Montale
Montale
428 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The rose hits immediately—thick, syrupy, almost edible in its intensity, with that characteristic Montale sweetness that's part fruit, part sugar cube. There's barely any development here; what you smell in the first thirty seconds is essentially what you've signed up for, though a whisper of jasmine's green bitterness tries to cut through the pink haze.
The jasmine finally stakes its claim, bringing an animalic, almost sweaty quality that keeps this from being a simple rose soliflore—there's body here, something lived-in rather than purely decorative. The musk begins its soft expansion, wrapping around the florals with that slightly soapy, slightly skin-like warmth, whilst the synthetic accord remains pronounced, giving everything a polished, modern gleam.
The rose recedes to a muted echo, more memory than presence, whilst the musk-amber base settles into a powdery, diffuse halo. It's softer now, almost nostalgic, with that clean-laundry quality that white musks possess, though traces of sweetness linger stubbornly at the edges like the last guests at a party who won't quite take the hint.
Roses Musk is Montale's unapologetic love letter to the damascena rose, rendered in their signature high-impact style that splits opinion down the middle. This isn't a fresh-cut garden rose; it's rose absolute turned up to eleven, sweet bordering on cloying, with an almost berry-like jammy quality that suggests overripe petals pressed into concentrate. The jasmine weaves through as a sharp, indolic counterpoint—more green stem than white flower—whilst the musk provides a skin-like warmth that hovers between plush and plasticky depending on your chemistry. There's a deliberately synthetic sheen to the whole composition, that slightly metallic-sweet quality Montale does so well, like rose petals encased in clear resin. The amber adds a gentle warmth without going full oriental; it's more scaffolding than statement, keeping the roses from floating away entirely.
This is for the maximalist who wants their presence announced before they enter the room. The sort of person who applies fragrance with confidence rather than restraint, who enjoys compliments from strangers at the supermarket. It works best in cooler weather when that sweetness doesn't turn oppressive, though devoted wearers seem unbothered by season. There's an ageless quality to it—neither explicitly youthful nor mature—making it genuinely unisex in the way that bold florals often are. You'll either find it intoxicating or suffocating; Roses Musk doesn't do subtlety, and that's rather the point.
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3.6/5 (418)