In a nutshell: YSL's Opium pour Homme

Woody vanilla with hints of spice, talc, tobacco, cedar, and patchouli, wrapped in a tailored cashmere V-neck that still manages to breathe. Less baroque, boozy, and dramatic than the women's version, but with a similar fizzy cola veneer and autumnal hue. Opium pour Homme is masculine vanilla done right: soft, elegant, and sweetly sexy instead of obnoxiously gourmand (looking at you, A*Men) or viciously powdery and ironically femme (hi, Le Mâle and Joop!). Dries down to a warm, slightly leathery patchouli-cedar with a wisp of vanillic smoke curling throughout. The original Opium is a wonderful thing, a whirlwind of opulence coming at you from all angles - in Technicolor, with surround sound - but its elbow-jabbing sillage and brick-wall density make it something of a loose cannon, hard to tame and wear discreetly. Pour Homme is far more relaxed and user-friendly, yet doesn't descend into dullsville the way so many masculine sequels to feminine originals can (shout-out to my peeps Euphoria for Men and Dune pour Homme, among many others). Just like that tailored V-neck, Opium pour Homme works because it's built with care, demands nothing of its wearer, and needs no parade to prove its good taste. It's a winner, and easily wearable for women who want a smart, non-candied vanilla, or for whom the original Opium is just too much. Bonus: cheaper than dirt and about as easy to find (check online discounters, perfume shops, your local Wal-Mart, and hell, the gas station).

Cartier's Déclaration

Perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena has, over the last two decades or so, developed and honed what has come to be his signature style. His perfumes are sparse, translucent, cut from thoroughly modern cloth but draped over the framework of classic perfumery, and distinctive while remaining effortlessly wearable. Unlike the sturm und drang of the 1970s and '80s bestsellers, almost all of which required a few extra ounces of either extreme cockiness or cocaine-fuelled hysteria on the part of the wearer to pull them off convincingly (YSL Opium, Dior Poison, and Ralph Lauren Polo come immediately to mind, but there were more, oh so much more), Ellena's creations demand nothing of the user besides skin. They're built for the modern age, when we don't want our fragrance to announce its presence before we do, but would rather it accentuate and enhance our natural charisma, surrounding us like a subtle aura of confidence and good taste.

One of the first of Ellena's modern style, and arguably the most influential, was Déclaration by Cartier. Released in 1998, Déclaration is as notable for its sheer, gossamer-light treatment of traditionally heavy materials - woods, spice, moss - as for its use of Iso E Super, a synthetic aroma molecule borne of the mid-'80s and possessing a slightly sweet, woody scent and a shimmering, radiant, almost velvety texture. Déclaration was one of the first fragrances to shine the spotlight on Iso E, which has now found its way into almost every mainstream masculine scent on the market, and more than a few feminines as well. It makes up a whopping 50% of the formula for Hermes' Terre d'Hermes (2006), another Ellena bestseller that is arguably the apotheosis of his current style - flinty and full of character, but as lucid and wearable as a sheer cotton tee. Ellena's use of Iso E Super is so profligate that it's become something of a calling card for the perfumer, and the material's distinctive yet ephermal character seems a perfect match for Ellena's style.

Despite its modern sheen, Déclaration has its feet firmly planted in the classic French eau fraiche creations of the 1950s and '60s, with their sparkle of spice and citrus over bases of leather, woods, moss, and musk. (Vintage framework, modern cloth.) Délcaration does away with the musk - a contributing factor to its transparency - and ramps up the spice, particularly cardamom, ginger, and cumin. Juniper, lavender, wormwood, and cedar lend a slightly medicinal aura to the top notes, which consist of full-bodied, almost photorealistic renditions of bergamot, orange, and lime. The base is a long-lasting, smooth, and delicious combination of cedar, vetiver, and oakmoss. The whole composition has a clarity and legibility that belies its list of rather dense materials, and it's this clarity, stripped of bells and whistles - what Ellena himself dubs his "little haiku" style - that is perhaps Déclaration's most noteworthy aspect. Nothing about the fragrance seems forced, contrived, or insincere. It's elegant, but with an outdoorsy air and a sly grin (the cumin and cedar skirt the edge of armpit sweatiness and serve as a nod to '50s classics like Eau d'Hermes, one of Ellena's oft-mentioned favorites). Despite its influence on the male fragrance market, Déclaration smells as singular as it must have when first released. Its velvety texture, hint of sweetness, and lack of leathery musk or patchouli also lend it plenty of unisex appeal. Women could easily wear Déclaration, and they should. It's a desert at high noon, in a bottle: arid, crisp, clear, and breathtaking. It nods to the past yet remains utterly, thrillingly of the moment. In other words, it's a modern classic.

In a nutshell: Dior's Dior Addict

Terrifically trashy jasmine/vanilla bomb, projected through a haze of smoke, wood, amber, and noise. Guerlain's Shalimar with her wrinkles Botoxed and her eyebrows tweezed, her hair Elnetted to within an inch of its life, and half a cigarette dangling from her mouth as she picks out her skimpiest outfit to wear to the club. Dior Addict - as in, a woman hooked on Dior products, not an addict of the Intervention sort, Dior is quick to clarify - is brutally effective in its mission of seduction. Sweet and slightly narcotic, vulgar with just enough false-lashes-and-pearls glamour to resist immediate dismissal, full of enjoyably crude charm (that creamy/plasticky, dialed-up-to-11 jasmine note would never have found its way into a '20s-era Guerlain), and with a winkingly retro "don't wear it around your parents" vibe that's anaethema to today's squeaky-clean perfume paradigm. A good deal less respectable than its classic oriental forebears, but arguably more fun. And if (like many) you're unconvinced of Dior Addict's quality, some food for thought: Its creator is Thierry Wasser, one of the best noses in the business and currently the in-house perfumer for...wait for it...Guerlain. (More food: Its smoky vanilla/musk drydown bears more than a passing resemblance to that of Le Labo's vaunted Patchouli 24. Stick that in your holder and smoke it, niche snobs.) Bonus: Projection and lasting power that border on the unholy. Who says you can't get bang for your buck anymore?

In a nutshell: Thierry Mugler's Cologne

Mugler Cologne can be a disappointment to those expecting an eau de cologne in the classic style: fresh, fleeting, natural-smelling, and citrusy. This is the eau de cologne George Jetson might wear, with a deliberately synthetic space-age feel and an incredibly tenacious base of white (some say "laundry") musk. The citrus at the top (bergamot, lime) is a bit of a tease, as it gives way almost immediately to a green, soapy skin scent, with a touch of neroli and vetiver to give some floral/earthy interest to the central musk accord. This is the cleanest musk possible; moreover, there's a particular aromachemical in the mix that smells deliberately and uncannily of hot, metallic steam, like that from a clothing iron (or, as one Basenotes user put it, the smell of shower fog on a bathrooom mirror). This accord immediately sets Mugler Cologne apart from the pack of similarly fresh, soapy citrus fragrances, and nearly raises it to the level of a concept scent. The end result of this wackiness is that, hours after spraying, you smell like you've just stepped out of a hot shower with a grassy, spicy soap. Works unbelievably, mind-bogglingly well in the sweltering heat of July, but Cologne is a welcome, wonderful scent any time of year.

In a nutshell: Le Labo's Patchouli 24

Mercurial, shimmering, Gareth Pugh-esque (ie. on the razor's edge of wearability) composition from that mistress of the weird and wonderful, Annick Menardo. Explodes off the skin with a mix of lapsang souchong tea (read: campfire), cedar, patchouli (it's there, look harder), gasoline, and a bone-dry vanilla that somehow blends perfectly with the smoky salvo. Much like Menardo's Black for Bulgari, 24 is a bipolar shape-shifter, seeming sweet and sultry one minute, coarse and carcinogenic the next. Unlike the easygoing Black, though, 24 can be fickle: The drydown occasionally calls to mind a glass of flat, watered-down root beer into which someone's extinguished a cigarette. But when it works, Patchouli 24 is nothing short of relevatory, a delicously dark confection with a rich presence and phenomenal staying power. Not for all tastes, but a masterwork regardless.

Bulgari's Black

I've always dug Pitchfork Media's description of Massive Attack's 1998 album Mezzanine as so dark, subterranean and bass-heavy that it "absorbs light". The same could be said of 1998's Bulgari Black, a hypnotic, sloe-eyed riff on vanilla and musk buffeted by hints of black tea, jasmine, woods, and rubber. Composed by Annick Menardo, mistress of the dark and weird (Dior's Hypnotic Poison and Le Labo's Patchouli 24 are among her divine creations), Black seems to occupy a realm apart from other fragrances of its ilk, operating on a different spectral plane; making its presence known when you least expect it, and disappearing into the abyss again just as quickly. It's downright ghostly.

The oddness begins at first spray: Black dispenses with the traditional top-middle-bottom olfactory pyramid, springing forth fully-formed from the bottle. From there, it hovers between four distinct states: smoky vanilla, woody jasmine, tea/rubber, and powdery musk. Depending on the time of day, the weather, your mood, or any combination of the above, one facet of Black will make itself known more forcefully than the others. Then, about half an hour in, it will probably disappear. This is a trick. Do not be fooled; Black is having you on, lulling you into a state of ennui: "Well, that's not so exciting. Vanilla and musk, big whoop." But for the next few hours, you will be struck at random moments by a lovely, warm, dense, smoky essence surrounding you. Black is the consummate "aura" fragrance, the kind that wraps you in a subtle but noticeable cloud of scent without projecting for miles or screeching loudly to passersby. Four hours after spraying Black on my neck, I still get wafts of it when I shift position or turn my head, and each time it smells familiar but ever so subtly different.

Now then, the rubber. Easily Black's most talked-about aspect (at least on the fragrance blogs and fora) is its unmistakable rubber accord, which has been compared to the smell of tires. Leave it to a master perfumer like Menardo to add a seemingly discordant note to a composition and not only make it work, but make it shine. The rubber in Black is both intriguing and perfectly harmonious, never jarring or self-consciously avant-garde. Along with the inedible, smoke-laced vanilla, the rubber keeps things just off-kilter enough that Black doesn't slide into a snoozy "comfort scent" mode. It holds your attention as long as you want it to.

Black is that rare thing among mainstream scents: A fragrance that is its own creature, plays by its own rules, and isn't afraid to contradict itself. It is light and yet dense, fleeting yet ever-present. It's warm and cool, comforting and austere. It's solid one minute, ephermal the next. It absorbs light. It's ghostly.

Dior's Fahrenheit

As I've mentioned before, most of my favorite fragrances didn't impress me much at first, taking their time to grow on me and reveal their fine qualities. But Fahrenheit, perhaps the only fragrance that I'd want to take with me to the grave (or at least carry some backup bottles of into the next few decades), positively repulsed me upon first sniff. It was tarry, peppery, smoky, leathery; it called to my early-20something mind an old man's armpit; and, upon more focused sniffing, an old man doused in gasoline and pine resin. And then lit on fire. I was dumbfounded, and as I sniffed my wrist throughout the next few hours I was amazed that Fahrenheit was, and still is, a bestselling fragrance for Dior. But something about its character, its audacity and distinctive profile, intrigued me. I made a mental note to revisit it at some point, and revisit I did. Several times. With each spray from the department store tester bottle, I was freshly gobsmacked by the first 10 minutes of it on my skin. "It's a chemical spill", I thought to myself. "Dior is selling a chemical spill in eau de toilette. They're geniuses. Who's buying this? And why?" But with each testing experience, I paid more attention to Fahrenheit's smooth, floral, leathery, musky drydown, which struck me as lovelier with each sniff. It got to the point where I'd walk into a store, spray Fahrenheit, then settle for something more subdued, more classy, more "me". And then I'd sniff my Fahrenheit-soaked wrist compulsively on the way home. It got stuck in my head. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I craved it for an entire week - its brash opening, its iconoclastic profile, its headstrong character and firm sense of self. It was exactly the kind of fragrance I needed at the time, the polar opposite of a comfort scent: Something to square my shoulders, force my chin up, and help me face the world. I broke down and bought a bottle, gave it a proper wearing instead of a hurried spray-and-sniff, and fell in love. Eventually, even the chemical spill came to be addictive.

The green notes in Fahrenheit make the initial impression; the florals (including a violet note straight out of YSL's technicolor Paris) offer a hypnotic counterpoint; and the woods and musk in the base round out the whole composition, a textbook example of Trying Something Different...And Nailing It. 1988's Fahrenheit flew in the face of the de rigeur aromatic fougére blockbusters of the era, offering an alternative to the man who wanted to stand out. The brilliance of Fahrenheit is that it still stands out, in an equally monochromatic market of bland masculines and sugary-sweet feminines. It makes an indelible impression and is worth its weight in gold. Try it, retry it if need be...and when the cravings come, settle for nothing less. A classic.