A wee tasting today. Two eighteen year olds from two Speyside big hitters, Glendronach and Macallan. Both distilleries are highly regarded, Macallan is the more famous of the pair, the elder statesman if you like. Whereas Glendronach, although long established is only just starting to garner the limelight it has long deserved, thanks largely to its new owners Benriach. Perhaps the most important link between them is their infamous insistence on top quality sherry casks (we’ll just forget about the fine oak range for now Macallan). So the obvious thing to do, you’d rightly think, would be to compare the two OB 18yo bottlings. Well due to lack of samples to choose from I will be throwing logic to the wind and trying the OB Glendronach 18yo with a Doulas Laing 18yo Macallan from a refill hoggie. Sense? No. Fun? Lets hope so…

Glendronach 18yo Allardice, finally shedding some long overdue glory on a great distillery.

Glendronach 18yo Allardice OB. 46%. 70cl. rotation 2010.

Colour: Amber

Nose: Very dense notes of toffee straight away, toffee apples, stewed fruits and all kinds of thick classic sherry characteristics. A very clean nose, which is rare for a sherried malt these days sadly. Develops some lovely mushroom and fig notes with honeysuckle and orange blossom aromas in the background. Quite a delicate nose in many respects but very entertaining. Keeps on developing becoming gently drying and spicy with walnuts and more vegetal, grassy aromas. Very intricate and entertaining so far.

Palate: Big, succulent, controlled delivery with lots more clean sherry character. Very nutty and chocolaty with a great ‘fizzy’ background spiciness. Rosewater and a big hit of Turckish delight. Its maybe not as complex on the palate as the nose suggested but its still very clean sherried whisky with a beautifully controlled profile. Quite an elegant spirit that tastes a little younger than 18 to me but in a good way, it rides very well the balance of sweetness and dryness that so many sherried whiskies fail to do.

Finish: Medium to long with hints of pipe tobacco orange peel and cedar wood. It displays, if only very fleetingly, some older characteristics in the fade.

Comments: Great dram. Consistent, compelling, very clean whisky that’s far too easy to drink. In my mind I find this makes more of an impression than any of the recent Macallan 18yo bottlings, but don’t hold me to that as I don’t have a sample to be sure. I think we’ll have to have another go at this when I can get a sample of the Mac 18yo to compare. Highly recommended anyway.

Score: 88/100

Macallan 18yo. Douglas Laing OMC. Refill hogshead. 50%. 70cl. 1991/2009 reference no: OMC1656.

Colour: White Wine

Nose: A big mish-mash of cereals, citrus fruits and freshly baked bread. Green apples, malt barns, quite grassy and flowery, like a meadow really. Becomes quite thick and oily as Macallan in refill wood tends to do. Some delicate fruitiness and notes of kirsch or some fruit eaux de vie. A little herbaceous and maybe even a bit coastal, its a very invigorating, fresh nose. Typical good refill wood. Water doesn’t seem to do much initially, brings out more delicate flowery notes and some eucalyptus, menthol characters.

Palate: Oily and fat with notes of leather and tobacco. Very spicy with fruits in syrup, peaches, lychee. Quite earthy with maybe even a little peat in the background. The maltiness is heavy and chewy, so far quite a big boisterous dram. Vanilla pods, nutmeg, quince jelly and more kirschy notes. Quite meaty after a while, some sort of bloody steak character. Water cuts right through the oiliness and creates a lovely soft fruit salad of a dram. More menthol again and a little honied, very enjoyable dram this.

Finish: Long, big and malty with more of those leathery, slightly smoky notes hanging around and more meatiness.

Comments: Not the easiest Macallan by far, it seemed to be ever changing at some points and certainly one that facilitates watersports well. I always love to try naked Macallans as it were, when you strip away all the big wood influence you get down to the beautiful subtleties of the distillate, like that wonderful oiliness that comes though in this one. Its not much use comparing the two drams, they’re both very different but it has given me the inkling to come back and try some sherried Glendronachs and Macallans head to head. Watch this space…

Score: 85/100

Bud Cort and Ruth Gordon take liberal lessons in life.

Like many films concerned with death Harold & Maude is curiously life affirming. This is no mean feat considering that on top of its ruminations on life and death there is also the discomforting theme of cross generational romance. The film plays with ideas of love as a transcendent force, as having no borders of age, race, class or creed and it does it in a very early seventies Hal Ashby kind of way. The soundtrack is filled to the gunnels with Cat Stevens songs, in true Ashby fashion they are liberally draped across the scenes in the same method he would subsequently employ for Coming Home (1978). To some people this technique is distractingly obvious, rather than use subtlety or intertwine the songs in the narrative or within the framework of the scenes they sit on top acting as some kind of emotive harness for the movie. It may not be to everyone’s taste but I think it is part of an unfussy and bold style of filmmaking that is uncommon these days. The film is very much of its time but it shares something with many of its early seventies contemporaries that is oddly enduring, the giddy feeling of finding a new direction, the desperation of finally being allowed to say what matters but not quite knowing how to say it yet. Harold & Maude was part of a new era of filmmaking, some would argue Hollywood’s greatest era, and it remains a curious, endlessly relevant classic.

That rather heavy handed trailer effectively illustrates the entire film and its message. The real joy of Harold & Maude and its ability to be positive lies not in its cumulative effect but in the dark details, in the curious sum of its parts. In Harold’s blackly comic suicide scenes, in his bourgeoning relationship with Maude, her unquenchable thirst for automobile theft and his dismissal of all establishment figures and convention around him. Each scene has a delicate understated beauty to it that simmers quietly beneath the black bubbles of comedy. It is one of those films that will inexplicably cheer you up, it offers something a little different to most romantic fare, it even outstrips most other ‘black’ comedies for its sheer dark yet gleeful lunacy. It might even make you want to play the banjo.

Glen Moray Manager's Choice. I'd really rather you didn't know about it.

Poor old Glen Moray, the slightest mention of its name conjures up images of litre bottles of NAS whisky glaring at you from the shelves of Asda and Tesco, whispering in your ear with their big signs that say dirty things like ‘£13.99′ or ‘reduced’. You know you shouldn’t, its unseemly, its filthy but you get carried away, in the heady buzz of the supermarket you want it, you want it bad. So you do the deed and as you walk away with your shopping the first pangs of guilt arrive, ‘but its ok’ the litre bottle coos at you, ‘just wait till you get me home’. Then the first glass of spirit, its ok there’s a little fruit, but no, no there isn’t, there never was, its just nail varnish remover masquerading as pears. Then the cardboard, then the dankness and finally…the shame. You feel dirty, brushing your teeth wont help, you feel used, the bottle doesn’t whisper sweet nothings anymore, it just laughs, mocking you from the confines of its new home under the stairs. We’ve all been there, we’ve all had the one bottle stand. You promise yourself you’ll never tell anyone, its too shameful, what if your whisky friends found out, what if they knew you’d been unfaithful? What would the bottle of Lagavulin think if it knew? So you have to wait till those relatives you don’t like come round again before you can be rid of it.

Mmmmmm...mellowed in Chardonnay barrels, and only £13.99. Bargain!

Ok so I’m being a bit unfair to Glen Moray but then maybe I should be, I don’t actually want any of you to know or care about it. Older Glen Morays, like the Managers Choice above, are glorious whiskies that can still be found at great prices for what they are, I don’t want people to know about them or, god forbid, buy them. Let alone some of the really old stuff, the 1960′s and 62′s for instance, beautiful, gloriously balanced, complex, fruity, flavoursome whiskies…err…I mean they’re crap, avoid at all costs. In fact I hear they’re all fakes so if you find one please send it to Whisky Online where we can dispose of it professionally. Anyway I suppose what I’m saying is Glen Moray is something of a hidden gem, the Manager’s Choice bottling being a perfect example. Its one of those perfect sherry casks, nothing dirty at all, just layer upon layer of clean dense fruit character, rich, intensely polished, almost decadent, for me its everything I want in a sherried whisky. Its the hidden gem factor about Glen Moray that fits in so well with the film, its something that makes you feel happy just to have discovered it. Its one of those rare occasions when its nice to indulge in something by yourself, although whisky and film will forever in my mind be associated with great friends and sharing their company, sometimes it can be a beautiful thing to just enjoy something quietly by yourself. Harold & Maude with one of those slow and deep drams like the Glen Moray MC is a recipe for such an occasion, a rainy afternoon, a late night, an empty house. Sometimes all the company you need is in the glass and on the celluloid. A great thing about whisky is that it has the ability to turn the most idle flecks of time into joy and hard lost memory. A great whisky makes an imprint on the mind in the same way a great film does, you can remember seeing or tasting something wonderful for the first time, where you were, what sort of day it was, it ties up the most mundane actions around it as part of a greater whole. Even the greatest whiskies will fade in the mouth eventually, but they never truly finish, once they’re stamped across your soul they become endless. A great dram with a great film: life affirming indeed.

A 1968 Yamaha FG 180. Aka: the 'Martin Eater' or, my favourite Guitar.

The Guitar can be a frustrating instrument to play. If you are happy to learn a few chords and strum away at Blowin’ In The Wind then you can probably have a simple, carefree and joyful experience on the instrument. But the Guitar is a seductive mistress, those six strings shimmer and wink at you, they speak of unknown aural glories and, ultimately, leave you hungry for more. The problem, that most guitarists quickly realise when they begin on the instrument, is that Guitarists are ten a penny, every man and his iguana can knock out a few Oasis covers at the open mic night in their local boozer. Beyond that there is no shortage of more advanced players, people can quickly progess to learn basic fingerpicking styles, some blues licks, maybe a bit of slide and any number of other styles. The idea of actually finding a new angle on Guitar playing or becoming a true master of the instrument is utterly mind boggling. What can you play that hasn’t already been done so beautifully and majestically by others? Of course this is a stupid attitude to take, if everyone thought like that we’d never hear any new music but speaking as someone who has spent many years being enslaved by Guitars, lets just say I understand. I can spend many hours happily playing away, lost in a world a steel string doodles, but then suddenly I might take a notion to listen to Isn’t It A Pity by George Harrison or perhaps a track by Peter Green, maybe Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix or some Richard Thompson. Listening to such players can have a dual effect on me, the beauty and wonder of their playing hits first but there is also an undercurrent of frustration, how can you ever hope to achieve the quality of sound and feeling these players captured? The problem though is not my, or anybody else’s, lack or endowment of ability, its just that these guys were/are masters of their instrument. By master I don’t mean that they we’re really really good, I mean that they took it to a new place. They were writers of music as well as players, they understood that the guitar was just an extension of their own voice, it was a universal communicator. They didn’t just play fast, they made every note count, they could say more with three notes than most of us could ever conjure up with thirty.

Stefan Grossman: an all too often unheralded master of the Guitar.

By these same signatures of mastery I am always keen to point out to people the music of Stefan Grossman. He is one of those consummate and captivating players that leaves you marveling at the effortless virtuosity of his playing. Rooted in a mixture of Ragtime and the Blues, his playing radiates feeling, be it pathos or humour, he is an enthralling musician. He is also nowhere near as well known as he should be. I think this is because he has spent his life teaching the Guitar rather than simply garnering fame and wealth from his skills. Type his name into youtube and a multitude of  his wonderful Guitar tutorials appear, all posted on his own channel. He is one of those rare musicians, unhindered by ego and unrestrained by greed. His purpose is the music, the sharing, teaching, playing and enjoyment of it. He is what so many great musicians are never brave enough to be: not very famous.

That was Stefan playing The Assassination Of John Fahey, slow, brooding in places, dryly witty in others but always emotive. It is the kind of piece that a thousand of us fingerpickers might emulate note for note but never really play. You cannot play with such fluency and grace without some deeper cosmic connection to your instrument, it is the torment that all serious guitarists face: ‘Do I go out and get a real job, or do stay in and fall asleep with my fingers bleeding while the Devil strolls off with my soul in a jar?’ Sometimes you have to just make that choice and once you’ve made it… its unlikely you’ll go back.

Brora, one of the most justifiably lamented lost distilleries.

When I was thinking about whiskies I could match with this music one of the first distilleries I looked at was Brora, as soon I as I did I knew it was right. Its one of the most perfect fits. Sure the musical genre is technically blues, which is arguably better suited to a fine Bourbon or Rye whiskey. But its not about labels, when the music is this good, when its played so hauntingly, it becomes about matching beauty with beauty. Clynelish was the name of a distillery in the far eastern highlands, in 1968 its owners created a new distillery, also named Clynelish, next door. From 1969  to 1973 the old distillery produced heavily peated spirit under the name Brora. Although the peating levels gradually reduced, Brora continued to produce this very old ‘highland style’ up until its closure in march 1983. This has led to much anorakious debate about casks labelled Clynelish coming from both distilleries and getting mixed up, about house styles and general geekery and legends. What is certain is there was Clynelish 1.0 and then there was Clynelish 2.0, which remains in production today.

Another great Brora. This one from 1976 from a cask yielding only 109 bottles.

The thing about Brora, you see, is its beauty and tragedy. Of all the distilleries closed in the early eighties it is Port Ellen and Brora that induce the most tears. There is no other spirit like it, the best examples were peated but distinct from the Islay malts, fruity yet austere, big, complex, intensely flavoured and balanced. The 1972s are some of the most mind blowing whiskies out there if you can find/afford any of them. It is an old style highland malt that speaks in such controlled yet powerful and harmonious tones that every glass, every sip makes its loss felt even deeper. It was also a short lived liquid, only made between 69 and 83, and even then later batches were less peated and, although often wonderful, didn’t quite match up with the early peated years. These days it is a scarce dram indeed, Diageo has some left but very little, we hope they will not murder any more casks of it in the dreaded Blue Label. Other independents still bottle it when they get their hands on a cask or two but the stream of bottlings has been noticeably drying up in the last couple of years. It only serves us to wonder ‘how long before its all gone?’ Brora seems so at home with this kind of playing, I say playing because I think the genre doesn’t matter so much, you could easily substitute it with great Jazz, or great blues rock like Cream or Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd or Pentangle as well maybe. Its the majesty of the music that counts, those fleeting live performances that can never really be recaptured, in the same way that Brora’s beauty can only be contained in individual bottles for so long until all we’re left with is videos, tasting notes and memories. Its sad to see Brora slowly disappear but when you do savour a dram it makes it all the more special, just like when you see a truly great player performing at their peak, these moments contain a rare and aching beauty indeed. Maybe something a little more lighthearted to finish, Stefan Grossman doing one of his infamous talking and pickin performances. Pour a Brora!