Froggy's Fog
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Blackcurrant liqueur dominates with an almost aggressive tartness, amplified by pink pepper's metallic bite and only barely softened by bergamot's citric overlay. There's something fermented and slightly off-putting here—deliberate dissonance that makes you lean in rather than recoil. The fruity accord reads as overripe, perhaps even beginning to turn.
The rose emerges bruised and browning at the edges, supported by geranium's minty-green sharpness and davana's peculiar dried-fruit sweetness. That "rot" element becomes more apparent now, not overtly putrid but lending a composted, organic decay quality that sits strangely against the florals. It's beautiful in the way a Flemish vanitas painting is beautiful—memento mori rendered in petals and earth.
Indonesian patchouli takes command, all dark cocoa and damp soil, whilst rubber introduces its industrial signature—slightly burnt, unmistakably synthetic. Vetiver adds smokiness, moss contributes forest-floor dampness, and the musk underneath feels animalic and skin-close. What remains is peculiarly addictive: organic decay meets industrial residue, neither quite winning.
Exhaust Fuel is Carlos Benaïm's peculiar meditation on decay and beauty, a fragrance that shouldn't work but somehow does. The opening salvo of blackcurrant liqueur meets pink pepper in a fizzing, almost fermented sweetness—less fruity than vinous, with that particular sharpness of cassis that borders on cat-piss territory before veering into something more refined. Bergamot attempts to civilise proceedings but can't quite manage it. Then comes the真ly transgressive element: that listed "rot" accord threading through what would otherwise be a rather opulent floral heart. The Turkish damask rose and geranium present themselves as wilting bouquet flowers, perhaps left too long in stagnant water, whilst davana contributes its strange, jammy-boozy character that smells simultaneously of fruit compote and something vaguely medicinal.
The base is where Benaïm's skill shows—Indonesian patchouli grounds the composition with its dark, chocolatey earthiness, whilst rubber adds an unmistakably industrial tang that justifies the "Exhaust Fuel" name. It's not petrol, exactly, but something synthetic and slightly acrid that plays against the more traditional vetiver and moss. The musk feels almost dirty, animalic rather than clean. This is a fragrance for those who find conventional "rose patchoulis" tedious, who want their florals served with grit and strangeness. It's the olfactory equivalent of a post-punk cover of a baroque aria—recognisable elements rendered deliberately askew, wearing its 52% synthetic accord rating like a badge of honour rather than shame.
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3.3/5 (118)