Men
Opium (1977)
Acordes principales
Descripción
Opium (1977) by Yves Saint Laurent is a spicy oriental fragrance for women. Launched in 1977, this composition was created by Jean Amic, Jean-Louis Sieuzac, and Raymond Chaillan. The top notes unfold with cloves, pepper, coriander, chili, plum, jasmine, mandarin, bergamot, and citrus; the heart reveals carnation, cinnamon, sandalwood, patchouli, rose, iris root, peach, and valley lily; while the base notes settle with incense, myrrh, sandalwood, balsam of Peru, amber, opoponax, benzoin, labdanum, vanilla, musk, castoreum, cedar, vetiver, and coconut.
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Pirámide olfativa
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This perfume is too much for me; I don’t think I could ever wear it, but I like to try it whenever I pass a perfume counter. In a way, it attracts me. I think deep down I’d like to use it—it’s very overwhelming and spicy. Maybe just a single drop would work, but a simple spray is too much. On the other hand, I do like smelling Opium Pour Home on a man. Generally, I love YSL men’s fragrances.
Just looking at the formula is overwhelming—it has everything in it. That said, it’s on my wishlist, and if I buy it, I’d go for the EDT; the perfume is too much for me. For now, I’m using the mini I have, and I have to admit, it smells good.
I admit it’s a fragrance of mysterious darkness, elegant, classic—the densest scent I’ve ever smelled, incredibly heavy. However, I agree with Raquel; I don’t think I could ever wear it, even though I love oriental and intense scents. It’s just too much; it overwhelms me. I picture Opium as the scent of an antique shop in a dead-end street: that heavy smell of clothes stored in a dark room, mixed with very strong sandalwood incense and the lingering scent of marijuana in that cramped space. I feel the urge to leave immediately.
It was my favorite perfume for years, but now I find it invasive. Still, the guys I’ve dated absolutely love it. It’s mysterious and gives off the vibe of hot, sexual Oriental nights.
I had it years ago and still keep a vial, plus the bottle from the ads (you applied it with the cap), which is why I keep it; it’s gorgeous. It was my favorite for quite a while. I stopped using it because it started giving me a neck allergy. It smells wonderful, transports you to the Far East, and drives men crazy. It doesn’t go unnoticed, but it can be overwhelming if you overapply. A great perfume, but I wouldn’t wear it more than in winter and at night.
Seeing the composition now, I finally get why I love it so much: vanilla, cinnamon, myrrh… INTENSITY, LONG-LASTING POWER, MAXIMUM ELEGANCE! I wore it at 18; it was my mom’s perfume, and I claimed it as my own. That’s when I knew I’d only ever be drawn to scents with that kind of intensity. My clothes still smell like it in the closet, and for me, that shows class. It’s a women’s fragrance—not because of age, but because of what the word ‘woman’ means. It’s one of my staples. Over and over again, by god, how can they stop making it? I’m dying for it.
The first thing that comes to mind is my mom—she wears it all the time, and it suits her perfectly. It’s unmistakable and unique. If I had to define it in one word, it would be maturity, though that’s hard to put into words. How do you describe that scent? It’s impossible!
I’ve been wearing Opium for years, and both the Eau de Toilette and the perfume have changed. Back in the day, I left an unmistakable trail; I couldn’t go unnoticed at all. I noticed it because I have an old bottle and a new one, and the difference is huge. What a shame.
Opium isn’t the only oriental out there—Habanita and Tabu were already around—but Opium knew how to ride the wave, blending the best of those 20s classics. Its success was inevitable: a controversial name, sensual and mysterious marketing, launched right in the perfect decade to dominate. It’s hard to pin down, but clove, cinnamon, and frankincense are its star notes. It’s intoxicating; you can’t ask more from an oriental this ambitious. When worn in moderation, it delivers excellent results. I’m not obsessed, but it’s incredibly interesting, and I always find my way back to it.
The first review was for the 2009 version, which I have now, but I’ll review this wonderful perfume out of nostalgia for old perfumery, not to give advice on this impossible-to-find icon. Every time I uncork a bottle, I remember my first perfumes from childhood: my grandmother’s room flooded with the scent of imperial china, spices, silks, and gold. It was Ali Baba’s cave or the court of the Great Khan. I have a 2003 sample, a 4 ml miniature that I only uncork to smell. Based on that and the need to reconnect with old dreams, I write these notes. Potent and intoxicating clove, carnation, cinnamon, smoky myrrh, incense… Opium is narcotic and potent, like LOU LOU before the reformulations that killed perfumery, MAS. This perfume is more in every sense: more potent, more oriental, more magical, more unique, more ingredients. I could spend hours recalling my relationship with it; just naming it fills me with emotion. A potent structure with personality required a user who allowed it to live. Unfortunately, Opium from 1976 is today just a memory. Its 2009 sister captures some of its spirit, but it lacks the excessive opulence, exotic luxury, baroque style, and the half-lustful darkness of its predecessor.
As a man, I say with certainty that original Opium is better than Opium Pour Homme. Two days ago I succumbed to trying it and was impressed; it seemed sweet and powdery, but not cloying. It reminds me of the Elizabeth Arden deodorant cream my mothers used in the 80s, which I smelled from time to time. They say men can wear it, and I agree. It feels like sandalwood, citrus, jasmine, incense, and pepper; pleasant and not too sweet. It’s not exclusively feminine. Since I received both EDP and EDT sprayed on paper, the scents are less intense, the projection softer, and they smell different on the skin. Still, they pleasantly surprised me. In short, it’s a great classic fragrance not for everyone… or is it? Score: 8.5/10.
A strong and potent fragrance. Clove, amber, vanilla, and incense make it the quintessential oriental. It wasn’t the first to be mysterious; Habanita and Tabu were the pioneers. Maybe it wasn’t the right decade. It’s a 70s classic and a perfume for private collections. A privilege to own it.
A masterpiece of feminine oriental fragrance alongside Shalimar. It’s not for everyone, not even close. Like the men’s version, it requires a minimum to wear it properly. Envy-worthy trail and longevity; what a pity about the reformulation. It’s opulence, addiction, sensuality… Completely unisex, but it evokes different feelings in men and women. Opium is indescribable. I recommend anyone who can smell the old formula to try it; it’s worth it. For any woman starting in perfumery, it should be a reference in orientals, just like Shalimar.
I always stole it from my mother; no wonder she wants to have it back today, maybe the Black version. It’s a perfume for total, mature women; I wouldn’t wear it often, but it’s unique, a classic that shouldn’t be missing from a powerful woman’s collection.
Opium was conceived as a narcotic, abstract, mysterious, and hallucinogenic fragrance. If you think Opium 2009 is aggressive, stay away, because the vintage is completely malignant in potency, comparable to a stab in the nose. If you’re looking for something similar, Tabu by Dana and Cinnabar by Estée Lauder have more dignity than the current formula. Why so much emphasis? Opium surpassed commercial success to become a social phenomenon and a catalyst for the great oriental fragrances of the 80s, like Chanel No. 5 or Coco Chanel. Just as Shalimar was considered ‘for commoners,’ Opium attracted similar opinions. It’s proof that perfumery is alchemy; don’t expect to read the notes; its description is as poor as that of No. 5. Fundamentally, it’s incense, cinnamon, and clove. The opening is clove with acidic fruity notes, cilantro, and bergamot. Then it decays into sweet cinnamon, powdery carnation, rough sandalwood, and floral. The base is complex, resembling sweet water with ash due to the incense and myrrh. Labdanum appears, leaving sweet water for opoponax. Finally, a woody, balsamic, and warm conclusion with vanilla from castoreum and balsam of Peru. It’s a fundamental precursor, abusive, and mysterious. If the current one overwhelms you, the vintage would knock you out; a few drops are enough, and abusing it is a crime against others. It was YSL’s big star; they tried to revive it in 2009, but most renewals are irrelevant or unworthy. Black Opium is a bad-taste joke; darker only fits twisted minds. Delicacy is key; it’s sinister and haunted. If you can resist its intensity, don’t expect a whirlwind of compliments; it’s too aggressive. The wearer passes the tolerance test; several hours with an intrusive trail can defeat anyone. It’s not for everyone, but it’s worthy for those who appreciate it, from the innocent neighbor to Majora’s Mask’s moon.
I remember my mother had the 80s EDT version in a different bottle; that version disappeared, what a pity, because it was so good. I still remember its scent and loved it; I associated it with people with a lot of power. That woody smell was incredible. I have beautiful memories of perfumes from that era.
The original Opium was addictive, dark, complex, rebellious, and sexual; my nose doesn’t remember another so spiced. The first time I stayed away, but when I came back, I fell head over heels. It smelled of clove, incense, carnation, benzoin, cinnamon, sandalwood, cilantro, amber, and vanilla; it was a delicious madness. Nothing compares; it had an overwhelming personality and limitless audacity, a shout of emotion. Today, it’s just a whimper. Wearing it was a pleasure that set you apart; it lasted hours and had a powerful trail.
If elegance, mystery, and darkness had a scent, it would be Opium. It’s an ambrosial, splendid fragrance so grandiose that cloves, incense, cinnamon, carnation, and vanilla burst from my skin. It’s toxic and narcotically beautiful. It drives my mother crazy and leaves me in ecstasy. There is nothing like that magical experience that sums up beauty. Its name is fitting; it’s addictive and from another dimension. The tragedy is that they had the bad taste of reformulating it beyond recognition.
I’d be tempted, but with so much spice, I’m afraid it makes me look like I walked into a witch’s shop testing pure liquor. Still, I’m obsessed with a fragrance that would break the neck of anyone wearing it close by.
You love it or hate it, its scent floods the room with the mystery of the East, sensual and powerful. I imagine a woman in a velvet gown for winter night outings. I haven’t smelled the new version; I smelled the original in my teens—it was impactful and mysterious, impossible to wash off the skin, it could overwhelm you, but it was unforgettable.
I found a 50ml vintage bottle. It’s strong, with notes of coriander, clove, and frankincense. Unisex aroma, elegant, addictive, dark, but a masterpiece. My favorite is Fendi, but I like Opium. For those feeling nostalgia for the old formula, buy ‘Café’; the resemblance is incredible and you save a lot of money (the reformulation is mediocre at best).
The current Opium has nothing to do with the previous reviews. The first five minutes are nice and original, then it’s gone, just skin scent. Don’t waste your money.
YSL’s couturier, creative and groundbreaking, had the taste to create this fragrance that, by its name alone, you know is: narcotic, addictive, and sensual. The scandal of its name and its note harmony made it perfect. The vintage was warm, persistent, very spicy, and above all ‘oily,’ like a dense oil on the skin. It was unmistakable on the street or at work. Today, thanks to L’Oreal, it’s ethereal and intense at first, but nothing like the original. Customers complain, and rightly so. Some ingredients are banned or incredibly expensive, but they should price it according to quality or stop calling consumers fools. A glorious perfume today at a price that makes you think twice about not buying it.
Contains too much resin: it’s 1) very bitter, 2) extremely long-lasting, and 3) very masculine. I inherited it from my mother; otherwise, I never would have bought it.
Talking about Opium is talking about one of the greatest perfumes ever created. It’s insolent; it can ignore you if it’s not in the mood. It was born that way, with a titan resume: sales, success, provocation, and arrogance. It’s the allegory of the hedonistic Parisian—the one who smokes, sleeps with whoever she wants, jumps off a balcony, or drinks cognac. Opium is an opera, it’s Paris. It captures all human edges and contradictions, and in the end, it’s an abstraction of passion. I’ve never worn it because I’m not into resins or cinnamon; I prefer cold spices. Opium is warm and spicy, a blast of notes fighting for attention, smoky, narcotic, like an unexpected mini-orgasm or an endless drag. It’s intoxicating, wicked, and divine. It improved upon the androgynous classic of Tabu and shares DNA with Youth Dew and Cinnabar, but its fame is entirely its own. It was a game-changer in the eighties; even Chanel and Dior released inspired versions. What L’Oreal is doing today with their Dirty Water is a disgrace, almost a crime. You can’t sell a Mercedes with a Lada engine. At El Corte Inglés, they sell a one-dimensional, crude cologne without nuances. The good news is that pre-reformulation bottles from the nineties are still available at a good price.
A classic, intense fragrance, a very spiced oriental in the style of Shalimar. Personally, I don’t like this type of heavy scent; it smells like resin soaked in spices. It has great longevity and a trail that leaves a mark.
Whether people say it smells like incense or a church, it’s exquisite, fantastic, full of personality, and has a longevity you rarely see in today’s fragrances. I absolutely love it, but don’t buy it blindly—always test first.
Smelling vintage is falling head over heels. It’s an oriental bomb that envelops you with warm spices like cinnamon and clove, mixed with mandarin, vanilla, myrrh, and incense. It creates a unique skin. At first, it seems almost masculine—citrusy and foamy—but then the spices intertwine with flowers and woods, passing through a beautiful iris and an animalic base with amber and sweet resins. It’s sexy, elegant, and addictive. It feels unisex, except for the feminine cap. It’s one of the great orientals, alongside Shalimar. Too bad the original formula has been tweaked several times and it’s no longer the poetry of before.
What else is there to say about Opium? I remember it on a history teacher who, though older than me, wore a flowery, airy skirt and black stiletto boots. The ‘click-clack’ of her heels and her perfume trailed behind her through the classroom. It was intense with its notes, but we loved it. Years later, a stylish, easygoing work friend also wears it at just the right moment. Men are jealous. I’d kill to be her age and have her style, though I’ll never wear that scent; I like it, but it suits women of authority, and I can’t see myself with her. Who knows…
I remember as if it were yesterday the day I bought my first bottle of Opium. I wanted that exotic, mysterious, elegant lady scent that oozes class—the most ‘in’ and expensive thing for my 16-year-old self. I bought it one Friday afternoon in the winter of 1984 at the department store, splitting the cost with my best friend; we pooled all our savings to get that precious treasure. That afternoon, we went home to get dressed up in our finest gowns: black dresses, fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, teased hair, heavy eye makeup, coats draped over our shoulders, handbags, pearl necklaces from our moms, and two sprays of our desired Opium. We felt like divas: modern, elegant, beautiful, coquettish, interesting, feminine, and sexy. Opium has the power to make you feel like a woman all at once; its scent merges with your essence, creating an almost erotic experience. It caresses your skin, warm as a lover’s breath—soft, velvety, sweet, spiced. Its trail is a halo of security; you stand tall, head high, stride firm, without complexes, proud of who you are. How can a perfume wield so much power? Opium exerts power over the women who wear it and over the men, who fall at its feet—I’ve seen it countless times. They need to get close, feel your heat and femininity, breathe in your scent. It’s absolutely captivating, conquering, addictive, narcotic, powerful as opium. That afternoon in ’84, Opium entered my life to stay. Later came Fendi, Samsara, Poison, Chanel No. 5, and Cabochard 1959—my essentials. I’ve met many others, but these accompany me wherever I go; they know my triumphs and defeats, comfort me, hold my memories and bring them back at will, give me peace when I sleep, lift my spirits, dress me in a thousand disguises, and bring me happiness. Who gives more? By 2010, my last bottle was running low, so I went to buy another. The format had changed; the bottle was pretty, but when I first sprayed it, I was shocked. It smelled very different. The first thing I noticed was the opening; it seemed very citrusy. I found it lighter, less spiced, with lower intensity and performance. It lacked strength and depth; it wasn’t my perfume anymore. It had lost its richness of nuances, its depth, its balsamic base, its mysterious exotic oriental character, its slightly oily texture, its power, and its magic. I went to the perfumer to find out what was going on and realized Opium had died; the powerful beast was gone forever. What a tragedy! It’s not that the 2009 EDT and EDP are bad—they’re very good and I like them—but they’re different perfumes. They lack a soul. I’ve bought vintage versions on eBay at exorbitant prices, and the worst part is that one day they’ll run out or become prohibitively expensive, and I won’t be able to afford them. So, I only wear Opium for very special moments.
I have this Opium in my collection; it’s the one I take the best care of, and over the years, it’s just softened a little bit. I like to spray it on my wrist and smell it; simply OPULENT. It transports me to the 70s; I imagine myself in a pumpkin-print tunic, white sandals, black sunglasses, and a Pamela hat on a yacht. I LOVE IT 💖
I remember it as if it were yesterday: my first bottle of Opium. I coveted it: exotic, mysterious, elegant, and expensive for my 16-year-old self. I bought it on a winter Friday in 1984 at El Corte Inglés, splitting the cost with my best friend, pooling all our savings. That afternoon, we dressed up in gowns: black dresses, fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, teased hair, painted eyes, coats draped over our shoulders, handbags, pearl necklaces, and two sprays of Opium. We felt like divas: modern, elegant, beautiful, coquettish, interesting, feminine, and sexy. Opium has the power to make you feel like a woman all at once; its scent fuses with your essence, almost erotic, caressing your skin warm like a lover’s breath, soft, velvety, sweet, and spiced. Its trail is a halo of security; you stand with your back straight, head held high, steps firm, unapologetic and proud. How can a perfume exert so much power? Opium dominates the women who wear it and the men, who fall head over heels, needing to get close, feel your heat, and breathe in your scent. It’s captivating, conquering, addictive, narcotic, powerful as the sun. That afternoon in ’84, Opium came to stay. Later came Fendi, Samsara, Poison, Chanel No. 5, and Cabochard 1959, my essentials that know my triumphs and defeats, comfort me, bring back memories, bring peace to sleep, lift my mood, dress me in a thousand ways, and produce happiness. Who gives more? In 2010, I was finishing my last bottle and went to buy another; the format had changed, and when I opened it, I was surprised: it smelled very different, very citrusy, lighter, less spicy, with less intensity and performance. It lacked strength and substance. That wasn’t my perfume; it had lost its richness, depth, spices, the balsamic base, the exotic oriental mystery, its oily texture, its power, and magic. I went to the perfumerie and realized Opium had died; the powerful beast was gone forever, what a tragedy! It’s not that the EDT and EDP from 2009 are bad—I like them—but they’re different perfumes; they lack soul. I’ve bought vintage versions on eBay at exorbitant prices, and the fear is they’ll run out or prices will skyrocket so I can’t afford them, so I only use Opium for special occasions.
Yves Saint Laurent Opium (1977) is super sensual and feminine, a classic note of the era. Very harmonious, where the animalized note (castoreum) shines alongside the balsamic ones, and the milky coconut note gives the accord a special creaminess.
I still have a bottle with a finger left of this fragrance; it was perfect. I wish they’d make it again. The best perfume I’ve ever owned.
Hi everyone. After reading all these positive reviews, I’m wondering if there are any similar perfumes. I know the 2009 version exists, but I’ve heard it’s not very similar to the original. If anyone knows, I’d appreciate the help 🙏🏻
Thanks, alex1984, for taking the time to explain with such passion what Opium means. No waste.
I just bought it at Macy’s in the USA, the cream and perfume for $41. I love it! It’s exquisite, strong at first but settles into a delicious skin scent. It’s very woody, powdery, and spicy. The dry-down is soft on my skin; it reminds me a lot of Opium and Cinnabar, but softer. My style is always oriental and Arabic, and this one delivers. Lasts 12+ hours with huge sillage. I’m head over heels.
It’s the scent of women in their 30s and 40s when I was a kid in the 80s. Back then, I didn’t care, but now I adore it and have locked that aroma in my memory. I found a vintage bottle and value every drop like gold. I detect clove, citrus, dried fruits, jasmine, carnation, lily, patchouli, incense, myrrh, sweet resin, musk, vetiver, and animalic notes. From the opening to the dry-down, it’s a masterful evolution where everything fits perfectly. It brings happiness, courage, and exclusivity. It’s a long-lasting, addictive, elegant oriental symphony that never goes out of style; the reformulations are different fragrances. 10/10.🔥
In the 90s, at 14 or 15, I always admired my aunt’s and grandma’s perfumes. At a school event, my grandma (fresh from Argentina) gave me a leather jacket, but I wanted a perfume for that day. She gave me hers, half-used, the very bottle I still have. I sprayed it on a gray wool vest with ivory buttons. Yyyyyy… it wasn’t what I wanted! At that age, I dreamed of something light, like Light Blue (which hadn’t even launched yet). I had low expectations since it was my grandma’s, but I put on my jeans and headed out. I didn’t hate it; I felt mysterious, and I liked the resins and woody notes, even if I wasn’t fascinated by them. I wonder what my grandma was thinking giving me this at that age; in Chile, the target was women over 50, haha. Now I’m grateful to know it and use it from time to time. Thanks, grandma. Years later, I tried it again (without knowing about the reformulation) hoping to revive past sensations. I almost cried in the mall smelling only alcohol.
They’re pure vintage. Back in the day, perfumery had more soul, more care. Finding vintage Opium is a lottery (some ended up on eBay and cost a fortune, though luckily I snagged this at a great price). It smells of respect, mystique, and night. It’s dark, dense, velvety, with a boozy touch and an oily texture. It opens citrusy and masculine but settles into a magical unisex: sandalwood, spices, roses, carnations, myrrh, and cinnamon. It feels like it’s made of a thousand natural essences. It works all year round; even in summer, it feels creamy. Beastly performance. It’s a treasure that transports you to another world, closer to the sublime.