The Different Company
The Different Company
263 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The first spray delivers a wallop of hot cinnamon and saffron cut through with rum's boozy sweetness and davana's jammy, fruit-stewed richness. Pink pepper crackles at the edges like static, preventing the spice accord from becoming too rounded or comfortable. There's an almost gourmand quality here, but one that's been left too long near an incense burner.
Bay rum emerges with its clove-like spiciness whilst Turkish rose adds an unexpected floral softness, though it's more rose oxide than petal—slightly metallic, aromatic, medicinal even. The nagarmotha brings a rooty, earthy bitterness that grounds the sweetness, and the oud begins to assert itself with leathery, smoky facets enhanced by cistus absolute's amber-resin darkness. The spices have calmed but haven't disappeared, now playing supporting roles rather than leads.
What remains is a woody-resinous skin scent where the oud melds with sandalwood, patchouli, and tolu balsam into a single, musky-sweet entity. The vanilla and ambergris create a subtle animalic warmth—furry rather than maritime—whilst the leather notes persist like the memory of well-worn gloves. It's surprisingly intimate now, the bombast replaced by a quiet, persistent woodiness that clings to clothing for days.
Bertrand Duchaufour's Oud Shamash is a spice merchant's fever dream rendered in Laotian wood and dark resinous smoke. This isn't the sterile, medicinal oud that dominated the early 2010s—it's a baroque confection where Ceylon cinnamon and saffron threads weave through rum-soaked davana, creating an opening that smells like the air above a pot of mulling wine laced with something more dangerous. The Jamaican rum CO2 brings an almost fermented sweetness that prevents the spice accord from becoming a one-note screech, whilst pink pepper adds a fizzing, metallic edge. As the Turkish rose emerges through bay rum and the earthy bitterness of nagarmotha, you realise Duchaufour has built something that oscillates between confectionery and incense, never quite settling into either camp. The oud itself is leathery rather than barnyard, bolstered by cistus labdanum that brings a dark, animalic warmth. Tolu balsam and Bourbon vanilla create a resinous sweetness in the base that could tip into cloying territory if not for the dry woods and patchouli holding the line. This is for those who want their oud dressed in velvet and spices, not stripped bare. It's unashamedly maximal—winter evenings in dimly lit rooms where the heating's too high and everyone's had one glass too many. Excessive by name, excessive by nature.
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3.7/5 (128)