Serge Lutens Tarab Review – Christopher Sheldrake; 2020

It wasn’t just any old Serge Lutens release that I recently reviewed on Love At First Scent, but a £300, Harrods-exclusive, golden bell jar called Tarab. Brace yourselves: it’s an oud + rose composition, which unsurprisingly, led to much discussion in the live chat. If you’d like to watch the video, here’s a link: Serge Lutens Tarab review. And for some more thoughts on the fragrance, keep reading.

As far as oud+rose combos go, I feel I can assert that Tarab brings something new to the form, albeit more in terms of volume rather than actual smell. I suppose that when you centre a scent closely on oud, rose and incense, there are only so many variants you can come up with. And sure enough, Christopher Sheldrake‘s effort here calls to mind both Frederic Malle The Night (by Dominique Ropion) and Dior Leather Oud (by Francois Demachy): it presents the floral density of the former as well as the dryness of the latter. But unlike those two, it is in no way bombastic, which is precisely what makes it noteworthy.

I have no idea how Lutens and Sheldrake work together, but I imagine Uncle Serge going back to his perfumer again and again on this project, saying, “Yes, this is what I want. But quieter. Much quieter. Quieter still.” It’s almost as though Tarab is a deliberate attempt to prove that the force of oud-based structures can be made less expansive, that it can be ‘lowered’ right down to the level of one’s skin — that its hypnotic allure can be reserved only for those who are permitted to get very, very close indeed. Conceptually, this is apt, given that the scent has been inspired by the mesmeric, trance-like effect of a certain form of Arabic music. Its power flows not from grand gestures but from a harmony shared between player and listener: an experience reserved only for those willing to surrender themselves to it.

For this reason, I should imagine that the perfume will infuriate a fair number of potential buyers. Sadly, the received wisdom out there is that if you pay a great deal of money for a fragrance, you should get something that is loud, brash and possessed of near-eternal longevity. Few people stop to think that perhaps, in some cases, what you’re paying for is the technical skill of a perfumer who has managed to make strident ingredients communicate with a whisper. Most who sniff Tarab will probably be appalled that they’re being expected to shell out £300 for something that doesn’t yell with the might of a football supporter’s air horn. People are, of course, entitled to react to a scent release in whatever way they see fit, but personally, I’d be sad to see Tarab dismissed purely on the grounds that it doesn’t scream. As far as a critical assessment is concerned, it ought to be taken on its own terms, with its price tag (at least temporarily) forgotten.

Having said that, much as I like to avoid to subject of cost when reviewing perfumes, I feel I can’t entirely skirt around it here. I’m sure £300 is peanuts to some folks, but then so is £1000. And I appreciate that all this relative, but I think we can safely call £300 ‘expensive’. With that in mind, I can say that, yes, I feel Tarab is an interesting new passenger on the oud bandwagon. Yes, I believe it’s well made and convincing, in terms of its raw materials. Would I spend £300 on it? No. But you must remember that although I adore perfume, there are very few fragrances on which I would even consider spending that sort of money. And Tarab wouldn’t tempt me. I’d be delighted to smell it in a shop and perhaps dab a few drops on my skin. I’d be intrigued and fascinated by its technical attributes. And that is where my relationship with it would end. The trance wouldn’t last forever.

Persolaise

[Serge Lutens Tarab review based on a sample of eau de parfum provided by the brand in 2020.]

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