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.