A Vegetarian Walks into A Steak House

Seems like the beginning of a really terrible joke. However, once upon a time this situation occurred to me. It was after a season of Dinner Theatre shows in Grand Falls-Windsor, in which I had acted and preformed in the live band and it was time for the cast/staff year end dinner/party at the Mount Peyton Steak House.

Yeah! I know, I acted?! Go figure. Seems strange.


Dude, there is nothing more awkward than a vegetarian in a restaurant that specializes in selling meat on sizzling hot plates. It's like being the kid on holidays in Florida with a broken arm. Yeah, you know the kid; the one with the garbage bag tied around his arm sticking out of the swimming pool like a large blackish-brownish-green flag. Did I mention that happened to me? Childhood... isn't it fantastic.



Well it seemed like a good enough reason for a drink or two considering it was all going to be paid for by the boss. It was like the summer end bonus for a good season of performances. Well, the restaurant was about as fancy as it gets in GF-W so most people were going for fancy drinks and I was still curious about the substance called "beer." The establishment didn't seem to carry any Northern Lager or Northern Light, so what now?
-"I'll have a Heineken, please."

WHAT?! Even to this day I know it was a better choice than Canadian, Blue, or Coors Light. Keeping in mind Northern was the only thing anyone could even consider "craft" or truly local in Newfoundland at the time.



I was thinking to myself: "Well, here we go. My first beer, I should pour it into a glass the way I was told to respect a beer. I bet people will think I'm lame for that, oh well, I'm already a skateboarder and play drums in a ska-band; it's not like it can get any harder to pick up chicks."



...and as I go to pour it into a glass someone decides to back up from the table, elbows out and knock the glass of beer over on the table. Strike two for the vegetarian.



-"Waitress, let me get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini!"


So, there it was...my first drink. It wasn't beer, but it may have sparked my interested for big "piny" double IPAs.


You may be wondering by now: "When did you have your first beer?"


Stay tuned sports fans.

New Belgium: Fat Tire

First off, I really have to say how awesome New Belgium is as a brewery in terms of it's energy conservation. It has water recycling, using natural gas, it is greatly wind powered and damn near self-generating power. The brewery really cares about the earth. That alone is worth checking out this brewery.





Secondly, the packaging is great. The Belgian style brown bottle with a ring around the neck, neatly labeled "New Belgium."





What can I say about the Fat Tire Amber Ale? It was named after Jeff Lebesch's (The founder and brew master) mountain bike trip through Europe, traveling from brewery to brewery. This was his original homebrew recipe, and his claim to fame. From basement brewery to a "mass" produced commercial beer, it has kept it's integrity and original recipe. Props!







This pours a crystal clear rusted orange that shimmers in the light, topped with a tight bubbled eggshell head, two fingers deep from the rim of the glass. It has wonderful retention as it dissipates to a fuzzy film over the beer and lacing rings down the glass with every sip. Well, I'm impressed. This isn't the kind of head you expect on an amber ale, Belgian inspired or not.





The nose is soft and very delicate with many subtleties. The spicy yeast sparks the nose and opens up for the rest of aromas to waft in. When I say "spicy", think of the essence of cloves or pepper wrapped in aromas of freshly baked rye bread and hints of sulfur. This is followed by lovely caramel notes, and almost buttery (not diacetyl). There are low levels of apple and an earthy pear skimming across the beer that finishes on the nose as a grassy hop finish for balance. The yeast and the munich malt sweetness are so crucial for this beers bouquet. Toasty, caramel, apple, and just the right amount of earthiness from the hops. It almost has a bit of shiitake mushroom note hidden in there. I will note the beginnings of oxidation present in the aroma, though it's not offensive, simply present.







As soon as this hits the tongue all of those very interesting characteristics in the nose are amplified. Not to 11, but they become fuller and round on the palate. There is a nutty flavour that dominates the back of the tongue and the upper part of my mouth and the tip of my tongue. The middle is holding that nice toasty sweetness of caramel, the pear and apple are not present, though that earthy, grassy hop simply tickles the tongue cutting the sweetness. The munich malt is giving this a lovely biscuit flavour. This is a semi-dry finish, a sweet balanced beer that cuts and leaves very little residual sugars on the tongue. The sweetness is there just long enough before you crave another sip.





The carbonation is moderate, a nice round body, slick and slightly filmy. Just balanced in the way it dances sweetly over the tongue.






This beer may not be mind blowing, but I think this is the kind of beer that defines "balance" when all the big shot critics talk about beer. I think round. I think of the way that Sibelius uses timpini parts in his Symphonies (particularly Symphony No. 1 in E Minor) so interwoven within the orchestra with an even known presence of moving things forward. A delicate touch of "wow... I'm impressed."






This is a beer I could party with...respectfully.





This is a beer I would love to pair with portobello mushrooms sauteed lightly in olive oil and rosemary on a bed of aromatic rice. I love the texture of mushrooms when they just get a little soft, the earthiness of the fungi, and the oil and rosemary would just blend beautifully with the sweet and toast of this beer.





Also, think Thai eggplant. The kind of sloppy, soft, buttery eggplant with spices to defy the sweetness. The beer then becomes a little over powered, but the beer will instantly seem a little sharper in the finish. This isn't a very acidic or bitter beer, so it will not cleans the palate, simply add some sugar in the mouth.



Also think lamb,a bit of black pepper and rosemary would do just fine to garnish the flavours within.


I picked up some semi-soft surfaced ripened Oka cheese with mushrooms and it's got a buttery, yet slightly soft chew that is very nice compliment. Not too sharp... balanced.






I'd ride this bike again.






Thanks to Lackey for the brew!

Studded Leather Jackets at The Symphony Orchestra

Mr. Beaumont wrote a post on linking musical composition and beer. Here is a little bit of stuff that leaked out of my cluttered brain while there seems to be a trend in posting about art and beer.





Beer had a starting point much like rock n' roll. You can link metal or noise rock back to Tin-Pan Alley. From there you can link it to baroque, the romantic era, etc. Western culture is run by trends. These trends are stolen, imitated, expanded and end up evolving. It's those with popularity or a fresh new spin on appearance that give these trends roots in history. The mainstream states one thing is "in" and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction... punk rock.





The one thing that I feel is missing from most peoples perception of music is attitude. Punk rock isn't a genre. Argue if you wish, but it's not. It's attitude, it's a lifestyle, it's heart, it's soul, and it is the fire that burns within the creator. Yet, punk rock in it's earliest form isn't that different from rock n' roll in it's composition. All the basic ingredients are there (also, note even symphonic pieces of music are known to have I-V-I progressions...just like rock). Don't think jazz never had it's sub-genres either or attitude placement on similar concepts. Just follow Miles Davis and his progression of albums from start to finish. The same? nope.





My link to beer is keeping in mind why styles are even noted. Labels are placed for marketing, consumers or for writers. It's easier to write about something when you give it a name, a face, or a personality that you can link to something, such as I.P.A. or Light Lager. Rolling Stone Magazine was wretched for trying to classify everything in music, but they also had image to uphold and trends to set on covers of magazines and billboards. Beer is doing the same thing.





This is where I look at BJCP and respect it's loyalty to it's contents. It rarely gets updated and the classics remain the same. However, it doesn't leave room for much more than "classics." What a boring world we'd live in if music stopped at The Clash. I love The Clash, but they just opened up some gates for newer, exciting, more experimental musics. The BJCP disregards this as if new means renegade and simply give them a category 23 and say "duke it out you bunch of punks. Your wild, out-landish, improvisational beers will never be classics."





This gives reasons to why I enjoy the BA(Brewers Association). They embrace the idea of new and old. They don't want to slap the hands of creativity. Why put a barrel aged imperial gratzer up against an abbey spruce beer by just calling it a "specialty beer/other." In competition it would be just to narrow focus outside of personal preference. The BA allows for such things. For example, they have a Mild Ale category and a Session Beer category. I'll agree a mild ale is a fantastic session ale. But a 3-4% North American hoppy blonde lager might drink pretty smooth as well. The BA is taking a very non-institutional approach and not creating standards, just helping describe to people what attitude and personality they should find in the beer.





It saves competitions running like the CBA's where a dunkel should compete against a kellierbier. Hmmmm... try as hard as you want to link them similar, they are different! Apples to oranges, but at least they are both unfiltered beers. Try being a judge on that particular panel and debate merits of beer styles and judging guidelines.





It also works for writers. Writers love to write, just not that much. Some specialty beers would take a paragraph to write to actually name the ingredients or conditions that make it special. It also allows writers the hope that they can place a label on something and later in history be known for coining the phrase. Maybe not, but it happened in music magazines all the time.





Which will also bring me to the point that most critics and writers love to harp on the qualities and flaws of others. They like to classify and pick apart every little thing. They will make comments on composition of things they have never composed. Some people are creators; Some people are critics. The artists, they are the ones bound by labels created by others. The artists that create their own label are trying too hard. The ones that create and let a classic take its course, they are legit. The artist educates themselves on the world that surrounds them. They know the in and out of every brush stroke. They build a vocabulary and knowledge through education then work with it or against it to create.





Consider the actual composition of music and what a "note" is. A notated note is just a black dot on lines and spaces. It represents something in music. No matter how many times you see "A" or "C#" sonically they are a one time deal. Music is notated for different reasons, either because recordings didn't exist, or it was to be played for others. Beethoven had a terrible time trying to write his improvisations down, but he tried. Brewers bottle beer and write ingredients, mashing regimes, etc. Yet, even the weather outside will change that beer. It may always be close, but not always the same. Beer is art. It's playful. Good beer can be improvised and it doesn't have to be made over and over.





Someone tried to tell me a great brewer can make one beer the same over and over. One part of me agrees. But, the real brewer is okay with improvising with what is around to make a good beer. It may vary from time to time and may never be made a second time, but it doesn't discount the quality. You will discount the work of Van Gogh because he didn't duplicate the same thing every time?






Genres and labels also educate. People learn from reference points. Think of a dog, it has a Class, Family, Genus, Species, then it has different breeds, and on top of that pet dogs have a name given to distinguish. A dog is a dog, but try saying that to a dog lover with a prize winning dog.






A beer is a beer. Some beer deserves respect or distinction and sometimes no matter how much respect it deserves you should just put on your best (worst) leather jacket, pop the crown, slam it back (or shotgun it!) and start a mosh pit.

A Good Haircut Never Goes Out of Style

I never had a lot of money growing up and any coin I collected ended up being spent on drums, cymbals, skateboards, gas or fast food. All were pretty limited due to minimum wage jobs and attending University at the age of 17. It was the same year I sold the chick magnet of a mini-van, a 1992 Voyager so I could afford to go to University.




Even on my 19th birthday I didn't have a drink. I remember being quite proud that I made it through 19 years without a drink in a small town where there wasn't much else to do with your time. I ended up playing a lot of music or driving around. Some (idiot) kids would claim to be "straight-edge" or refuse to use drugs of any kind and stamp that pride on their bodies with ink: "XXX". I never bothered with this claim, as I was always taught: "never say never." Great advice!





Plans were made to break my sober streak on that 19th birthday, however things didn't work out that way. There was a death in the family a day or so before it would have been legally acceptable for me to drink in an establishment. The death really took every desire away from me discovering booze. Instead I was the designated driver for the night and played pool with some friends. I don't think I missed out on much that night.





I had been playing music in bars while underage. It was unknown to those allowing me into the establishment, or the entertainment was worth a blind-eye, or no-one cared. Small towns. I understand those concepts. Being a non-drinker in a bar is like being a vegetarian at a steak house.





Sometimes it is just expected that the band gets free drinks. Even after turning legal age, I passed them up. To be honest, I had bad nerves and I just assumed drinking would aid to worse nerves and terrible playing (…how perspective changes). Also, as the drummer, I often got shafted being the guy having to drive to and from the gig. I didn't mind so much. At least I always knew my gear was safe, smelling of cigarette smoke and alcohol. When leaving Jimi Jak's, the local tavern everything, especially the microphones smelt like O'Riley's Barber Shop… the barber was hungover before 11am and drunk again shortly after lunch giving you roughly 2 hours of getting a decent haircut. Who am I kidding?! He only knew how to give buzz-cuts.

"Give me a mullet, they are in style!"
-buzz-cut.
"Just a little off the top."
-buzz-cut.
"Just a straight razor shave."
-buzz-cut.
"Flock of seagulls!"
-…buzz-cut.

-"that'll be 7 dollars, and here's a lolli!"

(Maybe that is where my fear of haircuts came from? It might explain always having long hair and for a few years massive dreadlocks. White man dreads. I'll never understand.)





Oh! Speaking of a vegetarian in a steak house…(to be continued)

How Can You Tell A Man His Heart Beats Too Loud?

Growing up my dad had a large collection of vinyl and whenever he was not doing Father-like things, such as bringing me to hockey practice/games, handy-man house repairs (destroying things with hammers, nails and duct-tape), curling, or visiting his Mother and Father, he'd relax by throwing on a few records. The record player was this ancient wooden cabinet hi-fi record player. It was a piece of furniture rather than a record player.






He'd play everything from Fleetwood Mac to Led Zeppelin. Obviously at an early age I never actively went in search for music, it was just there. I loved the warmth of the sound of these vinyls. I'd rummage through all the covers and put them on and see what I liked best. Led Zeppelin LP's got put on a lot: I, II, III, and IV. The music was so different from song to song, album to album, but it always had some sort of "power" over me. Hendrix was the same way. The guitar playing was so all over the place, but his voice remained so suave and collected, and the drum fills came every four bars.






Still I never payed much attention. My neighbourhood friends listened to Iron Maiden from an old silver boom-box on the front step of my home after many hours of playing street hockey. I was just getting into skateboarding at the time too. I had this old Dominion board with the neon finger rails on the bottom of the board. It was just something playing in the background while I rode up and down the street and with all my might learning how to ollie.







Thinking about this made me look at some albums that "changed my life" or resonate through my ears for a lifetime.






Life changing albums:







Led Zeppelin 1 through 4



John Bonham IS drums. There is something about his style that is so powerful, loud and in your face. The rock shuffles, wu-da-la wu-da-la 's, and his bass drum sound is gorgeous. At one point it is said that he was blacklisted from all venues in Birmingham because of his aggressive playing. He had soul. Drums were a part of him. I think there are a lot of musicians these days that forget the spirit of creation that is within us.








Cream - Wheels of Fire

I adore Ginger Bakers drumming, but he had brick hands. You can hear on the records how tight his shoulders and wrists are. He had a way of creating these really cool drum fills while still riding heavy on a cymbal, but when he just rolled around the drums you can imagine this giant question mark over his head and the whole band asking " Oh Shit! He's doing it again, hold on boys we could be in for a rough landing on beat 1!" When he actually lands Bruce gives a smile of approval and relief; when he's off you can hear this slight pause and the communal head nod that brings them back. Now that is a band.
The tune "As You Are" hit a strong cord with me. The live version of Crossroads on the B-side is magical.








Pink Floyd - Dark Side Of The Moon
This album was so creative, but simply opened me up to listening to The Wall, which is life changing for most people. The vibe of Pink Floyd gave me shivers when I listened to it. Roger Waters voice and Gilmore's smooth guitar playing was a match for all ages.








B.B. King - Live In Chicago 1967


It's B.B. man! As I got older I'd close my eyes and picture being at The Regal listening to B.B.'s stories that he always told with a smile.










Green Day - Dookie


This trio of pop-punk rockers made a record that seemed to tell stories that hit close to home. Small town angst told in such a way that was still fun, yet melodramatic and there is a "live" feel to the album. The aura of that they are always giving 110% and then some, even in the studio. It's raw, it's bold, the lyrics are conversational and still very poetic about girls, pot, masturbation, and just hating some douche you met.
There is a drum fill in the song "Coming Clean" just after the first chorus that I coin as the reason I play drums. It's not special, but it's so exposed, it's just on the snare drum but it feels as it drives and digs into the next verse. That drive, that dig, that leadership roll for that second or two is why I play drums.
"17 and coming clean for the first time."
This was my very first piece of purchased music on cassette.









Red Hot Chili Peppers - What Hits


I bought this the same time as Dookie. The awkwardness of the drug induced improvised lyrics and jam style band with Chad Smith and Jack Irons on drums was so mind blowing for me. Irons was a great drummer but too sloppy. Smith is white-man funk. He's super tight, his snare drum is so heavy and solid you want to bounce with his movements. Also, he looks like Will Farrell. Dude, his drumming is so tasty. When listening you can picture the smile on his face.








John Abercrombie - Cat n' Mouse
My first year of music school at MUN my prof, Rob Power gave me a loan of this album. I had the album for a week and I swear I played it on repeat for a week straight. I studied this album, but every time I listened I heard something different. To me this album shows rolls of musicians in bands. It shows how to follow movements whether in rhythm, melody, body motions, cues, etc. It shows the importance of your ears in a band. There are times you wonder who is leading, what is going on, how are they going to… and it just kicks back into the main riff.









The Blood Brothers - Love Rhymes With Hideous Car Wreck

I love post-rock, hardcore, whatever. This EP had so much balls for two flamboyant voices screaming over fairly basic guitars, and raw, wild, heavy, yet calculated drum parts, and very interesting lyrics. My ears just open up to this music, this creativity, this intensity that you can't force. These screams were real.
Also, I really think it was Burn Piano Island Burn… that was the album that has me stuck with them as a life changing band for me. "Cecelia and The Silhouette Salon" starts with this Casio keyboard riff that just explodes into chaos, but no matter how jagged the sound comes as it's peaking on the sound board you really just want to dance. Just dance. Even the heaviest music can make you want to dance. Rhythm is everywhere and it can strike us all if we want to open our ears.













Ornette Coleman - The Shape of Jazz To Come
This is creation at it's best. The avant garde movement in jazz owns my soul. Improvisation is key to life and everyones every day. Billy Higgins could play percussive melodies with ping-pong balls.








Refused - The Shape of Punk To Come
This is the heaviest band I've ever heard. They did shape punk and what came after. But, no band seemed to ever do what they did. The Swedish rock bands really know about guitar tone. They were also a wild live band, political, sung in English for the most part, and had true disfunction within the band. It never seemed to ruin the quality of the music. The importance of being a band, and that moment on stage where you put differences behind you and just get it out through your instruments. Music can mend wounds.









Sigur Ros - ()


This is sonic atmosphere. I saw them live at Massy Hall and it was the loudest concert I've ever attended. It was super-natural the way they just walked out started playing and even if you wanted to you couldn't stand up. The music was so loud and encompassing it felt like it was grabbing you by the shoulders and forcing you back in the chair. I've never left a show completely speechless like that.
They did an encore that show where they just played a few acoustic songs, and within the first song someone botched a note and "shit!" … They are human! It was such an honest show.








Glassjaw - Worship and Tribute


Passion in every word, every note, every song, every thing. Again, no matter how "loud" it seems you can't help but sway to the underlying clypso rhythms.









These are just a few albums that shaped how I view music, the world, and made me want to start a career in music. There is so much more that influences me, there are so many more albums, but I'd be here for days upon days picking them out. I'm sure I could add to this list later, however these were the first that came to mind.






Aside from drums, I don't know if I could ever love an instrument as much as I love the marimba. During school I'd practice until it hurt. It wasn't always the music given to me, just "noodling" around, or creating sounds that always sounded so beautiful. That alone was a life changing experience. When there was a marimba in my life I honestly didn't care to touch a drum-set. In fact, the majority of my music degree I never touched a drum set unless it were in the jazz ensemble or after hours at a bar.

I spent a lot of time playing drums in bars, even when I was underage. I don't know how I resisted having a drink for so long. My first drink was supposed to be a beer, but it wasn't.

CRY UNCLE

My uncle is Dutch, well educated, a wealth of knowledge, a traveler, and a lover of beer. Every time he'd visit from his home in British Columbia, instantly the spare fridge in the basement would be full of beer. It had to be local, or at least the majority of it. I saw these really terrible labels that read Northern Light and Northern Lager (I'll let you do your own research on those brands). I had no problem running to the basement to grab a bottle and fill his glass every time I heard "another dead solider" or "it appears I have a leaky glass" or "imagine that, it all went under my nose."




The other impressive aspect of this man is his concern for good health and well being, yet being a drinker since the age of 9 (so he says). At around 6'7" tall with no weight problem he could down quite a few brews throughout the run of a day and never show signs of him ever having a beer. He had to have two carrots and a shot of apple cider vinegar while sitting in sunlight to get noon-time vitamins. Beer seemed to be like water or a soda, which is well represented in European culture. He said " helps keeps the flies away and full of vitamins." True enough, I agree now.



He was always full of stories and knowledge of everything and anything. A brain so full that I'm not sure how he could retain anymore information and still he manages to read a book a day along with daily news papers, while keeping his own life on track. This knowledge made him a great teacher.




Well, I was taught the proper way to pour the beer making sure there was a head on the beer and released all the aromas. Beer had to be in a glass. There was no other way to drink it. The Northern Light smelt like apple juice and left a tingle in my nose similar to soda water or diet cola, not so appealing. The Northern Lager on the other hand had a spicy and sweet grain aroma, more appealing.




It wasn't until I was probably 17 years old before I even bothered to sip from the bottom of the bottle (if there were any remains, so not to get called out on a short pour). It smelt better than it tasted. Keep in mind I had already started University at 17. Living away from home, played pool in the campus bar at breaks, partied with people I met, but never drank anything. I just didn't want to.




There was nothing less appealing than seeing a bunch of guys drinking Coors Light and acting macho or like an idiot. It didn't seem much different from the underage drinking that took place in parks and the steps of public buildings. Being in someones apartment or dorm room didn't make it much different in my mind.




To this day I'm still amazed at my memory for the things I sensed back then. It really hasn't left me. I'll always be thankful for my memory.



Now, if I couldn't only remember names…

Lukey's Boat

Thinking back on that house, I've left out a few details. It really was the perfect house for a family of four. All the kids would be playing street hockey or basketball, or building a tree house in the woods behind the houses. That tree house was a rickety death trap. A bunch of kids in the neighbourhood put it together with bent nails and ply-wood that we found from various family home renovations or just lying around by the bog. It had about four different levels, each with it's own difficulty to get to. Though, on the top level we had a clothesline that was attached on a very steep angle towards a fence post. We jammed a wooded stick between a bearing that fit between the two lines and you know what we did with this... hold on for dear life and let gravity do its work. Within 10-15 seconds any kid would reach light-speed and have to bail ship early so as to not wrap themselves around the fence post. Kids. Small towns. I'll never understand.




Sorry, I got side tracked. Let me take you on a little trip into my home.





Upon walking home from school or band practice you come over a hill that was a bend. Right on the corner was this big yellow two story house that always reminded me of the face of some Transformer (I think it was the triangle front balcony). It was a little darker than cream yellow, but not yet mustard yellow, with giant off shaped granite or brown stone all over the bottom half of the house. The driveway was always very black tar that my Father seemed to spread over it with a small paint roller three times a summer. There was never any need for that much, but he seemed to think so. Now, who cares, let him do what he wants to do! But this was a giant driveway that seemed to stretch the length of a football field up a small hill.





At the top of this hill there was a car nook made by one side of the house and an 8 foot picket fence that came out the same distance of the house. The big reddish-brown picket fence also enclosed the big back yard that the dog ran around in. There was a gate door that opened outward towards the driveway and towards the back of the yard there was the other little enclosed pen and dog house. The dog even had it's own little perch in there so it could be 3 feet taller to see over the yard. The back part of the yard was covered in alder bushes and trees. To the far corner was a barn like shed with the same yellow siding and across from that was a big brick-laid, outdoor fireplace/ barbecue with a chimney (cool!).





Okay, so to get into the house just on the backside of the fence was a dugout stair well that went into the basement. In the basement was just a coat-room, deep freeze, clothes line where wet clothes, hockey gear, coats, boots, shoes, skateboards, etc were all stored, along with this bizarre white cupboard with various non-perishable food items that had to have been there since move in date (there was a box of Tang).





Here is the gold: Walking through that empty gray-paint room lead you into what every man dreams of. A room filled with barn board, cork walls surrounding that as well. Some stucco walls on the top half of one wall, and brown barn board on the lower half of the long wall. On that south wall was a cast-iron pot-belly stove (not actually functioning) that was a show piece for my Grandfathers welding work of sluts, pots, and kettles. The walls were filled with old oil lamps, yellow square hanging lamps, bar pictures and advertisements. Many sailor references were hung on the wall as well. On the small east wall was an electric train-set placed on a big piece of ply-wood. Just north of that was a little washroom. The long side of the north wall stretched a boat. Well, it was a boat cut in half.





It was Lukey's boat. Lukey's boat was actually a full functioning bar. The hull of the ship was forest green and the bar counter was a slick, shiny black. There was a ledge on the outer side of the ship that held 100+ curling trophies (Did I mention my Father was a champion curler? It never hit me until years later how good he actually was). Behind the bar was about two inches raised with this red retro patterned carpet, black cabinets lined the bottom half of the back wall which were full of glasses: beer glasses, wine glasses, martini glasses, scotch/rock glasses, cigar cases, various liquor cases, flasks, silverware, and lots of various liquors new and old. Some that were probably as old, if not older than my Father. Above the cabinets was this little tiny window that looked out into the backyard. Next to the window was an old ships bell. Under the ships bell there were two five litre wooden casks full of beer given to my Father as a wedding gift from his Brother-in-law. They were full and I cannot recall the two different brands.





The boat was fitted with a deep three basin sink, held a M*A*S*H liquor dispenser in the style of an IV bag. There was a mini fridge, nut bowls, taxidermy, a small television. Timothy Taylor wouldn't know what to do with himself in this place. It was a bar decked out like a ship. My parents used to have their own boat and cruise the Exploits before I was born.





I used to spend all of my spare time in this bar. It was cozy, warm, and inviting. It was filled with history and that train-set. Little did I know how much I'd grow to love pub and bar settings. When I got older I placed my drum-set in the bar where the train-set once was. I recorded some of my first bands in that room.





The strange thing about this bar is that aside from the two casks there was never beer in the fridge until my Uncle came to visit from British Columbia.

Goose Island: Matilda 2009

Goose Island: Matilda 2009

Matilda. What a beautiful name. I doubt it's after the movie directed by Dani DeVito or the book by Ronald Dahl. It's actually an old German name that means "mighty in battle." Seems odd to have a German name on a Belgian beer. However, Germany did enjoy invading Belgium and the cross of Belgian yeast and German hops would make sense.


Well, let's see what the beer has in store.


Pours a very interesting rusty, copper-orange, with golden hues. A nice white head that thins to a light film on top within seconds. There is a light haze, making this quite eerie. I was expecting a little more head on this one.


The nose is very fragrant. It perfumes flowers in a summer garden, followed by gooseberries, light and tart. There are some funky over-tones that give it the soapy Belgian character. There is a sweetness similar to peaches and golden raisins, which I'll give hint to some sulfur. Though, I'll remain firm with gooseberries ripe on a bush to sum this up. Wait, brett! Oh beautiful brett, you are hiding in there somewhere with that sour horse blanket and leather. I almost missed you with all of those fruity aromas. Warming the beer brings out wonderful things.


This is a smack of Belgian fruitiness. It hits with the peaches and even raspberries, stewed in candied ginger. This slides over the tongue to reach the alcohol warmth that rises up the cheeks, while the bitter endings slide back and down the hatch, leaving a soft warmth, that when exhaled though the nose comes that fragrant soap of roses and noble hops. The tartness of this fools you into thinking it is of a higher percentage than what it is. It's ripe berry forms give it a light medicinal quality, often found in Ports or sherry, yet not as strong. It has that ever lasting earthy, brett tingle on the tongue. It's candied alcohol, with a semi-dry tart finish.


The mouthfeel has a moderate carbonation for the style, as light bubbles tingle the sinuses, but this can go down smooth. The sweetness that lingers helps the ease of drinking. The body is fairly rich as well. The residual sugars a that of a soda spritzer, but leave more of that real barley sugar residue right in the middle of the tongue.


This is a mouthful of rusted gold. The bottle says it can age up to 5 years, however, I'd stick to drinking this fresh. There is a very beautiful hop bitterness in this one at this age, but I could only imagine how that would have played out fresh. I'd assume they would dominate the tartness and bring more of that earthy garden into aromas. It's spicy now, but the sugars are dominating, and it is only 7% ABV. I like my Belgians a little crisper, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't give this another go when I see a 2011 bottle kicking around.


If you like really classic Belgian style beers with a little twist, this is for you... that or tart white fruit wines.


I'd pair this with bacon wrapped scallops. There is a complexity in the differences in texture between scallops and bacon that is crisp on the edges with a little chew in the centre that mix salt, fat, and butter and a touch tamari would do this wonders. I personally find a lot of funky Belgian beers that have tartness, or brett to be complimented and boosted by a little salt. So feel free to chow down on some salty pretzels, just leave the garlic hummus out. Garlic is a definite NO! For the vegetarian, try steaming some water-chestnuts or cooking them in a pan with a little salt, tamari / soy sauce, and wrap them in nori. I think sushi rice would actually hinder the barley sweetness of this beer. The Peach and apricots are so nice, why mess with that?


Or for anyone, this would actually pair well with an arugula salad with a thick raspberry vinegrette.


Enjoi

That Old House and Buddy

I grew up in your typical middle class family. Two lovely parents, David and Marie, my older sister, Angie, and a Dog, Buddy. There were two cars in the driveway of a nice home on a fairly quiet street in a nice neighbourhood. No one ever locked their doors.




My Father was an accountant and a good business man. Had various businesses throughout his day before and after he worked for his Father's business, B.W. Bartle Ltd. a steel, metal, copper fabricator. Eventually he settled down with a Government job until he retired. However, once upon a time he used to co-own and manage local bar or pub. Interesting, considering he was never much of a drinker as long I've known him and as of a few years ago he hasn't had a beer touch his lips since.



My Mother, a social worker. Man, did she ever dig through the trenches of Newfoundland. Even this Christmas I continue to hear her stories of her working for child services. For example, one day she was sent out into some small community to inquire about someone's child. The man slides a gun through a hole in the door directed at Ms. Murphy. Well, luckily she was only with child services and not the Gaming Commission. Small towns. I'll never understand. She later moved on to work in a "retirement" home. Tough as nails, and a heart of gold. Not much of a drinker. It's always been the same for as long as I've known her. Once, maybe twice a month she'd drink a bottle of Donnini Merlot, generally two years old. Granted when she said she'd just want a glass, the bottle would be damn near finished by the end of the night. She held it well. Still wouldn't consider her a drinker. Especially not beer.




My Sister, an electrical engineer technologist (sounds fancy...it's pretty fancy). As a kid she was an athlete, a star of both the basketball team and baseball team. She was a straight "A" student, taking advanced courses, and seemed to be fairly popular (in my eyes). She was a musician. I could never understand why she didn't take her sax playing further than she did. A drinker, no more than any other weekend warrior. To that extent not even that much. Like many people these days, alcohol, gluten, etc affects her stomach in ways that would ring bells in anyone's head not to drink regularly.




The dog, was a dog. What a life. It was a mutt but predominantly a husky and lived to be 18 years old. From day one it would just run laps around the back yard, full tilt until it got hungry. It'd have a bowl of Dog Chow, a few laps of water, take a nap in the dog house, then with a shake to brush off some extra fur, KA-POW... back to running laps. This happened until the dog died. Literally woke up form a nap, started running, slipped on ice, had a stroke. Poor thing. The damn thing sure had some sort of Bartle genes, "too stubborn to die." Drinker, nahhh; it was a dog.



Me, well... How does one describe themselves in a brief paragraph? I'll battle that later.




I lived in that house from birth until the age of 16 years old. Big yellow house on Goodyear Ave. The house across the street had the same number (mail was a nightmare). Giant tree in the front yard, eventually cut down due to grub worms. Oddly enough there was always liquor in the cabinet. Generally some Five Star, London Dry Gin, various Irish Whiskeys, and always a bottle of Old Sam.




My grandfather, Bernard W. Bartle, a man I consider my hero in ways most children think Spiderman or The Hulk (no one liked Superman...), drank Old Sam. He once visited his Daughter , my Aunt, in British Columbia and had one of the local liquor stores order in a case of Old Sam. He was going to be there a month, and he liked what he liked. Still didn't drink that much. Just a "nip" here and there. Go figure.




So where did I get my beer appreciation? How did I ever figure beer was a substance worth drinking, let alone brewing, tasting, critiquing, judging, and enjoying?

Do you remember? I don't.

Do you remember the days of sitting outside of the post office with a Labatt's Max Ice tucked in your coat sleeve? Having a blast with your friends before you took your six pack purchased by your older sibling or cousin over to the park where you could continue to drink in public? Drinking until you got sick and ultimately yakked all over your best friends shoes? Remember what it was like to discover beer at an early age because you were really mature for your age?


Well, I don't. Maybe some of those things were just what it was like growing up in a really small town. I never understood the idea of drinking in public; on the steps of a Government building; in a public park on Church Road. It seemed there were more places to run when the cops came or too many people for all underage drinkers to be escorted home by a police officer. I guess I just never thought that was responsible and just seemed plain stupid to me. It also seemed stupid to me that I got in more trouble with cops and security guards from skateboarding than my friends did drinking on the steps of the post office. Small towns. I'll never understand.

Skateboarding wherever we could find a ledge, loading dock, hand-rail, staircase, hill, smooth pavement, etc. We weren't doing anything illegal, so we didn't run when the cops came.

The humble beginnings of rebellion.

Beer as Art

Fermentation,

you have stolen my heart.

Specifically ale and beer,

you please me most.

How does one dream without the flavours you produce upon my senses.

I hear you exhale

as my nose smells flowers in gardens undiscovered

and my tongue tingles with your intonation.

The touch is moody with the season,

yet you fill my veins with substance,

my brain with satisfaction.

Drunk is vitamins and wonder.

The discovery of mystery

and all parts creating harmony in song.

So let our senses dance and enjoy melody and rhythm

in all forms.

-
I am taking an alternate route to my beer writing. Beer as Art. Beer is art, simply put. It's my career, but something I link so closely to my heart. To be a brewer, cellarman, certified beer judge, critic, and drinker. I am a lover of the whole process; the tangible beer in the glass at any time of the day; the intangible social aspect of what beer brings to the table of friends. Civilization stems from fermentation. My heart beats on that concept. The rhythm of life wouldn't have a pulse without fermentation.

To me, beer is as important as music (I'm also a professional musician). Every beer book I read is building chops, knowledge, and a vocabulary. Every grain I taste, every hop I smell , every tea I brew is practicing my rudiments. Every beer I brew is another composition, theme and variation. Every bottle is my tangible copy for you. Every drop drank is a song, a painting, a conversation, contemplation, joy, satisfaction, dissatisfaction, you name it, it is craft, it is art.

This will provide tastings, technical and romantic.

This will provide my own reflections at the end of the day. Either from work, study, or play.

This is improvising on classics.

This is my journey through fermentation.


Enjoy.