The Session #111: Round Up (Part 2)

I apologize thoroughly to the writers I left hanging by delaying this second part of the Session round-up. Like I said on Twitter, I have lots of excuses, but none of them are very good, so I’ll just say I’m sorry.

Anyway!

Quick recap: Inundated by politics and petty internet squabbles, beer had me feeling lower than lager yeast. I asked the internet if it was just me, or a larger trend. A bunch of people in the first round-up seemed to think it was just me, but what say the other bloggers?

Tom Bedell, beer and golf enthusiast extraordinaire, writes about his own early beer-life crisis and run in with the dread pirate Ralph Lauren, which lead to him taking off his beer writing hat for some time. A bit like me, he thought the sickness ran a little deeper, affecting his wont to write at all. The good news though, is that he never stopped drinking…er…”researching” beer, as the passion that was temporarily sucked out of his pen, never seemed to get sucked out of his glass. Unlike us whiny millennials, Tom’s got the luxury of perspective to help keep him grounded:

“I have a long view, after all, and remember when things were at a nadir. I’m far from jaded about the existing profusion of choice, although also unlikely to be bedazzled by the next new thing.”

He closes with some musing about being a specialist or generalist, something I think a lot of niche writers struggle with. It’s good to see Tom finding his stride though (he’s writing a book!), as it gives me hope that I’ll find mine. The last line of his post might be the best line of all the entries (no offense to the other wonderful writers), as it speaks to why beer matters, or should matter, or shouldn’t be a chore:

“I find beer more enjoyable placed in a wider context, where it engages, or blends in, with more aspects of one’s endeavors, interests and enthusiasms. I suspect if I ever tire of beer in that sense, then I’ll be tired of life.”

Friend of the program, Doug Smiley, came out of beer blogging retirement to answer my cry for existential help. He describes his own tendency to go all-in on a topic, until he’s had his fill, at which point he quits cold-turkey. That’s not how my brain functions, but I know other people a lot like Doug, and I respect ones ability to know exactly what you want for how long you want it, because the flip side is holding onto worthless stuff and feeling bad that you can’t let go of it. Doug describes the come-down from his beer binge, explaining how he used to keep up with blogs and news site until he realized that a vast majority of it was repetitious and shallow. I can’t disagree with that (seriously, no more articles about cans please please please). I do, however, disagree with the idea that it’s not the writers, but the topic that’s limited:

“And it’s not necessarily a case of the people writing about this stuff being bad writers it’s just that the topic is limited. Salsa bloggers would have the same issue. Maybe we should all take our cue from the Salsa blogosphere and ask ourselves if we really need daily coverage of a food stuff?”

I think this is a matter of lazy or unadventurous writers coupled with publications that won’t take a risk on any article that won’t generate clicks, more so than beer being limited. There are outlets producing wonderful, well researched and written beer stories, but those get lost in the sea of listicles and fluff. Tom Bedell’s quote above resonates with how broad beer can be, with the right context and the right writer. Oh god I just said can. It’s happening to me too.

Regardless, I appreciate Doug’s honesty and candid approach. I think he’s right that we’ve gotten a little carried away with romancing the hops, and that some (most?) people don’t need sociological or scientific analysis to drink and enjoy their beer.

The next entry comes from Draft Magazine, which is awesome in and of itself. Zach Fowle answered my question with a resounding “no, it’s not the industry, it’s you,” suggesting what I was feeling was a “natural stage in the life cycle of a beer geek.” The rest of his piece cleverly outlines the stages, and what one might experience at each stage, which is a great idea and something I really wish I had written. The four stages, Birth, Adolescence, The Crisis (me), and Maturity, are pretty damn apt, and you should really just pop on over to Draft to read the whole thing yourself.

My favorite line, which speaks to this topic directly, comes from The Crisis phase:

“I think you have to approach beer differently. You have to rekindle the love of beer by reevaluating what excites you about it, and generally that’s not driving across state lines to try a few sips of draft-only, no-growler whalez.”

My Montana buddy Alan offers his own mini re-cap of the Session to kick off his exploration of beer burnout. He’s not having a crisis, he says, but admits that he needed a break from writing about beer. I like the idea, as I’ve always found breaks useful, too – a day or two off from running rejuvenates, a day or two off learning a new piece of music somehow helps the melody sink further into your brain. In typical Oliver style, I had over analyzed my sagging enthusiasm, and probably gave it more credence than it deserved, but Alan set me right:

“It’s not so much a midlife crisis as a useful pause. Somewhere in converting from “fan-boy” to knowledgeable, objective observer, there are many choices to be made about how to continue writing about beer.”

Alan goes on to explain that his understanding of beer has changed dramatically since he first started his journey in the 1990s. Which makes sense, because the whole industry has changed, too. His new perspective of the importance of simple quality over hype has brought him back around to writing about beer, and he hopes his readers will respect that his time off will lead to better writing. He’s also looking for help nailing the Belgian character in his homebrew, which leads me to…

…the Belgiany and phenolic Chris Barnes of I Think About Beer! He describes his own issues with the culture that drag his optimism through the mud, mainly cynicism and entitlement (of which, there is way too much to go around in the beer community). I think a lot of my own disillusionment came from interactions with the type of people who would rather condescend than converse, so it’s nice to hear that I’m not the only rampant optimist annoyed by those hop garblers. Chris goes on to describe the niche he found as he settled into consistent writing, and how that niche presented him with some wonderful opportunities, personally and vocationally. He echoes a lot of what other people have said in his closing advice:

“To me, it’s less about each individual beer but what that beer led me to: friends, community, and passion.”

Dave, of AnnArborBeer.com, opens his post with Sam Calagione’s “99 percent asshole-free” quote (which I should also note Alan used, and disagreed with too), but suggests it might need updating:

“Craft beer’s exponentially increasing popularity has brought a host of new people into the fold, and when one takes a look at the larger beer community these days, one has reason to suspect that Calagione’s estimate may need to be adjusted downward.”

His take, which he worries borders on curmudgeon status (I don’t think it does), is a refreshingly honest and candid tirade about how silly a lot of beer trends are. His break down laments the sameness of a lot of “fad beers” and a community who routinely puts rarity and novelty over quality and heritage. Dave and I share at least one of these beliefs: beer is made for drinking, not storing or coveting or using to boost one’s ego:

“All those pictures of your Founders KBS bottles or Alchemist Heady Topper cans you post to Facebook groups? No one cares. It’s beer, not a status symbol.”

Dave’s piece seems to be touching on another common thread: a lot of beer burnout comes from dealing with the worst kinds of people in the community. He worries it’s him (as I did), but maybe, just maybe, it’s actually them. If so, overcoming boils down to having a thicken online skin or rising above the less savory people that will inevitably join the industry as it gets more popular. Either way, Dave, I don’t think you’re an old grouch, and even if you are, I’m starting to think curmudgeon is a synonym for wisdom, not bitterness.

The last entry in this Session comes from Derrick Peterman, of Ramblings of a Beer Runner. He opens with an admission that he’s been through an actual real life crisis, one he couldn’t even resolve with an expensive sports car. He segues into a discussion of the natural waxing and waning of enthusiasm for things you love, in his case, running. I run too, and can very much relate with the off and on love affair of destroying one’s knees while improving one’s heart. Derrick’s description of running (and how even with enhancements in shoes and tech, remains pure and simple) draws a whimsical parallel for my love of the basics of beer:

“the sport still retains it’s simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other and repeating this over and over again to propel yourself as fast as you can over some distance.”

Ultimately, despite any crises or slight down turns in energy, he finds talking to brewers and developing an understanding of the complicated reality of beer as a business drives him and keeps him motivated. I can get behind that idea.

So I understand why lots of people, possibly including our host Oliver, might find themselves less committed to beer than they used too.  And that’s OK.  But as for me, just like running, my relationship with beer is constantly changing, but has never been stronger.

I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to this iteration of the Session, and apologize again for taking so long to finish my recap. I plan to participate in Boak and Bailey’s 113th Session tomorrow, as the topic is equal parts investigatory and voyeuristic. You should join in too!

The Session #111: Round Up (Part 1)

(Preamble: if the Session continues to stick around for a while, I think the submission period should be a week [first Friday of the month to second Friday of the month]. I got a lot of great entries well after the Friday deadline. 2 cents.)

I suppose I should have been a little clearer in my description of the Session topic. I wasn’t (as Stan Hieronymus hinted at) experiencing an actual mid-life crisis with existential meltdowns and brightly colored Corvettes. I’m only 30, and my life is pretty damn good. It was more a mid-hobby crisis. Fortunately, it seemed a topic lots of people wanted to discuss, and lead to some very thought provoking posts.

The good news: aside from a few outliers, pretty much everyone responded with, “It’s not beer, it’s you, Oliver. Get over it or get out of it.” It’s reassuring to hear, as it means the industry isn’t collapsing under its own weight, as I had oh so hyperbolically thought. It’s also reassuring on a personal level, as it means my own beer writing salvation is but some time and introspection away.

But I digress. Back to the matter at hand. We had sixteen (16!) entries this month. I did my best to corral all the entries from the different media streams, but my apologies if I missed you. Shoot me an email or tweet if I did, and I’ll amend the recap.

I’m also splitting this into two posts, as each roundup ran nearly ~1500 words and I don’t want to kill people with walls of text. Here we go!

Boak and Bailey, our blogger friends from across the pond, responded first, describing their version of lagging beer interest as a “Wobble” (with some excellent use of Willy Wonka lyrics to open). Despite being jaded, they weathered the wobble, and found their enthusiasm for the drink and industry revitalized. To those feeling wubbly or wibbly or wobbly, they suggest one of two courses of action: 1) “Leave the learning and exploring phase and enter steady state” (read: enjoy your beer and the fact that you know too much about it peacefully) or 2) “Embrace the mania fully” (and be “that” beer guy). I won’t deny the appeal of the first, but the second seems far more fulfilling, if a tad more annoying to your friends and family.

In what I believe is a Session first, Michael Kiser of Good Beer Hunting chimed in. Mr. Kiser flattered me enormously (yay!) but then directly disagreed with my assessment of the state of the beer union (boo! just kidding). He goes on to describe himself as ripe for an aforementioned actual mid-life crisis, but feels beer has been his agua de vida in ways, and his connections to the people that define the future of the industry are what keep him excited. An anecdote from the Craft Brewers Conference showed a natural juxtaposition between those who view new breweries as competition, and those who seem them as opportunity. As writers, we are the latter, and if Michael taught me anything here, it’s that I should ignore the political industry noise and embrace the new people and perspectives: “when they look across the tap lineup at their neighborhood bar, they don’t see AB or MillerCoors. They see you.”

On that note, Tom Cizauskas of “Yours for Good Fermentables” wrote a post titled simply: “Enjoy the beer, forget the hype.” Tom got this idea rolling early, with a comment on Alan McLeod’s reaction to my initial Session announcement:

“There’s beer as a business; beer as tax revenue; beer as science and technology; beer as one (small) study point in history; beer as an alcohol delivery system; beer as a diverting avocation. Each except the last is specific to a limited concern. A loss of interest in the last calls for a new hobby. There’s little semiotic about it.”

I want to thank Tom, as this is something I really needed to hear. I have a tendency to over-analyze and over-internalize, seeking meaning and the resulting epiphanies constantly, even where there might not be any. Especially related to those things I’m most passionate about. In his post, Tom encourages us to assuage our ennui by letting go – of “craft” and solipsistic declarations of identity – and instead “meditate on the joyful pleasure implied by the simple phrase: “Let’s go grab a beer.”” This is good advice that I plan to follow.

In his expected form, Alan McLeod gave us a post with a touch of history and some great insight, including this, which hit home for me:

“Good beer writing should be directly dependent on an interest in beer and brewing. But there seems, if social media reporting on tavern and bar attendance at #CBC16 is anything to go by, to be the idea that a commitment to daily strong drink is a requirement as well. Why is that?”

I find myself drinking much less these days, and if my thinking is aligned with that implied in Alan’s quote, perhaps that explains my disconnected feeling. But he makes a good point. You don’t need to be a lush to write about beer. In fact, clearer heads probably lead to better writing. He goes on to suggest that beer writing has been pigeon-holed and “framed too narrowly.” I can’t disagree.  His closing is wonderful advice for any beer writer, from newbie to veteran:

“Once you realize that you do not need to join the herd, you may see there is so much more to explore. Once you realize so much of what’s touted in the glass is overpriced yawn water you can detach yourself from the need to impress – or be impressed – and explore this massively rich but still largely untouched seam of human experience, the lode of beer and brewing.”

+100 internet points to Bryan Roth for being the only other blogger than me to use Lionel Richie lyrics in his Session post title. Given some time to digest the other entries first, Bryan noted how he’s actually feeling great about his place in the beer world, finally realizing that his remote pipe-dream of being a functioning member of the industry is now, some years later, a very near reality. He echoes Michael Kiser’s comments about 2000 new breweries meaning 2000 new opportunities to meet new people and see new places, and more and more space to grow and write about they myriad aspects of beer. Bryan is a perfect example of Boak and Bailey’s advice to embrace the mania. I dig it.

The Beer Nut (the special Irish variant, not to be confused with the 250,000 American imitations) opened his post with an acknowledgement that he has witnessed a steady thinning or his beer blog RSS feed. He then goes on to explain that he doesn’t feel his energy or enthusiasm waning, part in thanks to keeping “governing rules:” his regular posting schedule keeps him too busy to get introspective and worry about silly things like a beer mid-life crisis. As someone whose blogging schedule is little more than what comes to him in the shower that morning, I can’t help but envy his discipline. He even adheres to his own rules in the Session entry, giving us brief introductions to five Irish beauties. This particular line stuck with me, as I had blamed this concept in part for my flagging interests:

“the industry itself (at least in the US where Oliver is) seems to be suffering a bit of an upheaval. It’s hard to know where you stand as a fanboy blogger when your favourite brewery is liable to be snatched away from you by a grasping multinational”

Gary of “Beer et seq” noted that to him, keeping interest in beer is all about taste. Literally. Gustatorily. He posits that flavors define the mystery:

“It never really ends, there is always more to learn. The beer palate is the core of it for me.”

I agree with Gary. All manner of information and ideas can be derived from how any why a beer got to its final, taste-laden form. Going back to ones roots to focus on what matters (to you, specifically) is usually a healthy recommendation. I would more likely return to homebrewing and recipe building, but really, all things considered, that would just be the other side to the same coin: refining your love and continuing your search for those elusive, ideal tastes.

Barry Masterson (friend of the Beer Nut, and also an Irish expat living in Germany) says in his post a lot of what I’ve been feeling. Like me, he had many conflicting obligations (pesky “jobs” and “responsibilities”) going on in his life that kept him from going all-in on beer, until, as he puts it, “With my lack of time and money, to a degree it felt like watching from the outside.” It’s as if Barry took those words out of my brain and put them into his own. There’s nothing quite like being completely immersed in something then taking a step back for unrelated reasons, to make you feel like an impostor and outsider where you once felt part of the inner clique (weird and shallow, I know, but honest I hope). Also like me, Barry never actually lost the love his love for new beers or brewing in all of this, despite his cynicism. Barry closes with some good news: if I’m really anything like him, I’ll rebound soon enough, if not quite in the same capacity as I did before.

Tune in tomorrow for Part 2!

The Session #111: Are you there Beer? It’s me, Oliver

At 3:00 PM on a Thursday, I found myself almost alone in the local hombrew shop.

Maryland Homebrew is a popular store. I’m used to sharing the mills with several other people, chatting about recipes while waiting my turn to crack. The yeast fridge is often crowded by homebrewing newcomers searching for a specific strain, while veterans reach past them for tried and true favorites. On any given Saturday, the warehouse space in the back hosts a smattering of curious DIY brewers, all of them sitting, laughing, sipping, while they watch a pot boil.

But this time, short of the staff quietly going about their work, it was just me. Just me and all that potential beer.

I took some time. And I mean took it. Gathered it up in my hands and consumed it. Spent each minute purposefully, deliberately, methodically.

It had been too long since I’d taken some time to be with my hobby. The stresses and obligations of life had turned it into perfunction, another box to check so my brain wouldn’t keep me awake all night with constant reminders of unchecked boxes. I had, in a way, distorted my fun into a form of work, disfigured my avocation with nasty scars of predictable routine.

I let the Maris Otter tumble through my fingers into the whirring maws of the mill. The exposed starch piled up in pillowy white hills. As I waited, I popped a few kernels into my mouth.

The next day, I brewed. Ten gallons, split into two batches of five. The batches are wedding bound; a simple Amber and Brown requested by the bride and groom, respectively. I normally brew alone, but my mom, staying with me before her trip to England, played an eager Igor. She’d had my beer before, but never actually participated in the brewing.

She asked questions I’ve long filed away as “known;” reminding me clearly of how much beer- and brewing-related information I’ve squirreled away in this caffeine addled brain. But her naivety was refreshing, if not down right rejuvenating. There stood a 59 year old woman who has seen and traveled and tasted the world, asking me, in earnest with sparkling curiosity, about the very basics of brewing beer.

And with that, on my front porch, drinking a Yuengling, stirring in an eye-balled half ounce of centennial hops, my heart broke. I saw in my mom myself, the me of 10 years ago, when all this brewing stuff was shiny and new. A version of me all but gone, replaced by some jaded asshole who thinks too highly of himself.

I had forgotten why. Why any of this mattered to me. What a hand-me-down kettle, some malt extract, and a dirty party tap on an old Coca-Cola corny meant to me when I first got it into my brain that I was qualified or skilled enough to make something as delicate as beer.

Forgotten all those hilarious stories of growing up with a dad who made his own beer-of-questionable-quality. Lost, in the wheel-spinning bullshit of Tweets and petty internet squabbles, the fact that I fundamentally love creating beer.

I’d let the demons of politics and pride in, stood by idly as they painted the walls, rearranged the furniture, and created a space I was no longer comfortable in.

And then I had the audacity to blame anything but myself.

It’s a weird thing to rediscover a wayward portion of yourself. Like firing up an old video game and finding a save file that you made, years ago, but having only vague recollections of what you did in the game to get to that point.

I just fired up that old save. I’m a little lost as to where I am exactly, but I do remember how to play this game.

Let’s just hope I can actually beat it, this time.

Nom De Bier – Starr Hill Habañero King of Hop by Donald J. Trump

This is entry #3 in the series “Nom de Bier” – good beer reviewed by famous auth…er…people (as emulated [or parodied] by me). I do not claim to speak for these authors, nor am I an expert scholar in their particular style, so please feel free to correct/admonish as you see fit.

The following is a transcript of Donald Trump’s rally at the 2016 Great American Beer Festival:

(Patriotic, 80s inspired rock music plays loudly)

ANNOUNCER: Good evening ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the next president of the United States of America: Donald J. Trump!

(Applause)

TRUMP: This is so. So incredible. Beautiful. Really.

(Applause)

We…we have had, no matter where we go…you know, it’s a movement, folks. This beer thing is a movement.

Well first off, let me just say, and people love this about me, but I know beer. I’ve been around a lot – to so many places, Germany, England, I have a jet. And you know people know me as a beer person. I’ve had all the beers. So many beers. Even ones that no one else has heard of. I know. That’s the thing. I know beer.

(Applause)

It came out recently that we’re at 4000 breweries. Four thousand! We had to send 700 breweries away. We have by far the most breweries. It’s not even a contest.

Can you believe it? All these babies crying about it and the media telling lies. You can’t believe it. You can’t believe the lies. Brewing business is huge. It was a mess but now it’s gonna be huge. We’re gonna make American beer great again.

HECKLER: “American beer is already great!”

(Boos from crowd, Trump signals to security)

TRUMP: Can we get that guy out of here? Jeez.

(Eruption of applause)

You know it’s always the same thing with these people. Unemployment is eighteen percent. Twenty percent. And these guys whine about jobs. The brewing industry made jobs. And we’re gonna create even more jobs. Even Greg Koch called me – he’s a good friend, he loves me – and he said Donald you know what you’re doing is amazing. It’s a movement. And we’re gonna talk about it. Love that guy. Beards are great.

(Applause)

But we gotta be tough with these people. You know. We gotta take back brewing. No more imports. There are eleven million imports in this country and they’re stealing sales from American beers. When Mexico sends beers, it’s not sending its best beers. They’re not sending American IPAs. They’re sending beers with lots of problems. They’re sending lagers. They’re clear bottles. And some, I assume, are good beers.

And how are we gonna fix it?

(Crowd shouts in unison, “Ball!”)

That’s right, we’re gonna make them can their beer with Ball®! We’re gonna make Mexican breweries pay for Ball® too. People say it can’t be done, but we can do it. America can do it. We’ll work with Ball®. Working with Ball® will create jobs. Should only cost, what, maybe four dollars. I can do it for less. Cans are cheap. Maybe three dollars. And there will be a truck from Ball. We get rid of all the imports, and only let the best ones back in.

(Eruption of applause)

But that’s just a start. We need American breweries to win again. None of this second to China. China. American beer will win again. People wanna hear the truth, so we’re gonna talk about that too.

We have a disaster called the big lie – distribution, distribution. Yesterday it came out that costs are going, for people, up 39, 39, 49 and even 55 cents a six pack. The price of bombers is through the roof. You literally have to get hurt during a brewery tour and sue to afford anything, it’s virtually useless. It’s ridiculous. un-American.

(Applause)

But there’s beer here, good beer. That’s cheap and not made by China. I know because I have tasted all the beers. When I was in Virginia – great state, great people. Virginians love me. I got this beer from Charlottesville. It’s got peppers. Peppers. Peppers in beer. Only in America. It says “king” on it, so you know I like it.

(Laughter)

It’s good. You know. Big. Bold. American. There are hops. So many hops. This beer isn’t a sissy loser. You won’t see Hillary Clinton drinking this beer. She’d say “ooooh, it’s too spicy” and the lie and say it wasn’t spicy. It’s spicy.

(Mr. Trump pantomimes Mrs. Clinton waving her hand in front of her mouth to cool it down, followed by laughter and applause)

OK. OK. You know? I’m just saying this beer is good for America. What? It’s a great beer. I know great beer. Seven point five percent. That’s huge. Huge. Better than our GDP under Obama. It’s a winner and we’re all gonna win soon.

(Applause)

Bernie Sanders, President Obama, I highly think you should drink this beer quickly. It might teach you something about America, OK. You know, America? But the media won’t report this. They hate me, the media. They hate the truth. Very dishonest people. Print this. Print this. Drink this beer. It’s American. Not an import. We don’t want imports here. Drink this beer. They won’t print that.

(Laughter, applause)

But don’t sit back and just say, Donald Trump is doing well. Trump will save breweries. The more we can win by, you know, the more power we have in a sense, because it’s like a mandate. But you have got to go out and buy beer. And I will tell you this. It has been an honor to be here, I love this beer, I love the people here. It’s been an honor.

But we will make America great again, I promise. Thank you.

(Uproarious applause and yelling, partially drowned out by patriotic 80s inspired rock music)

Grammarian’s note: I reviewed transcripts and videos of Trump’s recent debates and rallies, and found several consistent syntactical patterns. His grammar is canonically wrong in many ways, but his off-the-cuff speaking style masks a lot of errors until you actually see them written down in transcripts. He relies heavily on repetition, single word fragments, unqualified superlatives, and simple sentences. The language tends to be vague and full of generalities, and because he rarely uses transitive verbs, feels plodding and choppy. When he does use compound or complex sentence structure, it’s usually with periodic, middle-branching sentences that include non sequitur information. Occasionally, he will structure a sentence with an introductory clause or phrase, but then not finish the thought syntactically, ending abruptly before moving on to the next sentence. There’s also a lot that is difficult to classify, so I’ll just say it reads sort of like Hemingway if he’d recently been struck in the head by a tire iron.

Beer Packaging: What Other Metals Cannot, Aluminum Can

A new brewery opens, or an old brewery rebrands. They announce a new line-up with a regionally appropriate IPA. The internet hums with marketing and social media buzz.

A press release goes out: they’re putting their beer in cans.

This, by itself, is unremarkable. As Tom Acitelli notes in his All About Beer article from 2013, Oshkosh Brewing (no affiliation to the clothing, I don’t think) released a red “craft” lager in cans in 1991. Oskar Blues has been putting its Colorado born beer into cans since 2002. Budwesier has probably the longest (still existing) pedigree for canning beer, as its first cans date back to 1936. In the time it took modern beer to “rediscover” the can, those original cans could have been recycled ~680 times. Canning isn’t exactly hot-n’-trendy in the harsh light of historical accuracy.

The Aluminum Association (yes, that’s a real thing) notes that over 500 breweries are now canning over 1700 products. People seem stuck on this move to pop tabs over bottle caps, perpetually repeating the same canned cliches: cans protect against light and oxygen exposure, are lighter and more portable, are cheaper and more sustainable, and don’t shatter into a million potential wounds when dropped onto a hard surface. These are all good things and I admit I sometimes prefer my beer in cans and hooray for options.

But this focus on how we’re using cans often ignores the fact that cans are incredible. From a scientific and engineering standpoint, at least.

Aluminum (a periodic element; #13 if we’re being specific [which we are]) is the most common metal found in the Earth’s crust (8.23%). That sounds like a geologists smorgasbord until you realize that it is never found in a “free” state, and always exists as a compound of some other junk. Those compounds are called “alums.” Not only do these alums not have to field donation calls from their alma mater twice a month, they also contain trivalent metal ions, which basically means they’ve got metal in ‘um, but the metal is naturally hard to get at.

For most of human history, aluminum did not exist. We had managed to discover many other metals that exist in a free state (gold, silver, copper), and were inventive enough to realize that by melting rocks, we could get at other, less obvious metals. We even got smart enough to start blending them together, which lead to the first alloys, like steel (iron and carbon). Say what you want about our ancestors, but you have to admit they were pretty igneous…sorry, ingenious…when it came to rocks.

Up until 1787, the world relied mostly on nickel and iron for all of its metallurgic needs. But some plucky scientists noticed an unknown substance that appeared in a lot of their samples, and theorized it was another metal that they had been so far unable to extract.

They were correct. Hiding in the middle of potassium and sulfate (or more colloquially, KAl(SO₄)₂·12H₂O) was a metal that would change the world, and eventually house your beer.

The unknown metal postulation wouldn’t be proven for another 38 years, when Hans Christian Oersted, a Danish chemist, managed to isolate aluminum in aluminum chloride. By 1845, a German named Friedrich Wöhler collected enough aluminum to determine its basic properties, and in turn, possible applications. Prior to his research, metal was considered strong but heavy. Aluminum proved strong too, but also incredibly light.

Like Hunahpu and Ann, aluminum could only be found in very small quantities. This made using it for things like cars and airplanes and beer cans notably difficult. Thankfully, by 1886, two enterprising chemists (Charles Martin Hall and Paul L. T. Héroult) discovered a way to extract aluminum from aluminium oxide (Al₂O₃). This chemical advancement, coupled with the discovery of Bauxite (an ore that contains copious amounts of Al₂O₃) lead to a rapid expansion in the availability of aluminum, just like Goose Island after the ABI purchase.

With wide availability came wide use. The engine in the Wright brother’s biplane was made from aluminum, and so were ship components and radar chaff used in World War 2. When Edison first started his electrical transmission network in 1882, aluminum was still rare. He opted to use copper instead, but given its affordability and light weight, aluminum is considered the most effective metal for electrical conduction in modern day applications.

In a somewhat ironic twist, the technology to produce lighter and stronger aluminum alloys (that would eventually be spun into modern beer cans) began during the years leading up to the American Prohibition. The Great Depression saw the creation of the Works Progress Administration, whose work lead to the refinement and production of aluminum for hydroelectric and other civil engineering projects.

With the repeal of Prohibition in 1933, breweries saw the opportunity to put their new metallic abundance to use, and the first canned beer (Krueger’s Finest Beer and Krueger’s Cream Ale) entered the market on January 24, 1935. These cans weighed nearly 4 ounces; doesn’t sound heavy, but today’s modern, super-thin aluminum cans weigh 14.9 grams. There are 28.35 grams in an ounce. You do the math.

They were heavy because early cans were not usually made from aluminum. Coors introduced a two-part aluminum can in 1959, but the first all-aluminum can was brought to market by Budwesier in 1965. Today, approximately 75% of all beverage cans are made of aluminum alloy. Unlike glass and plastics, they are infinitely recyclable, too, and will often be back on the shelf in as little as 60 days. About 180 billion cans are produced annually, and they remain the single most recycled product in the world.

All that history and science, just to get a beer into your hand. And that’s just what it took to get to the point where we could mass manufacture aluminum cans.

The element itself is incredible, too.

Since it doesn’t contain any ferrous compounds, it cannot rust. Instead, aluminum oxidizes, reverting back to aluminum oxide. Unlike rust that eats into and weakens the metal around it, this oxidation actually strengthens and forms a protective layer on the aluminum. Canning companies have to add a lining to cans (debates about the evils of BPA can be directed elsewhere), otherwise the oxygen in the beer would react with the aluminum in the can, and ruin all that lupuliny goodness.

The weight (or lack thereof) is nothing to scoff at, either. As I noted above, the average aluminum can weighs about 15 grams. With ~2.5 times the density of aluminum, a modern steel equivalent (same size and width) would weigh ~37.5 grams. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but 2.5 times the weight on thousands of BBLs of beer would increase logistics costs substantially, which would probably in turn raise how much you had to fork over the for the finished product. Kegs can also be made from aluminum which, while potentially less structurally sound than their stainless steel sisters, are much easier to lug around a cold room.

TL;DR: Aluminum is sort of amazing, you guys.

The next time you slip your fingernail under a tab, and listen to that relaxing exhalation of escaping carbonation, take a second to appreciate that the can you’re holding isn’t just a gimmick, or marketing tool, or some fad in beer. It’s more than just a vessel that sails you off into the weekend unknown. It’s more than just a footnote in a PR campaign.

It’s a time-honored example of human scientific ingenuity. I also hear they’re pretty good for shotgunning too, whatever that means.

This bears repeating

#Indie Beer – How the American Beer Scene and The Protestant Reformation Actually Have a lot in Common

When Martin Luther allegedly took nail to paper to secure his 95 theses to the door of Wittenberg’s All Saints Church in 1517, the Roman Catholic Church wasn’t exactly a paragon of morality. The domination of Catholicism loomed large over Europe, and Papal leadership wasn’t shy about abusing that power. Without a full, boring history lesson, by 1517, the church was about 40 years deep into that awkward teenage “Spanish Inquisition” phase, were big fans of oppressing peasantry with unfair monetary loans, and had a knack for selling positions of clerical and theological power to the highest bidder. They’d also found a way to milk even more money from the average church-goer by selling indulgences to anyone who’d sinned a little too much on their post-medieval weekend bender.

Luther and his peeps, pretty happy with the whole Jesus and Christianity thing, but also pretty upset with the rampant and generally unchecked usury, simony, and other bad words that end in -y, decided a lot needed to change. They printed their grievances Gutenburg style, and left them all over Germany for people to see. Other people had tried to reform the church earlier, but Luther’s proto-distribution of poorly xeroxed pamphlets kicked off what we now know as the Protestant Reformation. While Luther lead the charge, it’s important to remember that the people made up the army. It turns out pretty much everyone who wasn’t a ranking Catholic clergyman agreed that the Catholic Church had gotten a bit too big for its fancy pope-hat.

As usual, by now, I’m sure you’re asking what the hell this has to do with beer. Besides the fact that Germans were already brewing lager at this time and had official “beer laws” on the books (they weren’t allowed to brew in the summer), two fundamental concepts arose from Martin Luther’s protestations: sola scriptura and sola fide.

The two Latin phrases were the crux of reformation-age Lutheran rhetoric. Sola Scriptura (translated: “scripture alone”) noted that holy text (in this case, the Bible) was and should always be regarded as the source of all religious authority, basically giving a big middle finger to the Papacy for trying to make up their own religious meanings to benefit earthly gains. Sola fide (translated: “faith alone”) supported scriptura, suggesting that god’s opinion of you, and your ultimate metaphysical salvation, was a matter of how strong your faith was, not how much money you gave to the church. The two ideas formed the foundation of a branch of Christianity that was much more personal. A relationship with god where church was a spiritual catalyst, not a gatekeeper.

Fast forward almost exactly 500 years, and start to genuflect on bar stools instead of pews. Much like a church, a brewery is dependent on its congregation to survive. There’s a massive battle being fought to keep church goers going and beer drinkers drinking. One that centers around – you guessed it – money.

Without being hyperbolic, there are some legitimate similarities between the 16th century Catholic Church and AB-InBev. Both asserted domination over an aspect of life across a large demographic, both used their position of power to affect political and socioeconomic change, both played manipulative games riiiiight on the periphery of law, trying to control how their constituency feels, and ultimately, how they spend their money. AB-InBev purchasing other breweries is like a great schism; a huge move that makes people lose faith in the power and legitimacy of the organization.

Without too many mental backhand springs, Carlos Brito (CEO of Anheuser-Busch InBev) could be seen as the leader of a new Papal order; one more concerned with the fate of your liver, than the fate of your soul.

But a lot of people aren’t happy with that, for the same reason Martin Luther and his dawgs weren’t happy with how the Catholic Church was running things. They see the potential of a better future, a future where they have control, and don’t have their tastes dictated for them. A future where no central, shadowy agency holds ultimate power of choice. A future of dipsomatic freedom, good or bad. While not as important as say, the future of your immortal soul (although some people seem to treat it that way), beer matters on a fundamental enough level that people want to see it change, and wrestle the power back into the hands of those who proverbially “get it.”

One, if being whimsical, might argue that beer is a living, bubbling microcosm of American society at large, fermenting the desire to break the strangle-hold of the status quo, and usher in a better, tastier era.

It’s not even that far-fetched, considering. Look no further than the new idea of “Indie” beer. While “craft” started and lived most of its life as a marketing term, this new incarnation seems so much more personal, less about differentiating from a sales perspective, more about hardening the identity of a loose group of like-minded revolutionaries. What is the first thing a Christian denomination does when it makes enough internal changes to break away from the main church? It renames itself.

Even rock bands do it, when they can’t place their new style into the existing molds of what music should be.

Why not breweries?

Many have been trying to reform the beer world, but probably none have been as effective as the Brewer’s Association. The BA holds the reigns of the teeming network of smaller brewers – those modern-day Luthers ready and willing to post the 95 Tweets on the door of the @AnheuserBusch handle. But I think, by now, as good beer hits a softer, balding middle age, consumers are less enamored by yet another trade organization who claims to have their best interest at heart. I’m sure the BA means well, but beer people have trust issues, thanks to Big Beer. As a result, this reformation will be hammered into history by the consumers, one IPA or Imperial Stout at a time.

I mentioned sola scriptura and sola fide for a reason. Both sought to remedy problems created by the current ruling body, and both focused on bringing purist belief back to the people. Is that not, almost too conveniently, exactly what this “craft beer movement” has been about? A beerish interpretation of Sola scriptura could mean that true beer authority should be derived from all-grain, quality ingredient recipes, not what some brewery tells you is good. A modern take on sola fide might mean that ultimate beer enjoyment derives from a drinkers individual tastes, not the result of some hamfisted marketing campaign.

Whatever happens, I believe the ones purchasing beer hold the ultimate power. More so than the pagan-esque homebrewers who attempt to define their own rules, and definitely more so than the corporate group-thinkers who attempt to apply blanket rules. A reformation will happen, and I’m guessing sooner than later.

But remember: the clash between the Protestants and the Catholics didn’t end quietly and peacefully. It ended in one of the most devastating wars in human history. A massive amount of geopolitical and financial power is up for stakes, again. Seriously, billions upon billions of dollars. I’m not saying beer drinkers, the BA, and ABInBev will ever come to literal blows, but you heard it here first: the tension building now will not end with handshakes and smiles and everyone going home and having a pint.

 

Gerrymandering the Beer Aisle

In 1812, Federalist domination of the Massachusetts senate loomed. Governor Elbridge Gerry, part of the opposition Democratic Republicans, knew he had to do something to prevent his party from losing their controlling majority. While campaigning, gladhanding, and doing some actual political legwork might have secured the state, Gerry was clever, and probably the type of man who read the fine print very closely. Instead of actually trying to get enough votes to win as things existed in the status quo, Gerry signed a bill that redrew district lines, in such a way that his party benefited.

While the Federalists won some local positions, his unorthodox gamble paid off, and the senate stayed in Democratic Republican control. The odd, unnatural shape of the new district lines reminded writers at the Boston Gazette of a lizard or snake, and so the term “gerrymander” – a portmanteau of Gerry and salamander – was born.

More than 200 years later in the US, we’re still at the mercy of the strange rules of district redrawing, and as politicians have gotten more abstract with their interpretation of national law, we see some weirdly shaped and positioned districts (especially on a congressional level).

Here’s a gerrymandered district from my homestate of Maryland. The Washington Post’s Chris Ingraham calls these “crimes against geography.”

The point of gerrymandering is to create districts that ultimately serve the best interests of your party. This can work in different ways; lumping all like voters together so your party has majority and wins where they otherwise wouldn’t, or lumping all opposition voters together so they can only win a small area compared to your constituency’s larger area. There are also some practical reasons to redraw district lines, usually to group geographically disparate rural citizens together, or to include suburbs in an urban area that they might technically have stake in.

But typically, “gerrymander” has a negative connotation. It’s often done when a party’s rhetoric or message or um, jeux de vie, isn’t favoring well in the current political climate, but they still want to remain in power to shift the climate back in their direction.

It’s a little dubious. It’s a little scummy. It’s a willful bending of the rules to game the system in your favor.

Seems crazy; politicians can rewrite the rules however they want to their own benefit? Must be illegal, right?

Nope.

Despite two Supreme Court cases challenging it’s legality, gerrymandering is still a legit thing to do, so long as it doesn’t violate the Equal Protection Clause or the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Individual states can enforce their own local gerrymandering rules (Florida does, and several others have review committees), but it’s not Federally mandated.

For a long time, I’ve lamented Big Beer’s sales tactics. It’s difficult for me to reconcile my brewer-born appreciation for their ability to create so much of such a consistent product (I can’t even produce five gallons of lager consistently), with their arguably unscrupulous behavior once the beer has left the brewery and lives in the limbo of the three-tier system.

I used to almost keep the two separate in my mind, like I could magically appreciate the people and the process while simultaneous lament how the product is being sold. All these mental gymnastics because I didn’t really understand what Big Beer was doing.

I do now. Contrary to popular, evangelical belief, it’s not the result of some evil, conglomerate cabal hell bent on robbing the consumer of choice and plunging the world into a second darkness of flavor blandness. It’s not some cosmic conspiracy to corporatize humanity and leave us trudging about in a dystopian world where all the trees have been chopped down and our waking reality looks exactly like the inside of a Walmart.

It’s a lot more boring.

They’re gerrymandering.

Many in the industry liken “Big vs Craft” to some kind of war, with fronts and soldiers and fierce battles over territory based on some loose ideology of mutually (but differently) defined “freedom.” It’s not a terrible analogy, but does add a little more gravity to beer than I think it sometimes deserves.

This isn’t a war, per se, but rather modern political posturing and postulating. “Big vs Craft” is more like a campaign for the presidency of beer, a trading of legal and social blows to rise to the top and occupy the position of leader of the brewing free world (if we kindly ignore China and Snow, for now).

Look at the tactics. Buying a competition brewery? Redrawing the lines of your portfolio to overlap your competition, and include certain consumers to better your business. Offering incentive programs to distributors to only carry your brands? Redrawing the literal lines of what beers are on the shelves, to better position yourself to improve your company’s standing. It’s financial and economic gerrymandering, being done in the face of an opposition party that is winning by more traditional measures.

It’s important to remember, that as much as we don’t like it, it’s all perfectly legal. Unlike our favorite sports, business is a game with mutable rules; if you’re losing by a lot in the second half, you can turn around and win by basically playing an entirely different game, or the same game, with wildly different rules.

We should also note that it’s not exactly a one-sided affair, either: the Brewers Association’s long drawn-out and awkward attempts to define a whole sub-sector of the industry was political gerrymandering, too. The entire impetus behind modern American beer being trumpeted by the BA is local, independent, relatable. They’re attempting to draw their own district lines, partly to keep up with their opponents, partly because it actually works.

As with our current democracy, the citizen (or consumer) is not considered when these invisible lines are drawn. You, as a beer drinker, are a dollar that must be wrangled. Big Beer thinks that if they can’t win your dollar on taste, they’ll win it by buying a portion of your palate, and then by not giving you any other options. The BA wagers that they’ll win your dollar on taste anyway, but if they can’t, they’ll try to win it with emotional and humanistic appeals.

You’re being chopped up and divided without your express consent. You’re being marketed to, hard, fast, and relentlessly, from both sides. Gerrymandering is first and foremost about keeping and consolidating power, or, in this specific sense, market share. As much as you might want to believe they do, no one fighting over your dollar cares about you.

They care that you buy, and little else. I’m hoping consumers are finally starting to see the business side of beer for what it really is: a meticulous and calculated attempt to get you to purchase, just like every other business ever.

Perhaps it’s just me, but the luster of beer wears dull. The movement begrudgingly approaches doughy middle age, and consumers feel the pressure on their wallets and waistlines. Even smaller breweries feel the squeeze of like competition in the ever-growing sea of choice. Talk bubbles or market saturation if you must, but the zeal and sales cannot continue to climb forever.

As a fine patina sets in and the youthful exuberance fades, I have a sneaking suspicion that the game of beers will start to look a lot less like a righteous war or crusade, and a lot more like the classic Red vs Blue, mudslinging, carpetbagging mess that is our political system. Such is the nature of modern capitalism, and probably why, as they say on the internet, “we can’t have nice things.”

So you want to be a Beer Writer? – Yeast 101

Uh oh. Your homebrewing buddy just said something about “brett” and is asking your opinion about buying a stir plate. This conversation is getting dangerously yeasty.

But that’s OK! I’m here to help put the “you” back in “Eukaryote” with a primer about yeast, and why it’s so damn important to beer.

Much like the other posts in this series, this primer will cover the basics (yes, I left quite a bit out) for those who want to write (or speak) with a little more confidence. If you’re looking for a journey to the center of fermentation, check out Chris White and Jamil Zainasheff’s book from Brewer’s Publications.

Yeast as a Living Thing

Yeast is literally everywhere. You breathed some in just now. You probably ate some that was resting on your lunch. The little buggers are all up in your shit (literally), and play an important bit part in maintaining your body’s homeostasis. Fret not; it’s an integral part of our immune system and you’d have to ingest a very large amount of it to experience any ill effects (see: auto-brewery syndrome).

Biologically, yeast falls under the Fungi kingdom (here’s a quick reference if you forgot your high school taxonomy). They are technically eukaryotic (meaning their cells contain a nucleus that houses genetic information), but are the only single-cell eukaryote ever described by science. Despite any deeply romantic feelings you may have developed for your favorite IPA, yeast reproduces asexually, through the very painful-looking process of mitosis.

It’s tricky to organize yeast because they don’t all fit under one taxonomic group. But generally (please don’t kill me, biologists reading this) the yeast we use to brew can be classified by species, which are often sold to brewers as strains. Homebrewers and bakers will be familiar with Saccharomyces cerevisiae, which is probably the mostly commonly used yeast in ale. Lagers use Saccharomyces pastorianus. Then there’s the popular Brettanomyces, which is known for its distinctive and sort of gross qualities.

But that’s just a few, easy to recognize examples. There are ~1500 described strains of yeast, many of which we don’t use in brewing. The yeast in our bodies – often responsible for a number of nasty infections – is called Candida albicans. In healthy humans, this yeast is kept in check by bacteria. Fun fact: lactobacillus, a bacteria use to make some kinds of sour beer and sourdough bread, is one of the natural counter-balances to the yeast that grows in our guts.

Somewhat amazingly, we didn’t even know that yeast was a thing until one very cool French dude named Louis Pasteur described yeast and what is does in 1857. Although a scientist named Leeuwenhoeck (yea, I have no idea how to pronounce that, either) visually saw yeast in 1680, he didn’t really know what is was. Prior to Pasteur’s badass book, “The Diseases of Beer, Their Causes, and the Means of Preventing Them” some people assumed fermentation was spontaneous, and as White and Zainasheff note in their book, some people even thought it was the work of god(s).

Wooden brewing paddles were passed down through generations of brewers, all of who were apparently oblivious to the fact that wood was porous, and that the yeast from previous batches of beer were hiding deep inside all of their tools, just waiting to inoculate the next batch.

Yeast as a Brewing Ingredient

There’s a classic quote beer writers should know:

“We brewers don’t make beer, we just get all the ingredients together and the beer makes itself.” — Fritz Maytag

Yeast is going to do its thing regardless of what we do. The brewer’s job is more interior decorator than creator: she needs to turn the wort into a welcome, clean, inviting home that the yeast want to move into to start their family. But the yeast aren’t picky; they’ll move into any home that’s got plenty of sugar to eat, even one infested with other nasty tenants of less reputable backgrounds. The brewer has to do everything she can to make sure the yeast and its family are the only ones living in the house, and that they’re as healthy and comfortable as possible.

Yeast can come from third party labs as dry cells, or ready-to-use liquid. While pre-packaged yeast can be used (I’ve used it dozens of times), many brewers will create a yeast “starter.” This is basically a sugary proto-beer that kick starts the growth of the yeast. A starter ensures you’ve got plenty of healthy yeast to begin and maintain a strong primary fermentation. Some companies sell “smack packs” which are a sort of all-in-one starter (that includes an activator) where you just “smack” the bag of yeast to mix up the contents and create a mini early fermentation before pitching it into the wort.

Logistically, yeast is added after the wort has been boiled, hops have been added, and the combined concoction has been cooled. The drop in temperature in very important: yeast are living things, and adding them to hot liquid can easily injure or kill them. To properly reproduce, yeast need oxygen, so wort is aerated. This is tricky, because oxygen is a mortal enemy to fermented beer.

Oxygen before yeast? Good! Oxygen after yeast? Bad!

Yeast’s primary role is to eat the sugars extracted from the base malts during mash, and turn them into ethyl alcohol and carbon dioxide (C02). That’s an incredible oversimplification though; the amount, type, and length of sugars, the temperature of the fermenting beer, and the type of yeast used all dictate how the yeast will perform. Fermentation is what makes beer taste like beer; you couldn’t just add alcohol to hopped-wort and expect beer. Yeast is responsible for hundreds of other compounds that produce flavors we’re all familiar with (banana and clove and fruit esters, oh my!)

Yeast is the prime mover for the Original Gravity (OG) and Final Gravity (FG) equation. By measuring the original amount of sugar in the beer, and the comparing it to the final amount when fermentation in done, a brewer can calculate how much sugar is left in the beer, how much was eaten by the yeast, and how much alcohol it created. The amount of sugar the yeast ate is also called the amount of “attenuation.”

The trick to remembering the difference between ale and lager is that they are brewed using different yeasts (see above). Ale yeast ferments “on top” of the beer, while lager yeast ferments “on the bottom.” This is not a perfect rule. Yeast generally moves through the entire body of the fermenting beer, but this describes where “most” of the fermentation activity occurs.

More important than where they ferment is how they ferment; ale yeasts prefer warmer temperatures (55-70° F), while lager yeasts prefer colder temperatures (40° F). Ale yeast would go dormant and sleepy at such cold temperatures, but certain strains of lager yeast can and will ferment at higher temperatures, resulting in estery, fruity lagers a la “Steam Beer.”

Yeast as a Word

Yeast is almost always a noun. While I’m sure some intrepid wordworker could use yeast as a verb (I may be guilty of that), “yeasted” and “yeasting” don’t exist in a traditional vocabulary.

While it can be used as an adjective (yeasty) I’d warn against using it too often, because like “malty” or “hoppy,” it’s not overly descriptive. It functions perfectly well as a general label, but different yeasts perform and taste different, so when describing it, try to pull out words that capture the essence of what the yeast has done to the beer, not just that it is in fact, in there.

Writing about yeast tends to get biological very quickly, so be sure to balance your diction appropriately. No one wants to read a text book, but no one wants juicy scientific details left out either. Above all, respect yeast’s role in making beer, and remember that even though it’s not as glamorized and talked about as hops (or even malt), it’s (arguably) the single most taste-defining ingredient in the entire brewing process.

Don’t believe me? Try drinking straight, uncarbonated wort.

TL;DR – Remember that yeast is the “living” part of beer, ales and lagers are classified as such by their yeast strains, and the scientific names are always italicized.

The Session #104 – Blog to Write

(For the 104th Session, Alan McLeod asks us to justify why we should keep writing about beer.)

I’ve missed The Session. Both figuratively and literally.

Directly after discovering Jay and Stan’s blogging braintrust, I didn’t miss a single iteration of the Session. I’d been diligent in following the topics, planning something ahead of time, and being ready for each month like an over-prepared college freshman. I even hosted once, much to the dismay of other bloggers, I’m sure. I miss writing Session entries because they’re fun and thought provoking and, well, easy, in the grand scheme of writing.

But I’ve also missed the deadline to post eight times in a row now (the last Session I did was #95). I know such a long hiatus might make it seem like I don’t have faith in the cause or support the idea, but realistically, it’s more about the timing of significant life events over the past year, and their direct overlap with the first Friday of each month. There are several never-to-be-finished drafts in this here WordPress database, half-hollow husks meant to be Session posts that have been left dangling from the dressform, a mess of patchwork fabric and loose threads.

I don’t want to see the Session die. I understand that I’m part of the problem by not actively participating, but I still think the idea to bring different perspectives together on a single topic has a lot of worth in a community that’s full of young writers still trying to find their voices. It’s also a great prompt for newer bloggers to jump in on without feeling sheepish: a place where everyone is welcome to say whatever they want about beer with (for the most part) little chance of repercussion.

That exists nowhere else that I know of. Other attempts to bring the community together like the Thursday night #beerchat on Twitter don’t really count, for me, as Twitter is too ephemeral and curt to really hash out any meaningful ideas.

I’ve written about why I blog before. That hasn’t changed. I keep writing here because it’s my space. No editors, no deadlines, no rules or stipulations. I’m a writer who writes way more than makes sense to consistently pitch to other publications, and in a style that most publications don’t want, anyway. Here, I’m free to do whatever, sculpt any sentences I can see in the formless clay, play with grammar and be obtuse, because no one is paying me, and the expectations are basically non-existent. For a prolific writer, a blog is creative freedom manifest. A linguistic jungle-gym. An all-you-can-eat buffet of syntactic gluttony.

A blog – if taken seriously and properly maintained – is an incredible catalyst to education. When I started in 2009, I knew comparatively…let’s see…nothing about beer. I thought I knew about brewing and styles and history, but as I began reading and studying more to write posts, I realized how startlingly little I knew. It’s given me an avenue to learn a tremendous amount about the ingredients, the processes, the people, the industry. You’re free to explore and research any topic you want, fumble through your own opinions about complex topics, engage in (and hopefully kick off) conversations that help us grow as drinkers, consumers, citizens, people. If your blogging means more to you than just banging out 150 word nonsense posts during lunch or reposting old articles/generic news pieces written by other people, you’re going to learn, whether you intend to or not.

That’s a good thing, and a reason to blog, if anyone ever needed one.

But outside of personal, artistic justification, niche blogs (and other writing) about niche topics remain important even if the format waffles, because they make up the voice of the consumer-side of the community. In every sub-culture some will rise to the top to speak and inform and possibly evangelize for the people within. Bloggers are those speakers. People who try to evolve into something beyond being that guy at the bar who erroneously explains the difference between ale and lager to his cavalcade of half-toasted co-workers. They take a chance to thrust a shovel below the surface only scratched by others, and put in the work to bring the fertile material below up to the surface for others to see.

That’s the goal. I think. At least. It’s not always perfect, and lots of blogs and bloggers – even those of stout convictions and pounding passions – never do manage more than rote regurgitation. It’s easy to fall into a trap of writing what is easy, repeating what you hear daily, and going with the flow so entirely that you’re lost in the current.

But hey, even the worst are trying. Attempting something bigger and with more reach than rambling to their close friends or boring strangers at parties. They’re adding to a narrative that will one day be looked back upon as historical; not perhaps world-changing historical, but certainly historical as related to the legacy of alcohol in post-industrial Homo sapein culture. And as much as you might want to scoff at the idea of “beer as a piece of history,” we’re already pulling from a mutli-millennium backlog of brewing and beer lore that was deemed important enough to be chronicled as part of human history by our ancestors. Looked at in that light, we’re just scholars recording history as it happens, using the internet as our immortal cuneiform.

And that’s just it, I think. Beer bloggers just so happen to write about beer, but it’s the actual writing that should take precedence. You can tell when a blogger isn’t really a writer, trust me on that one. Passion about a topic does not automatically equate to good or interesting writing, and readers can tell when you’re writing because you think you should not because you want to.

We run these blogs to have our voices heard, opinions aired. I’d submit that most people who write about beer (myself included) only do so because we’ve seen some fundamental truth about human nature either in the science of the kettle, or the behavior behind the bartop. I think all writers write to discover some meaning; beer bloggers (and writers) just use a medium that’s a tad more esoteric than usual.

If the current incarnation of the Session has crossed the finish line of its final marathon, that’s sort of sad, but so be it. I’d implore those who wants to write to keep writing even without  it. In addition to being the main curriculum of your own not-for-profit mini-university, writing is therapeutic and cathartic, and a hell of a better way to spend your time than many other things that pass as “entertainment” these days.

But write with responsibility. Do your best to carefully sift out the nuggets of golden narrative that come washing down the sluice, and do your best to avoid showing off the rocks you found that you think are gold. If you’re going to be a voice of your sub-culture, be a good one. Add to the narrative with humor or wit or education; don’t let misinformation, rumor-mongering, and petty drama take over. We have enough of that elsewhere in the world.

Blog to write. Write to learn. Learn to write. Write to write. About beer or otherwise.

 

Nom de Bier – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo by William Shakespeare

This is entry #1 in the series “Nom de Bier” – good beer reviewed by famous authors (as emulated by me). I do not claim to speak for these authors, nor am I an expert scholar in their particular style, so please feel free to correct/admonish as you see fit.

Beer Review – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo (barrel aged)
Style: English Strong Ale
ABV: 8.0%
IBU: 30-35

By: William Shakespeare

Sonnet CLV

From bottom where Eros did spring his Sting,
Through much bubbly affair rose sweet head, O;
But focus nay on bubbles should the tale sing,
Instead in oaken planks dark fruits do grow.
A Smith named Sam, a hero born into
Malten cavalcades proceeding to tun;
Man and Nature together set to brew,
And what yeast embark may ne’er be undone.
An odd thing though this, partly tongues note sour –
By work of raisins and spry, teeming wood –
It dances reliquary, somber, dour;
As if mourning a time long passed, lost good.
A tribute, nay, an homage aged old,
Captured in glass, for you to pour, to hold.

Sonnet CLVI

That god not settled with simple ale bliss
Sought more beyond what tradition limits,
As sailors once set eyes on ambergris,
So too did Smith on the cooper’s habit.
And O! How the amber flowed from slick steel,
Down and round bent staves to beer bellies bound,
And here it stayed, a year, flavor made real:
The hold of a ship, full of beer, run ‘ground.
That year much did swirl for yeast finds sleep rare,
And what once was beer in tree’s brace did find
Notes, smells unfettered now but palate fair,
And bitter music played in time with rind.
If one sought brown or pale or stout sweet woe
For neither, nor, and none, this strong ale show.

Sonnet CLVII

Elements conjured forth through Water pure
A tincture; Fire’s bane and Earth’s lament.
On Air life gulped sweet life shy of demure,
And found in liquid our Spirit’s repent.
Ask one now, she, ‘should imbibe or abstain?’
‘All depends’ answer they, ‘what dost thou seek?’
From life from this place, melodic refrain?
Or days left unfulfilled, the same, so weak?
If the latter, fly now, Smith wants you not;
Much rather he’d have a soul gilded bold.
So into your life cast Gambler’s lot
A chance you should take, on true Yorkshire gold.
But also weigh Eros, mission love born,
And weigh too, ones headache come morrow, come morn.

Grammarian’s note: I went with sonnets over a play for brevity’s sake, and because I prefer rhymed iambic pentameter to blank verse. I started with CLV (155) as Shakespeare’s final sonnet was CLIV (154). The structure for a sonnet is 12 rhyming quatrains (ABAB CDCD EFEF) with a single rhyming (GG) couplet as the closing. For more information, check out the basics of his style: http://www.shakespeare-online.com/faq/writingstyle.html