is paved with tasty barley pops. That is of course if you are traveling interstate 80 above the Bay area and stop off in the stretching stripmall of Santa Rosa. Within Sonoma wine country lies a zymurgilogical gem amidst the hub-bub of the saintly metropolis: Russian River Brewing Company. Started by Korbel Cellars in 1997, RRBC and Vinnie Cilurzo catapulted to fame a year short of the twenty-first century by winning brewmaster and small brewery of the year at the Great American Beer Festival. It should be no surprise to family and friends then that this brewpub had been on my top ten swirl, sip and chug stops long before I arrived in California. Hell, for Beer Nerds RRBC represents an eclectic blend of Belgium nestled into an urban nook in the endless grapevines of the Sonoma Valley. Russian River specializes not only in American Strong Ales such as Double IPA's but cask aged sour ales matured in Cab Sauv, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay barrels from the surrounding wineries.
Vinnie Cilurzo has been ahead of the game for quite sometime. From the East Coast it is nearly impossible to get a taste of this man's beverages aside from reading a few tidbits in "Brew Like a Monk" and "Wild Fermentations." In the first how-to reference manual the brewmeister describes an epic trip to Belgium in search of the brewery's proprietary yeast strain. Almost like searching for your beers' future baby's daddy. Legend. In the latter publication Vindogg(if I may speak of the man as a peer) references the surrounding Sonoma winemakers concerns with his use of Brettanomyces Bruxelenis (seen in wine as a spoilage organism) to carry out his controlled barrel ferments stating "I told the local producers that if they have any concerns about the wild yeast I would burn their clothes for free before they walk out the front door (roughly quoted)." Witty and bold this man and his wife Natalie are going places.
Or are they? They don't really have to, there joint is bumping nearly every night. My housemates Dorit and Mor (who incidentally recommended we drop on by) mentioned the place was packed during their previous visit as well. Dude-o-rama, oh it the stench was heavy. Let's see know, there was Jonny Bradawg and Co. rambling on about the Three Sheets lush and banana esters while our eyes devoured a decor of fluffy pink brassieres and bulk hop sacks lining otherwise bare concrete walls. The open kitchen oozed a fried foods stench that infiltrated our clothes like a shitty drainbow at a affinity group meeting and lingered well into the Bonnie ride back to Booneville. Why is it that no brewpub can match fine ales with anything other than baked dough or bloody burgers? For fucks sake can I get some shucked oysters? They could have certainly paired quite well with RRBC's O.W.L Stout, a dry soiled black tipple lingering of burnt coffee notes. A bit flat for my taste but a pinch too much of black patent and that batch is one for the neighbors (or your freeloading, parasitical housemates).
So while I sipped, I too sat in a dual state of perdition and salvation. No Mojo Nixon and I were not drinking with Jesus, but I was enjoying a tasty drink platter of ten different tap offerings at the brewpub. On the other hand I was also in a "state of spiritual ruin." Reason being: I was missing out on two of my favorite punk bands performing in my home town at the very same moment. The headliner NOFX was a heavy influence during my formative years teaching me as I broke down basic trigonometry that no male could quite live up to a lesbian fist and the sanitary benefits of wearing a "Jimmy Hat." Of course there was also indelible life lessons etched into my brainsky with songs like "Beer Bong" and "Six Pack Girls." Getting girls meant drinking tons of cheap beer. Sounded good at the time. And roughly ten years ago from tonight I saw NOFX rock the Funhouse, apparently their farewell tour and possibly one of the best live performances to take place in Bladsdell. I mean c'mon were talking about bombed out Bladsdell. Who else played Bladsdell, Ratt? The venue was a humid swamp, the pit a slimy throng of degenerates with stickered hatchbacks. A drunkard puked on neo-Nazi, Buffalo Flea tried to buy a Jughead's Revenge Tee of my partner in crime Diabolical Dave and a second hand high and parched White Owl throat tricked me into drinking a litre-a-cola of Mountain Topps, the rustic dew.
"Man that was crazy."
Opening up for the California geezers was the poetic popthundergroup D4, whose Budweiser fueled lifeforce has not been felt in Buffalo since a dead drunk swaying performance at the Atomic, now Big Titties oops I mean Big Shotz, in 2000. Why have the burly boys of the Twin cities forsaken B-Lo and why did it take international geriatric supertars to bring them back? Who knows, who cares? Certainly not our loss. The first time, like laying with a woman in the biblical sense was unforgettable. The second time I saw the Dillenger Four rippers, I skipped the Young Judge's b-day party on Minnesota to drink black label in Clev-o and watch D4 blow down the Grogg Shop with Paddy's peepee plugged into a sweaty onlookers palm. The third and fourth shows were mwweeaahh, not aw memorable. But tonight! Tonight would have been the dance party of the year, sure to bring on a good case of laryngitis and over the head people spins. Mid-swirl I get my second phone call from Gaccess community at which I blundered outside and blathered into my dying phone "For Christs sake what do you people want?!" To which my response was a lo-fi static rendition of "Folk Song." I started laughing, took a couple deep breaths and went back into my sensory lab atop the bar stool.
Perfect timing? I think so young Paul Revere. While you can deduce whatever your sweet ass pleases from a song's lyrics this one is probably most emblematic of the my crew, my lost city:
"So many people with so much to show. Rotting away in the own little holes. One can only wonder why. I'll celebrate my home, but know that I'm not alone. Only fools are along for the ride. I'll think of the size of the world that's right outside. Please don't waster your time trying to hide."
Buffalo can become a stagnant cesspool filled with bright creative kids drinking 'till the cows come home. But hell we have each other, it's our home, maybe our second home and "We are fucking Proud!" And I am proud of my friends, their accomplishments and efforts to make the City of Lights a better place to settle/nest. It's also a blatant message to those in search of greener pastures; those that have abandoned the ruins at the end of a dirty ditch. People like well, me. Yep. And to that I will quote the Bouncing Souls when I say "To all you KIDS we're gone but well be back!" They all come back after all, right Benji?
Princess Passion and Gaccess you kids fucking rule! I love you both to death!
Tasting Notes:
Perdition: med-bootied, wheaty Sonoma Biere de Garde with hints of toffee. Smoothly pulverizing my liver.
Aud Blonde: smooth, with with bread, light choc. and toast. Who knew they could have so much character?
Hop Hearty: Proceeds go to fight breast cancer in this uncannily balanced APA. Seamless blend of malt and flowery bitterness.
Russian River and Blind Pig IPA's: Two of the best reasons RRBC won the 2008 Alpha King crown. I still want to throw a Blind Pig in the First Ward. Who's with me?
Pliny the Elder: similar to 90 min IPA but reasonably more balanced. Fresh cut grass and pine. Big malt body. I gave a toothy grin and Dorit grimaced with pain. You be the judge.
Dead Leaf Green: Psst. I'm pretty sure they flavor this tipple with Mendo's finest harvest bud. Tastes like liquid joint APA. Name says it all.
Salvation: Drink three of these tulips and you'll be in heaven until the next morning when your gut and kidneys are burning in hell. Rich, fruity nose, malty caramel body but a finish that screams rubbing alcohol.
http://www.russianriverbrewing.com/
"I say fuck what they say. It doesn't matter anyway. Only in the grave are you alone!" -D4
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