scotchodysseyblog.com
scotchodysseyblog

John Hansell, editor of American whisky magazine Malt Advocate, prolific blogger via the What Does John Know? interface and whisky connoisseur for longer than my own personal tenure on this earth, asked this week what has happened to the truly great whiskies. Evidentally this was something John didn’t know and he solicited the opinions of his readers.

This question, and the responses to it, make for fascinating contemplation. That it is on one level merely a reincarnation of the “What whiskies are ‘the best’ and who is allowed to say so?” debate, one that really makes my blood boil, is not even important. Whether it is sycophancy or long memories and deep pockets, others have noticed the same thing: new whiskies just aren’t floating their boats.

For a number of reasons, chiefly financial means and age, I am not in a position to be able to lament the passing of Springbanks and Balvenies from the 1960s. Having never drifted into the orbits of these meteors, their craters have not appeared on the relatively virgin surface of my whisky experience, denying me their context and reference. So I should probably just shut up, then, and go away: I don’t know what I’m talking about.

Except I left my own comment underneath John’s polemic suggesting another side to the story, as did other new whisky converts. We have been drawn into the same discursive and appreciative environment, inhabitted by these old malt stagers where we seem to embody similar passion and dedication, not by those Springbanks and Balvenies but by these newer, slighted, whiskies. As John himself confessed: “If you’re relatively new to whisky drinking and all you’ve tasted are “80s” whiskies, then that’s the perspective you have on whisky in general. Maybe you think they’re all great? I suspect that I was like that when I first started out.” Of course you were, John. We all must start somewhere. Mr Hansell’s impressively long list of encounters with the astounding, the mediocre, and the downright hideous, accumulated over the thirty years since his first dram, has created a playing field of such breadth that any bottling, released in 2010 or any other year, is increasingly unlikely to be capable of expanding its touchlines.

But this doesn’t necessarily mean whisky is sliding into mediocrity. He has simply been fortunate enough to sample malt that has been as good as it is possible for a whisky to be. To his tastes. He came by whisky that had realised its full potential. So profoundly can such an encounter with what our past experience would suggest is perfection act on us, abide with us and hold our hearts, imaginations and memories hostage, that of course any whisky that fails to reproduce the amazement, euphoria and desire of that unprecedented malt moment is destined to disappoint; it might not be a bad whisky at all, but because it isn’t as awesome we grow despondent. Had we tasted the latter dram prior to the former, it might have occupied that berth of Exalted Benchmark. We must remember that how we appreciate and favour whisky is deeply personal and unpredictable. It seems to me that these battle-scarred old whisky aficionados are hankering after their adolescent first loves. They miss the rawness, purity and breathless hedonsitic excitement of the new discovery. Well sorry, guys, but we all evolve and move on. It’s obligatory. To don our rose-tinted spectacles and reminisce from time to time is not wrong, its human nature. John will say that he still has his 1974 Longrow and 1966 Balvenie kicking around to decimate the field of challengers. But eight years separate those two malts. I would say it is a little premature to condemn the whisky industry after only twelve months with nothing to match these individual drams, no doubt paragons of their generations and regional styles. ‘Lagavulin 1967′ is right, we must “re-tune our expectations”.

I also believe that whisky is like anything else in the scope of human achievement: there will come a point when we cannot run the 100 metres any faster; cannot express love any more powerfully; cannot travel any farther in space. There will come a time when we reach the ceiling of how good barley, yeast, water and oak married together can taste, and we can bump our heads against it as much as we like, the limits of excellence have been set by the capacities of nature.

I think this explains our ambivalence towards all this recent distiller tinkering. We know that greatness can be charmingly simple and isn’t predetermined by ppm and an exotic finishing wood. In my mind, this is the industry attempting to recreate the singularity and diversity which characterised the dram from the past, before each facet of the production process was analysed, modified and controlled to death. Prior to the 1980s, the quality, yield and character of batches of malt, made on-site, varied; conditions in the wooden washbacks varied; stillmen’s judgements as to when to take the middle cut varied; casks varied. You could be unlucky and the resulting whisky could be loathesome. Or each little inconsistency could conspire and add up to something extraordinary.

However, this “winging it” approach to quality control is not how you maintain market share. Whisky’s apotheosis over the last two decades is astonishing. It is no longer just the fanatical connoisseur who buys malt, it is now a product bankrolled by the masses. Whether it is a lifestyle purchase or an interest in trying something different, the requirement is still that it tastes good.

Encouraged by the popularity of their distilleries’ single malts, to make the maximum returns Head Office increases the proportion of annual production bottled as single malt to quench the thirst. We have seen almost a complete reversal of policy in this regard. Whereas once 95% plus of production would go to blenders, there are now some distilleries not a drop of whose spirit can be found in a blend. Previously it would be easy to hold back five from every hundred casks which were really exceptional and bottle them for the cognoscenti who knew about single malts. Times change, and now everyone knows about malt whisky. Suddenly fifty casks from every hundred must end up in a bottle with only the distillery’s name on the label, and the greatness of a limited number of individual casks must be sacrificed to pep up the majority of plainer spirit. Despite all this “wood management” business, the reality is that some casks yield better whisky than others. You don’t have to be an economist to see that the master blender is obliged by his bosses to throw the majority into a vatting for the next ten- or twelve-year-old, then bottle the tiny fraction of what is left in a fancy wooden box with a smart label, a natty little scroll and a price tag of £400. Whisky is a business now. If we don’t like the sea of pleasant but unexciting drams in our local supermarket and that truly artisanal and antiquated nectar comes at a premium, we only have ourselves to blame.

Whisky, like the British monarchy, has been re-modelled for the 21st Century. For mainstream survival, both have had to appear more moderate, more civilised, more uniform and more approachable. That doesn’t mean that Lizzie, with her stamps and corgis, doesn’t have the bombastic blood of her forebears running in her veins. It is quite simply that the Alfred the Greats and Henry VIIIs are difficult to market these days. Constructing empires and reforming churches is all very well, but beheading a lot of women and being quite insane is not a reputation quickly brushed off. Single malt is no longer single-minded and must appeal to a broader range of palates. Those iron-fist-in-the-velvet-glove whiskies are not gone forever, just the world in which they first came to prominence has. The good news is that there is every likelihood the consumers will, like each and every one of us at some stage, start to demand complexity and greatness, and by then the distillers should have the stocks to satisfy them.

Some of my favourite pre-dinner malts: perfect delicacy but also full-on flavour.

You wouldn’t take a howler monkey to Wimbledon. You wouldn’t show up at work on Monday morning wearing only your swimming trunks (or would you?). You wouldn’t eat beef bourguignon for breakfast. Time and Place is the discrepancy in operation here, and particularly in our Western society the failure to observe what is appropriate in any given circumstance is liable to invite ridicule upon oneself. There are things which are simply not done and if you are unfortunate enough to be caught doing them you are castigated as tactless, benighted - even a savage.

Equally, there are pairings which share an indestructible complimentary tie, combinations which are both wholesome and pleasing: Stephen Fry and any television programme with a cultured or intellectual subject; Emma Watson and Chanel; English football on the international stage and crushing, embarrassing disappointment. These work.

It is the same with malt whisky, only the time and place for a dram is not prescribed by social stigma but by deep personal discoveries. As I’m sure a lot of malt lovers can appreciate, after a certain point some brands and expressions become mainstays of a special hour in the day or location in the world. Treating them like Steven Gerrard and playing them out of position simply comes over all wrong.

Very recently I reached this juncture myself. In his Malt Whisky Companion, Micheal Jackson speaks of the “particular” pleasure of the stuff: “the restorative after a walk in the country or a game of golf; the aperitif; even, occasionally, the malt with a meal; the digestif; the malt with a cigar, or with a book at bedtime.” I have sampled whisky in all of the above situations (although stroke out golf and cigars) at some point and can now declaim that, for me, a dram pre-dinner is my absolute favourite ‘Moment for a Malt’. The exploration of flavour in liquid form is a marvellous prelude to the more substantial main event. The olfactory and digestive mechanisms, in moist anticipation, make to intensify the properties of whichever whisky I’m sipping. This is especially true on Sunday evenings when my malt has medicinal qualities, too (even when it is not an Islay), remedying the fever symptomatic of the atrocities endured over the course of a Sunday Lunch shift at the pub where I work. At such a time, the delicate, smooth, captivating sweetness of youthful Speysiders is highly prized. The Glenlivet 12-year-old and Tomintoul 16-year-old used to do the job in the past. These now long empty, I look to my bottle of the superb Longmorn 15-year-old and the majestic Linkwood 12-year-old. Vanilla, oak, flowers and fruit, and a touch of peat compose an irresistible flavour profile.

Perhaps still more extraordinary, however, is Caol Ila. Although memories of cycling around the gorgeous distilleried stretch between Rothes and Elgin endows these two malts made on the Lossie with more favourable significance, I rate Caol Ila an unbeatable aperitif. The balance of soft fruity sweetness, crisp, deep peat and supreme malty delicacy is wonderful. At present, I find the Distillers’ Edition with little or no water a joy to drink.

Of course I shall continue to experiment. I suspect my dearth of support for a post-prandial malt is because I have so few bottles whose contents fit the bill. I haven’t many aged, Sherry-matured bruisers. Dark and bewitching cannot be readily applied to the inductess of my drinks cabinet. Mortlach 16-year-old works well with music after a meal but less so with television; Ardbeg Uigeadail demands commitment and certainty to be poured and savoured; the Auchentoshan 1978 is very powerful indeed at 59% ABV. All are complex malts, but haven’t yet seemed to marry with my after dinner moods. The 30-year-old Glenfarclas, however, could without a doubt address matters, and the Gordon & MacPhail Strathisla 49-year-old Sandy poured me in Dufftown to round off my fillet steak and clootie dumpling was revelatory. This last is of course a ‘Malt Moment’ in its own right.

As for whisky with a meal, testing has proven inconclusive. Glenfarclas 15-year-old with dark chocolate? Not a winner. Oban 14-year-old with salmon? Well, I’ll try almost anything once. Auchentoshan 3Wood with Christmas cake? Scoreless draw. Whisky and food pairing is an avenue many are keenly striding down, and there are some persuasive articles around to tempt me, but I feel that, for the time being, I won’t risk spoiling the impact of my whiskies when the inclination to have one arises.

The Dalmore 15-year-old: a Twilight Whisky.

If the evening is wearing on, however, now may well be the time for another malt. Though not as appealing as aperitifs, “Twilight Whiskies” can be fantastic. The Dalmore 15-year-old is an astonishingly lovely and easy-drinking dram. I adore its opulent, richness, firmness, nuttiness, fruitiness and light dab of ground coffee-esque peat. For a late-night malt, it is without equal and indeed I polished off my bottle, with regret but with friends, earlier this week. Highland Park 12-year-old is a steely competitor, though, as the light dies from the sky. I sipped some as Iniesta secured the World Cup for Spain and delighted in the echoes of my drizzly Orkney causeways which slid out of my glass.

Of course, these are no more than hunches, and most likely are all subject to change. I welcome modification, in fact, because there are few simpler joys than a blissful half-hour with just the right-tasting malt – whenever and with whichever style of whisky that happens to be. If tomorrow I discover that my precious Longmorn actually works rather splendidly immediately after a mid-morning chocolate croissant then for such future occasions shall I reserve and savour it. Although maybe I ought not to make a habit of doing so, and definitely it should be out of sight of disapproving parents. When are your favourite Moments for Malt? Have they evolved over the years? I’m made dizzy by future possibilites for my whisky-drinking: Ardbeg Corryvreckan with Power Bar energy gels post half-marathon? You never know how mood and malt may conspire to create sensory wonderment.

So then, for means of reflection, conversation, restoration or an endless list of other purposes, at any time find an excuse for a wee dram. Even if it is in the manner of those monkeys slapping at typewriters, you may hit upon the perfect marriage of whisky and circumstance. It is so very rewarding. Houseman wrote: “and malt does more than Milton can. To justify God’s ways to man.” Meditating on that aphorism alone would be apt inspiration to root around in the cupboard for something tasty.

Will I be a collector when I grow up? Prior to my Scotch whisky odyssey I would have dismissed such a probability with a contemptuous “not on your nelly”.

Perhaps as a consequence of the style of my initiation into the spirit at The Glenlivet, I left the distillery in 2007 with a devout enchanted appreciation of the craft, passion and personality at the core of Scotch malt whisky. That the legacy and struggles of those first amateur distillers bore no relation to predominating concerns for economic fluctuations or sober accrual and display, which motivate some consumers today, was a belief from which I could not be negotiated. Big ideas and big personalities had shaped the fortunes and flavours of the distilleries behind the iconic malts of now. Why had they persevered through economic disaster, World Wars, devastating accidents and destruction; why had they innovated and invested to create the best-tasting spirit possible for us, and in so doing intertwining their own histories, hopes and characters with the drink, only for it to sit on a shelf untouched and incarcerated: an ornament instead of an elixir; a relic instead of a companion?

I may have waited for the opportune moment to open and enjoy the bottle of 18-year-old Glenlivet we purchased that day in 2007, and I liked to read about old and rare bottlings, but my principal goal was connoisseurship: the quest to discover nuance, power, antiquity, youth, to learn how to distinguish the great from the good. What use, then, was a sealed bottle of whisky to me? It fell tragically short by at least 80% of realising its full sensory potential. So synonymous is Scotch whisky, for me, with Scotland and the Scottish, so intuitive and indisputable did that sip of The Glenlivet in the dramming room demonstrate said link to be as I imbibed the distillation of place, history and art, that I could not be content with appearances and myth alone. I needed to experience whisky and all that it related to for myself.

And now, having gone so far to do just that already, one of the results seems to be an urge to acquire, to set aside, to enshrine. It appears I want to start a collection. It suddenly and unexpectedly makes sense. After having visited so many distilleries and spied out further sites diligently, quietly making malt, the proud traditions and idiosyncracies of whisky manufacure in Scotland are more comprehensively understood, more colourfully evoked and more ardently valued. I feel a need to recognise and venerate the industry; the past present and future of which is contained in every bottle. I also want to manifest in precious amber liquid some of my fondest and most unrepeatable encounters and experiences. A bottle of malt is again a distillation, albeit cerebrally, of my favourite malt moments. I will still drink and evaluate the stuff, of course – I love the flavour exploration, a journey in its own right – but I am going to experiment with my new inclination to preserve.

Three months’ ago I would have agreed entirely with a statement found in a Whiskeria (the magazine for The Whisky Shop and full of excellent articles from leading whisky writers, free in-store) article from the Summer 2009 issue. Within ‘To Drink Or Not To Drink…’ the author advanced the drinkers’ creed: “…it’s criminal to take a product that was lovingly crafted using skills honed over generations, put it in oak more than 100 years old, mature it for 25, 30 or 40 years and then stick it under the stairs. It is a drink, they [those in favour of drinking] say, and it should be drunk. Any other fate for it is disrespectful.” Now, however, I can see that this inventory of the credentials of whisky’s heritage and artisanal quality can still stand as supporting evidence for the other side of the debate. I am ignoring for the purposes of this article that the preservation of rare and unusual bottlings can be an altruistic act, making it possible for those with curiosity (and money) enough in the future to taste what whisky was like in the dim occluded past, and I am also going to largely overlook the trade in exclusive whiskies for substantial profit. I think setting some precious bottles aside shows tremendous respect for the time and skill required to create fine malt whisky: it demonstrates, in my view, an appreciation, a reverence even, for whisky’s alchemy, tradition and significance. It is an entity built to last like high art, jewellery and architecture. It is not disposable like so many other things in our culture and collections recognise that. We do not devote rooms and our hobbies to the mundane and mediocre.

Expressions from The Dalmore had appealed to me as the focus of a collection on account of their beauty. After this 15yo the prices spike upwards pretty steeply, though.

Of course, whisky’s shelf life makes it a prime candidate for delayed gratification. If you never rip the seal, release the cork and pour the malt into your tumbler/copita/ubiquitous Glencairn glass you can “savour it, enjoy the anticipation of it.” It will be there for that “very special occasion” or you can pass it on, “sell it to someone else who will get to share in the pleasure of ownership.” (Whiskeria) If you collect and buy rare whisky you become part of a very special chain of human interest and acquaintance stretching maybe decades back in time. You are snagged in a web of connections, for collectors keep exhaustive archives of the history of their star expressions, with one particular bottle of whisky, whose life and character you have contributed to, at its focus. As a recent post about a Ladyburn bottling on WDJK? demonstrated, this web can include us more than once and is always liable to surprise.

But to get specific about my personal ambitions for a collection: what would I rather survey than swallow? What is better in the bottle than my belly? What will get my mental juices flowing but maybe never my mouth’s? It is the final query which harnesses the crux of the matter. I am not interested in stashing away whisky for the sake of its age, its rarity or a slight imperfection in its packaging. The whiskies, or more correctly the distilleries, I wish to preserve all have special meaning for me. The two malts below have especial significance on account of the key dates related to them. The Glenlivet Nadurra was the first malt in my collection and came to be so by accident. I had bought it with the full intention of drinking it but upon getting it home I realised the date of its bottling: the 16-year-old Speyside had reached its full potential and been sealed in glass in October 2007. My own obsession with whisky began at the same distillery in the same month of the same year. The Glengoyne was presented to me unexpectedly when I arrived at the distillery. Its label reads: “Specially bottled for James Saxon on the occasion of his visit to Glengoyne distillery. 21st May 2010.” The journey from October 2007 to 21 May 2010, the penultimate day of my recent single malt adventure, is quite an extraordinary one, and it shall be commemorated by these two bottles.

The Glenlivet Nadurra and the Glengoyne 17YO: the first bottles of my collection.

I want to hunt out further bottles which represent an encounter, flavour or motif of my travels. Single cask Bourbon-matured Aberlours will always take my fancy, for example. I would also happily drain my bank account for cask strength Lagavulin. So perfect a microcosm of Speyside was Aberlour and so picturesque, relaxed and romantic was Lagavulin that their spirit will forever more have the singular spiritual overtones of my journey.

There are two distilleries most of whose bottlings I will aim to source. That Glen Garioch is one of these will come as no surprise to those who read my blog while I cycled round Scotland. As it happens I will be in the Speyside/Aberdeenshire neck of the woods at the beginning of September to take the VIP Tour of the distillery, catch up with Fiona and Jane and make the purchase I promised I would in the presence of these ladies as I clattered back out of the VC into the rain for the return leg to Huntly. I am after a special Glen Garioch, symbolic of my first visit, the hardships faced before and after and of having completed the journey with Fiona and Jane’s notable touching encouragement. Following the re-branding of the distillery’s range, the first two of their new “Small Batch Releases” comprised the 1978 (30-year-old) Cask Strength and the 1990 (18-year-old) Cask Strength. The latter, as it shares my birth year, is a most apt acknowledgement of my greatest achievement to date, some of the most extreme 24 hours within it, and of two of the loveliest people I have ever stumbled upon.

The other uber-distillery is Mortlach, Speyside’s “secret star” according to Michael Jackson. For the three nights I spent in Dufftown, Mortlach was a stone’s throw from my B&B. When I walked to the shop for supplies each morning, the pagodas, silver smokestack and steam were visible down in the hollow and the smell of mashing and worts intoxicating when the wind was right. It also turned out to be the favourite whisky of the demi-god of my adventure: Sandy from Taste of Speyside. He grew up beside Mortlach, and the 16-year-old is a whisky he recommends to all of his patrons. In my experiences with this malt Before the Tour (BT) I had been impressed but hadn’t raved. Now I find the earthy smokiness and dark Sherried richness nothing short of enthralling. For me, it evokes a more traditional Speyside flavour profile and that it is closed to visitors so that it might better get on with producing whisky adds to the mystery and pure, serious, aura. Its different-shaped stills and complex distillation run is charmingly quirky and the recent release by Gordon & MacPhail of a 70-year-old proves its venerable nature. This is a distillery of antiquity: it is for eternity. Of course, if I wish to amass a complete collection of Mortlach it will mean £10,000 for this last expression. Rather a lot, really.

When back up in Speyside in late summer I intend to celebrate Mortlach’s significance to me with another purchase and I shall return to The Whisky Castle in Tomintoul, my favourite malt emporium run by the unmissable Mike and Cathy, to make it. I’m looking for an independent bottling, 14-20 years old, Sherry-matured and possibly cask strength. Research on their website has unearthed a Douglas Laing, a Dewar Rattray and an Adelphi which fit the description. I shall try and taste each and make my choice as to which shall be a cupboard stalwart, my 70cl Ambassador for Mortlach, Sandy and Speyside.

Neither the 1990 Glen Garioch nor the Mortlach should be over £70. They are not, therefore, unjustly expensive (the key barrier at present for seriously embarking on this collecting business and I cannot afford to buy two of anything so that I might have the best of both worlds, but everyone has to start somewhere) and this is because they are not particularly rare. In my possession, on my shelf, though, they shall exude the pure, complex light and bearing of precious memory and times past. On the subject of “anticipation” and delayed gratification, however, they may yet contribute to magical moments to come, shared with someone I feel comfortable writing in to my developing whisky saga. Never say never.

It seems I am quite low down on the whisky blogger pecking order, but higher than I had suspected. Forty-eight hours or so after the debates began on What Does John Know? and the Edinburgh Whisky Blog amongst others, the press release concerning Chivas Brothers’ new consumer education campaign dropped into my inbox.

This is a fascinating topic, one that is both timely and crucial for the industry’s future. Experimentation and innovation are circling like a Viking mob whisky’s (and especially Scotch whisky’s) ancient castle keep with tradition, protectionism and legislation its bricks and mortar. Not only are people coming up with new ways of making and marketing whisky, but they are finding increasing popularity and plaudits for their efforts. Time, then, for the old guard to reassert some long upheld “truths”.

Let it be known that I am not enacting unreasonable militancy against the big corporate players. Without them, we would not have reached this glorious peak of single malt variety. I cannot help but feel, however, that Chivas, a branch of Pernod Ricard, are reacting in a rather heavy-handed way to the recent spate of no-age-statement bottlings proliferating on our retailers’ shelves. They commissioned a survey of 2,000 people who had purchased whisky in the previous month. They found that 94% believed that age was an indicator of quality; 93% believed that whiskies with a higher age statement were of a higher quality, and 89% look for an age statement before contemplating buying. Yet only 10% knew what the age statement referred to in relation to the contents of the whisky they sought to buy. Where has this prejudice come from, and who is responsible for further light not having been shed on the benighted 90% of the public? It is the whisky makers themselves in both cases.

Think about it, if the men in high office decide that they are going to commence stating an age, with all the legal requirements that such a declaration entails, they are going to devise an effective piece of marketing to coincide with it. Rather than necessarily inform the consumer what it means with bold exactitude, they are more likely to reassure the man or woman browsing the shelves that it means a better whisky for him or her. On my distillery tour, I encountered many casual tourists who, despite the best efforts of various guides, still had some trouble digesting the true definition behind the age statement. I cannot see how this is anyone’s fault bar the companies themselves. The misleading belief that older equals better suits them just fine.

So why are Chivas trying again now? As I mentioned above, the conservative approach to whisky marketing and labelling has taken quite a beating as smaller companies have whipped up serious committed followings for the younger products of their distilleries. The Glenmorangie Company is the inevitable case study, with both the Ardbeg and Glenmorangie ranges boasting NAS bottlings. Their success (with Rollercoaster, Uigeadail, Corryvreckan and Signet) would call into question the extent to which the attitudes found in the Chivas survey actually signify a devout adherence to age statements – shunning all others; or whether vague suspicions are not quite enough to deter some from purchasing one of these new and much-hyped whiskies of indeterminate age. My guess is that it is the latter, and this is why Chivas are pumping money, time and awareness into reviving the old prejudices.

Another reason for drawing the consumer back to age statements is that all of their needs could be satisfied by those brands in the Chivas stable. They style themselves as “the world’s leading producer of luxury Scotch whisky” and I’m fairly sure they base this on the fact that their portfolios contain bottles whose age statements reach and exceed 25-years-of-age in the case of Chivas Regal and The Glenlivet. An awful lot of Chivas whisky comes with a number on it. The perceived ignorance of the legal definition of age statements is a great opportunity to remind people of all the fine age-statemented whisky they have available.

The video on The Glenlivet website states the latest position of their owners loud and clear: “A guarantee of age. A guarantee of quality.” These are slogans, not truths, and they have not addressed the dearth of understanding, rather perpetuated the misconceptions. This is no time to aim for aphorisms for one cannot impart total understanding on this subject in a soundbite. In their press release they put forward the scenario that because “one of the greatest influences on the flavour of a whisky comes from maturation,” (no arguments there, this is consistent with the chemistry behind whisky making) “it follows that the longer the maturation period, the more complex the whisky.” Now this is frankly dangerous territory. In a piece of publicity with semantics such as “luxury”, “quality” and ”premium”, the word “complex” adopts connotations of desirability; perhaps inflated connotations. The implication is surely that older is better. Words have been used, and I suspect will be deployed again in the “point-of-sale materials, advertising and public relations” that will drive this campaign, to sell an idea about whisky, as opposed to deliver the low-down on the facts.

I won’t deny that it is a fairly reliable guide, but it does not always “follow” that complexity comes with age. I tried a single cask Caol Ila at 30-years-old that was very straightforward ex-Bourbon oak in flavour. The Kilchoman Second Release is one of the most complex malts I have tasted for quite some time and it is only a toddler at just over 3-years-old.  You must arm the consumer with more than this simplistic correlation masquerading as a rule if you are to set him or her away into the expanding and evolving world of single malt whisky. Say Consumer X starts out with Chivas Regal 12yo, moves on to Aberlour 10yo, then The Glenlivet 18yo and, having enjoyed this initial journey so much, maybe starts reading a few blogs, magazines or books, and decides he would like to pick up a single cask bottling at 21-years-of-age… and hates it. Say Consumer X is undetered and plumps for a 30yo from a distillery he has heard good things about, a special treat… and he hates that one, too. He has not, as Christian Porta of Chivas Brothers Ltd. asserts, been “empowered with knowledge”, at least, not the knowledge he needed. Why should it be the agenda to convince Customer X about “the value of what [he is] buying” in preference to the make up and process behind what he is buying? Only with that can Customer X work out why his 21 and 30yos were not to his taste, and make a different choice next time round. If his central, indeed sole, tenet is that older is better, where is he to go after his traumatic experiences? Most likely he will head straight out of this confusing, intimidating drinks sector and into another. Let’s not risk alientating new-comers by serving them absolutes. It is the drinks equivalent of “Teach a man to fish…” Whisky production is a complicated, unpredictable exercise all the quirks and foibles of which no-one truly understands. I appreciate that it is hardly effective marketing to proceed with the “ifs” and “buts”. I also accept that new customers want certainty, indeed, the very “transparency and authenticity” of which Porta speaks, so create a campaign that steers clear of the subjective and vague and sets out in more detail the true nature of the beast from the off.  That this topic has spawned the levels of discussion that it has demonstrates that this is not something a logo can clear up.

Just as the wood is “one of the greatest influences on the flavour of whisky”, the age is only one of the facts we need to be told to make a truly informed purchase. I would like to see information on the age, cask type, number of fills of cask, proportion of malt matured in each different cask (if there is more than one), peating level, filtration, colouring. If I was being really pernickety I would want to know if any and if so what proportion of whisky had been matured centrally or at the distillery itself. There is a long way to go but if the industry is committed to enlightening its customers then these steps will eventually be taken, and others feel the same. See Steffen Brauner’s comments on the WDJK? post.

Notice that I have not come out and denounced age statements themselves. I believe they are crucial information. It should be said, of course, that all whiskies have a minimum age, but this again depends on your knowledge of whisky laws. Nothing can be called whisky unless it is a minimum of 3-years-old. Anyway, the age statement helps me in my browsing because I know that an 8-10yo whisky will be quite bold and basic in its palette, with a liveliness. 18yo+ will probably be mellow, deep and, yes, complex. However, this is only as a result of past experience, not what any brand has told me. In addition, this is only what I expect age to have done to the whisky’s character and body. I don’t know what it will taste like. Novices may see an 18yo Laphroaig (a fine malt) and buy it believing it to be complex, and having been told that complex equals quality, quality equals good. But what if they don’t like complexity in the shape of peat, seaweed and oak? I think there needs to be a joint effort across the industry, began by Diageo’s Flavour Map, to classify by the sensory appreciation of a malt, not the obscure theoretical discrimination of quality care of maturity.

Lastly, I would keep age statements at all costs because that number, when properly understood, tells me, if nothing else, of the time and heritage behind what I am sipping. I’m still in a position where I can affordably drink whisky older than I am, and that is quite incredible when I think about it. I respect my elders, and a 25yo malt is something to savour and appreciate. Its creation and the means by which it has come to me were not carelessly left to chance and are not to be dismissed. It is in this sense that I agree with the “Investing in Age” section of The Glenlivet site. It is true that “there are no shortcuts in this process. Nothing can be rushed.” If the sole achievement of your campaign is that this is more widely understood, then you have done a great service to the industry, Chivas. I might not agree that “The Age Matters”, but age itself unquestionably counts for a great deal.