Amouage
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The frankincense arrives first—green, almost piney, with that peculiarly Omani brightness that feels less churchy than feral. Lily of the valley cuts through with its sharp, nearly soapy floralcy, whilst the cistus adds a leathery, ambery warmth that hints at the animalic storm brewing beneath.
Jasmine and iris unfurl in strange bedfellows' harmony, the former's indolic richness tempered by the latter's cool, lipstick-like powder. Myrrh weaves through both, its medicinal-sweet resin binding the florals to the emerging oakmoss and civet, which begin their slow, musky takeover with an almost predatory patience.
What remains is skin and sin—the civet has fully emerged, feral and warm, cushioned by sandalwood's creamy weight and ambergris's saline sweetness. Patchouli and oakmoss form a chypré skeleton beneath the white musk, whilst cedarwood adds a dry, pencil-shaving rasp that keeps the composition from collapsing into pure animal.
Gold Man is Guy Robert at his most unapologetically opulent—a perfume that smells of silk turbans and old money, where lily of the valley's green sharpness collides with the cathedral weight of Omani frankincense. This is florals rendered in high relief against a backdrop of growling civet and oakmoss, the kind of animalic heft that modern perfumery has largely abandoned. The iris and jasmine at its heart don't simply bloom; they're gilded with myrrh's resinous balsam, creating something between a soliflore and an incense ritual. What makes this compelling is how Robert refuses to choose between masculinity and femininity—the Mysore sandalwood and cedarwood provide structure, but they're thoroughly infiltrated by white musk's skin-like softness and that unmistakable civet musk that broadcasts sex without apology. The cistus adds a labdanum-like stickiness, amplifying the amber accord whilst the patchouli grounds everything with its earthy, almost chocolate-dark richness. This is perfume as power statement, worn by those who understand that true luxury whispers in animalic undertones rather than screaming in synthetic oud. It demands cold weather, formal occasions, and the confidence to smell like you've just emerged from a private souk dealing in precious resins. Not for the faint-hearted or the minimalist; Gold Man is maximalism with breeding, a time capsule from 1983 that still feels provocatively relevant.
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3.8/5 (138)