Woodstock

Franck Boclet's Woodstock is an unapologetic sugar rush dressed in incense-scented silk scarves, a fragrance that treats the legendary music festival as a confectionery rather than a countercultural moment. The Calabrian lemon arrives with a deceptive brightness, but it's quickly smothered by the central character: rose lokum, that gelatinous Turkish delight that coats your palate in rosewater and icing sugar. This isn't a modern 'clean' rose—it's the sticky, jammy, almost cloying sort that leaves fingerprints on everything it touches. The gourmand aspect dominates from the first spray, with vanilla and musk creating a soft, nebulous cloud that hovers somewhere between a vintage powder compact and a sweet shop's display window. The cedarwood provides nominal structure, but it's more suggestion than presence, a faint woody hum beneath layers of crystallised petals and spun sugar. There's an intriguing powderiness that develops, reminiscent of old-fashioned cosmetics rather than modern iris-driven compositions. This is for someone who views sweetness not as a supporting player but as the entire performance—perhaps the person who orders rose and pistachio everything, who finds Shalimar too restrained, who wants to smell edible without crossing into full gourmand territory. It's brazenly feminine in its references despite the unisex label, demanding a certain confidence to pull off what is essentially wearing a fondant rose as a fragrance.