Juliette Has A Gun
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Birch tar announces itself immediately, that acrid, smoky phenolic rush meeting rose head-on in what feels like a deliberate collision rather than a graceful introduction. The Bulgarian rose struggles briefly beneath the weight of that tarry darkness before asserting itself, petals bruised but intact, creating an opening that's simultaneously floral and industrial.
Cedar and papyrus build a dry, woody framework as the oud finally speaks up—dusty, resinous, never barnyard—whilst labdanum adds a sticky amber warmth that begins to soften those sharp tarry edges. Patchouli and castoreum introduce an animalic warmth that reads as intimate rather than confrontational, the composition settling into something plush yet architectural, rose now thoroughly impregnated with smoke and resin.
Sandalwood and vanilla create a creamy, skin-like base that's elevated by the synthetic radiance of Cetalox, projecting that woody-musky signature in waves. The gaiac wood adds a subtle medicinal quality whilst musk and residual castoreum keep things warm and lived-in, the whole affair drying down to something that smells like expensive wood furniture in a room where someone once wore too much perfume.
Midnight Oud isn't your typical oud showcase—it's Romano Ricci's subversive take on oriental opulence, where rose and smoke engage in a territorial dispute over skin. The opening collision of Bulgarian rose and birch tar creates something altogether feral; this is rose after dark, stained with creosote and speaking in tongues. That tarry blackness clings to the petals like soot on velvet, whilst the oud itself—never screaming, always murmuring—weaves through cedar and papyrus with a dry, woody insistence. The labdanum adds a leathery amber weight that prevents this from floating into ethereal territory, whilst patchouli and castoreum contribute an animalic undercurrent that reads as skin-heated and slightly indecent. Sandalwood and vanilla in the base provide just enough restraint to keep things wearable rather than confrontational, though this remains a fragrance that commands attention rather than whispers for it. The Cetalox amplifies that woody radiance without turning synthetic or screechy. This is for those who want their florals complicated, their woods textured, and their oud presented as one element in a larger conversation rather than a solo performance. Wear it when you want to smell expensively dishevelled, when clean and pretty feel too pedestrian, when the night requires something with actual bite. It's unisex in the truest sense—neither masculine posturing nor feminine sweetness, just unapologetically bold.
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4.2/5 (83)