The Speyside distillery continues its luxury collection with five whiskies priced at £20,000.
From the Editors
Shorts from our editorial team
06 November 2015
‘It was a bad score. He only gave it 6+.’ This was a post by someone on a blog regarding my scores for the recent Balvenie DCS whiskies.
I knew it would happen. It’s the trouble with scores – they trip you up. They are also so all-pervasive that we are beginning to organise our lives around them without perhaps realising what they signify.
Only once that filtering system has taken place do any of us bother to then read the words. I’m as bad as anyone. Get Mojo and Uncut, scan the scores and then read. Who has the disposable income to take a punt on a three-star album?
If, however, we take the time to read first, then a more accurate picture emerges. That restaurant/hotel has lost a couple of stars because there’s someone lurking in the comments section who clearly has a grudge.
‘They didn’t make my child a pizza.’
‘We went to this sushi restaurant, but my partner doesn’t like fish.’
‘The view of Torquay from my hotel bedroom window wasn’t good enough.’
I even read one review of the Lofoten Islands which advised people not to go because the midnight sun didn’t perform a perfect V in the sky. Result? The score went down.
And so back to our own scoring system. It was peer pressure which made us impose one in the first place – everyone else scores so we should as well. We might not like the reductive nature of scores, but it’s now the norm.
We have, however, decided to use a proper 10-point scale: ie one that starts at zero and goes up to 10. The scale is outlined on our Tasting Notes Explained page, to which each note is linked – but does everyone read it? Of course not, because we understand the nature of numbers.
Or so we think.
There are some 10-point scales which start at 6. They then can be broken down into decimal points, making a 40-point scale. There are 100-point scales which only start at 80, which makes them 20-point scales.
Equally, there are no 20-point scales which start at zero – most people who use them start them at 10 and then get around that issue by giving half-points, creating a warped 20-point scale.
Still with me?
Lies, damned lies...: Scoring systems can be fiendishly complicated
So, we said ‘enough of this’, and started at nought and moved up in decimal points to 10, which I suppose makes this both a 10-point and a 100-point scale. Then again, it is possible for a whisky to score zero (and, indeed, 10.0), making it technically a 101-point scale. Never say we don’t give you better value at Scotchwhisky.com.
As I said, we knew the questions would come. Our 6 is another’s 7.9, someone’s 3 stars, another’s 15, someone else’s 80. No wonder people are confused.
Why then, you might ask, are we further muddying the waters? Because if we have to use bloody numbers, then we felt we should use them properly.
If you are judging from 0-10 and a whisky is average in quality, then it should logically be given 5 points. If it’s above average, then it gets 6. Seems sensible? Good. So 6 is not a bad score, it means this is a good dram, one that we’d be happy to buy.
I appreciate that there will be teething problems as people get used to the new scoring system. The solution to this potential confusion is to READ THE WORDS. They give the reasons for the score.
Now… what’s on the tasting table this week?
03 November 2015
The spirit of old East Berlin had clearly possessed me. The audience looked… confused. That isn’t all that unusual. My talks are planned in terms of overall theme, what needs to be said, what drinks will help support this framework (and stop people getting too bored), but quite how I get from A to Z is… well… fluid, which seems appropriate.
This particular one at Berlin Bar Convent was on a history of gin in seven drinks, each one a waypoint in the spirit’s evolution. I was extemporising on genever’s success from the 17th century onwards, and how it had come about directly as a result of pressure on distillers to make a non-wine-based spirit for the local bourgeoisie, whose supplies of wine and brandy had been cut off thanks to the Eighty Years’ War.
‘Actually,’ I continued, ‘gin’s story is one of class warfare.’ This is when the faces began to look puzzled.
I plunged on regardless, outlining a theory (which was forming in my head as I spoke) that, whenever gin was the drink of the proletariat (judging by the faces, a term not heard in East Berlin since 1989), it had a toxic reputation.
Only when it became acceptable to the middle classes, acquired bourgeois acceptability, if you like, would it become popular. The spirit’s history and popularity swings between these two poles.
I stand by this theory, by the way – Gin Craze? Working class. Old Tom? Working class. London Dry? Middle class. Martini and G&T? Middle class.
Gin Lane: the craze immortalised by Hogarth was a working-class phenomenon
There’s even a class element with regard to gin’s collapse in the 1980s, when it was identified as being stuffy, boring, old-fashioned – and irredeemably middle class, the drink of ladies of a certain age, and chaps who wore pink trousers on the weekend. Its current renaissance has been driven by a widening of its appeal to all-new, younger, drinkers.
Could Scotch whisky’s story be told in a similar way? I don’t think so. Yes, Scotch’s initial boost came when toddies, then whisky and soda became acceptably middle-class drinks in London, but the difference between Scotch and gin was that the former always transcended class boundaries.
When growing up, I could go into the Rogano (Glasgow’s great classic bar) and see someone having a dram. I could go across the road to the Horseshoe and see a working class guy having the same.
I would see the G&Ts and Martinis being drunk at the former, but never at the latter. Scotch’s long-term success was based on its ability to appeal to all classes. Its decline in the ‘80s wasn’t driven by class, but by a lack of fashionability.
It has been this appeal to a wider demographic internationally which has been one of Scotch whisky’s greatest assets. It was aspirational at all levels – a standard blend was as much of a treat for the working-class drinker as a deluxe whisky was for the rich.
That is why the current narrowing of focus by many firms is so worrying. Scotch is not just a drink for the elite, for speculators, for ‘celebrities’, it has succeeded because it is the people’s spirit.
Concentrating on one stratum of society is ultimately counter-productive. Just look at gin.
29 October 2015
It used to happen every month, then every fortnight. Soon it was every week. Now it seems like it is every day that the topic of No Age Statement (NAS) whiskies inveigles its way into conversation. I’m fully expecting my wonderful and long-suffering postie, Rose, to stand on the doorstep tomorrow and say: ‘Dave, what is it with all these NAS whiskies?’
My line has remained the same. Nothing inherently wrong, difference between age and maturity, allows whisky makers a freer rein, necessity at time of stock squeeze/excessive demand.
With one caveat: as long as the whiskies replacing (or accompanying) the existing age statement expressions are as good as or better than the products they are replacing/joining, and that producers educate consumers and trade as to what their rationale is.
An integral part of that education, I’d argue, is being transparent. It’s not just a matter of what’s going on, but what’s going in. After all, what’s to hide? If the whiskies being used include young and old, then why not tell us the age and the cask type?
That then opens out the (much needed) discussion of the difference between age (a number) and maturity (a character).
It allows distillers to talk about wood programmes and cask influence, it demonstrates the fundamentals of blending.
It explains whisky to a consumer who wants to have whisky explained. It helps detoxify the debate.
Now it would appear that telling consumers everything about what is in a bottle is, in fact, illegal. The latest disagreement between the Scotch Whisky Association (SWA) and Compass Box (it’s never the other way around) is surely the most ridiculous one yet.
Transparency: but the openness of John Glaser and Compass Box is also illegal
The SWA does sterling work and, in this case, all it has done is to act on behalf of one of its members (though wouldn’t you love to know who complained, and why?). In addition, its hands appear to be tied thanks to an EU law originally drafted in 1989.
The SWA is following the letter of the law, and all the firm that complained is doing is hiding behind the SWA.
The question here is twofold. Can the law be changed? Is there a willingness on the part of the SWA (or its members) to push for that change in the law? I’m no Edinburgh lawyer, but I seem to recall that only a few years ago the SWA did just that, around labelling.
The reason? The old descriptors were confusing to the consumer. They were, in other words, lacking in clarity, and so the law was changed. Saying: ‘I know it’s wrong, but I’m afraid it’s the law,’ is not a credible defence.
It might be that derogation from EU law is more problematic than changing a UK law which then becomes EU law. Derogation, however, means ‘an exemption from or relaxing of [my italics] a rule or law’.
Is there then a possibility that this clause can be relaxed to permit the option of an open declaration of the composition of a blended product in the case of Scotch whisky? The SWA is a lobbying organisation. Is this worth lobbying for?
If one of the body’s members asked for this possibility to be explored, would the SWA act? History has shown that if there is sufficient demand from its members for change the SWA can change.
So here’s a question. Which of the members of the SWA doesn’t agree with there being an option to declare fully the make-up of an NAS whisky – and why?
22 October 2015
Maybe it has something to do with hotels. In the excellent book The Beechwood Airship Interviews, Nicky Wire of the Manic Street Preachers tells author Dan Richards how he likes to write in hotels because they are neutral spaces with none of the distractions of home life. Not even a kettle (Stop it with the kettles – Ed).
Wire’s theory certainly seemed to be proven when I made my way down to the lobby of the hip place in which I stayed recently. There in the gloom – gloom is so 2015 – was an ocean of floating white apples.
Death pallor faces. Grey light chiaroscuro. The ticking of nails on keys. Peck, pick, gaze downwards. The regular hiss of the espresso machine. In the café, the same scene was repeated. Silence. Gloom. Pick. Peck.
It wasn’t just there, it’s everywhere. Every social space has been taken over by screen zombies. The only faint flicker of a smile appears when they come across an image of a cute kitten. Where, I wondered, has happiness gone? Where is the joy?
What, even, is joy? The dictionary defines it as ‘a feeling of great pleasure and happiness’. In whisky terms, joy for me is the feeling of tasting the dram which signifies the end of work.
It might be in a bar or pub, it could be at home, it might be neat, with water, or in a highball. Joy is in the combination of liquid and moment and psychological state. Joy is being human. In this case, it is about gaining pleasure from whisky.
Here’s the question, though. These days, are you allowed to say that having a drink makes you happy? I suspect not. Happiness infers that the drink has altered your state. Saying whisky makes you happy contravenes a code, written or unwritten.
How much further?: in modern life, joy is a precious – and rare – commodity
A general – but also deliberately detached – sense of joy is possibly as close as you are allowed to go towards happiness before the lawyers come and get you. In this world, the liquid doesn’t provide the joy – some abstract notion about a brand does.
That’s not a criticism. I’m, er, joyful that there is someone out there trying to get round the restrictions and say, in a subtle way, that whisky can make you smile.
The question is, looking at the screen zombies, where is the joy? It’s not in front of you. It’s in the streets, it’s in company, it’s in the Apple-free irises of other people, it is in conversing and sharing.
The irony that you will be reading this on a screen is not lost on me, by the way. Walk away, switch off. Go outside, even if it is raining, and breathe.
Pour yourself a dram. Better still, pour whoever is next to you one as well. Whisky – taken in moderation – makes you happy. If we can’t say that in advertising, we have to find new ways of communicating that message. Maybe talking might help?
15 October 2015
The guitar on the wall was unnecessary. It’s not that I want to moan. Perhaps it’s because I spend a considerable part of my life in hotels that I’ve become (over-)sensitive to their design.
Take the other weekend. Between Friday and Monday I was residing in an achingly hip one in Shoreditch, where my room was stuffed with suitably ironic touches. A pencil sharpener attached to the wall? Yes, of course I used it.
It has to be said that the room was rather lovely and tried to make you feel as if you were, if not at home, then a guest at someone else’s, perhaps the new hipster mate you ran into at Callooh Callay the night before and who had offered you a bed when you realised you'd missed the last train home (does that sort of thing still happen?).
Anyway, I felt comfortable – which is what hotels are about. Apart from the guitar, perhaps.
I mean, the last thing you want in a hotel is everyone serenading themselves, or trying to impress their partner with Smoke on the Water or, even worse, seeing that guitar as a symbol of their inadequacy.
‘Oh, can you play?’
‘Er... well… no.’
End of budding relationship.
Still, there was a kettle. I need a kettle. I get grumpy without my tea (and I mean my tea). It also had an iron. I get grumpy if there isn’t one of those either. Iron over guitar every time. Kettle over iron. It’s the way I roll.
The guitar was an example of how hotel designers over-think rooms. There was the central London hotel which had an electric guitar – and amp – in the room (double inadequacy, double irritation as Smoke on the Water echoes from 50 bedrooms).
There was, however, no kettle. Or iron, come to think of it. Maybe the thinking was that no-one who plays an electric guitar would ever need to have a pressed shirt… or a hot drink. I’m sure Robert Fripp would.
There was another east London establishment which had a hot water bottle on the bed. A lovely, quirky thought that made me feel all fuzzy.
There was, however, no kettle, meaning the only way you could try and force hot water into the bottle was via the espresso machine in the corridor.
Of course there was an espresso machine in the corridor! Hipsters don’t drink tea. The result was that I was insanely grumpy.
Impeccably turned-out: the neatly ironed Mr Fripp (Photo: Sean Coon)
Over-thinking might not be the worst aspect of modern life, but it is symptomatic of the way in which ‘irony’ (which in this case is, for once, truly ironic as there are so few irons) has replaced any form of deeper thinking.
The surface is all, the instant, unthinking reaction is all that matters. There is no need to sit down and make a cup of tea and think. All that matters is the sheen, the glance, the smirk, then you move on.
Design has got in the way of function and the core essence of the room – a place to rest – is forgotten or overlooked. Such is it with brands.
Maybe I’m just an awkward customer. Perhaps I just need to get out less.
02 October 2015
Welcome, friends, to what we want to be the first stop for any whisky lover on the internet. That word ‘any’ is important. Geeks can get their fill here, but so can newcomers – and it is this breadth of remit which will make the site prosper.
Whisky is simple, but it is deep. A website such as this therefore needs to be able to offer information which appeals to and satisfies all readers – those who want to plunge in, as well as those who are happy paddling in the shallows. Hey, I live by the sea, it’s the best metaphor I could come up with.
If you want in-depth distillery, brand or company information, you will find it here. That in itself is an amazing resource and we believe our Whiskypedia is the most comprehensive database in existence.
If you want to know what that new whisky is like, we will have the review as soon as it is released. If you want to know the thinking behind the big decisions, we will be asking the awkward questions to the executives who make those decisions.
We will make you laugh (we hope), we will be authoritative, critical, stroppy, contentious, obsessive, passionate, amusing and celebratory. That’s what whisky is all about, isn’t it?
Whisky is also about people, and they will be the heartbeat of the site – not only the amazing writers we have from around the world (whisky is, after all, global); but also the people who are often hidden from view, those forgotten heroes from the past and the present, the keepers of the flame.
It is also our belief that whisky doesn’t just sit apart from daily life. It springs from a culture and a landscape, it reflects the interests of the drinker, so we will write about the things which people who like whisky also like, but which aren’t whisky.
That means talking to other like-minded craftspeople, artists and artisans to make this a place where whisky becomes part of the world.
We are excited by the possibilities. We hope you are too.
25 September 2015
I’m just back from Japan, where the whisky category appears to have been given another boost in sales.
The highball craze may have slowed slightly, but continues to bring new drinkers into whisky – even if not all of them know that a ‘Highball’ is a whisky drink. Bridging that gap remains an important task.
The category’s biggest kick has been given by Massan, the daily morning soap opera on the life of Masataka Taketsuru, which ran from September 2014 until March this year.
Yes, a whisky-related soap. Neighbours with drams. It has, seemingly, so captured the imagination of the public that it has directly boosted sales. Could that happen here? I doubt it.
Massan could even be a further factor in the ongoing squeeze on stock, one topic which was aired at a panel discussion I chaired with four Japanese chief blenders: Shinji Fukuyo (Suntory), Tadashi Sakuma (Nikka), Ichiro Akuto (Venture Whisky/Chichibu) and Jota Tanaka (Kirin/Gotemba).
It used to be that the companies were as reluctant to share a stage as they were to share their whiskies. Things have changed. They laughed with each other, nodded in agreement, complimented each other.
It’s a reflection of the new openness which exists within the Japanese industry. What would once have been considered secrets are now freely shared.
Maybe it is confidence that their competitors won’t steal techniques, that they now realise that the Suntory way is different to that of Nikka, or Kirin, or Chichibu.
One of the questions was whether they thought Japan could be behind the ball when equilibrium between stock and demand returned.
‘No,’ was the polite answer, ‘because [and I paraphrase] we continue to innovate, believe that quality is paramount, and want to further define and fine-tune what it is to be a Japanese whisky.’
More specifics emerged in a further discussion with Fukoyo which looked at Suntory’s new ‘The Chita’ grain.
‘We had always made three styles of grain at Chita,’ he explained, ‘but the grain whiskies we use for the blends couldn’t be the same as we needed for a single grain. It was… boring.’
I’ve tasted the Chita grains and they’re not… but I suppose that also proves a point.
So, he has used the three styles of grain, but aged in a mix of woods including ex-wine casks, and new (fresh) European oak casks.
What is our whisky?: Hakushu’s small grain plant is unafraid of experimentation
Fukoyo then went on to outline what was happening at the small grain plant at Hakushu where he has overseen runs of malted barley, wheat and rye, and all at different strengths.
‘We always distilled to 94%,’ he said. ‘Then we asked why and realised it was because that’s what the Scots did.
‘So now we are distilling at different strengths, using those different grains, mashbills and woods to see what Japanese grain whisky could be.’
This willingness to ask: ‘What is our whisky?’ is also seen in the creation of Irish Distillers’ new experimental distillery at Midleton, which initially will be looking at 19th century recipes.
The reason? They exist, they have been forgotten, they could shed light on Irish whiskey, they could help widen the category.
It all seems so... sensible. Now, I know that there are wild things being trialled in Scotland, but so far there is no evidence of any of it appearing. Keeping these developments behind the curtains simply reinforces the (incorrect) belief that Scotch’s template is fixed.
Neither Suntory nor IDL is exactly small. Both are asking, openly: ‘Where do we go now? What else can we learn?’
Realising that they couldn’t run experimental batches through their existing plants because the batches would be too large, they simply built smaller sites.
Hopefully the Scottish distillers working on similar schemes will show what they have been working on, but – and here my impatient journalist’s brain takes over – how will they commercialise these small batches?
Split an existing (small) distillery’s production schedule? Build a small site to run them through? Buy a ‘craft’ distiller and use it as their experimental arm – the model taken by the big American brewers?
As it stands, there are other whisky categories that seem to be more nimble, and are able to see opportunities. They are the ones who come across as wanting to move whisky ever onwards without losing their identity.
It makes Scotch seem as if it is being left behind. Time, I suspect, to throw open those curtains.
18 September 2015
One of the best recent developments on long-haul flights has been the addition of box sets to your in-flight entertainment. No longer do you have to eke out the (few) movies you actually want to watch into outward and return viewing.
This time, however, I was stumped as to what to watch. True Detective? I love it, but the mumbling dialogue can’t be heard above engine noise. Breaking Bad series three? Haven’t yet completed series two.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I chose Outlander. I vaguely recalled it had received good reviews, and it had a Scottish theme.
I knew it was escapist fantasy, but unless you are trying to unsettle the person in the next seat by watching Australian horror movies, that’s not a bad way of passing a few hours.
I also figured it would have fewer moments which would induce involuntary sobbing – I’m a blubbering mess at 37,000 feet.
So, I began at the beginning, fully aware that it would require a certain willing suspension of disbelief. I couldn’t, however, have anticipated how appalling it was.
Outlander, for those of you who haven’t experienced it, mashes together The Wicker Man, Highlander, Quantum Leap, The Perils of Pauline, Macbeth, Braveheart and Balamory (but with more sex and less Archie the Inventor).
Witches, standing stones, time jumps, perfidious English, hunky men running around in kilts, woad, mud, plucky feisty heroine… and an execrable script.
Like Balamory, but with more sex: Outlander
I gave up in a rage. That’s the other thing about emotions at 37,000 feet. You either weep uncontrollably (never watch Toy Story 3 on a plane) or become immensely irritated.
So infuriated was I that, on arrival in the US, I searched for Outlander reviews and was amazed by how it was being taken as a mildly exaggerated manifestation of the truth.
Outlander, it transpires, fits in with people’s notions of what it is to be ‘Celtic’ (or, as many of them prefer to spell it, ‘Keltic’).
Things came into focus on the return journey when I was reading a piece in BA’s High Life magazine on modern Scotland by the ever-astute A L Kennedy. She opened with this gambit:
‘Scotland is a land rich in interesting history and, should you meet an American or Canadian tourist while you’re [there] you will hear a great deal about it…’
Too true. Many is the time I have been asked which clan I belong to by some Tam o’Shanter-ed Yank. To be honest, I reply politely, I’m more busy getting on with being an ex-pat 21st century Scot.
There’s the irony, I thought. Scotch whisky is regularly accused of playing up to these stereotypes, even though the reality is that, while the tartan-and-heather approach worked in Edwardian times, it hasn’t been part of the arsenal for many years.
‘Tartan-and-heather’ instead has become shorthand for ‘out of touch’ and, while I may fulminate on occasion for the need for whisky firms to understand contemporary Scotland, I do think that in this case it’s consumers who are out of date.
I’d argue that Scotch needs to be more Scottish – just not clichéd, but maybe drinkers want there to be misty glens and hunky men running around in kilts.
Then I got back home, sat at my desk, started to write this and looked around me. Books of Scottish folk tales, Gaelic poetry, stacks of traditional music, stones chosen not just for shape and colour, but for their connection to a place.
The myths I was dismissive of are alive. I like the fact that on Islay a remedy for toothache is to hammer a nail into a stone in a field above Port Charlotte.
When I’m teaching Scotch, after the talk of reflux and esters has abated, I remind those still awake: ‘Don’t forget the magic. This spirit is about more than just science.’
So, now I’ve got a more nuanced view of what Outlander represents. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still shite, but my objection is its (lack of) quality, its easy embracing of cliché.
The true weirdness that roots Scotland still exists. Scotch treads a fine line between cliché and magic.
Who would be a marketeer?
14 September 2015
‘Is this your first time to South Africa?’ asked the taxi driver.
‘No. I’ve been coming here since the mid-‘90s. I started coming to Jo’burg about 12 years ago.’
I sat back for a few seconds – he was a fabulously chatty guy – and watched as Sandton’s increasingly weirdly-shaped buildings came ever closer.
I thought of other trips like this, sweeping down from Rosebank into a purple bowl of jacaranda blossom, of hidden radio stations, endless malls, no-go areas downtown where we had to go because that’s where the second-hand vinyl was.
‘What’s your business?’
‘So why are you here this time?’
‘I’m one of the judges in a cocktail competition.’
‘You can make cocktails from whisky? Really?’
‘Indeed. They’re becoming more popular. Do you drink whisky?’
‘I love whisky. Not the blended stuff of course. The malt.’
We chatted on. He was from Zimbabwe. ‘Now I have arrived. I am here. I can’t afford anything, but I have arrived!’
It seemed to sum up where Africa – and whisky in Africa – is at the moment.
The next day a group of us headed into Soweto. It, too, has changed since my last time there, which involved wandering around a beach party wearing a kilt and being mistaken for Captain Morgan in drag.
Yes, you can still eat from vats of tripe (a good thing in my mind), but the roads are paved, there are bars – and the welcome is as genuine as before.
‘Tell people to come,’ we were told. ‘This is a safe place. By coming here you show people it’s nothing to be feared. Welcome To Soweto!’
That night we went for a cocktail or five in Braamfontein, close to the shady parts of town where the record store was. The no-go area.
Now we were drinking on the outside terrace of the Anti Est bar watching the happy chaos outside. This is a new South Africa.
Welcome: Soweto epitomises the new South Africa (Photo: Harvey Barrison)
Africa has been the big gap in Scotch’s masterplan. No longer. Whisky cannot ignore the potential in South Africa, Nigeria, Angola (Luanda is the most expensive city in the world), as well as rising stars like Ghana, Ethiopia and Kenya.
In terms of players, Africa could yet be Diageo’s get-out-of-jail card. No surprise that the firm has invested $1bn since 2010.
It has a head start on its rivals, but Pernod Ricard is there as well, William Grant has built steadily, while Burn Stewart and BenRiach are both South African-owned (partly in the latter case).
Why now? All the triggers for a Scotch explosion are there. A rapidly expanding middle class, growing economies (remember them?), greater political stability.
Africa has the youngest population in the world – there’s going to be 85m people of drinking age in the next decade – and, bar South Africa, it is new to spirits.
It is hardly perfect – there remains ghastly poverty, corruption and war – but Africa is changing.
It isn’t as straightforward for Scotch as it was. Irish (Jameson basically) is on the march, while Jim and Jack are swinging in.
That night in Braamfontein we were drinking vodka (hey, deal with it), while there are gin bars in Cape Town. What was almost exclusively a brown spirits market is broadening in scope.
Scotch, however, still has an allure which gives it a slight advantage in this increasingly cosmopolitan continent. While some dismiss the new consumers in Angola as people who just drink everything with Coke, it doesn’t take long to change those habits.
A decade ago, I was explaining to new consumers what whisky was made from. Today, thanks to the work of guys on the ground, Jo’burg has its own whisky specialist (the excellent Whisky Brother), one of the largest whisky bars in the southern hemisphere, Wild About Whisky, is in Dullstroom, and taxi drivers who know the difference between malts and blends.
I’ll wager he’ll soon be drinking whisky cocktails. Education is the key. Africa awaits.
04 September 2015
Brands give reassurance. It’s why we return to them on a regular basis, it is the foundation of loyalty. We know what we are getting, and what the brand stands for.
In time, a brand’s range may be extended, but only to demonstrate variations on a central theme. Retaining the brand’s identity, its DNA, remains paramount. When a brand deviates too wildly from its core values it is an indication that the brand owner is panicking.
Take Ritz. Cheese crackers, right? In fact, the definitive cheese cracker? Think again. Ritz now makes crisps as well. There might have been Ritz crisps for a while, but I’m not fully up to speed with the snacks market.
What I do know is that salt and vinegar flavour on a cracker which is still trying to to be a Ritz does not work. The flavour is wrong, the texture is wrong. There are just some things which you leave alone because they work.
Have you ever heard of avocado-flavoured cat food? Of course not. As my daughter said when I mooted it: ‘It would never happen. Cats are carnivores.’
In other words, cat food manufacturers are sensible. They know that their consumers would turn their little furry noses up at such a ludicrous offering. They stick to what they know.
Which brings me (seamlessly?) to Johnnie Walker Rye Cask. Why was something as absurd as this given the green light? The whisky itself is a well-made blend, but it is not Johnnie Walker.
It tastes like a Canadian rye whisky – not quite Crown Royal (also part of Walker owner Diageo’s portfolio) but more in line with a rye-accented whisky from Hiram Walker.
Why?: Johnnie Walker Select Casks Rye Cask Finish
This raises the question of why, if you have a Canadian whisky already, do you try to make Scotch taste like it? Does it not make more sense to try to sell more Crown Royal?
I don’t see Canadian distillers trying to be Scottish, nor is there any evidence of Bourbon producers trying to produce Scotch copies – in fact it’s widely agreed that when they did so in the 1960s it almost killed the category.
But then who in marketing departments ever studies history?
Instead, what you see in whiskies around the world is distillers doing the exact opposite. They define themselves as being not-Scotch. This, as I’ve argued before, is a wise strategy which also benefits Scotch because it allows the latter to define itself.
Walker Rye Casks ignores all of this. Trying to make a Scotch taste like a North American whisky shows an unnecessarily defensive approach to the category – and the brand.
Johnnie Walker isn’t just a Scotch, it is the best-selling Scotch whisky in the world. It therefore defines Scotch for more people than any other brand. It’s a benchmark, a reference point. Where, therefore, is the logic in making it taste like a Canadian whisky?
I hope it’s a temporary moment of madness because this says: ‘We have lost faith in our brand and in Scotch as a category.’ It is a white flag being run up in the face of a perceived threat.
Making Walker more Scotch – more Walker – makes sense. That would involve Diageo working out what Walker stands for in terms of image and flavour. Knowing what it can do – and, just as importantly – what it can’t. That’s not difficult.
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- Rachel Barrie to leave Bowmore for BenRiach
- New whisky tasting notes: Batch 83
- The Whisky Show: Old & Rare 2017
- John Walker Private Collection 2017 unveiled
- From the editors: Thinking outside the whisky box
- Italian bottler Silvano Samaroli dies
- SMWS makeover champions age and flavour
- Bowmore Small Batch axed amid brand overhaul
Latest news 16 June 2016
The third expression of The Balvenie Tun 1509 is being released in global markets this July.
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What has driving a handbuilt wooden car around Goodwood race track have to do with whisky?
Latest news 13 October 2015
Balvenie has unveiled the DCS Compendium – a collection of 25 whiskies valued at over £125,000.
New Whiskies 14 October 2015
Five new Balvenie whiskies pay tribute to malt master David Stewart. But are they any good?