t expect airy peonies, aquatic accents, or the sugary burst of green apple and white musk typical of more modern compositions. Instead, Face à Face pour Femme tempers its floral character with a smooth greenness reminiscent of tea, much like vintage Grey Flannel. Around the three-hour mark, its vaguely floral, slightly dry, and chalky personality—likely due to inexpensive galbanum notes—settles into a powdery green accord. Here, grasses, oakmoss, and a recurring green tea nuance intertwine subtly. I enjoy this fragrance, but its particular style feels like a hall of mirrors, inviting nostalgia lovers to lose themselves in endless panels of Moss-in-Snow jade. It’s a 29-year-old scent that feels like fragrances twice its age. Still, it's a charming throwback, and good fun.

Chameleon (Zoologist)

This one is kind of neat. It opens with sweet, tropical fruity-floral notes that smell like some sort of cheap skin lotion, then a waxy coconut oil dribbles in and freshens it up in a strange but satisfying way. There's a bit of sea salt, a bouquet of white and yellow florals (sort of a Frankenjasmine hybrid with ylang and frangipani involved), and a massive dose of silky-smooth Cashmeran to cover it in clean fuzz. I also like the holographic rainbow trim on the bottle's label, and for once the concentration of a Zoologist is adequately proportioned to lend the wear experience a pleasant and balanced feel.

The perfume industry has a term for the pigeonholing of a scent as fine fragrance: "skin note," which everyone understands to mean the human element that smells compatible with natural human skin and pheromones, and in Chameleon there is an intentional skin note that smells a little oily and salty, like fresh sweat but on a soap-scrubbed epidermis. There's also a Safranal note that lends a spicy-metallic edge to the sweetness and prevents it from being too overbearing. It's almost like they were going for an exotic suntan lotion here, or a spa oil that a masseuse would rub into your muscles on an island getaway somewhere in the Pacific. Things get a touch drier and smokier in the base when the patchouli takes over, about five hours in, but it doesn't dramatically alter the bright trajectory of the scent. This stuff is all casual fun.

Oddly I don't get much mango from Chameleon, despite all the copy claiming it's in there, nor do I have any bearing on other clear fruits in Daniel Pescio's fragrance. But make no mistake -- this is a sweet 'n sour tropical vacation sort of scent, one of those oddball "fresh" frags from the middle of the 1990s that came in a segmented bottle with blue-green juice and weirdly-shaped cap, before the 2000s wave of new perfumery tech liberated the market from gummy and overly sweet zombie brand fare. I'm not sold on Zoologist fragrances, but Chameleon is interesting, wearable, and, well, smells good. 

Maritime Journey (Tommy Bahama)

The original Maritime from 2016 is Tommy Bahama’s answer to Abercrombie’s Fierce, while Journey (2019) serves as their take on Polo Ultra Blue. In fact, I suspect it may be an unused mod for the Ralph Lauren scent that Tommy Bahama repurposed to meet their brief. Had it been crafted on a Ralph Lauren budget, it might have achieved a closer likeness, but Tommy Bahama has always occupied the lower shelf in the fragrance aisle. As a result, Maritime Journey comes across as a bit rough around the edges, scratchier and cheaper (it makes me sneeze), yet serviceable at just ten dollars an ounce.

Unlike Ultra Blue, Maritime Journey features a prominent green apple note and lacks the herbal undertone. Otherwise, it’s a fruitier spin on the familiar sea salt and woods accord that has dominated aquatics since the early 1990s. Here, the Calone molecule is restrained, adding a faint blush of peachy warmth to a grey-blue profile. While it teeters close to the realm of shower gel freshness, it maintains just enough balance between sweetness and saltiness to feel adequately refined. It’s light, non-offensive, and versatile, a competent choice for men seeking value in their cologne. However, with so many similar options already on the market, Ultra Blue remains the superior pick for but a few more dollars. Maritime Journey’s only standout feature is its pronounced saltiness, which borders on excessive, even for an aquatic enthusiast like me, but otherwise, it’s not worth going out of your way for a bottle.

Interestingly, this stuff also evokes shades of the original Cool Water (1988). Its sharp Granny Smith apple note has the same tart, low-pH quality, and when paired with sea spray and faint floral-cedar nuances, it carries a hint of that late-80s vibe. The synthetic saltiness nudges it into the 21st century, but you’d be better off spending your $23 on Cool Water. For a softer, less saline alternative, Nautica Voyage would suffice. Fragrances like this are akin to grey-blue paint chips on a Benjamin Moore sample page: pleasant enough, but somewhat boring and ultimately forgettable.

Rhinoceros (Zoologist)

Gentleman’s Club fragrances ruled the 1980s, but Cool Water toppled their dominance, and Acqua di Gio sealed their fate. By the late 1990s, few dared to replicate the style, leaving woody tobaccos and patchoulis to linger as relics of a bygone era. As the new millennium began, these notes found refuge in the niche perfumery world, and eventually led to Prin Lomros’s 2020 reissue of Rhinoceros.

The more I wear Zoologist fragrances, the more their mission crystallizes: resurrect the classic, complex masculines of the past and transform them into animal-themed haute parfumerie at $100 an ounce. If you’re a devotee of vintage greats like the original Davidoff (1984), Bogart’s Furyo (1988), or Vermeil for Men (1995), Rhinoceros will feel like liquid Xanadu. Lomros has packed the composition with leather, incense, chocolatey patchouli, cypriol, oakmoss, and oud, with each note discernible yet blended into a saturnine olfactory sienna. To Western noses, it reads unmistakably “masculine.”

I used to wear fragrances like this daily, and truthfully, they are wonderful. It’s hard to fault the seamless accords of whiskey, rum, Connecticut shade, and oak. Even the slightly skanky oud is palatable. Yet, as much as I admire its artistry, Rhinoceros feels like a time capsule. Imagining it worn in 2025, when the world and its men have moved on, is a stretch. I applaud Zoologist for boldly releasing something so unapologetically “1987,” but I caution any young buck against believing this will captivate today’s woman. Times have changed, even as the memory of this style endures.