Month: February 2022

Categories
Whisky Books

Dialogos

I have grown up. My maps are out of date.

Lanark, Alasdair Gray

[This piece deals with mental health struggles – if this isn’t something you’re in the right place for currently, return next week for more carefree drinks chat.]

When the WHO fired the starter’s pistol for the Pandemic Steeplechase, I was already running on fumes. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in that, although it felt like it at the time.

By October 2019, I had survived nine months of a weekly Glasgow-to-London commute. However, a pincer movement of debilitating whisky festivals and a successful proposal generated turbulence I simply could not withstand. A deep-seated instinct urged me to contain and control my future; instead, the knotted needs of my mental health violently resisted arrest.

A handful of sessions with a counsellor and I believed the problem had been fixed. I could think again and, while I still felt like a social leper around most humans most of the time, seemed to be functioning. By the time COVID-19 overtook us all, I shuffled into lockdown and, like most people, hoped for the best.

April was the cruellest month. I didn’t so much come apart at the mental seams as implode. Whatever meagre foothold I thought I had in my own sense of self was washed away by a surging, unseeing public health cataclysm – solid ground, and the map by which I navigated it, was gone.

In post-lockdown issues of Noble Rot – an exemplary liquid text if ever there was one – I read how many regained a sense of happiness via their wine fridges. Uncorking special bottles, during that agonising phase where paranoia tangoed with tedium, was a self-sustaining act – a route to meaning and joy.

I can’t credit a 3cl sample of Octomore 9.3 for getting me through the pandemic’s early stages, but what it did do was restart a dialogue with the world beyond my febrile mind. Long after the sample was finished, I started asking why a barley-based distillate occupied so much of my psyche. I’m still engaged in this process. That with which we most closely identify – the elements we have taken to be fundamental to our self-concept – is often the last to be cross-examined and exorcised.

The 9. series of Octomores bears the subheading ‘Dialogos’; Bruichladdich have never shied away from provoking conversation, but this trilogy of heavily-peated whiskies makes it explicit. Conversations were mortally dangerous things to me when I opened my Drinks by the Dram bottle on a humid, rainy afternoon in May – I didn’t need others doing greater harm to the concept of who I was, and all those industry Zoom hangouts passed me by. I was, however, desperate to connect again with flavour of a pronounced and divisive kind.

How to describe tasting the 9.3? As I assessed nose, palate and finish, it was as if I summarised the purest and most visceral sensory memories I had gathered through my life to that point. More than that, it made me hopeful for sensory experiences I would have in future.

The concept of a ‘complete’ whisky occurred to me on that day. I marvelled at the fearless suffusion of flavour it represented: it smelt of peaches, rockpools and sourdough starter; the taste was of smoked shellfish served beneath a broth of strong black tea. The finish was endless and profoundly emotional.

I coveted a bottle instantly. However, when you’re furloughed and unable to face the future, dropping nearly £200 on a whisky still feels wantonly irresponsible. Octomore 9.3 did encourage a reappraisal of my priorities, though. When I purposefully sought to change conditions around me and moved to London, I began examining the bedrock of my character. As the internal dialogue progressed, I became increasingly enamoured with the voice that spoke back to me. Crucially, I realised that the whiskies I bought, tasted and made did not define me.

When I was developing the idea for Liquid Texts, creativity and imagination kept cropping up as key themes. I knew I wanted to write about my encounter with this Octomore, and the question became which text to bring it into conversation with.

Lanark, published 41 years ago this week, is one of my top-3 favourite books. The novel aims at a kind of totality – the text, the image, then the playful commentary on both – and is an example of the creative daring I have always admired. When I re-read Lanark in 2017, I noticed further themes of self esteem and kindness. In spring 2020, creative daring, self esteem and kindness were even harder to find than hand sanitiser, and time was needed to show me how intractably I was locked in my own fear. Alasdair Gray wrote Lanark to ‘tell the world what he thinks of it’; gradually, some of this spirit has been fostered in me.

I also see Octomore 9.3 as a kind of totality. PPM geekery rubs up against borrowed Ancient Greek-ery; the absurd bottle is an erect middle finger as well as container for the wilful genius of the spirit. The learning, the imagination, the fits of madness and desire – Gray’s text and Adam Hannett’s composition are both marvellous in the truest sense of that word.

The Epilogue to Lanark is a dialogue between the author and his creation. Many would call this onanistic – Gray certainly does: “The critics will accuse me of self-indulgence, but I don’t care.” It is a joyous and subversive chapter, where socio-economic history is interwoven with petulant, wry swipes at sci-fi endings. As Gray/the author/the conjuror goes on to write: “I faced the fact that my world model would be a hopeless one. I also knew it would be an industrial-west-of-Scotland-petitbourgeois one, but I didn’t think that a disadvantage. If the maker’s mind is prepared, the immediate materials are always suitable.”

Seeing beyond whisky to the creative contributions we all can make has enabled me to grow out of the pandemic. I am more hopeful than Lanark‘s author says he is. If I proceed with greater assurance towards myself and warmth towards others, though, it is in part thanks to the artistic adventurousness of people like Gray. Liquid Texts is not a Lanark – obviously! – but it is my vehicle for expressing my weirdness and wonder. To inhabit a better world – or even a self – we must first imagine it.

“One if to five ises! That’s an incredible amount of freedom.”

Please visit https://www.grayday.info/ for more details on how the genius of Alasdair Gray is to be celebrated this year.

Categories
Agitprop

Insignificant Single Casks

Within whisky, the single cask enjoys something akin to sacred cow status. The situation is more severe in the US, where it wouldn’t surprise me were single barrel fetishism to achieve its own Amendment to the Constitution.

I am not a single cask sycophant. I see it propounded, here and there, that they are intrinsically special, and I gnash my teeth. Individuality, purity of process, singularity of flavour – many assert that these attributes find their ultimate expressions in single casks. Leaving aside for the moment that all three strands of this argument can be challenged as a multi-refill hogshead of utter hogwash, what about a further aspect of a whisky? What about significance?

Let me be clear that single casks can be very tasty. I know a number of people bottling casks and their selections typically land in the 5-8 out of 10 scale in terms of flavour quality. However, in a world increasingly awash with delicious, thoughtfully constructed spirits, ‘quaffable’ alone does not justify the financial risk and liver outlay. My experience tells me that greatness in spirits is far more likely to have been finessed than ‘found’.

In The World Atlas of Whisky, Dave Broom contends that ‘[whisky] is about singularity (the forgotten word in single malt whisky)’. He is writing in the context of distilleries; Glencadam, Miyagikyo or Westland might produce hundreds of thousands of litres of alcohol a year but, his argument goes, only Glencadam, or Miyagikyo, or Westland – or North British, Four Roses or Hampden – endeavours to make spirit of this style, in this location, with this equipment and these people. Where there is singularity of approach, there is also significance. It is possible to meaningfully distinguish distilleries, therefore, but what about the individual casks containing their spirits?

To the human mind, ‘single’ carries much emotive power. With whisky, we can be persuaded that any one cask is as unique as we are. Sadly, the reality of the supply chain makes such faith in the sui generis nature of single casks untenable. Today, spirit from Clynelish (for argument’s sake) will have been filled into a couple of hundred impressively uniform ex-Brown Forman barrels somewhere in central Scotland. Some of those casks will end up on the books of independent bottlers. When they are individually bottled, besides different cask numbers, what makes one distinct from another?

There is an oft-repeated parable that two casks, filled on the same day and left to mature alongside each other for their entire lives, can end up tasting radically different. Totally true. However, what is far more often the case is that those two casks turn out functionally identical.

As I touch on above, even in those instances where oak does manage to throw out random flavours, this is far less interesting to me than men and women consciously shaping taste and texture. I’m a blender, writing a blog about human imagination as expressed through drinks. Of course I’m going to find conventional single casks intellectually barren. I want to know more. ‘Why does this bottling matter?’ In broader terms: ‘What does it mean?’ There are almost as many independent bottlers now as discarded face masks in the Mediterranean Sea: if everyone has single casks, they aren’t so special anymore. Any company that defaults to the position that the singular is automatically significant, or that uses ‘natural’ presentation as a selling point in and of itself, is going to disappoint me.

My advice to the indies is to impose themselves. Tell the story on the cask’s behalf. Intervene. Have you taken the spirit to higher levels of deliciousness? Can you make a statement with this release about your whisky world view? Can I connect with you, the bottler, on a philosophical level?

There are more companies going the extra mile these days, not just picking single casks but playing tunes with them. Infrequent Flyers and the SMWS are merrily re-racking spirit, often into assertive oak. Single Cask Nation are experimenting with re-introducing empty wood from their previous releases as finishing vessels for new projects, creating a chain of flavour cameos within their own SCN cinematic universe.

Decadent Drinks adds value in other ways. Yes, the bulk of what they release is single casks, but they evidently relish editorialising, enriching the space in which their bottlings live. Rather than single casks sent out into the world like isolated, perfunctory Tweets, they created threads of releases in 2021 with context, opinions and more than the occasional joke. Whether it was the trio of Ballechins to create the Spongetopia triptych, or the genius revenge tragedy that was the Glen Grant/Caperdonich dyad, Decadent Drinks weave stories by bringing whiskies into a relationship. Single casks are never lonely: they can be connected in creative, sometimes educational ways.

The one single cask I’ve actually bought a bottle of since possibly 2017, though, is last year’s Thompson Bros. 9-year-old Ben Nevis, finished in a Cromarty Brewery ex-rye ale cask. Why put my money there? I love what Phil and Simon stand for in whisky; their own Dornoch Distillery, and the whiskies they bottle independently, unfailingly reflect their geeky sensibility and no-nonsense values. The fact that their family runs a hotel in these terrifying times – one I’ve stayed at before – also compels my support.

However, this whisky stands apart from their other single cask bottlings because it embodies the collaboration of two makers from the same locality. It is a unique amalgamation of intriguing factors, both practical and creative, that gets my mental cogs turning with each glass. While it could be repeated, only this first release of 166 bottles represents the what-if/devil-may-care plunge into the unknown of genuine experimentation. The beer influence is unmistakable, the Ben Nevis mineralic fruitiness a capable foil. I don’t reach for this bottling often – it won’t go into my Top 10 Tastiest Spirits Ever – but when I do, I salute the Thompsons for creating something both truly singular and satisfyingly significant.

Categories
Foundations

The Taxonomy of Liquid Texts

What do I mean when I say that liquids – especially distilled spirits – have textual characteristics? I didn’t exactly boss the literary theory module I took at university – don’t worry, I’m not about to invoke Habermas or Lacan.

In simple terms, therefore, drinks are made by people and reflect their creative decisions. The more creative decisions that underpin a brandy, whisky or rum, the more complex and communicative that liquid becomes to someone like me, a person perhaps a little too willing to read more deeply into things.

My thesis emerged in the course of blending Scotch whiskies. The moment you consciously combine one spirit with another, you have created a drama with two characters. The potential for conflict and transformation is vast but not entirely predictable: the blender gives a degree of autonomy to her creations.

Whisky, just like everything else we humans make, has context. The phrase ‘liquid history’ is so often used of older spirits, or those from long-lost distilleries. Truly, however, every liquid tells a story. Some stories just happen to be more nuanced, powerful and enchanting than others.

While the objective principles behind distillation and cask maturation are of course scientifically understood, liquid creation remains an experiment in self-expression.

Below is my own taxonomy of liquid texts, based on a lot of thinking around whisky.

Single Casks = Tweets

A given percentage are amusing, rich with reference; a handful can be dazzling and draw the eyes of the world. Most are insipid and interchangeable, lacking in originality and promptly forgotten. Brevity may be the soul of wit but, as Twitter shows, not in all cases. As I shall discuss at some length in a future post, single casks rarely need more than the original 140 characters in which to say their piece because wooden containers are not intrinsically eloquent. Owing to the fact that most barrels and butts originate from the same three or four cooperages, a lot of single cask bottlings tend to have tremendously similar backstories when left to their own devices. What meaningfully separates this cask/Tweet from another?

Mainstream Single Malt Bottlings = Haikus

Though targeting somewhat different people, your standard core range single malts and conventional single cask releases have some commonalities. Both tend to do two or three things quite well. Mainstream single malt bottlings, however, benefit from humans arranging those three tricks so they perform reliably; they are precise, measured, allusive. They are designed: to capture a mood, to fit a particular moment. A good example would be Ardbeg Wee Beastie 5YO, for which my haiku would be:

This peaty caper,
A comic book printed on
Pear Drops with squid ink.

Limited Editions = Short Stories

Whisky is almost as awash with special, ‘limited’ releases as it is single casks. I don’t share the suspicion of many towards these latter bottlings because I care about the context as much as the liquid character. Chances are the release in question has been a dedicated project, worked on by a specific team of people, maybe bringing some new creative thinking to bear on a liquid. Going back to Ardbeg, Scorch is a short story, just as Blaaack is. They are pacy, fun, with an often singular intensity. Ardbeg is a prime example of a producer creating liquid texts.

Recurring Limited Editions = Sci-fi and Fantasy Novels

Certain releases come about regularly. Compass Box Flaming Heart is one example, Ardbeg Supernova or 19YO Traigh Bhan are others. Each instalment refers to and builds upon characteristics and plot lines introduced in prior releases. There is a heavy reliance on mythmaking and the kind of easter eggs beloved by Trekkies. If you are scouting out these bottlings, chances are you are already some distance down the rabbit hole – and loving it.

Aged Blended Scotches = Modernist Novels

There is something truly powerful to me about the allure and mystique of aged blends. The interplay between malt and grain is usually a mystery, the cast of characters dimly perceived. Plot is more a function of taster interpretation. Nevertheless, when faced with a glass, you know you ought to be impressed. The more deluxe expressions from Johnnie Walker, and others such as The Last Drop, all play with signs and symbolism; they are as much about aura as aroma.

Small batch blends of aged spirits, especially French brandy and malt whiskies = Palimpsests

The highest form of textual intrigue in my book (!). Dave Broom was the first writer, that I observed, to bring the concept of palimpsests into whisky. He discussed it in relation to the ghostly, pyrrhic presences of closed distilleries – I mean to show that palimpsest spirits can be very much alive. To my mind, they are more common in the independent bottling space, where a third party reconstructs spirits, drawing on their own sensibility to add layers of annotation and, occasionally, doodles in the margin. What’s important is that specific makers layer their creativity on top of one another, interacting across different moments in time through spirits. Samaroli’s blended malts from the 90s and early 2000s are great examples.

Armagnac Sponge No. 1 from this year is another. Grapes were grown in two regions, over two separate vintages; the wines were possibly distilled using equipment loaned from a cooperative rather than owned by the domaines in question; the spirits were put into casks of who knows what antiquity from specific black oak forests, then somehow acquired by Grosperrin in Cognac. Thanks to a long-standing relationship with Grosperrin, a Scottish independent bottler and satirist tastes through a range of spirits and, subject to his own creative caprice, blends them together. Stories accrue like lacquers, on the bottle and within it. The label shows that this is very much a work of the moment, but the traditions and statements of the past flow in constant colloquy behind it.