In December of 2008, I made my first acquaintance with Teo Cabanel’s Alahine, and walked away unimpressed: “On the one hand, Alahine reminds me a little of the uber-sultry Roja Dove Enslaved, but on the other hand, the reminder is only in the way that, say, Robby the Robot stomping about the house in pumps and pearls approximates a flesh and blood woman.”
I wish to take this moment to apologize to both Robby the Robot and Alahine — the metaphor wasn’t flattering to either one of them, and Alahine has grown on me since then. Like, seriously grown on me. For that, I blame Abigail and Brian at I Smell Therefore I Am.
Moral of the story: if you wish to hold fast, inflexible opinions of fragrances, never read perfume blogs.
I mean, I could have easily dismissed the regular, euphoric whoops going on over at ISTIA (“Can the hollering, ya gosh darn whippersnappers — I’m trying to work over here!!”) if it had been just Abigail . . . or just Brian . . . but loud, bright laser-beams of ecstacy over Cabanel’s Alahine breaking forth from *both* Abigail and Brian? It’s a rare enough occurrence to occasion double-taking, revisiting and rethinking.
And since Abigail is, like, the kindest, gentlest pusher you’ll ever bring home to meet your mother, I soon found myself in possession of a rather too-lovely-for-my-bathroom-counter bottle of Alahine pure parfum. I unwrapped, unstoppered, dabbed and took an exploratory sniff. “Hmmmm, really? Is this what all the fuss is about?” I thought, as I placed the glass stopper back on the adorably etched bottle and nudged it off to the side.
I was wondering if maybe my newfound pusher had been wrong, after all; that maybe she was a little addled by all those fumes she sells and so couldn’t tell good from bad, right from wrong anymore.
It happens to the best of us, yet I was confident that it was (tragically) happening to her and (thank god!) not to me.
But all those superlatives kept nagging at me.
From Brian: “The florals are hazed, one of those gorgeous old soft-focus photos, the light flaring in star shapes, the flowers amorphous arrangements of color . . . Gradually, things go even softer … humid, muskier … The later stages of development are where I get the vanilla, the benzoin, the patchouli … sometimes murmuring, sometimes getting a little more excited, projecting what they have to say. Between this and the opening come rolling impressions of rose, jasmine, and (particularly, for me) orange blossom.”
From Abigail: “Alahine opens with a burst of ever-so-slight citrus & floral notes . . . Very quickly it turns into a velvety amber that is the most sophisticated and deluxe amber I have ever smelled. Alahine is oriental amber extreme with the most wondrous complexity that seems to include hints of pepper, musk, benzoin, sandalwood and patchouli . . . It never screams, appears overdone or is even too soft or subtle. It has perfect lasting power and sillage.”
How can any sane person interested in ambered fragrances not find the one-two punch of these reviews irresistable?
The official notes list includes: ylang ylang, bergamot, jasmine, Bulgarian rose, neroli, pepper, iris, cistus, patchouli, benzoin, vanilla, sandalwood and musk, pretty much the template for a reference floral amber if ever there were such a thing as a reference floral amber.
At first, nothing struck me as extraordinary. The pieces all functioned properly, the mix was good, the scent pleasant, but I didn’t get a particularly noteworthy vibe. I’ve learned, however, that first impressions can be deceiving, which was the case with Alahine. What seemed initially a little lazy or derivative of its betters became much more than that with repeated wearings.
The opening haze of ylang-ylang (with a slight kerosene edge) and citrus (crisp and light) progresses quickly and seamlessly into a phase of fresh gound pepper and cool iris-root that then pulls up the curtain on the main, and hours long, attraction: a warm, wooded atmosphere frosted with toasted vanilla and suffused with the benevolent, breathy exhalations of a velvety rose and buttery jasmine bouquet.
Yowza! How did I miss all this? A fragrance that I once had to force myself to apply, I now began looking forward to, enjoying every lush, generous facet as it trotted through its paces day after day, a beautifully muscled thoroughbred that turns and leaps with such grace and precision that it’s criminally possible to take its easy performance for granted.
The coup de grâce? I was brushing my teeth after having applied a decent helping of Alahine when the BF walked into the bathroom and gave me a hug. “Mmmm, you smell nice,” he said.
Between Vero Profumo’s Rubj and now Alahine, I suspect he has a soft spot for the scent of warm, fleshy jasmine.
The packaging is beautiful in a traditionally old-school perfume way: gilded box and glass bottle, metallic gold accents, ornate etching, softly rounded corners, a colorful twisted-fabric rope around the bottle’s neck. It suits the scent, and makes for an excellent, gifting-friendly presentation. Unlike, say, the cost-conscious packaging for Monocle Scent Two: Laurel, I’d feel no hesitation or embarrassment in presenting the Alahine parfum as a gift.
And the recipient would undoubtedly be thrilled.
But it’s not just Abigail, Brian and myself that are smitten by Alahine’s charms. March at Perfume Posse appears to be in thrall, as well: “Alahine only gets better as the pepper, iris and the naughty bits start to bloom, but it’s sexy in a subtle way, the woman in the corner of the room who catches your eye, and suddenly, compared to her quiet chic, everyone else looks a bit overdone.”
Exactly.
The sillage (or scent trail) isn’t overpowering, though it’s definitely present, and the parfum formulation has excellent longevity — I put it on at 9 this morning, and at 3:30 p.m., it’s still kicking: a wooded, buttery-soft amber with that velvety floral overlay.
***Note: my overall experience with Alahine as been a consistent 8-10 hours of rich longevity, with the very latter hours a decidedly attractive smoked vanilla against a backdrop of blurred florals.
So don’t blame me if you rush out to find the nearest bottle of Alahine and then fall truly, madly, deeply for its gently opulent charms. It’s not my fault — blame Abigail! and Brian!
