Rogue
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Aniseed strikes like a slap of herbal liqueur, immediately tempered by galbanum's bitter green lacquer and an oddly savoury peach-plum compote dusted with bergamot. The geranium leans rosy and metallic, creating a disorienting sweet-sharp tension that refuses to settle into anything comfortable.
Tuberose unfurls with buttery narcotic weight, flanked by jasmine's indolic richness and ylang ylang's banana-cream smoothness, but tarragon and nutmeg weave through like savoury threads in a sweet tapestry. Carnation's spicy clove warmth builds steadily, whilst myrrh adds a resinous, smoky depth that prevents the white florals from becoming cloying, and violet and heliotrope contribute a powdery, almost almondy softness at the edges.
The base settles into a thick amber-musk cocoon, where civet's animalic funk mingles with sandalwood's creamy woodiness and oakmoss's earthy bitterness. Tonka and vanilla attempt sweetness, but patchouli's dark earthiness and cedar's pencil-shaving dryness keep things grounded, whilst coriander adds a final whisper of dusty spice to this tenacious, skin-clinging finale.
Rostracto is an unapologetic monument to 1980s excess, where Michel Almairac wielded tuberose and carnation like a broadsword rather than a scalpel. The opening salvo of aniseed and galbanum creates an almost medicinal sharpness that quickly gives way to a fruit basket tipped into a spice market—peach and plum fermenting alongside geranium's rosy-green tang. This is white floral maximalism with a savoury backbone: the tuberose-jasmine-ylang ylang triumvirate blooms with creamy intensity, yet tarragon and nutmeg thread through like a chef's kiss of culinary intrigue, preventing the composition from collapsing into mere prettiness.
The spice accord dominates throughout, lending Rostracto a warmth that borders on feverish. Carnation's clove-like heat amplifies the effect, whilst myrrh adds a resinous, almost ecclesiastical solemnity to the floral abundance. By the base, civet and oakmoss anchor this baroque confection with a distinctly vintage muskiness—the kind that whispers of real animal notes and pre-reformulation oakmoss in quantities that would send modern IFRA regulators into apoplexy. The amber-tonka-vanilla trinity should sweeten the whole affair into submission, but the cedar, patchouli, and that mysterious 'grebzor' (likely a typo for ambergris?) maintain a woody, slightly dirty edge.
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3.9/5 (87)