Psychédélique

Psychédélique opens with a mischievous wink—a flash of citrus that vanishes almost before you've registered it, leaving you to tumble headlong into an earthen cathedral of patchouli. This is patchouli as protagonist, not supporting player: dense, humic, almost tactile in its richness, the Indonesian variety bringing that characteristic chocolate-earth darkness that sits heavy on the tongue. Jacques Flori has built a kaleidoscope around it, the geranium adding a metallic-rose brightness that vibrates against the patch's low rumble, whilst cistus weaves through with its leathery, ambery resinousness. There's an odd, brilliant tension here—the rose note feels compressed, pressed between layers of soil and resin like a petal in an old book, its sweetness muted but persistent.

This isn't a fragrance that apologises for itself. The spice element reads as pepper-tinged earthiness rather than distinct spice notes, a prickling quality that keeps the composition from collapsing into hippie nostalgia. By the base, Psychédélique reveals its true nature: a cosy amber-vanilla embrace that's been thoroughly dirtied, musk providing animalic warmth without screaming its presence. It's for those who've exhausted the clean patchoulis and want something with genuine grit under its fingernails. Wear this when you want to smell like the most interesting person in the room—the one who's just returned from somewhere neither Instagram-friendly nor easily explained. It's resolutely unisex in that genuinely androgynous way, refusing to lean masculine or feminine, instead occupying its own peculiar territory.