All River, No Wood

Beaver transports me to a crisp spring morning where rivers thread through untouched hills. It opens with a sharp, synthetic freshness - ultra clean, but reminding me of a bowling alley's shoe spray. There's a faint plasticky edge too, something between opening a package of cellophane and dried saliva. It's certainly odd, but not wholly unpleasant.

As the beaver begins to swim, airy florals drift past in the current and the scent sharpens into a hyperreal greenness - not grass, but the idea of grass rendered in crystal clarity.

Returning toward the den, the earlier saliva-like twang softens into clean musks, with a faint leatheriness reminiscent of warm skin rather than anything animalic. What never fully arrives, though, is wood. When I think of a beaver, I envision gnawed chunks of damp wood stacked row upon row in a carefully constructed dam. Yet here, not even a twig is present.

Instead of rich, earthy density, Beaver leans light and airy. Given how hefty and industrious a beaver is, this feels too delicate, too clean, too removed from the rawness of a beaver's world. The performance is shocking too, barely making it past 3 hours on my skin.