Making Solace of Cioran: Longrow 14 Year Old Cask Strength Campbeltown Single Malt Scotch Whisky

IMG_20140409_164405_594~2For some ungodly reason, I will often, after pouring myself a dram of some elixir from the Springbank distillery, take a volume of the writings of that sad, incisive pessimist, E. M. Cioran, down from my bookshelf. I’ll then sit in a comfortable chair to sip, savor and read. Cioran is not for the gloomy. If you’re already glum or predisposed to despair, I suggest you avoid him. Cioran tasted long and deep of a troubled life and he proclaimed it a joke of which the punch line is always and inevitably some mix of mortification and misery. Still, for no good reason that I can discern, the older I get, the more I feel compelled to read him. His writings often force us to admit things our egos toil to keep us from reckoning…

I have all the defects of other people and yet everything they do seems to me inconceivable.

Every friendship is an inconspicuous drama, a series of subtle wounds.

Not one moment when I have not been conscious of being outside Paradise.

And the mood gets even lower, darker than that…

The more you live, the less useful it seems to have lived.

Now, I have long been married to a profoundly sensible, steadfast and caring woman; with her, I have raised two whole and healthy, intriguing children who continue to surprise me and to make me proud. I have had wondrous, inspiring experiences in theater and in writing and performing music. I have a handful – just the right number – of very bright, very captivating, very generous friends. So, why in hell do I so often get stuck on, and find myself nodding in agreement with, Cioran, that brilliantly unhappy man? And why, when I am feeling most compelled to read him, am I nearly always clutching a Springbank dram? Frankly, dear reader, I haven’t the faintest idea. That’s just how it is.

The Whiskey

This Longrow is heavily peated for a Campbeltown malt – don’t expect Ardbog or a Laphroaig or a cask strength Lagavulin – all completely different experiences from this. It was distilled on the Kintyre peninsula at the Springbank Distillery in June of 1998, matured for 14 years in a fresh Madeira cask, and bottled in December of 2012. It has an ABV of exactly 50 percent.


This deep copper-gold fluid coats my nosing glass like a fine, crystalline wax. Hold it up to the light and you may glimpse a slight shading of pink – a Madeira sunset? – amidst the liquid copper and limpid gold, but you will have to wait a minute or two for any legs to form. Not that this whisky is thick as tar sands oil or anything of that sort – it’s just the nature of this elixir to hold on firmly with both grace and tenacity. This unusual characteristic is common among the cask strength bottlings of the Springbank distillery. (9/10)


This could not have come from any distillery but Springbank. No other distiller in Scotland employs such a broad, eccentric, unorthodox approach to maturation, which is often a double maturation (never a “finishing” in the conventional sense) in the likes of Australian Shiraz or rum or Gaja Barolo barrels, or single-mindedly single maturations in odd casks, from a dozen years in ex-Burgundy or Calvados wood to the present whisky’s 14 years in a fresh Madeira cask. And yet, hold your nose over a glass of any of these fluid eccentricities – be they unpeated Hazelburns or lightly peated Springbanks or more heavily peated Longrows – and you will know immediately it came from the Springbank distillery. There is a family resemblance to every product of this admirably sui generis manufacturer. If you fall in love with one of this masterful whisky-maker’s daughters, you should be (and will be) happy to marry any one of his daughters – really, they are all wonderful, each in their own idiosyncratic way.

But, moving along…

The first thing one senses, exhaling like breath from the whisky in this glass, is the aroma of intoxication. Earthy, autumnal, vegetal, smoky, mossy, grainy and intoxicating. The smell of moist earth crumbling in your hand, the aroma of a field ripe for harvest, the vegetal freshness and sweetness of sprouted barley, an old forest after a days-long rainstorm – and, coming through it all, the promise of forgetfulness and of the nearly erotic dissipation of the stresses and strains of daily life. If finding a reason to affirm even an unhappy life had a smell, this would be it. (19/20)


The sweetness here is neither honey nor sugar. There may actually be a gentle wisp of that darker, heavier demerara sugar, maybe even molasses-soaked brown sugar, but it’s all riding on malt, on the inherent sweetness of barley grain. Yet this is not what most of us would call a sweet whisky – far from it. Earthy peat, new leather and tobacco are evident, as are oak and a somewhat winey, murky Madeira. There is a pleasant saltiness here as well. And nocturnal loam, as if you were lying in a garden at 3am and turned your head against the trowelled bed. There may be some dried fruit in there, but it isn’t prominent. Coconut, a common characteristic of the Springbank profile, is quite pronounced in the palate – surprising considering I didn’t pick up even a hint of it on the nose. (19/20)


You have two choices here. You can accentuate the earthy leatheriness, sweet maltiness and a somewhat biting, white pepper spice by swallowing this undiluted, or you can add water and bring out a more floral earthiness, a lighter, sweeter maltiness, a more complimenting, less dominant spice and, much to my surprise, just a hint of juniper/gin on the finish. Try it both ways – either is good and, whichever way you choose, you’ll get that wondrous slow burn spreading like dazzling contentment through your chest. Good stuff, this is… (18/20)


The promise of that glowing, coating, copper-gold potion in my glass was manifest in the nose, palate and finish of this whisky. In fact, once this had oxidized a bit in the bottle (I didn’t care for it for a week after opening), every aspect here became compelling and even seductive. This whisky does not ape the experience of some slinky fling, as many NAS and “reformulated” Scotch whiskies do; this whisky is a good, long marriage to a good, long suffering spouse. This is the kind of drink you learn to respect – and to go back to again and again. It does not exhibit the tight, clear structure that I have tremorously enjoyed in several scintillating drams from, say, The Maltman or The Exclusive Malts; no, this feels a little less clear, but richer all the same – more like life itself. It isn’t perfect – whatever that means – but it knows to counter its malty sweetness with a pinch of salt, its savory leatheriness with coconut and pepper, and its deep, smoky earthiness with a slightly sweet, vegetal breeze. As balanced as it should be. (18/20)

Quality of the Buzz

For some of us (Cioran, me and a million more), there’s a rancor at the core of life that, by the time we’re twenty-five years old or so, we have distracted ourselves from sufficiently to believe, most days, we have found some sort of happiness. Meanwhile, that rancor eats away at our souls, satisfaction is never felt deeply or long, resentments breed like cancer cells and the sordid, ever more palpable unfairness designed into the mechanics of the human world becomes so conspicuous as to be unbearable…

So, how do we endure? How do we reconcile ourselves to such a shabby, short, ignoble life? To an existence that is rendered ever more dreadful and unsatisfying as age breaks us down and the children move away and we have less energy for illusion, less patience for blatant deception, and thus must begin to see our lives, and life itself, for what they really are: Arduous descents into oblivion or abject surrender to doom.

The most base and opportunistic among us turn to politics, a perfect escape from reality for soulless, thieving cowards, while others turn to gardening or drugs, art, bingo, pumping iron or porn; some embrace fear and join cults, others make cults of family, some fixate on sports or start whisky blogs, and the most tedious among us turn to the vulgar satisfactions of amassing filthy lucre. Albert Ayler found his way out with a saxophone; Van Gogh, more or less, with brushes and paint. Vaslav Nijinsky distracted himself with dance and, ultimately, insanity.

I’m 59 years old. I’ve been disillusioned since the age of 12 and a cynic since I met my first landlord. I have chosen many effective paths to escape the abyss – a good wife, raising fascinating children, art, theatre, music. But, now, getting older, hoping to expand and unbutton the end of each day, the path I choose to escape the whorish, tawdry chasm of daily life is single malt Scotch whisky. This 14 year old cask strength Longrow is intoxicating in every way – in all the deeper, more embracing, more permeating meanings of that term. It provides the prefect companion to Cioran and his ilk, and the perfect solace if we are compelled to drive blindfolded into the beckoning void, or to waltz with abandon across a lake of thin ice. That, in fact, is what all of us are doing, and as soon as we admit that fact to ourselves, the gladder we’ll be to have a bottle or two of this potent elixir of Lethe close to hand. (10/10)

Total points for this whisky: 93

The Distillery

Emil Cioran, The Philosopher of Despair

Good whisky taking the form of dark but enriching song…

The Texture of Evening: McGibbons Provenance 1991 Bladnoch 13 Year Old

IMG_20140408_144458_050~2~2Is there any point in reviewing a whisky bottled and shipped in 2004 and only recently found all dusty and alone in a liquor store 10 years later? I often wonder about this kind of thing when I see reviews of a whisky of which only 30 bottles were ever released (Wow! Murray gave it 96 points!), or reviews of some $16,000 50 year old Glenfiddich. Really? Are you gloating? Boasting? I suppose not all reviews are buying guides, but, still…

On the other hand, when I opened this dusty bottle of Bladnoch and realized how good it is, I found another bottle within days. And a quick look online has uncovered other bottles of this dazzling juice in other states that are still available for sale.

And there’s something else… Since early on in life, starting when I was maybe 13 years old, I’ve been fond of books (my Mom was a librarian), and I always loved the search, the quest. I would read one book and find, in the notes or the bibliography, another book, or several books, on the same or a related subject that I would then set out to find. Once I had my driver’s license, crawling along the shelves of old used bookstores quickly became my calling, and, though I seldom found the books on my list, I would find other books and read those books and those books would send me off searching for yet more books. It was a satisfying, purposeful cycle to lose oneself in. A smiling Ouroboros. I’ve crossed many a state line in search of some obscure monograph (and, later, for old vinyl jazz LPs, but that’s another story altogether), and this whisky quest is similar.

The internet has robbed us of a mode of thinking that justified devoting days and weeks and endless miles in search of an old commentary on the Song of Songs or a few original Saturn pressings of the one and only Sun Ra.

And yet, though used record stores and books shops are now few and far between, there are many old liquor stores just waiting out there, some in plain sight, some off the beaten path, and the dust on the shoulders of the bottles one will sometimes find in such places is the same compelling, provocative dust that once settled on those books and long playing records so many years and decades ago. And with good whisky, as with good music and good books, it’s not just the quest, the love of the hunt, that keeps us going – it’s the potential rewards and wonders inhering in those things we find…

The Whisky

One rarely sees independent bottlings from McGibbons Provenance in my neck of the woods. I was happy to find this one and even happier when I saw it contained a thirteen year old Bladnoch, a Lowland distillery I knew of but had never seen nor tasted before. This particular juice was distilled in 1991, just two years before United Distillers closed and decommissioned the distillery, which did not go back into production (under the management of Irishmen Raymond and Colin Armstrong) until the year 2000. Alas, just a few weeks ago, the distillery was closed and liquidators called in. If you’re looking to buy a Scotch distillery, you could do far worse than Bladnoch, the southernmost whisky maker in Scotland with beautiful buildings, dunnage warehouses, well-kept grounds and a visitors’ center, all about a mile outside the village of Wigtown, which, incidentally, has 30 active bookstores (with more than 250,000 books altogether, or about 250 books per Wigtown resident) and is known as ‘Scotland’s Book Town’. I’m not sure if there are any used record stores there…


In color, this dram falls somewhere between sunlight in a wheat field and petroleum jelly. Pleasant enough, but it doesn’t exactly glow like some Nectar of Apollo. It doesn’t have to, of course. Untinted by the evil E150 and un-chillfiltered, it looks just a bit hazy after adding a few drops of spring water. A very good sign. And though it is not bottled at cask strength but rather at 46%, rolling it in the glass leads to an even coating that soon dissolves into dozens of thin but alluring legs. (8/10)


The nose on this is glorious! Sweet, fresh malt, a pure nectar-like sugariness that carries all kinds of floral scents with it. Imagine a gourmet pear jellybean – that’s in there. And fresh blueberries? Fresh blackberries? Celery, crushed celery seed, on a fresh, buttery pastry. Surprisingly, I’m also getting dried basil and caraway (really, I went to my spice rack to be sure). Also some nougat and something lightly chocolaty, like a sweetened chocolate powder. First I thought lemon, then I thought meringue, then I remembered the pastry and thought lemon meringue pie! There’s also a hint of oak spice and a whisper of cereal – Rice Krispies, in fact. Finally, though it is among the first things I smelled, there is something my dear whisky friend Marco didn’t get at all when he and I shared a dram of this soon after I found it: Grain whisky. Just a wisp, but, more specifically, something vaguely reminiscent of the wonderful Nikka Coffey Grain whisky. This is not a detriment whatsoever. Not at all. There is a nearly perfect nose on this elixir of light. (19/20)


Malty sugars cascade over the tongue, making for a wonderful entry. There are not-quite-ripe pears and apples but, even more, a suggestion of black currant juice. The dark berries are gone, but there’s another fruit in there, a melon of some sort, almost cantaloupe but something slightly more tart. The spice arrives as ginger with a bit of oaky astringency. And the sweet barley is everywhere, undergirding everything. Though not quite as complex as the nose, every whisky enthusiast I know would take his or her time savoring a dram of this one. (18/20)


Sweet, rounded malt drying fairly quickly to a light lemon-pepper, velvety broth, with ginger and some oaky tannins extending the finish to great lengths – and depths, right down to the chest. And there is still a presence of fruit, unripe apples and that tart melon again. While not this whisky’s strongest feature, the finish does not disappoint. (17/20)


While some aspects of this delectable libation might be more impressive than others (the nose is near perfect, and yet the contrasts to other aspects are slight), the balance in the nose, palate and finish is superb, with every note of sharp spice or astringency matched by a sweet counterpoint of malt sugars and fruit, Lowland floral characteristics balanced by an almost Speyside fruitiness, all carried on a breeze of ginger and oak. Unquestionably, this whisky was tended by a master and matured in a superlative, giving cask. (19/20)

Quality of the Buzz

A delicate, sweet Lowland copita of light would hardly be the conspicuous choice of the brooding philosopher drinking to prune the sharper confrontations from yet another dark night of the soul. Still, the quality of the inebriation here is not all sparkle and sunshine. Yes, there is some energy and easy intelligence in this buzz, but it is also relaxing, calming – pleasurable and even sensual. This doesn’t add a dark, sweltering humidity to one’s thoughts, nor does it incline one to ponderous melancholy nor to improvising half-assed bivouacs in the abyss. I’m not sad, not particularly happy, but I’m at peace, enjoying the texture of the evening as it passes by my consciousness, in a mood to surrender to whatever thoughts and impulses arise as the rain that falls outside my windows gently washes the hours away. (9/10)

Total points for this whisky: 90

Peace with substance…

Achieving the Possible: The Maltman’s Tobermory Aged 18 Years

IMG_20140404_113917_413~2I have been sick. Very sick. So sick that I went nearly two weeks without a single dram of single malt Scotch whisky! My work is all about due dates and deadlines, but last week, for the first time in the twelve years I’ve worked at my current job, I broke down and asked for help. Before I did so, I felt like I was trying to meet a deadline while being waterboarded! And yet, all the while, I was reading about whisky, moaning in bed, shivering under blankets in my reading chair, but surfing, as best I could, along the highways and byways of the World of Whisky. And then, two nights ago, when I felt I had regained sufficient health to brave a couple of drams, I poured myself a finger of Highland Park 18; and then, turning to my Longrow 14 year old cask strength, I had another finger, and another. It was like starting to breathe again after holding one’s breath for a dozen days! Oh, yes, Goddam! I was back in the world of great whisky!

If a body could just find oot the exac’ proper proportion and quantity that ought to be drunk every day, and keep to that, I verily trow that he might leev for ever, without dying at a’, and that doctors and kirkyairds would go oot o’ fashion.

– The Ettrick Shepherd, as quoted by Christopher North (1826) and later by Charles MacLean (2008)

When I started thinking about what the Maltfreak should next turn his palate and pen to, this Tobermory from The Maltman came immediately to mind. While I do enjoy an occasional dram of the Tobermory distillery’s own 15 year old, that is an expression it is possible to improve upon. Donald and Andrew Hart, the father and son team behind The Maltman series, are more than capable of achieving that.


This is, however, an odd one. After 18 years in a sherry butt, one would expect a bit of color, some blush, but this is diluted honey at best without a hint of any winey hue. I suspect the sherry butt this came from (#5011) had already been used not once, not twice, but several times before. On the more positive side, the clarity of the liquid is hazy – something I love to see. One can read that a whisky is un-chill-filtered, but it’s always better when that fact is obvious to the naked eye. The distillery’s 15 year old Tobermory has a nice golden hue, but it’s limpid as glass by comparison with this. Bottled at 46% ABV, the apparent consistency here is that of skim milk or lemonade; it has thin, moderately quick legs – nothing that’s going to keep you preoccupied for very long. (7/10)


The nose isn’t pungent – aromas don’t rise from the glass like smoke from a chimney – but it has many elements: cookie dough, wildflower honey, something green and vegetal, some kind of cooking oil – flax seed oil, maybe, and linseed oil, too – with some grass, some hay and something citrusy-lemony. There’s a bit of sulphur – not enough to be a negative quality and not nearly as much as one gets off the nose of the distillery’s current 15 year old. There’s a chalky or flinty aroma in there, too. And the slightest half-wisp of peat smoke. Very good and interesting – certainly enough elements conjoining here for this nose to be called complex, but not so rich that it distracts me from wanting to move on and take a sip. Maybe I’m getting spoiled? (17/20)


On the palate you get a satisfying malty, flaxy, diluted honey swirled with the linseed oil and with the lemony citrus taste intact. There is a hint of cinnamon. What was green and vegetal on the nose now reveals itself as fresh asparagus and baby spinach leaves. Like the nose, this isn’t ‘pungent’ on the tongue and the mouth feel has the consistency of heavily diluted, thin oil. The 15 year old distillery bottling is a bit more oily with a taste that is slightly richer, leading to a more luxurious overall impression on the palate. This is the one place where the distillery bottling is, to me, slightly, just slightly, preferable to this single cask. 17/20


The finish adds barley malt sugars, honey and spice – the cinnamon again but also white pepper. Though it is drying, it lasts long enough, with a sweet burn that continues through the throat and into the upper chest. The finish on the distillery’s 15 year old is more pungent and warm, but hotter and less complex; I prefer this Maltman 18 year old here. 17/20


The balance of elements in the palate and finish, from malt to honey to citrus, linseed oil and asparagus to drying spice, is excellent; and, though the nose takes awhile to decipher, it offers plenty of interest. One can quibble with one or more elements in the nose, palate and finish – but the fact is, as a whole, as a whisky, this works. 18/20

Quality of the Buzz

Finally, the quality of the buzz: This one adds a rather ponderous, low frequency element to something brighter and more sugary. As an intoxicant, this juice could offer more guidance. It doesn’t pull one toward dreamy introspective abandon, lost in the umbra of mythic forests, nor does it get one dancing out there in the moonlight of a simple summer’s eve. As it is, it’s interesting, but a bit undecided on direction; it keeps one hovering in mid-frequencies. 7/10.

Total points for this whisky: 83

Improving on a Classic…

Radiant, Smiling Odalisque: The Exclusive Malts 1984 Tormore 29 Year Old

IMG_20140319_144118_246You’re at a dinner party when, suddenly, everyone ups and leaves the table, stranding you there alone with someone you know very little about. She’s beautiful, so it would be wrong to say you’re annoyed or feel abandoned by your crew, but this woman doesn’t seem to have much to say and her accent, at first, is impenetrable – she’s trying to communicate something, and you’re trying to decipher what it is, but you can’t make head or tail of it. There is something about her perfume, however; it’s compelling and becomes more compelling by the minute. You focus on that and, soon enough, you’re learning to unravel what she has to say and, ahh, what she’s saying gets you very excited!

Leaning in even closer, intimately closer, you see that she’s not as young as she at first appeared to be, but, getting to know and understand her now, you find her all the more engaging, enthralling even, and this experience once again confirms that the wisdom of age beats the sparkle of youth every time. After all, you’re no spring chicken yourself…


She’s beautiful, as I said: A limpid gold like translucent copper shimmering in the morning sun. And she coats the glass like pellucid skin, dissolving into multitudes of threading legs that soon drape the glass like a flapper’s tasseled décolletage… Is it me or is it getting warm in here? (10/10)


First comes an aroma redolent of good bourbon or corn whiskey, but it’s vibrating at a higher frequency somehow. The overall impression is one of freshness and firmness, fresher than a 29 year old whisky has any right to be. But that is tempered by sweet malt and solid oak from what I can only imagine was a tight, high quality cask.

Other distinct aromas line up and present themselves: Granny Smith apples; the sound hole of an older guitar with a red cedar soundboard; banana chips; the breath of a colleague who’s been chewing a stick of Big Red cinnamon gum for ten minutes; freshly sawn oak flooring; Bolthouse Farms’ Vanilla Chi tea.

And there are two related, elusive aromas it took my brain a while to identify: Candy Corn, the Halloween candy, and those cheap gummy orange marshmallow confections called Circus Peanuts that never tasted like peanuts of any kind but had a very distinctive and pleasant, sweet, banana-orange-confectionary aroma.

Lots to like and nothing to dislike here, though it takes patience and effort to pull it all out. (18/20)


Where possible, the palate of this whisky reflects the nose – especially the bourbon, barley malt and fine oak, but adds fresh cooked sugar cookies, almonds, cinnamon, clove, a bit of prune juice and once again those cheap Halloween confections, Candy Corn and Circus Peanuts, but also the more immediate pleasure of demerara sugar melting on the tongue.

The demerara is emphasized by the addition of a little water, which also calms down the tannic dry ginger spiciness just a bit. Otherwise, water doesn’t do much to this elixir – it just gives back all of the good things that were there before, but amplified to a small degree. And it also brings out the Twinkies, which is a much better taste in a whisky than I would have thought.

The interest and variety found in the nose are expanded on the palate. Pretty damn wondrous if you ask me… (19/20)


Long, sweet, spicy, tannic and drying – all good things if kept in balance – but quite hot (not all that surprising with an ABV of 51.4%), even with the addition of plentiful water. And the combination of gingery spice and heat, though it does reach the chest, is more focused on the tongue and upper throat. A flaw, a failing or a foible, take your pick, but not one of sufficient magnitude to render this anything less than a fine whisky overall. (15/20)


Everything about this whisky is firm and fresh – by which I mean solid, intense and lively. Still, it doesn’t resemble a young or otherwise under-aged whisky at all. There is no spirituous taste here, but neither does it impress as overly rounded-off or subdued by age. The wood is there – this was casked for 29 years, after all – but it is distinct, firm and strong, not soggy or doddering in any way, as if the cask and even the cellular structure of the oak staves making up the cask were tighter than those in your typical barrel somehow. I suspect this was matured in a rather frigid corner of the warehouse. And again: Everything feels wonderfully integrated, nothing feels disintegrated. Nearly everything in the nose reappears and works to enrich the palate, which expands from there. The more I drank from this bottle, the more I savored and appreciated it: A fine, well-built, well-tended whisky. (18/20)

Quality of the Buzz

Sensuality as sensation, the soft vibration of a satisfied desire. It’s like waking up on a Sunday morning after a long, satisfying sleep, your head still buried in a soft down pillow while your elusive but unperturbing dreams dissolve. There is something, though: The room you’re waking up in, though not exactly chilly, isn’t as warm as you’d like it to be.

So, Femme, yes, but not femme fatale.

And while this isn’t the metaphysical vortex of seductive profundity one can reach after a few deep drams of some of the more outré Longrows and Ledaigs, it is a no less compelling pleasure. This buzz is more sensual, more sultry, more hedonistic and restful – Debussy at his most engulfed, a liquid equivalent of Jules Lefebvre’s glowing, smiling concubine, Djémilé. Was that her name, that woman at the table? (7/10)

Total points for this whisky: 87

Lefebvre’s DjémiléJules_Joseph_Lefebvre_-_Djémilé

Debussy’s Engulfed Cathedral

Unwashed Sirens and Poppy Tears: Cadenhead’s Small Batch Ledaig Aged 16 Years

IMG_20140310_123428_528Savoring this whisky is like smoking opium at 3am in a slat hut hidden deep in the humid Cambodian jungle while watching, transfixed, the mythical Sirens’ sultry and alluring dance. There is a warm steam rising through the floorboards, mixing with the protean opium ghosts that waft like smoke to the ceiling, and the pungent, earthy aromas of the perspiring dancers permeate the air. My heart is beating slowly and I feel a deep, penetrating calm, but thrill and excitement are cascading through me like a Beijing fireworks display…

Yes, this malt is that good. Which is, evidently, a singular opinion. The only other reviews I’ve found (two) rate this independently bottled single malt as lacking complexity and interest, scoring it in the mid-80s at best. I could hardly disagree more. I swear, this must be the whisky they serve the highest ranking libertines in the penthouse suites of hell. It is liquid heaven for the epicurean damned, a lost elixir of Sybaris, brimstone for the brimstone connoisseur.


In the glass, it isn’t very promising. The color of pale straw or diluted apple juice, it appears to have taken very little from its cask – which I reckon was a refill bourbon hogshead. Swirl it about and you’ll see it coats the glass (not surprising at 56% ABV), leaving a very well-defined “high water” mark. Once the legs form, they are thin but languid and slow to descend. (7/10)


Rising vapors begin seducing the nostrils as soon as the dram is poured – not quite as explosively as with the Lagavulin 12 CS, but you’ll know there’s an open glass of peated whisky nearby. This is pungent with a hint of decay, as if late autumn’s dying vegetation has been dried over a raging peat fire. The odor is a bit narcotic. The smoke on the nose is Laphroaig-like, but not entirely. A mingling, say, of 65% Laphroaig peat smoke with maybe 35% Longrow peat smoke. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that both Laphroaig and Ledaig purchase their malted barley from the same maltings house (very likely Port Ellen) and have them peated to more or less the same levels. There is none of that Laphroaigy maritime iodine in the nose of this Ledaig, just a similarity in the character of the smoke.

Fortunately, there is a lot more than peaty smoke going on here. Just beneath the smoke and necrotic vegetation, there is the scent of a rubber inner tube. There is tobacco and the aromas of both real lemon and Lemon Pledge – and a hint of wintergreen, as from a pink Necco Wafer. I also pick up burned toast that has been buttered and white fish grilled with a bundle of sage. There is both a mineral flintiness and an autumnal earthiness integrated into the nose here – sort of a full helping of natures flora before anything has bloomed.

You know there was a fire here in the recent past, but this is nature in a state of recovery.

And finally, a suggestion of sourdough bread. Sounds like a stretch, I know, but I had a loaf of sourdough bread in the kitchen so I went there and cut myself a slice. Sure thing, that was an element in the nose of this hefty Ledaig.

I found all these aromatic constituents in the nose over two long nights, savoring my drams both neat and with water. How a whisky can integrate all of these aromas and reeks into a coherent, savory redolence without losing its solid sense of care and freshness is beyond me, but the people responsible for this whisky have done it. (19/20)


The first thing that strikes one is the gorgeous mouth feel, both oily and coating, and that is followed by a wonderfully peaty, mineralesque and malty burn. The palate here is significantly better than that of the distillery bottling at 10 years old, which I find similar but simpler and a little off. Here, a pool of liquefied malt sugar delights the center of the tongue while fiery ginger spice excites along the sides and a saltiness bites softly at the tip – lachrymosa, the gentle saltiness of tears! I also get a suggestion of a dense apple variety – Macoun, perhaps. The oily viscosity brings on an impression of butter. There is also a nutty taste, but I can’t narrow it down – not walnuts, not almonds and certainly not peanuts. Pine nuts, perhaps. And, finally, there it is again – I’m tasting the crust from my slice of sourdough bread buried deep in the heart of this whisky!

So this whisky brings you your malt and peat, your fruit and your ginger, your nuts and salt and sourdough bread, all delivered with a silky, coating mouth feel. This is very, very good whisky, but not quite as complex and compelling on the palate as it is in the nose. (18/20)


This elixir doesn’t just surround the heart; it embraces it and wraps it in a blanket of soft, warm sensation. A sweet, savory malt is followed by a bit of citrus, a little salt, a zest of ginger and – appearing for the first time – a whisper of prunes. As it goes it dries, exposing soft tannins, and you feel it, delighted, all the way down. (20/20)


The integration of so many elements in this single malt – from peat smoke and earthy pungency to lemon and a whisper of wintergreen to grilled fish and sage, tobacco and bread, barley malt, ginger, butter, malt sugar, mild salt and nuts – is wondrous to behold. I spent a lot of time with this whisky and it kept me interested and sufficiently curious to stay devoted to my task through it all. It’s only flaw – and I hesitate to use that word – blemish, perhaps? foible, even? – emerges in the slight imbalance between the endless interest of the nose and a palate that was a smidgen less compelling. For that, it loses one point. (19/20)

Quality of the Buzz

In Virgil’s Aeneid, the hero, Aeneas, stands before a mural depicting tragic battles of the Trojan War, and he says: Sunt hic etiam sua praemia laudi;
 sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangent (“Here, too, the praiseworthy has its rewards; 
there are tears of things and mortal things touch the mind”). That came to mind as I sat down to write this final section. It is very late, the wee hours, when “mortal things touch the mind”. And there is that breath-catching, mind-focusing, melancholy phrase: Lacrimae rerum, the tears of things. The most profound, moving experiences in life are often accompanied by that feeling for “the tears of things” – that sense of the melancholy core at the ontological center of all human things, all human history, all family history, of every individual human life.

This whisky, in my opinion, is made for those nights when our perspective on our own lives and on the cosmos broadens and we sense the diminutive part we play, our infinitesimal duration, and how much sweeter and more precious that renders life, time, and all we hold dear.

This whisky – and only one other in my experience, the Longrow 7 Gaja Barolo, which remains the benchmark for this experience – will help you get to that place of honesty, and to a place of acceptance and forgiveness. Is that a ridiculous thing to write about a whisky? Am I claiming this malt has metaphysical qualities? Well, no, not quite, but it may help get you to a place where your thoughts attain such qualities; a place that, ultimately, will render you more deeply human than you might be now. It is – and I am only half joking here – an Elixir of Transcendence. You can’t seriously believe mankind has pursued inebriants such as this for so many centuries just to find a means of letting off steam and of having a laugh with the old gang, can you? No, this is confirmation: Drinking great whisky is an act of alchemy, of turning dross to gold, of daring to go deeper into one’s own mind. Sit alone with this whisky some lonely night and follow where it leads. (10/10).

Total points for this whisky: 93

Euclid Standing in the Morning Light: The Exclusive Malts’ 1991 Bunnahabhain 21 Year Old Cask Strength Single Malt Scotch Whisky

exclusive-malts-bunnahabhaain-1991For some reason, I’ve been more attentive to structure in the whiskeys I’ve been savoring these days. It’s a mercurial, vapory concept, I know, but I’ve been narrowly focusing directly in on it with many of the whiskeys recently crossing my lips, especially those from the independent bottling lines called The Maltman and The Exclusive Malts, each of which seems unabashedly proud of its solid structures, unfolding them under the glare of one’s senses with no resistance or compunction whatsoever.

Take the time to focus on and truly savor one of these heady elixirs and you will get the sense that you have entered a well-built room in a well-built house. The floors are level and the corners are square and you feel confident that there are no jutting nails, missing steps or untended splinters on which to snag and injure one’s senses. The several whiskeys I’ve had in these independent series immediately instill confidence that I am drinking a well-made, quality product.

The Exclusive Malts’ 1991 Bunnahabhain 21 Year Old Cask Strength Single Malt Scotch Whisky is one such product. Bottled at 52.6 percent ABV from what I imagine was a single refill bourbon cask (I don’t pick up a sherry influence here, except perhaps in the spicy tannins that come on in the finish), the experience of this whisky gives one the sense that everyone who had a hand in its making knew exactly what they were doing and did their jobs well.


The appearance in the glass is lucid honey, pellucid amber, or perhaps unclouded pine pitch in the cool early morning sun. This whisky coats the glass and is patient, languid, slowly allowing the legs to form, and those legs in turn course very slowly down. (9/10)


My notes on the nose cover an entire page! At the top I wrote: “I smell precision, whimsical precision” – whatever that means!

The aromas reveal themselves slowly at first. My initial impression, returning my sniffer to the glass again and again, was of iceberg lettuce flavored sugar crystals. Then the flesh of sliced green grapes. But a savory saltiness soon arrives, high-cocoa-content baking chocolate mixed with freshly sawn hardwood, sweet malt, buttery butterscotch, cooling pastry dough on a cutting board (fig squares, perhaps, but not lemon squares). The aroma with the deepest color is that of cherry juice, but it is reticent. And one can also smell brittleness here, as in ribbon candy. Though the nose on this whisky isn’t the least bit spirituous, it is youthful all the same. This nose is all about daylight, sunlight, but it isn’t a spring or a summer day; it’s cold outside and all the vibrations are trebly, of a higher frequency, sequestered and apart from wet and dirty and earthy things. (19/20)


The palate is fuller, rounder, sweeter and warmer than the nose led me to expect. The sugar crystal aspects turn to mild clover honey here, but I also get a sprinkling of black (licorice) Necco Wafer. The only fruit I pick up is apple, but it’s a ruby-red candy-dipped apple. There is also some caramel and salt water taffy. Still, despite all these sugary and candy notes, this isn’t a cloying dram; what it offers is rather a wonderfully oily and well-integrated sweetness. Finally, we get a hint of darker things, earthier things, the slightest taste of leather, of oak, and the wispiest hint of peaty smoke, as if the source of saltiness and that alone were dried over peat fires. The mouth-feel is silky, slightly oily and coating – wonderful. (18/20)


The finish is perfect. Malty, buttery ginger candy with a sweet-cool caramel center and a breeze of white pepper. And it is long and warm and surrounds the heart without burning the throat. Perfect. (20/20)


From one perspective, I could say the balance here is unassailable because the arc from nose to palate to finish is very rich, complex and varied, even logical, without salient flaws or ill-fitting characteristics. On the other hand, everything here is on the bright side, the light side; it all (aside from the wonderfully warming finish) emanates from crisp, invigorating daylight. Is that a problem? No, not really. If whiskeys were divided into two categories – daylight and nightshade – and this were intended as a daylight release, I’d have to conclude the balance is nearly perfect. But we don’t divide whiskeys up that way and I’m left wanting a darker, earthier element to balance all the chill, giddy sunlight at play – some flinty musty autumn characteristics, say, so prominent in The English Whisky Co.’s drams, or the dark pungent soil and sweaty humidity of a Ledaig or many Springbanks and Longrows. Was this whisky (I almost wrote Speysider, and that is telling when we’re on the north of the isle of Islay!) – Was this whisky ever intended to evoke those darker, damper drams? No. However, though I can certainly appreciate how well balanced all the elements are that are at play here, I nonetheless feel that something is missing. Maybe the flaw is in my own taste buds and predilections, but that’s now for you to decide. (17/20)

Quality of the Buzz

Finally, how am I feeling after four unstinting drams of this wondrous stuff? Good, very good, but once again we’re dealing with a daylight twist, this time on inebriation – something almost intellectual and energizing informs this whisky. One cannot, of course, fault a whisky for being bright, linear and energizing, but the more of this electric elixir I imbibe, the clearer my head is and the more I’m energized to keep writing and assessing and reassessing my drink rather than leaning (or falling) back into an inviting, overstuffed chair to read, dribble, and buzzingly doze off, which is typically my wont at this juncture in the experiment… (8/10)

Total points for this whisky: 91

Esse Quam Videri: What Is a Perfect Whisky and Why Must We Give It a Score?

cas1There is probably no such thing as a perfect whisky – or is that only true if our standards are unrealistically high? If a single malt I’m drinking has no noteworthy faults, no glaring lacunae, no salient aspect I can imagine improved or wish were better – if it has captivated and delighted my senses – why not declare it perfect? Why not give it 100 points? We say Michael Jackson was conservative in his ratings while Jim Murray is perhaps too generous, but even Jim Murray, who evidently gets to taste everything produced in a still of any sort anywhere in the world, has never declared a whisky perfect. What’s he waiting for? What’s the ideal he measures his malts against? May I have a sip?

What whiskies did Michael Jackson choose to drink when sequestered in his favorite lair away from the demands of whisky journalism? What bottles do Jim Murray, Dave Broom, Dominic Roskrow, Gavin Smith or the great Ian Buxton and Charles MacLean go back to again and again? Being professionals, they don’t tell us – but we all know those bottles exist. We all know these men drink sometimes, or often, for the pure pleasure of drinking, reaching when they do for bottles they’ve reached for many times before and will reach for again and again; if that weren’t so, they wouldn’t be in the careers they are in.

But there’s something else. Even if we could know what these great whisky writers’ first choice malts were and are, there is one thing I strongly suspect: No two would be the same. What one great whisky scribe cherishes, the others might not esteem highly at all. Fans of these writers might even be appalled to learn how many blends would be top shelf in the cabinets of their whisky heroes. I know myself that I have tasted whiskies I only swallowed out of politeness because they were offered by friends who revered them – friends, I should add, whose taste in whisky I respect. I’ve spoken to many whisky ambassadors who prefer the 12 year old, say, from the distillery they represent, to the 25 or 30 year old. Mention Glenfarclas to malt professionals from any distillery or distributor and you are bound to hear a string of enthusiastic compliments. Even The Nose himself, I suspect, Mister Richard Paterson, takes great pleasure in whiskies other than Dalmores and younger than 50 years.

But let me try to funnel this torrent of words into something like a point…

Writing this blog, it is becoming clear to me that saying anything of lasting value about a particular whisky is probably beyond accomplishing. And scoring whiskies, something I have vehemently and vociferously resisted until now, is like writing your will and testament in sand even as the waves roll over it. A rating is simply a snapshot of a thousand variables, all at once – from the condition of your nasal passages to the mood you’re in to the unique sensitivities of your particular palate to the amount of oxidation the malt has undergone to the density of allergens and aromas in the air to the level of intellectual energy you can muster to what other whiskies you’ve recently drunk to the temperature in the room and the lamps in the room to how tired or razzled or manic you are to the dew point and the season and the barometric pressure to what you had for lunch and what you dreamed last night and the personality of the last person you talked to on the phone… At least a thousand variables!

Not to mention the level of alcohol in your blood by the time you finish scribbling your review…

But friends can be very persuasive, and my best whisky friends have made it very clear that they want to see a number or a letter grade at the bottom of my reviews. One good friend has even insinuated that my choice not to include such ratings could be a sign of cowardice on my part, an unfortunate flaw in my character…

Well, listen up, Buddy: It isn’t cowardice that’s been keeping me from scoring whiskies. I ain’t no pusillanimous milquetoast man. What has stopped me is my aversion to spending precious time doing meaningless things. And I still consider scoring whiskies to be too subjective and too narrowly time-stamped to be of any but the most superficial use to anyone.

Furthermore – and please be honest here – how many of you peek ahead to see the score at the bottom of a review before you finish reading it, and then don’t finish reading it? How many of you skip forward on Ralfy to check out his “malt mark” before sitting through all 20 minutes of his most-discerning-nose-in-the-world reviews? If you take reviewing seriously and would like to be read, are those not good reasons to not include a score?

But I’ve decided I shall do just that: Score the whiskies I review. For no better reason, perhaps, than to see my whisky buddies smile in triumph. To that end, I’ve been trying to come up with a meaningful way to do a meaningless thing. What aspects of a whisky am I looking for when I have time to really focus on savoring it? Here, with the weight (number of possible points) on the left and the savoring category on the right, is what I have so far come up with:

10 – Appearance / color, legs, etc.
20 – Nose / discernable aromas
20 – Palate / discernable tastes
20 – Finish / final discernable tastes, tongue, throat, chest, etc.
20 – Balance / of distinct and complimentary aspects
10 – Intoxication / the quality of the buzz

The first five of these categories you see everywhere and therefore I feel they require no explanation. You will easily determine what I mean by them in context. The final one, however, may need a bit of expounding upon. By “intoxication” and “quality of the buzz” I mean exactly what those words imply: The relative intensities of wafting sensations that delineate the altered state one enters when one has imbibed sufficient drammage of a distilled and oak-matured liquor. The buzz one gets from some whiskies can actually be agitating or, if finer, energizing, which I suspect is a consequence of more than ethanol alone, while other whiskies offer a buzz of pure warming pleasure or ease and a lulling vagueness as from the river of Lethe in Hades, whose waters when drunk made the souls of the vexed and disconsolate dead forget their happy lives on earth. I include this category because I am convinced, from a lifetime spent among good-natured drinkers, that almost nobody would imbibe this glorious stuff if the reprieve of inebriation weren’t an assured and inevitable portion of the experience.

Which brings us right back to the beginning. What is a perfect whisky? It is that drink that gives pleasure and opportunity to all of the senses, that eases the path to enjoyment of conversation and of the company of friends, family or strangers, that unfetters the tongue to speak from the heart, that helps us to forget, if only for an evening, our hardships and sorrows, obligations and trials; that persuades us to abide the nettlesome embarrassments and merciless inevitabilities of the human condition and of life on this planet in these maddening times and, instead, calls us to move with the music and dream with the dreamer, to express our loves and our friendships fully and, finally, that gives us courage sufficient to see ourselves as the forsaken specks of dust we are in a universe that expands beyond comprehension, which in turn makes our loves and affections all the stronger and helps us to be truthful even to ourselves, and to forgive ourselves, and to forgive even life and time itself. That is the perfect whisky.