Give taste a chance
Learning to love beer and Byrne
Drinking Notes is a newsletter about wine, spirits and other aspects of creative culture – from music and art to broader cultural reflections. The clue is in the name: these are notes about the broader drinking experience, loose, exploratory and meandering.
They say you need to try something ten times before you like it. My first sip of beer tasted like morphine. (I only knew what morphine tasted like, having been administered some after smashing my arm to pieces in a one-boy roller-skate race.) Nine years old, a swipe of Murphy’s Stout. A drop of crude oil syphoned off from my Dad’s can on a Saturday night, its bitterness wringing my neck as if I owed it money. If this was supposed to be a rite of passage into adulthood then I was happy being a child for a few decades longer. Kids should stick to Robinson’s fruit juice. That’s where the real fun of flavour is. I doubted whether my Dad actually enjoyed it, or whether he was born without any taste buds.
The next taste came from the infamous ‘stubby beer’ or ‘chodeys’. Squat bottles of Belgian lager that looked more like Victorian medicine than beer. Again, I’m not convinced that anyone actually liked this beer, as evidenced by the half-finished bottles that would be scattered around my mate’s house the morning after. Hidden down the back of sofas, tucked away behind curtains, strewn across the back garden – the war dead buried in unmarked graves. Anyone who tells you otherwise is wearing rose-tinted specs.
After several more attempts, beer eventually became more palatable – there’s a reason why it’s the most consumed alcohol in the world. The flavour of that Murphy’s is still vivid in my mind and even more vivid in my mouth. But now it’s a welcome memory. A pint of the black stuff is a thing of beauty, the perfect drink for a self-proclaimed contrarian – Murphy’s shits on Guinness. Yet, unlike Murphy’s, the chodeys still taste like liquid breadsticks and piss (I imagine — you’d have to ask my mate Rob for a tasting note on the latter).
For years, I’d written off Talking Heads. I never took them seriously enough to listen to their music. David Byrne was nothing more than a hiccupping poser, a cereal box-shaped blazer with a voice like a cartoon Crash! Bang! Wallop! Art-funk? More like daft punk in its original form. Zany just for the sake of being zany. Then again, I’d only ever listened to Psycho Killer. Imagine if I’d only stuck to drinking chodeys for the rest of my life?
Over the past couple of weeks, Talking Heads have been on a lot in the campervan. Racking up the miles driving across New Zealand and saving mobile data in the process has meant that the downloaded playlists of my co-pilot have been on repeat. At first, their songs passed me by. Lost in the melee. Failing to catch the ear as other big hitters steamrolled their way through the speakers. Fleetwood Mac, Metallica, Rachmaninoff… These were songs I knew, songs I could sing along to. Songs I enjoyed. And then Girlfriend Is Better came on.
The nervy guitar, the song’s whirling melody line, a bassline with all the foreboding and drama of an ’80s game show theme tune. Devious. Devilish. Delicious. A song which refused to be ignored. I was hooked. The muscles in my neck relaxed. The winding roads straightened out in front of me. My chin bobbed back and forth like a chicken on death row devouring its last meal. The groove had got me.
Byrne’s clowning around suddenly had gravitas, his voice had presence. Here was a tour de funk that demanded attention. We listened to Speaking in Tongues from start to finish. And again. It’s a catchy album with infectious songs, a superb collection of pop songs. Pop at its very best, with complexity and ingenuity. Polyrhythms and humour, eccentric yet polished. In 47 minutes, I had reversed a lifetime of disdain. I hereby declare myself a Talking Heads fan. Issariya is delighted.
There was a time when I would only drink smooth ales and ‘northern pints’, abstaining from the Hazy IPAs, the DEIPAs, and the APAs of the world. They were frivolous, not ‘proper’ beer. In a similar display of mulishness, I spent a long time ignoring music written after 1969 because of some bizarre and defiant belief that no songs of note were produced thereafter.
After multiple attempts and numerous informal tastings, I finally understood what was so great about all of these beers. The subtle nuances between styles which often only differ by a letter or two in their initialisms. I discovered how, much like wine, there is a style to suit every occasion. And, much like wine, it’s a genre that is deeply complex and ever-evolving. After all, before I fell in love with wine, I had already fallen in love with beer.
Talking Heads needed more time, perhaps more attention. In the end though, all it took was one song, one earworm to uncover a new part of the musical map. If there is one lesson I’ve learned, it’s that you should always give taste a chance.
Monteith’s Brewing Co.
We’ve had some cracking wines during our time in New Zealand. Chardonnays, Pinot Noirs, Sauvignon Blancs, and Syrahs. Sometimes your palate needs a reset. Thankfully there’s Monteith’s. The home of craft brewing in New Zealand, Monteith’s in Greymouth on the South Island’s West Coast is a must-stop place for any beer connoisseur. Or at the very least, anyone in need of some light refreshment as they head towards the glaciers.
I’ve written countless tasting notes for wine but never written one for beer. Here are three I enjoyed on a recent visit to the brewery.
Wayfarer Pilsner
Hoppiness? Happiness? Hippiness? Whatever predictive text wants, Wayfarer has. This will leave you with that salt-spray and interesting look (providing the rip curl of bitterness hasn’t wiped you out first). There’s pineapple and lemon drizzle on the finish which will help to revive you.
Original Ale
Hands up if you’re a Timothy Taylor wannabe. As the name suggests, this is a pale ale in its original, old-man-drinking form. The sort of beer Gene Hunt would be knocking back after a hard day of firing up the Quattro! Malty, with notes of caramel and burnt sugar, and just a hint of blackberry to provide you with one of your five a day.
Black Beer
Your pre-hibernation sipper – Northern Hemispherers need not apply. This is a dark and bitter beer that somehow remains light on its feet. It’s not bogged down with the prospect of heading into winter, wearing both a fleece-lined jacket and a sunny smile. There’s the usual smoke, toffee and coffee, with some umami in the form of soy sauce.
Last orders…
This piece was brought to you by beer. It’s not the first time that it has been a source of inspiration. Here is a poem I wrote, which was accepted by the literary journal Mono Fiction, only for them to fold not long after. It was never published. The story of my life.
Ms. Porter You took a sip from my daydream, the sleek sheen of deep space, in a globular goblet, polished tumbled stones of jet, cupped like a crystal ball in the fortune-teller’s hands, the future was a liquorice wheel, unfurled, the truth hidden in a honeycomb head, that crept above the parapet of a glass, hemmed, with chamois leather cloth, restyled, as spirit-spiked spittle, that trickled to a cardboard coaster, sodden, overcome, as sea foam repossesses a beach, with each passing sip, you stripped me of my reverie and poured me out anew, ‘same again, please barkeep’, two pints of daydream, one for me, and one for you.
Two pints of Ms. Porter for me too!
I think your writing career needs to continue.....how you draw us in with your humour and chummy parlance! I too have sipped your father's beer and shuddered as if a bucket of ice has dropped down my spine! But you have convinced me that giving up is for softies. Safe travels, both of you, and unfurl those post- sixties music genres. Plus, a special shout out to the Gene Hunt playlist- to include some Bowie.