XerJoff
XerJoff
641 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
That first spray delivers a shockwave of candied orange peel macerated in dark chocolate—not milk chocolate's timid sweetness, but something more assertive and European. The cardamom pierces through almost immediately, its sharp green facets cutting across the citrus oils, whilst underneath, you can already sense the oud beginning to stir like something waking in the dark.
The chocolate accord deepens into something almost molten, with the vanilla and cardamom creating an unlikely crème anglaise effect that shouldn't work but somehow does. Both ouds emerge fully now, the Laotian bringing its characteristic leather-smoke character whilst the Thai iteration adds an almost overripe, fermented fruit quality that keeps the composition from becoming too cosy. The citrus hasn't entirely vanished—it hovers at the edges, occasionally flashing through like distant lightning.
What remains is a skin scent of vanilla-kissed oud with whispers of spice, the white musk finally asserting itself to blur the sharper edges. The chocolate has largely retreated, leaving behind only a phantom sweetness, whilst the cardamom's woody-balsamic facets mingle with the oud's persistent leather. It's warmer and more intimate than the bombastic opening, but still substantial—this isn't a fragrance that fades politely into nothing.
Symphonium orchestrates a collision between citrus-splashed chocolate and the brooding depth of Southeast Asian oud—an unlikely pairing that XerJoff executes with surprising finesse. The opening salvo of Italian orange and Spanish mandarin doesn't merely brighten the Belgian chocolate; it creates something closer to those dark orange peel confections sold in continental patisseries, where bitter oils cling to 70% cocoa. Indian cardamom threads through this gourmand architecture with its eucalyptus-camphor bite, preventing the composition from collapsing into simple sweetness. The twin ouds from Laos and Thailand bring different textures—one leathery and medicinal, the other almost fruity-fermented—which wrestle against the Bourbon vanilla's creamy richness rather than melting into it. White musk attempts to soften the edges but never quite succeeds; there's an intriguing tension throughout, as if the fragrance can't decide whether it's a refined oriental or an unabashed dessert bar.
This is for the fragrance enthusiast who's grown weary of polite compositions, who wants their gourmands to have backbone and their oud to show teeth. Symphonium suits evening wear when you're dressed well but want to signal you're not entirely tame—that dinner reservation that might end in a dimly lit cocktail bar rather than an early night. It's unabashedly intense, the sort of scent that creates a three-foot radius around you and makes strangers lean in with curiosity rather than polite distance.
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4.0/5 (165)