Sakura Snow (d'Annam)

My interpretation of Anh Ngo's name for this fragrance may differ from the public's; I don’t take Sakura Snow to imply notes of cherry blossom and snow. Rather, I believe Ngo was being poetic, likening the falling blossoms of the ornamental cherry tree to snowfall. 

The fragrance reflects this perfectly -- there’s nothing snowy about it (if you want a snowy floral, try Snowy Owl by Zoologist). Instead, it highlights juniper berries and cherry blossoms -- an intriguing combination, if I may say so. The juniper berry is bright and dimensional, offering a cool, aromatic texture that blends seamlessly with the benzyl acetate and Hedione HC of cherry blossom. Sakura Snow’s almost gin-like opening soon softens into a feathery cherry blossom scent -- light, airy, and expansive, yet surprisingly potent. It’s one of those rare compositions that seems to grow stronger as it dries down, amplifying rather than fading. Supporting this delicate floral core is an ambery structure that feels radiant yet refined, with a touch of woodiness that never fully materializes into a recognizable bark or branch note. There’s a familiar twang, subtler than the usual Ambroxan -- perhaps Cetalox? Whatever it is, it lends a mineralic but gentle quality, with a hint of salty animalics -- clean without being soapy, cozy without being sweet.

After ten hours -- yes, it lasts that long -- Sakura Snow settles into a quiet hum of everything that came before, its refined Ambroxan-like base still whispering echoes of juniper and ethereal florals. Does it smell rich, dimensional, and naturalistic? In a way, yes. It smells expensive. And it is expensive. But if you love cherry blossom and the zen-like serenity of its airy florals, that dulcet olfactory tone, Sakura Snow is likely worth it. I enjoyed it, and if cherry blossom were a note I adored, I’d own a bottle.

I am Trash - Les Fleurs du Déchet (Etat Libre d'Orange)

Etat Libre d'Orange isn't the niche brand to go for if you're looking for "natural." Unlike the offerings of Amouage, Xerjoff, Creed, ELdO's frags rarely inspire a sense of realism or depth; they clearly use synthetics, and appear to be very proud of it. I recall wearing Antiheros a while back and being struck by its harshness. It was like I'd lost a fight with a bottle of lavender hand soap from a truck stop restroom. 

I Am Trash – The Flowers of Waste goes all-in on its soapy-chemical tones, delivering a composition that wouldn’t feel out of place in the haircare aisle of a drugstore. I think ELdO was trying to emulate the smell of scented trash bags, but I could be wrong. Daniela Andrier seems to have drawn from her CK Contradiction archive of Y2K “fresh” profiles and leftover submissions when she handed this to Etienne de Swardt’s firm in 2017 or 2018. The result? A fruity-floral shampoo accord, drenched in the overly sweetened “fresh” aesthetic. A silvery flicker of tuberose, neroli, and green apple opens the fragrance before quickly dissolving into juicy fruit esters. The drydown settles into a crisp-woody base, courtesy of Iso E Super and Akigalawood. There are floral nuances that echo Tuberose Overdose, along with a heavy dose of apple, calling to mind just about anything from Donna Karan.

Fragrances like this are why the niche realm and the perfume industry in general have grown far beyond the bounds of what the market can ultimately sustain. There are too many products out there now, swamping the sub-sectors of what the average consumer will buy, with the gross overrepresentation of various segments exacerbated by needless designer-level entries in the niche realm. I Am Trash isn't really trash or trashy, but it's unnecessary, especially for a fragrance priced at over $50 an ounce. If you're in the market for something that smells like this, look to the aforementioned Calvin Klein, Banana Republic, or Donna Karan and save yourself time, money, and heartache.

Phantom Parfum (Rabanne)

Having never smelled Phantom EDT, I can’t fully assess the parfum’s place in the lineup, though, to be fair, Rabanne isn’t a brand I have much experience with anyway. (It was once called Paco Rabanne, after its founder, but in today’s world, gendering a company is practically a mortal sin—so begone, first name!) I’ll admit, I underestimated this scent. It’s actually quite pleasant.

The original Phantom, Rabanne’s first openly AI-generated formula, is a slightly bizarre hodgepodge of counterintuitive notes. The parfum, however, is a human-handed flanker, which raises the question: why not go all in? If you’re going to let the algorithm bless us, commit. Instead, Rabanne handed this one over to Dominique Ropion, Anne Flipo, and Juliette Karagueuzoglou, and it shows—Phantom Parfum smells “safe,” meticulously curated to fit every current trend: sweet, warm, soft, and loud. The opening is the same post-Invictus bubblegum top note I’ve smelled a dozen times this year. The transition? Predictably swift—an aromatic jolt of robust lavender, then the inevitable base of patchouli, vanilla, and woods. Familiar to a fault, though it does nod to Thierry Mugler’s A*Men (1996) and a handful of late-’90s and early-2000s gourmands.

Its best feature is the lavender heart, sharpened by what Rabanne claims is rhubarb—though I don’t detect it outright, more as a textural effect. As a starter fougère for men under thirty, it’s solid: well-balanced, versatile, and safely within the bounds of its target audience. Loud and sweet enough for a club night, but not so cloying as to repel anyone past that phase. I enjoyed it, but unsurprisingly, not enough to reach for my wallet.

Born in Roma (Valentino Uomo)

A prominent fragrance reviewer describes Born in Roma (2019) as opening with “fruity musky tones,” claiming these “nostril-tingling notes will recall the early 2000s Y2K dynamism and pop.” Yet, I find myself utterly perplexed about which fragrance he’s referring to. To my nose, this scent feels like a tired echo of the past five years—little more than a derivative riff on Invictus, akin to Hawas, but lacking its charm.

The perfume unfurls with that all-too-familiar sweet, pseudo-bubblegum accord—a synthetic medley of "froot" flavors that swiftly collapses into the predictable Ambroxan-driven heart. It’s a synthetic slog, a chemical haze that lacks any spark of originality. What elevates Hawas, in contrast, is its ambergris reconstruction, crafted with above-average, designer-grade materials. That salty, flattering ambiance lends Hawas a whisper of natural depth, a lifeline for someone craving even a hint of authenticity in their fragrance. Born in Roma EDT, however, doesn’t even attempt such finesse. While Ambroxan does appear in its expected dry-down slot, it sits there nakedly, exuding a stark, metallic saltiness with no effort to mimic the nuanced warmth of true ambergris. The result is a cheap, chemical midsection that feels oddly flabby and uninspired. It’s difficult to fathom why anyone would shell out the extra money for this when Rasasi’s Hawas delivers a superior experience at a third of the cost.

Perhaps Invictus, one of those early 2010s fragrances, was more influential than it first appeared, joining the ranks of Bleu de Chanel and Sauvage in shaping an era overrun with imitators. My issue lies in their sameness—they all seem to be chasing Invictus’s shadow. Born in Roma isn’t a bad fragrance, per se, but its “been there, done that” aura saps any joy from the wearing experience. I can’t recommend it. You want this? Reach for the original Invictus, or better yet, grab Hawas and revel in something with a bit more soul.

Gold+ (Commodity)

I'm pleasantly surprised by this fragrance. It consists of three main notes—nutmeg, saffron, and patchouli—and that’s exactly what I get. My issue with Gold+ is that it forgoes the vanilla freshness of its namesake in favor of a spice mélange that resembles Prada Luna Rossa Ocean EDP and Parfum, without adding anything new to the conversation.

Gold+ opens with an incredibly realistic nutmeg note, as if I had taken a McCormick shaker and dusted the spice directly onto my skin. The only other detectable note is a slight shimmer of ISO E Super to smooth the edges. Within ninety minutes, the nutmeg shifts to safranal, intensifying the fragrance with a quality reminiscent of Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum—but without the same depth or complexity. Still, it’s impressive.

The patchouli finally emerges, six hours later, though it’s weak. The nutmeg-saffron duo is so dominant that little else breaks through, leaving the scent locked into a simplified Italian designer profile. It remains static and unchanging until you do laundry or take three or four showers. Whatever these materials are, they’re nothing short of nuclear. With Ocean, even after four wash cycles, I can still smell it. Gold+ is just as clingy. If you want to drench yourself in liquid gold and never smell anything else again, this is for you.

Gucci Guilty Pour Homme Eau de Toilette (Gucci)

Frida Giannini

Gucci eventually surrendered its catalog of fragrances when Tom Ford parted ways with the brand in 2004, turning creative control over to Frida Giannini of Fendi fame. I sense her Italian influence in the original Gucci Guilty EDT from 2011 and sometimes wonder if Giannini's art direction, both during and after Ford's tenure, was shaped more by her years at Fendi than by Ford himself. At least she started out with promise; the myriad of offerings from Gucci in the years that followed are hit and miss. 

Guilty Pour Homme opens with a blast of crisp lemon, lavandin, and laundry musk, all undergirded with ethyl maltol as homage to the fruity-sweetness that every designer scent seems to need at weapons grade volume these days (it's rather quiet in Guilty).  The citrus and lavender manage to overcome the sugar in what becomes a suprisingly austere herbal/woody heart accord, something that plays well to both the unimaginative teen this is aimed at and the thirty-something who appreciates the zest of a cologne structure wedded to a base of modern musks, patchouli isolate, and the requisite 2010s wallop of Ambroxan. Also flitting in and out of perceptibility are notes of orange blossom and vanilla. 

There's a slight nod to Creed's Aventus in Guilty, although that's debatable. I smell a kindred stylization of pert fruitiness over dusky woods, and to be perfectly frank, the overall composition smells like it was an old mod of something from the early 2000s that was tweaked in a hurry to jog closer to Creed's new flagship fragrance. With that said, one is no substitute for the other, and if you think Guilty will get you to Aventusville, you're sorely mistaken. Where it does take you is to the ultimate middle-of-the-road designer hotspot of the mid-to-late 2010s, smelling fresh, clean, and, of all things, masculine. 

Eau de Protection (Etat Libre d'Orange)

Hindsight is 20/20. Looking back at my least favorite decade, the 2000s, I now see it was a time of freshness and metallic sourness, which is vastly preferable to the dessert-cart sugared ambers that dominate today’s fragrance landscape. Eau de Protection (2007), created by the Two Antoines, Lie and Maisondieu, house perfumers for Free Orange State, smells both fresh and sour, with a gorgeous rosy sweetness. Green and pert, it undergirds the ozonics. How does this read in 2025? Is it wearable?

Wearing a bittersweet green floral like Eau de Protection in today's world presents three issues. First, those too young to remember that era will think you smell weird. Second, the public may misinterpret the scent. Third, those who do remember might find it dated. Gen Z simply won’t understand, so if you’re a guy hoping to attract young women, good luck. Wearing a fresh green floral as a man also invites scrutiny from the gender discourse brigade, always eager to apply labels. Then there’s the occasional comment: “You smell like a girl I knew in college.”

Setting aside the social pitfalls, I really like Eau de Protection. It is unisex, leaning feminine, and reminds me of Banana Republic’s Peony & Peppercorn. This version, though, is far more refined, with better materials and a more subtle approach. This should be the defining masculine fragrance of 2025, if only because women have moved away from floral scents. Meanwhile, the Ambroxan-and-patchouli-isolate trend of Sauvage and Bleu de Chanel is played out. Eau de Protection is an ode to freshness, greenness, and floralcy, a gilded beauty in an olfactory Garden of Eden. I’m here for it. Full bottle worthy, though I tend to procrastinate with niche.

Burberry Hero (Burberry)

If you ever look back at the early 1970s, you’ll see a world that embraced excess with a certain kind of reckless pride. Films were bawdy, vulgar, and all sorts of other things that begin with the letter “v,” but they were competently made and carried an undeniable vibrance. Even the most outrageous productions had craftsmanship behind them, and people took pride in their work—no matter what that work was. You didn’t watch movies in the comfort of your home; even the most risqué entertainment had to be viewed in public theaters, often in major metro hubs like Times Square. After the show, you could step out for a hot dog and then spend the rest of the afternoon shopping at Bloomingdale’s.

Perfume was that way, too. Brut. Jovan Musk. Pierre Cardin Pour Monsieur. Bawdy, bare-chested, ready for anything at any moment—brutal and assaulting the senses as olfactory assailants in their private romances. Yet they were produced on generous budgets using skilled perfumers, and despite their downmarket appeal, they were respectable and widely loved, not unlike the raunchy, provocative films of Jean Rollin. America and Europe had their many differences, but they could agree on their love for indulgence, and perfume was no exception. This was good for culture, good for art, good for society. People were freer, their sense of intellect was deeper, and their senses were attuned to finer things. I dare say that although it was a time before the digital age, it was a time when people were more advanced in their understanding of life.

Today, none of this is true. We have jettisoned art, jettisoned the vulgar, abandoned the wanton excesses of yore, all for the restrictive safety of risk-free sure-things. Movies are pallid ghosts of their former selves, devoid of humor, seduction, and sin. Perfumes have also shriveled up into little shivering weaklings, created not by people of knowledge and power but by scared little runts in off-the-rack suits who think that, because they’re European, sophistication is innate to them and need not be cultivated. They churn out the most focus-grouped garbage, boring sweet ambers, a dime a dozen, simply because an A.I. app tells them it will sell, and they sprinkle in whatever organic note the A.I. is kind enough to recommend. In Burberry Hero Eau de Parfum’s case, it was pine.

Sloth (Zoologist)

I often wonder if rich people actually wear these perfumes. If I were a millionaire, would Sloth by Zoologist be my signature scent? Then I hop into my downmarket Toyota Corolla and drive to Woodbury, where I drop $100 on seven grocery items at New Morning Market, inhaling that unmistakable “health food store” aroma—spices, grains, and wood. And that’s when it hits me: Sloth is right at home in a millionaire’s lair. This is the premier fragrance of choice for the Connecticut blue blood who drops $500 on groceries that barely last the weekend. Why not?

There’s no use romanticizing this fragrance. Sloth smells like spicy body odor, and wearing it feels like a social experiment gone wrong. It reminds me of a grad school professor—another lefty blue blood—who spent half a class reminiscing about visiting India, where crowds of poor people reached out and touched her clothes, which she somehow recalled fondly. I imagine that scene smelled exactly like Sloth. Prin Lomros (the nose behind Bat and Rhinoceros) created this one, but I just don’t get it. Perfume is supposed to make you smell good. Sloth does the opposite.

What anyone sees in this is beyond me. The stench of unwashed skin is precisely what I’m trying to avoid, and if I’ve just showered and shaved, the last thing I want is a fragrance that instantly reverses my progress. This won’t get you a date. It won’t impress your significant other—because there isn’t a woman in America who wants her man to smell like this. It doesn’t even work as some highbrow intellectual exercise, because no amount of Ego can override the lizard brain screaming that this smells spoiled and vaguely hazardous. Sloth isn’t just a bad perfume—it’s a joke. Dollar store body spray is more useful, more desirable, more respectable.

Quorum Silver (Antonio Puig)

Cedar? I smell ginger. Nearly all ginger, in fact. Quorum Silver hits with a massive wallop of it in the top notes -- brisk, spicy, a little sweet -- and rapidly segues into an aromatic mixture of lavender and herbal notes to buttress the longevity of that gingery freshness. Eventually, as in after six or seven hours, a light cedar woodiness is apparent, but it's not like I'd call Quorum Silver a "cedar scent." It is certainly a ginger fragrance.

Has this been reformulated? For twenty years, I've been reading people's chatter about how Quorum Silver is a one-note cedar bomb from top to bottom, yet my experience is sharply divergent from theirs. When I think of cedar, I think of Krizia Uomo. That's a cedar fragrance. Intensely woody, all the way through. Puig's scent is what I had hoped Creed's Tabarome Millesime would be (but wasn't), an intense blast of ginger that softens into greener notes in the drydown. There's a light tea-like effect in the base of QS, and the quality of materials is high enough that I can envision this as a niche offering.

I'm not sure I understand what everyone has been experiencing with this fragrance, but I have a thought. There's a known phenomenon that when one person of repute says something, everyone follows. It's The Emperor's New Clothes, only here it's a note, and not magical clothing in question. At some point someone influential shouted "cedar!" and the whole world scrambled to echo it, fearing that an opposing take would rattle things. Well, I'm the little boy pointing at the naked man: "GINGER!" 

Elephant (Zoologist)

Released in 2017, Elephant is one of Chris Bartlett's compositions, he of Pell Wall Perfumes, and I have to say, it's not bad. It also happened to be an Art & Olfaction Awards Finalist of 2018. The notes listed are tree leaves, darjeeling tea, magnolia, cocoa, coconut milk, incense, jasmine, woods, amber, musk, patchouli, and sandalwood. I can detect every single one of these notes with clarity. Well done, Chris. 

The good: Elephant wears nicely. It opens with an aggressive accord of bitter greens, pungent cedar, magnolia, and jasmine, with a slightly sweet/skanky balance calibrated just right. The dominant note to my sniffer is jasmine blossom, a beautifully indolic and very floral-ambrosial nuance that penetrates every level of the fragrance's pyramid. Eventually the grounding notes of cocoa and coconut milk appear and smooth out the rough edges, leaving some of the smokiness of the tea and jasmine, which then morph into an incense and patchouli accord for depth. Rich, green, woody, relaxed. Very nice.

The bad: This stuff is linear as hell. After the first half hour, everything hits a stasis point, and the dynamism fizzles. I'm left with a woody-floral coconut musk that holds for hours and never dries out. Sounds okay, but you may find yourself wishing you could get your nose on the rather good sandalwood undergirding everything. Bartlett is a prominent member of Basenotes and a competent perfumer, but Elephant suffers from being a bit of a one-trick pony. Wrong animal there. 

She Was an Anomaly (Etat Libre d'Orange)

This smells like something Prada would put have put out fifteen years ago, a bready/carrot iris followed by a semisweet powdery musk. The irones and ionones are restrained and tempered by a massive dose of white musk and Amberfix™ in the base, a salty nuance that perpetually wavers between ambergris and sandalwood. The first ten minutes have me wondering if this is going to be a full-throated iris fragrance, but once the synthetics start to buzz around, it gets pretty vague in intention and a little nondescript in overall smell. To my nose, the notes that stand out are a slightly floral iris and orris accord, which ends up reminding me of a much stronger and more resolute scent at less than a quarter of the price: Deauville Pour Homme.  

Daniela Andrier claims that she asked AI to generate a formula for her, and it gave her the bones of this scent, with an expectation that she would (paraphrasing) "overdose on two materials." She obliged the algorithm, so to speak, but made a few human adjustments along the way to produce She Was an Anomaly. I find it interesting that she admits to relying on AI for a formula, because we all know that if she did it with this perfume, she's done it with a bunch of others as well. Once you rub that lamp, there ain't no putting the genie back in. Andrier used Givaudan's Carto, a program perfumers can use to develop a perfume within a month, neck-snapping in perfumery terms, even for the designer flanker mills out there. Time is money, and Carto likely saves a ton of cabbage. 

To my nose, this scent smells like an AI formula that was corrected. I'm not sure how long it took to compose, and suspect Andrier spent a more traditional length of time on it after that initial Carto suggestion. I like She Was an Anomaly, but I certainly don't love it, and I fall into the camp of people who feel that it's a bit too discreet and one-dimensional for something at ELDO's price-point. I mean, if I can spritz on a little of my Deauville and have a more satisfying experience with the same set of notes (plus a few that Andrier didn't use), why would I deviate from the ten dollar scent? Big brand cache only works when the story behind the perfume implies hard-won gains. I think ELDO would've been better off keeping the backstory to She Was an Anomaly to itself. 

Jaguar for Men (Givaudan)

Jaguar for Men is one of those frags that falls prey to reformulation anxiety, the fear that grips dyed-in-the-wool fragrance fanatics whenever they get their hands on something they've never smelled before. Crafted in 1988 by Thierry Wasser, now of Guerlain, the first version was apparently a musky-woody powerhouse in true '80s fashion. Then the '90s came a-knockin, and at some point in the ensuing decade a perfumer from Mane named Dominique Preyssas reformulated it and stripped out the musky bits, which resulted in something a few ticks closer to the original Polo from '78. I've never smelled either of those formulas; my first experience with Jaguar is from a 2021 bottle manufactured by Lalique Beauty, via a post-Preyssas formula that smells nothing at all like Polo (you can keep Polo) and a heck of a lot like the original Krizia Uomo (thank God). 

Well, three parts Krizia Uomo, that is, and one part Sir Irisch Moos, that neon-green stuff from Germany in the little geometric bottle that is all but impossible to find in America nowadays. At this point it's safe to say that the only entity one can truly attribute this fragrance to is the manufacturer, Givaudan, which has supplied the majority of Lalique's perfumes for many years now. Preyssas's formula likely survived the years with minor focus-grouped tweaks here and there. I find it interesting that it smells so dimensional and well made for something so out of fashion (not cheapened), and even more intriguing that it so closely resembles a revered discontinued gem like Krizia Uomo. Why is nobody talking about this? Ever since Krizia went bye-bye, its many fans have been gnashing their teeth, needless given that Jaguar exists. The rich cedar and mossy-resinous textures of the Italian scent are here as well, only Lalique's fragrance is brighter, spicier, with a woody orange citrus note that dominates the profile, something Uomo never had. 

There's a bit more vintage Irish Spring Soap to Jaguar, something fresher and more forward-leaning in its style that has me feeling glad I took the plunge on it. The problem with owning this is that I wonder when I'll ever wear it -- my girlfriend dislikes these old earthy masculines, and I don't really blame her. I can imagine what it must be like to spend a few hours around the guy who sprays this one time too many. But then again, there's no denying Jaguar smells fantastic. I don't care that the '80s are over. You know what's never over? Smelling crisp and clean. This isn't a Millennial aquatic or ozonic "blue" thing. This isn't your brother's bottle of Fierce. This won't get you laid on Saturday night. This is the sort of thing you spray on to fight the invading Turks. Masculine, virile, rich, clean, a little heroic, the box and bottle even come in Sherwood Green. Simply perfect. 

Y Eau de Parfum (Yves Saint-Laurent)

I’ve never been inclined to delve deeply into the Y range. Everything I’ve read, coupled with the uninspiring look of the bottles, suggests a concoction designed to appease a focus group of Gen Z consumers. It seems like an attempt to be all things to all people, without committing to anything meaningful. Still, I’ll admit I have a soft spot for juniper notes, which prompted me to give Y EDP a try. While I wouldn’t say it left a lasting impression, I don’t regret the experience.

In the 1980s and 1990s—especially the latter—there emerged a category of fragrance that can be described as the “generalist” scent. These were versatile compositions that fit seamlessly into almost any setting, whether professional or casual. They embodied all the prevailing olfactory trends of their time without dwelling too deeply on any single facet. Fragrances like Allure Homme Edition Blanche, the original Allure Homme from 1999, Green Irish Tweed, YSL’s Jazz, anything by Vince Camuto or Jimmy Choo, the Polo Blue range, and even Xeryus by Givenchy are classic examples. These scents served as olfactory multitaskers, scratching itches without committing to one narrative.

The concept of the generalist is inherently adaptable, but it takes decades for its evolution to become apparent. In the 2000s, generalists included offerings like Dior’s Higher and Kenneth Cole’s Black, which still reflected the legacy of the 1990s. In that earlier decade, the generalist DNA was shaped by the dihydromyrcenol revolution ignited by Paco Rabanne Pour Homme, mingled with the musky-spicy tropes of the 1980s. This era gave rise to creations like Nautica (1992), Dolce & Gabbana Pour Homme (1994), Smalto (1998), and even Creed’s Green Valley (1999). These fragrances were designed to be all-encompassing, appealing to a time when most consumers weren’t inclined to amass extensive fragrance collections, and "niche" was still virgin territory.

By the 2010s, the generalist evolved again, this time shaped by advances in technology and shifts in taste. Affordable gas chromatography and the declining costs of previously expensive materials—such as Ambroxan and Hedione—enabled perfumers to craft sophisticated, mass-market generalists with relative ease. Yet, paradoxically, we now inhabit an era of commercial insecurity, where creative ventures are often stifled by a relentless pursuit of guaranteed profits. Fragrance houses hedge their bets on name recognition rather than risking originality. The result is a wave of sanitized, featureless designer scents engineered to appeal to the widest possible audience, their compositions vetted by focus groups and algorithms for maximum market penetration.

As of 2025, the prevailing template for a generalist fragrance includes faintly aquatic, slightly woody, and subtly white-musky elements, often coupled with a conspicuous sweetness and vague gourmand undertones. These blends, meticulously homogenized, aim to mask any creative or budgetary limitations. Y EDP fits this mold almost to a fault. It opens with a pleasant burst of green apple and ginger, transitioning to a juniper and amber heart that feels unexpectedly aromatic and mature. However, the dry-down succumbs to a generic, semi-sweet "candle amber" accord that resists further dissection. My mind, frankly, tunes out. Kind of a letdown after the initial promise here.

You could wear Y EDP and get by just fine. Technically, it’s a well-made fragrance. There’s nothing wrong with it. But it leaves you with a question: Am I wearing this because it resonates with me? Or is it simply a “safe” choice, destined to be forgotten? If it’s the latter, you’ve already answered the question Yves Saint Laurent posed: Y?

Pino Silvestre - New Formula (Parfums Mavive)

Gone is the crappy built-in atomizer that used to dribble and spit excess fragrance all over my fingers with every spray, replaced by an ordinary plastic cap atop an ordinary atomizer that works just fine. The first feature of the reformulation of Pino Silvestre is already a big plus in my book! The return to vintage 1950s graphics on the box is another, although I wish they would ditch the sticker on the front of the bottle and just paint the name on the glass, but that's probably asking too much.

Why Pino Silvestre was reformulated is beyond me. I find it interesting that a cologne from seventy years ago is still given this much love and attention. To date, I am familiar with three iterations -- the clear label "recent vintage" version from roughly fifteen to twenty years ago, perhaps even stretching a bit back to the '90s; the previous version with the forest on the box and the opaque sticker on the bottle; the most recent version, pictured above. Of the three, this third one is definitely my favorite. The first version that I mentioned, which I bought back around 2010, was good but too weak. Great lemon/basil opening, followed by a crisp assembly of green herbal notes that loosely resembled Christmas tree pine for about ninety minutes at a low thrum, before a near-total fadeout to a very soft honeyed amber. The second version was a vast improvement on the longevity front, an intense blast of the aforementioned top notes, followed by a more robust cedar-infused heart and base. But the base lacked the honeyed grace of its predecessor, a frustrating example of an unnecessary overcorrection. 

This new stuff rectifies that by stripping down some of the woods in favor of the more vintage herbal arrangement, with lavender and minty notes sparkling in impressive fidelity amidst the honeyed amber drydown that I've missed. It does lose a bit of the previous formula's punch, and peters out after three or four hours, but I think with a few extra sprays you could get a solid five or six hours of detectable sillage. This is a return to Pino Silvestre's past, albeit with what is still a slightly louder cedar that has been tapered back to allow that piney goodness to shine. Still great, still recommended. 

Spicebomb Night Vision Eau de Toilette (Viktor & Rolf)

How many iterations of the same fragrance can designers, and even some niche brands, shove onto shelves before the public finally cries foul over the sheer redundancy? With each Eros rehash, I feel an almost primal urge to remind everyone that this cloyingly sweet, painfully overused Calone/Norlimbanol/Ambroxan trifecta was first stamped onto the olfactory map in 1988 with Davidoff Cool Water, and has since morphed into a sort of neon Eros god-monster version of itself. 

The contemporary prototype for Spicebomb Night Vision isn’t even Eros, it’s Chanel Allure Homme Sport (2004). A year after the Chanel, we got Joop! Jump, the first spin-off in its lineage. Jump wasn't a blockbuster, but did moderately well, enough to keep the wheels turning for Lancaster and eventually Coty. Fast forward to 2012, and Versace takes a page from the Jump playbook, drops Eros, and strikes gold. Eros was an instant smash, its success spawning a tidal wave of imitators, Night Vision among them.

So, how does Viktor & Rolf’s take stack up? It’s fine, I guess. The opening bursts with green apple, cardamom, and fizzy aldehydes, a fleeting moment of brightness that quickly settles into the syrupy woody amber heart you’ve smelled a dozen times before. There’s a bit of sage and nutmeg in the base that tries to set it apart, adding a faint whiff of distinction, but sophistication? Not so much. I’ll admit it, I like Night Vision. But here’s the thing: it feels like we’ve reached a dead end. They nailed this formula with Jump, and every version since has been a diminishing return. Can it get better? Nah. Just louder.

Paul Smith Men (Paul Smith), The Most Interesting Fragrance I've Smelled in the Last Five Years

Let’s talk about this.

Back in 2000, Nathalie Lorson and Alain Astori dropped Paul Smith Men, the British designer’s signature masculine fragrance in an EDT concentration. The bottle? Square, green-tinted glass, and about as unremarkable as they come. The name isn’t even on the front; it’s slapped on the side, which feels oddly self-effacing. The atomizer’s Kelly green, paired with a clear plastic screw-on cap. But the juice inside? A green explosion. Grassy, bitter, fresh, and laced with a violet note that hums with a faint, petrol-like edge alongside a peppery violet leaf. The Fragcomm often draws parallels between this and Fahrenheit, though just as many dismiss the connection outright.

Years ago, on Basenotes, someone posed the eternal question: “Is there anything like Creed’s Green Valley?” Cue the collective shrug: “Green Valley is one of a kind; nothing else comes close.” I might’ve been one of those folks. But then, a rogue comment surfaced: “I think Paul Smith Men (green bottle) is the closest thing.” Others threw in DUA’s Vert Instinct, which I’ve yet to try, as mixed reviews on DUA’s creations have left me unmotivated. But Paul Smith Men? That discount-bin relic I used to see at Burlington for twenty bucks, dinged box and all? That compares to Green Valley? Really?

Cue the deep dive. On Reddit, someone mentions “synergies with Fahrenheit/Paul Smith Men (original green bottle),” again tying them together. But here’s the thing: Green Valley doesn’t smell like Fahrenheit. Sure, there’s a shared violet note that nods in Fahrenheit’s direction, but the connection feels tenuous at best. It’s like comparing a helium party balloon to a hot air balloon. Yeah, they both float, but only one’s getting you off the ground. The same goes for these two scents: Green Valley is lush and verdant, where Fahrenheit is unapologetically petrol-floral.

And yet. And yet. There’s something there. The way violet and violet leaf are handled in Green Valley whispers Fahrenheit, but it’s a different story, a greener, fresher tale. Loaded with bitter mastic resin and a ginger snap of vibrancy, Green Valley conjures rippling grass fields kissed by a morning breeze. It’s extraordinary, leagues ahead of anything the big dogs like Chanel, Guerlain, or Dior have ever attempted. Which brings us to the million-dollar question: How on earth did multiple comments across two decades compare it to an obscure, drugstore-tier cheapie like Paul Smith Men?

I had to know. So, I caved. Snagged a 50 ml bottle, slapped down the cash, and waited. When it arrived, I wore it a few times. Final verdict? Paul Smith Men doesn’t smell like Green Valley. But does it come closer than anything else I’ve sniffed on my olfactory travels? Absolutely.

Here’s the breakdown: Paul Smith Men opens with a bracing blast of basil and tomato leaf, underpinned by ginger and sharp leaf alcohols. It’s unapologetically green, nature in a bottle, albeit with budget ingredients. Was this a deliberate attempt to mimic Green Valley? The Creed doesn't have basil or tomato leaf, but Paul Smith only has them for a few minutes, and once they burn off, I'm left with a gauzy green aura that feels cool, vegetal, and very fresh. At this stage, it smells a lot like it's trying to imitate Green Valley on the down-low. Maybe the folks at Paul Smith gave Lorson and Astori a mission: “We want a Green Valley knockoff, but keep it discreet.”

Then a mastic-like accord emerges—buzzy, minty, gingery—but flatter than Green Valley’s bittersweet brilliance. By the thirty-minute mark, it’s grassy and crisp, and the basil has morphed into a distinct violet note peeking through. That’s where things get interesting: the violet rasps, echoing the petrol-laced leafiness in the heart of Green Valley. By hour one, it’s unmistakably reminiscent. But where Paul Smith Men diverges is in the far dry-down. After four hours, the sharp violet gets a little louder, leaning more into Fahrenheit.

What Paul Smith Men does is crack open a window into Green Valley’s DNA. It’s like a shadow version, a budget homage cobbled together with duct tape and good intentions. It gets you about 55% of the way there—maybe less if you’re not in the know. The fragrance world was already swimming in green-themed scents in the late ’90s, with stuff like Green Jeans, Greenergy, Royal Green, Green Generation, and Green Tea. Green Valley didn’t stand out enough to survive, despite Creed’s luxury price tag. By 2008, production had ceased, with only sporadic “vault” releases since.

Would I recommend Paul Smith Men as a Green Valley alternative? Yes and no. It’s the closest attempt, which says a lot since nobody else even tried. But it’s a compromise, and the gap between the two is wide enough to make you nostalgic for Creed’s masterpiece. Still, for twenty bucks, it’s a fun little fragrance with surprising depth.

As for DUA’s Vert Instinct? I’m still hesitant. It’s pricey, small, and polarizing. If it were that good, everyone would be raving. Meanwhile, I’m clinging to the hope that Kering reissues Green Valley. If they want to make it a limited-edition cash grab at $800 a bottle, so be it. I’ll fucking pay it.

Amber Oud Carbon Edition (Al Haramain)

YouTube fragrance reviewers drive me up the wall. They're the reason I’ll never start my own channel. Why bother joining the parade of mediocrity? With rare exceptions—Derek’s Varanis Ridari comes to mind—they’re lazy shills who couldn’t crack a walnut if you handed them a sledgehammer. They just parrot each other for clicks.

Take their reviews of Amber Oud Carbon Edition. Across the board, YouTube geniuses call it a Creed Green Irish Tweed clone. Sure, a few mention it’s like Cool Water, but they miss the mark entirely. It’s far closer to Coty’s Aspen (1989) or Cool Water Coral Reef Edition (2014). Coral Reef is Aspen in HD, and Carbon Edition is Coral Reef on steroids—almost luxury-grade, but not quite. The Internet swears Al Haramain copied Cool Water. Spoiler: they didn’t. Carbon Edition is one part Cool Water to three parts Aspen, which, frankly, isn’t a ratio I love. And those yokels on Fragrantica calling it a “banger” that “girls love”? Please. Do women secretly go nuts for Aspen? Doubtful. If ever there were a “hype beast” fragrance, this is it. I'm annoyed by that.

Let’s set the record straight: Amber Oud Carbon Edition is not a GIT clone. It nails a solid lemon verbena top note—that’s all. Sure, if you smell the drydown on paper a few days later, there’s a faint resemblance, but on skin? Forget it. If anything, it’s closer to the opening of Chez Bond, which veers Aspen-adjacent before landing in a creamy tea base (unlike Carbon). Speaking of Chez B, I need to snag another bottle. Anyway, Carbon copies Aspen more than anything else. And why clone Aspen, a dirt-cheap scent, and slap a premium price on it? Who thought the world needed that?

To be fair, Carbon Edition uses better materials and packs a punch with its high concentration. It’s louder and lasts maybe ten minutes longer than Aspen. But I wanted a Cool Water clone, damn it, and this isn’t it. As an alternative to Coral Reef or Aspen, it’s… fine. Just not groundbreaking. The best part? The flashy, steel-plated bottle and the clamshell box it comes in. I’m lukewarm on this one.

Eros Parfum (Versace)

Versace's Eros EDT (2012) always struck me as a disappointment—cheap, crass, weak, overly sweet, and cynical. Some hailed it as "groundbreaking" upon its release, but I wasn’t convinced. It felt like an interesting fougère concept hampered by poor execution and a budget that fell short of its ambitions. Whatever Aurelien Guichard intended to achieve was lost in the lackluster production. I couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for the Eros DNA. Nearly a decade later, the future has arrived, with a suprise.

Eros Parfum, launched in 2021 with an unnamed perfumer, feels like the polished realization of the original. With a better budget and a higher concentration, it refines Eros's core idea and upgrades it for a mature man. The opening is familiar but elevated: crisp apple, zesty lemon, cooling peppermint, and aromatic geranium, recalibrated with less mint, more citrus, and a gentler dose of green apple, while a synthetic lavender note adds a silvery sheen. The result is still brash but far more balanced, as the sunny aromatics seamlessly change to a heart dominated by woody tonka and freshly-trimmed sage that lingers for hours and projects maybe four or five feet from my body. 

This all rapidly dries down to what Eros Parfum remains for the duration of its twelve hour lifespan, an apple-infused rosy amber. Its slightly floral quality is attractive. At this stage, it’s hard to deny—Eros Parfum smells fantastic. Is it $150 fantastic? No, and full disclosure, my 3.4 oz bottle from Sephora was free. This should cost Versace customers $90, but inflation. The amber/apple accord offers vague whiffs of something that came in a similar shade of blue-green and was composed by Pierre Bourdon. But perhaps an even more apt comparison would be to Sophie Labbé's Joop! Jump (2005 vintage), which frankly is nearly identical to this stuff for an eighth of the cost, and sadly for Versace, might even smell a little better. I still have 4 ounces left out of a semi-vintage 6.7 ounce bottle of Jump, and it has aged into something positively gorgeous.

Despite that, I like Eros Parfum. It's expensive, and dare I say, a little sexy. But what kind of fragrance is it, really? Is it casual? Office-friendly? Night-out material? The playful prominence of apple and greens suggests a casual, carefree scent, yet the smooth, silky woodiness in the drydown hints at something more refined—business chic, even. It’s a fragrance for men born around 1980, those who grew up on Drakkar Noir, Cool Water, and Allure Homme, and now want something familiar yet forward-looking. For them, Eros Parfum fits the bill perfectly, if they don't already have a vintage bottle of Joop! Jump sitting around, that is. I may comment further on that in the year ahead.

Oud Minérale 2023 (Tom Ford)

I've never smelled the 2017 formula of this one, so forgive me for not doing a comparison. I'll keep it short and sweet here, because what I smell of Oud Minérale has me thinking yet again that anything containing a clear note of oud, or "oud," is not for me.

Oud Minérale opens with synthetic oud, i.e., "black" oud, a lab mix that approximates the real thing without achieving its animalic potency. It's Iso E Super for oud. I've owned it in its raw state; perfumers informally refer to it as "black" for reasons I never bothered to delve into. The perfumer who gave it to me said that it's in nearly every designer oud frag on the market. It's basically an unpleasant woody amber that reads more piercing and medicinal than ambery. It smells exactly like whatever is in Oud Minérale. It eventually gets drowned out by an intensely salty marine accord that smells at once ashy and wet, and I find it unsettling. This marine-like clarity only endures for a few minutes, until the fake oud vies for attention again, at which point the whole thing smells like burnt hair that has been unwisely doused with seawater, and it persists for no less than ten hours.

I'm all for salty aquatics, and I'm open to the idea of throwing oud in the mix, but this just doesn't work for me, and I find it intensely unpleasant. Word has it this is a rehash of Ford's earlier and now discontinued M7 Fresh, but that scent was full of citrus and herbs, whereas this one lacks any fruity, floral, or green embellishments, and simply smells salty and chemical in a nasty way. A pass, no thanks, next please. 

You or Someone Like You (Etat Libre d’Orange)

Chandler Burr was the creative director for this fragrance, and he told us to piss off if we want to know the note pyramid, saying, "The work is the work." He sounded defensive about it, as if he felt the fragrance was lacking and wanted to get ahead of the press. If I were him, I would've said, "It's very green, and I'll let you decide what's in there." But who am I, anyway? Certainly not a fancy-pants creative director for any perfumes, so I shouldn't deign to ask what's in the perfumes he puts out. There's supposed to be some element of artistic mystery here, and I guess that's what the brand was aiming for when they printed Burr's comment. Cloak it in mystery! Sell more bottles!

What isn't a mystery is that You or Someone Like You is loaded to the gills with mint, mostly spearmint, followed by a hint of lemon verbena and a deeper herbal element, which smoothly transitions to a subtle green cassis and rose accord that hums along in linear fashion for the duration of a work day, and even a bit beyond that -- for a fresh scent, it has amazing longevity. There is a bit of cooling Hedione/fake jasmine in the mix, which adds even more lift. None of the notes smell natural, yet all of them smell harmonious and light, a pleasant arrangement of gentle, translucent greens that avoids imparting shampoo or bar soap, while never quite shedding their slightly synthetic edge. I should dislike that part, but it doesn't bother me because the fragrance feels balanced, simple, and well done in an unpretentious way. In short, it smells really good. 

I should mention that I'm biased in favor of anything green, and since this fragrance is abundantly green, it's kind of a no-brainer win for me. However, I can see the criticism that it feels a bit more chemical than it should at its price-point, and recognize that this is likely why Burr was so cagey about notes (again, he could have said a million other things and I would've believed him). If you're interested in a pleasant spring or summer spritz for a pick-me-up, You or Someone Like You is for you. Given the current designer alternatives, this is perfectly constructed for that level of quality, and since most designers are over a hundred bucks now anyway, the ELDO isn't really a rip-off. Heck, I'd buy it.