Revisiting Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aoud Violet (Mancera)

Aoud Violet, released in 2014, shows that if you want florals from Mancera/Montale, rose is the way to go. It's not that the brand can't do other florals, as this is certainly a decent violet fragrance with plenty in its corner. It's just that Pierre Montale knows his way around the harmonization of natural and synthetic rose materials, while the 100% synthetic violet in this fragrance poses a challenge he doesn't seem entirely willing to embrace. 

It resides in a territory that has been covered, often more dynamically, by less expensive fragrances. Fahrenheit, Grey Flannel, and Creed’s Love in Black (which is ironically cheaper at grey market prices than Aoud Violet is at retail) all explore similar approaches to the peppery greenness and purple sweetness of violet materials, and do so with more personality. Mancera’s version opens green and brisk, with galbanum, bergamot, and a polished aldehydic lift that signals quality—and considerable value—at its roughly $70 grey-market price point. That quickly gives way to a plush violet accord that’s lightly petrol-tinged but mostly dry-powdery and semisweet. From there, it settles into violet wrapped in Galaxolide and other clean musks. By the four-hour mark, those musks take over, and the scent remains largely unchanged for the next ten hours, a steady impression of purpley-grey violets at the laundromat. Longevity and projection are admirable here.

There are hints of spice, but they register more as violet leaf piquancy than as distinct notes. The violet leaf itself never takes center stage, instead hovering in the background with a watery, cucumber-like effect from materials such as nonadienal and methyl octyn carbonate. This likely explains why some reviewers call Aoud Violet aquatic, even though it isn’t. In the end, I enjoy wearing it because it’s smooth and inoffensive, but I also find it the most vanilla violet I own. This is an olfactory theme that benefits from risk. Fahrenheit succeeds because it commits to how subversive and dark its subject matter can get. Love in Black is unapologetically maudlin. Grey Flannel glowers. Aoud Violet plays it safe, and the comfort it offers doesn’t quite make up for the boredom it leaves behind.

Side note: "Aoud" Violet contains zero oud. 

Amber & Roses (Mancera)

An absolute masterpiece.

This 2014 release is often described as a dark, vampiric, and overtly Goth take on roses. Given the name "Mancera," which sounds like it should be for a Scandinavian death-metal band in 1993, I was ready for something overwrought. Instead, I found myself wearing a beautifully made Damask rose fragrance not far from Creed’s Fleur de Thé Rose Bulgare (2000), and that surprised me more than anything else.

The surprise is partly about the brand. Mancera, Montale’s Western-facing sibling, wasn’t where I expected this level of refinement. Montale does plenty well, but often with obvious synthetics, designer-ish structures, and a taste for excess, so I assumed Amber & Roses would follow suit. It doesn’t—it's a few cuts above my two Montales.

When a perfume is this good, I prefer to keep the descriptions simple. Amber & Roses opens with a wan green geranium leaf accord, bitter, oddly isolated, and accompanied only by a faint suggestion of lemon. For the first ten minutes it feels almost like a misfire. The geranium smells natural enough, but its peppery bite has been sanded down to something muted and indistinct, as if it's being perceived from a great distance.

Then the veil lifts, and a remarkable rose blooms. It’s not a once-in-a-generation rose, but it smells like a master perfumer was given a generous budget and plenty of time: a clear, composed bouquet of Turkish roses. You can sense both naturals and high-quality synthetics at work, with rose absolute reinforced by a late 1980s headspace-style rose reconstruction, and it's lucid, naturally sweet, only bordering on jammy, without tipping too far over the edge. Nothing novel, but beautifully executed.

The tiny green sliver of geranium stays present amidst the bouquet, joined by cool dosings of Ambroxan and a silvery incense note, judiciously (read: slyly) used to bolster the rose, not steal its thunder. The Ambroxan is the same type used in Armaf’s Club de Nuit line—it’s not Cetalox or Ambrofix—but Mancera's choice feels right here. Basic Ambroxan’s twangy, faintly metallic edge works perfectly with the incense and with rose’s own bitter-metallic facet. Everything is balanced, cleanly dosed, and refreshingly simple.

It makes me think of Fleur de Thé Rose Bulgare because that was another Turkish Rose with a light sprig of green-woodiness that eventually (after around ten hours) dried down to a balls-to-the-wall ambergris base. Creed used at least 25% real ambergris tincture in the 2000s, with Ambroxan as a boosting agent, but even they're not using the real stuff anymore, so Mancera's all-synth "amber" is perfectly fine, even if they're not using the more expensive proprietary oil house materials. 

What matters is how it flows, and as with Fleur de Thé Rose Bulgare, Amber & Roses moves like a simple and direct rose/ambergris fragrance, with a touch of green-woodiness, a faint geranium instead of Creed's meek green tea note, and an extremely light incense adding just a touch of extra dimension that even the Creed lacked. Given a choice between the older fragrance's big Moby Dick energy ambergris (the stuff was pretty raw and smelled like salty pennies submerged under wet seaweed that's been beached under the sun for seventeen hours) and Mancera's piously wispy incense with an even more subliminal microdrop of myrrh, I actually prefer Pierre Montale's take.

I’d like to note a YouTube review by Marc Robitaille, where he spent several minutes sniffing, grimacing, and downvoting this stuff. Yes, he looks sincere. But Marc is far too perceptive to genuinely think this smells bad. I suspect he's gatekeeping in an effort to prevent grey market supply from drying up, and honestly, I can respect that with this fragrance. It really is that good. If I were smarter, I’d do the same.

So no, don’t buy Amber & Roses. It’s disgusting. Easily the worst thing Mancera makes. Best to stay far away.

Tyrannosaurus Rex (Zoologist)

Antonio Gardoni is clearly a genius, as evidenced by his work for his own range, but good lord is T-Rex a bad fragrance. It opens smelling like Icy Hot muscle rub, and keeps smelling camphorous and chemical forever. What gives?

I can suss out the florals—rose, ylang, champaca, jasmine—but they're compressed into a fairly useless framing of harsh resinous materials that scream over the bouquet and destroy my sinuses. The muscle rub association never lets up, and frankly that stuff smells better. Strong whiffs of skanky incense and synthetic civet in the base do little to help matters, and while I can appreciate the tight blending, the end result is crappy. 

Life is too short to wear these kinds of perfumes. I get it, the perfumer and the brand he works for are trying to break new ground with a daring scent that is truly "niche," and on that count, they succeed. But the goal of wearing a perfume, any perfume, is to smell good. I don't need to spend hundreds of dollars to smell like dirty muscle balm. 

No thanks. Next . . . 

New Year's Day Memo Paris Double Review: Madurai and Irish Leather

Released in 2022, Madurai is one of sixteen fragrances in Memo’s Fleurs Bohèmes collection. That name gives me pause. Having once lived in Bohemia, I can safely say it isn’t especially known for its flowers. Still, Clara and John Molloy’s brand has assembled a full bouquet under this banner, so let's take a closer look at Madurai.

The idea behind the scent is a streetside merchant’s stall in India. White flowers, peach, turmeric, sandalwood, marigold, and a handful of woody-green notes form the palette, and the opening hits with bright peach and marigold, juicy and green-spicy, hooking me immediately. I've come to recognize marigold (tagetes) as a great "green" note, as it also features prominently in Givenchy's Greenergy, there as a lush spiced grassiness, and here as a more delicate vegetal nuance. 

Then Madurai's striking jasmine accord unfurls like a white flag over a dewy field of greens. Turmeric is clearly present and surprisingly realistic, its fresh, ginger-adjacent bite acting as a bridge between the delicate florals and a soft, restrained Australian sandalwood in the base. The overall effect is clean and airy, yet grounded, thanks to a barely-there sugary tuberose that props up the wispy jasmine accord in the heart.

There’s nothing indolic or challenging about the jasmine here. If you’re jasmine-averse, or wish you liked it but struggle to find something restrained enough to wear comfortably, Madurai is worth a try. It’s office-safe, but far from dull, and the composition is nuanced and well balanced. Several jasmine materials are at work, with synthetics like methyl dihydrojasmonate boosting the dewy freshness alongside jasmine absolute, which I detect in far greater measure than sambac. The persistent peach up top and the texturally creamy sandalwood beneath add acidity and woodiness, keeping the florals from flattening.

No haute niche perfume review is complete without mentioning price. At the time of writing, a 75 ml bottle of Madurai costs $340, or $170 per ounce, which is also the price of the 30 ml size. Is it worth it? If you can afford it, I’d say yes. The high quality of its materials is undeniable, and Gaël Montero’s blending gives the fragrance a distinctively luxurious character. This perfume doesn't come across as complex and challenging, but instead feels like your Basic Girl sneaker juice jasmine soliflore from 2006 was given a major upgrade. It may be the most signature-worthy jasmine I’ve ever smelled.

Here's a fragrance that I like even more than Madurai, yet simply don't understand. Aliénor Massenet  named her 2013 composition "Irish Leather" and then proceeded to give the world a South American yerba maté tea scent. This baffles me, because Ireland is best known for its strong black Assam Irish Breakfast tea, which couldn’t be more different and, with cream and sugar, is far richer and cozier than any herbal concoction.

It would be one thing if the maté note were a minor background thing, but it's the core focus for no fewer than nine hours of wear, making Irish Leather a dank tisane (not leather) scent. Furthermore, it smells really, really good, like a fresh, tannic, and beautifully leafy green tea. The fragrance intros with a brief and very realistic juniper berry accord, fresh and slightly citric, which then segues into this smoky maté for twelve solid hours. 

Irish Leather's base is fairly simple, an unadorned vetiver, but by the seven hour mark, I don't care. Irish Leather has won me over. With that said, someday a perfume house will correctly identify what makes for an Irish smell. Having spent two years in Northwestern Ireland, I can tell you what it really smells like: salty sea air and cow shit. I don't expect anyone to go for that, of course, but if you're aiming to capture the essence of a Northern European country, maybe don't use a prominent South American material, especially when the European equivalent smells even better. I mean, I sort of get it—Postmodernism, cultural appropriation, yadda yadda—but come on. Opportunity missed.