Ambergreen by Oliver & Co.

It’s a very particular niche perfume, aromatic and herbal. I absolutely love it and it’s one of the few that lasts a long time on skin and clothes. I insist, I love it, but I think it’s not for everyone.

I can’t stand raw notes or that boiled, soft mushiness of galbanum and tender herbs; I hate perfumes that smell of birdseed, boiled greens, and low scrubland—that yellowish, faded verdancy of certain seventies women’s sport potions. Ambergreen is a work of art… I don’t know how to define it, but after trying it for two or three days, it left me utterly amazed. It’s like a futuristic evolution of dynamic lotions from forty years ago, yet it’s so well-crafted that it isn’t that breakaway, empty fragrance which throws in exotic notes just to do so; here the ingredients are nailed down with precision to create an almost childish green—not childish, but innocent and edible—moving between spicy and sweet, between vegetable and dreamlike, distancing itself from anything else without seeming forced like the nonsense of some enfant terrible who end up in smoke. This is beautiful and well-made. The opening is strong, an exact blend of a freshly broken green chilli and, surprise, a fat, trembling silkworm. Do you know that smell of the boxes we used to keep silkworms in as children? That raw, green, acrid, and addictively repugrant aroma coming from mulberry leaves and the worms themselves? Ambergreen smells exactly like that at first, and the surprising thing is that it works brilliantly, even battling the opera-singing chilli. It’s mind-blowing that these two unusual concepts don’t cause repulsion but rather a desire for more. Shortly after, the formula picks up precious vegetable nuances, without losing the fat-worm tone or the chilli, but it’s a gem because they start to sweeten, speaking of a natural, vegetal sweetness with echoes of very expensive, finest body lotions, gaseous and sharp tomato leaves, freshly cut grass, spotless, as if rubbed with a cloth. Coriander is also felt, but instead of being dry and invasive, it’s a delicate note, its sparkling, foamy air filtering into the sweet green of microscopic fauna that this jewel encloses. Everything speaks of an orchard and invertebrates, and the lovely thing is that it also speaks of dreamy, relaxing perfumes. Mixing those two concepts is incredibly difficult, and ensuring one doesn’t swallow the other. Ambergreen is nailed to speak face-to-face with other more famous perfumes, a blend that is both classic and avant-garde, evocative and functional. Completely unisex, though it suits a woman or an adolescent better due to its charming delicacy. I can’t stop thinking that this is how Chanel No. 19 should smell today. A very highly recommended gem from Oliver & Co., and I give it no chance against my father, as Estrellita Castro said.

I can’t stand raw or herbaceous notes; that boiled, soft mushiness of galbanum and tender herbs opens my pores; I hate perfumes that smell of birdseed, boiled greens, and low scrubland—that yellowish, faded, aromatic verdancy of certain seventies women’s sport potions. But Ambergreen is a work of art… I don’t even know how to define it, but after trying it for two or three days, it left me utterly amazed. It’s like a futuristic evolution of dynamic lotions from forty years ago, yet it’s so well-crafted that it isn’t that breakaway, empty fragrance which throws in exotic notes just to do so; here the ingredients are nailed down to the millimetre to create an almost childish green, which isn’t childish, but innocent and edible, a perfume that navigates between spicy and sweet, between vegetable and dreamlike, distancing itself from anything else without seeming forced like the nonsense of those enfant terrible who end up in smoke. This is beautiful and well-made. The opening is strong, an exact blend of a freshly broken green chilli and… surprise, a fat, trembling silkworm. Do you know that typical smell of the boxes in which we kept silkworms as children? That aroma between raw, green, acrid and addictively repugnant that came from mulberry leaves and the worms themselves? Well, Ambergreen smells exactly like that at first; the surprising thing is that it works brilliantly, even battling the opera-singing chilli. It’s mind-blowing that these two concepts, unusual for a perfume, don’t cause repulsion but leave you wanting more. Shortly after, the formula picks up precious vegetable nuances, doesn’t lose the fat-worm tone or the chilli, but it’s a gem because they start to sweeten, speaking of a natural, vegetal sweetness with echoes of very expensive and finest body lotions, gaseous and sharp tomato leaves, freshly cut grass, spotless grass, as if rubbed with a cloth. Coriander is also felt, but instead of being dry and invasive (it’s a delicate note), what we have is its sparkling, foamy air filtering into the sweet green of microscopic fauna that this jewel encloses. Everything speaks of an orchard and invertebrates; the lovely thing is that it also speaks of dreamy, relaxing perfumes. I think mixing those two concepts is incredibly difficult, and ensuring one doesn’t swallow the other. Ambergreen is nailed to be a perfume that can speak face-to-face with other more famous ones, a blend that is both classic and avant-garde at the same time, evocative and functional. Completely unisex, though it suits a woman or an adolescent of either sex better due to its charming delicacy. I can’t stop thinking that this is how Chanel No. 19 should smell today. A very highly recommended gem from Oliver & Co., and I give it no chance against my father, as Estrellita Castro said.