I have nothing wise to write about the random accident that stole Bill Brand from us. Instead I’m leaning on Robert Earl Keen.
I go out on a party
To look for a little fun
But I find a darkened corner
‘Cause I still miss someone
And with apologies for Steve Earle, I’ll add . . . Save some up there for me, maestro.
History should not be a moving target, but sometimes it seems awfully hard to pin down.
I was already thinking about this before we visited the Delta Blues Museum in Clarksdale, Mississippi, yesterday. I’ve been sifting through a bunch of stories about Belgian White beers pre-Pierre Celis and many contain altogether different facts.
So two things from the Blues Museum. First, they’ve framed pages from a 1990 Living Blues article about Robert Johnson that includes maps to possible sites of the famed crossroads (where Johnson sold his soul to the devil in order to become a great musician) and to the various locations where he might be buried. The crossroads stuff is myth, of course, but the fact is nobody seems to be able to say for sure where his body ended up.
This doesn’t keep folks at each graveyard — in the early 1990s we used both sets of maps when we spent several weeks blues hunting in Mississippi, Arkansas and Tennessee — from claiming Robert Johnson is buried right there.
Second, the biggest display in the museum is set inside the sharecroppers cabin Muddy Waters lived in before leaving Clarksdale for Chicago. (Sierra isn’t into the blues, but she was pretty excited when she heard one of the songs. “Hey, Dad, that’s your ringtone.”)
The documentary showing on a screen behind a life-size wax statue of Waters (extra credit if you know his given name . . . without using Google or Wikipedia) includes an entertaining interview with Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. He tells a particularly colorful story about when he first met Muddy, and the bluesman had white paint dripping off his head because he was up on a ladder painting when Richards walked in.
Problem is, Marshall Chess of Chess Records points out Richards’ story is ridiculous. You never would have found Waters in overalls, paint brush in hand. That’s in the documentary, but how many times has Richards told the story when Chess wasn’t there to offer a correction? Chess doesn’t doubt Richards’ sincerity. He says that could be the way Richards remembers what happened, just that he’s wrong.
I’ve experienced the same thing recently, talking to two different brewers about a conversation they once had. Each remembers the details differently. Is one right? Must the other be wrong?
Do we need an absolute answer? Do we discard both versions? Or make them both part of history and figure the “truth” will sort itself out? The thing is that Richards’ story tells you something about him, but in this case leaves a false impression of Waters.
The photo at the top is from Dockery Farms, one of the stops on the Mississippi Blues Trail. Notice that despite the title on of the sign the following words acknowledge the blues didn’t have a single birthplace. That’s the way history works sometimes.
I’ve been amazed reading reports from SF Beer Week, and am even more astonished when I look over the ridiculously long list of events planned for Philly Beer Week. These are the big dogs, but Jay Brooks has pointed out “beer weeks” are popping up all over.
Has to be good for local beers, I think. But let’s hope we don’t get another round of arguing about which is the best beer city in the United States or where the best beers are brewed. Why? Read Ron Pattinson’s post on “Beer nationalism” and you should understand.
The world of beer is one exciting whole. Not a series of competing fragments. “Which country brews the best beer?” What sort of stupid question is that? “Where’s the pub?”, “Can I have a pint of that, please?”, “What are you having?” They’re good questions.
Brilliant.
– Here’s another reason SF Beer Week was a good idea: A beer tasting hosted at Alpha Sigma Phi in Berkeley. Yes, I too, had to get past the fraternity part. But Mario at Brewed for Thought put the event together and writes about it.
– Repeat after me. When I read that a beer has 108 or 128 or 104 IBU (when I read that a beer has 108 or 128 or 104 IBU) I will ask if that was measured in a lab or if that is calculated (I will ask if that was measured in a lab or if that is calculated).
Because I know of only two beers (the Samuel Adams Imperial Pilsner and Bell’s Big Head San Diego Style Ale brewed for the 2008 Craft Brewers Conference) that clocked over 100 IBU when verified by a laboratory. Everybody else is guessing.
So you should read the Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics entry in the Deschutes Brewery blog. Hop Henge Experimental IPA is brimming with hop flavor and bitterness. But in case you’ve been wondering about the 95 IBU listed on the label, well you won’t be seeing that number anymore.
The first time Deschutes had the beer tested the lab found 80 IBU. The brewers since beefed up the hop additions (resulting in a picture you should look at) and had Hop Henge tested again. This time 87 IBU.
The moral of the story for us is we will not again put 95 IBUs on the label. The moral of the story for you might be a wink next time someone tells you their beer has 120 IBUs in it (or even 95 for that matter).
Wink, indeed. And ask the brewer to talk about hop flavor instead.
Do you think you know where in the beer world this photo was taken?
If you’ve been paying attention it should be a gimme, but I think the picture is semi-pretty and there’s a lesson about drinking culture to be learned.
So if you think you know the city or state please leave your answer as a comment. Extra credit if you can be more specific.
Greetings from New Orleans (River Ridge, really, but close enough). Haven’t picked up a local beer yet, but will track down some Abita before we settle in to enjoy our first parade this evening. I’d grab some Dixie but I think that’s still being made in Wisconsin.
(In case it isn’t obvious we’re talking about Mardi Gras parades. Fat Tuesday is still more than a week off, but parades are in full swing in NOLA. The photo on the right is from the Barkus parade three years ago, where pets are the stars. Accommodation is cheaper this weekend, there are fewer tourists and we hope it is more civilized. Although Daria just stepped outside the RV park and a guy pulled up and asked her if she wanted to party.)
Driving across the Canjun prairie and swampland on the way in I was thinking it’s too bad this isn’t Session Friday. Mamou, Eunice, Lafayette and other spots in the region where you can easily find live music — at least if you like Zydeco, Cajun or Swamp Pop — are great places to sit down and “have what the next guy’s having.”
In fact, I wrote about this for The Session #9: Laissez les bons temps rouler! Something I thought about this morning as we cruised past Marc Savoy’s shop. Didn’t spot the store where I bought beer, though. Would have liked to have seen if they still have Milwaukee’s Best or if they’ve added an Abita beer to their stock.
And yes, before somebody points this out, I know there will be lagers on tap at the Crescent City Brewhouse. We’ll likely stop by the French Quarter tomorrow or Sunday. Takes a little extra planning when you are traveling in an RV.