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 . . .