Brewed Musings

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Pint of Anchor Liberty Ale

I know.  I know.  It took you long enough, confucian brewer, to get to this point.  And all I have to say to that is, “It was worth the wait!”  To be honest, I was so young at this show that I vaguely remember details.  I know the stage had a bunch of televisions on it.  I know the band played the songs, Rock The Casbah, London Calling, and Should I Stay or Should I Go.  I know I got goosebumps when I walked into the then MECCA Auditorium, where years later I would graduate from the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee.  To be honest I do remember a lot about the night.

Much like the 5th concert, my brother took me to this show, and I do not think I could ever thank him enough for it.  By my recollection it was my first concert ever and I was still in grade school at St. Thomas Aquinas.  This last fact is the main reason I remember this concert and why it stands as one of the best concerts I will ever go to.  That is besides the fact that Joe Strummer and The Clash were all-out fecking fabulous!

Back then the thing to do was to buy a tour shirt to show off.  Not only buy it but wear it the next day in school!  I eyed up a bunch of them and decided on one.  I thought it was the best shirt and, man, my friends are going to be jealous when I walk into class wearing it.  But when we got to our seats, my brother said, “Are you sure you want that shirt?”

“Of course,” I replied.  “Why?  What is wrong with it?”  I looked it over.  It looked awesome.  It was the perfect shirt to flaunt that I went to see The Clash…In Milwaukee…On a school night.  My brother looked at me and said, “They’re not going to let you wear that at school.”  What was my brother thinking?  Of course they are.  It is just a concert shirt and our catholic school did not have any dress code aside from the no jeans policy.

“It is just that it says ‘Go Straight To Hell’ on it.  They won’t let you wear that at St. Thomas.”  And with that, my bubble was burst.  He was right.  I was not going to get into school, into a catholic school, with a shirt with ‘Go Straight To Hell’ emblazoned on it.  Thwarted by satan himself.  Excellent move, Mr. Beelzebub!  Good show, sir.

But what was I going to do.  I wanted to wear my Clash shirt to school the next day.  I had to!  I told everyone I was going.  So my brother being the loving, caring brother he was…He knew you had to wear your badge the next day…took me back to the T-shirt vendor.  I explained to him my predicament and asked if I could exchange my unfortunate purchase for a different one.  The nice man, probably going against the rules, let me exchange it for one with no swearing on it.  With that, we went back to our seats and waited as The Clash took the stage.  By the end of the night, my throat was raw.  But I did not care because I was going to show up at school the next day with my pride and joy…my bragging rights.

My brother has taken me to some of my best concerts.  When you are in the eighth grade, your older brother usually pesters you and would rather you not follow him anywhere, especially to a show like The Clash.  Thankfully mine was a bit more gracious.  Oh, he pestered me, picked on me, made me cry.  But I can forgive him because I got to see…That’s right…The Clash!  I went to school the next day a proud man.  I cannot remember if it really had the affect on the lads I thought it would.  To tell you the truth, who cares.  That shirt lasted me a long time.  And I still have the memory.  So here is to all our first concerts!  To all our best concerts ever!

Cheers!

the confucian, Clash Lovin’ brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Pint of Bison Organic Farmhouse Ale

To say being a skateboarder in my hometown during the 80s made me an outsider is an understatement.  Nowhere was this more evident than in the music we skate punks listened to.  Bands like the Dead Kennedys, The Minutemen, Minor Threat, and Social Distortion could be found in my collection as well as all my friends.  The reaction of classmates when you tell them the name of the band you are listening to was priceless:  the puzzled look as if you were speaking a different language.  It was inevitably followed by, “Who?”

One of the bands that grabbed my attention rose from the ashes of Minor Threat to form Fugazi.  It was their social-political commentaries that spoke directly to a budding socialist,  Native American historian such as myself.  I still have a hard time explaining to people why I find the band so spell-binding.  But, alas, it would be 10 or so years from my first introduction to them in the song, “Waiting Room,” before I would get the pleasure of seeing them live.  Every time they came to Milwaukee, I was working.  But in 1995, it was my time despite my having to drive 80 miles north to Green Bay to see the concert.  Why?  Because I was working the day they were in Milwaukee.

So the day finally came.  None of my friends could go or wanted to go with me so I had to make the journey on my own.  On the night of the show, I dropped my mom off from work and borrowed her car for the trip.  Normally I would not listen to the albums of the band I am going to see on the night of the show.  But in this case I made an exception and blasted them all the way up.  I was on my way to heaven.

When I arrived in Green Bay, I had goosebumps.  Roadtrips are amazing creatures especially when it involves something as nostalgic as this was to me.  After driving around town for a bit I finally found the venue, parked the car, and in I went.  The opening act tonight was Lungfish, a band I was not familiar with, but found them tantalizing enough to become a casual fan.  After their set, I went into the beer garden and had me a pint whilst waiting for the boys.  The electricity in the room got greater with every passing minute, and with little time left before Fugazi came on, I made my way closer to the stage.

Little did I know that the spot I would pick was directly in front of lead guitarist/vocalist Ian Mackaye.  I still have a shrine to him magneted to my kitchen fridge.  And then I saw them!  They made their way out to their instruments, plugged them in, and without hesitation cranked into “Bed for the Scraping.”  Behind me a mosh pit started pushing us in the front up against the stage.  Remarkably and unexpectedly the music stopped confusing the moshing crew behind me.  And next you heard Ian, “I am sorry, folks.  There is no moshing at the show.”  This was met with a ramble of boos, which was met with Ian’s exclamation, “Boo?  Boo?  If you don’t like it, you can get the fuck out!”  That was met with cheers.  The loudest coming from the 5′ nil-inch woman standing directly in front of me.  Who knew this punk girl could scream so loud.

The concert lasted about and hour and a half with Fugazi’s Ian and Brendan Canty belting out all their tunes.  It amazed me that Ian still has a voice after all these years.  His gruff screams are quite recognizable to any skater from the 1980s.  After they finished up and exited the stage, I made my way to the car.  The goosebumps I had upon arrival were still there.  I got in the car, turned on the ignition, and, yep, put Fugazi on the tape player.  It was, after all, a long solo ride home.  By the end of the ride, my voice sounded like Ian’s.  It was well worth the 10 year wait to see the band that still remains one of my favourites.

Prost!

the confucian (80s skate punk) brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A cup of coffee at Cafe Victrola

Over the vastness of Seattle and the Sound to the far reaches and beauty of the Olympics I melt into its infiniteness - similar to to looking out over my beloved Lake Michigan.  It teases my sense of exploration and my love affair with large bodies of water…My Michigan, The Sound, San Francisco Bay, etc.  And then I realize that I lifted a pen from Victrola!

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Bottle of Anchor Steam that I snuck on the train rather than pay Amtrak’s outrageous prices!

I prefer the way the world looks at dusk with its darkness and shadowy faces instead of in complete light.  At dusk the world retains its mysteriousness.  It is The Shadow of old time radio.  And while, yes, in the light you can make out faces and trees and streets, etc.  As its alter ego, The Shadow, one may see the shape of a tree, but would not know if it were an oak, or pear, or hickory.  They may not know that a particular tree is missing a branch from the thunderstorm two days ago.  Or that it is missing a piece of its skin.  It is merely a tree!  And it sits amongst all the trees.  You do not get that in the judgment of the daylight.  So Prost! to the shadowy figures that dusk brings!

Prost!

a relaxing confucian brewer in Seattle

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Wee Nip of Tamnavulin 12 Year Old Single Malt Scotch

On August 30th the brewing world, nay the whole world, lost a great writer and person, Michael Jackson, aka The Beer Hunter. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of reading any of his works, search it out. Without his never-ending promotion of Microbrews, our revolution would have been quite smaller. Unfortunately for me, I had never had the pleasure of meeting the man. In my mind it is like the band you always wanted to see but never got the chance like The Doors or The Beatles or The Police.

The past few days I have spent most of my time reading memorials, tributes, etc. and hoisting up a pint of Red Seal Real Ale at my favourite British pub, The Moon and Sixpence. I played darts with my friends Abe, a beer writer himself, and Ben, brewer for Hopworks Urban Brewery. And yesterday I began training someone to take over the other brewer position at me pub. The whole time Mr. Jackson was on my mind and I could feel his presence everywhere I went.

Because I never got to meet him I do not have that story much like every other brewer I know. I do have however a story of how Mr. Jackson helped change my life. Several years ago I was wandering around trying to figure out if I should change my profession to brewing. At that time I was an unemployed Marketing manager for Architects and Engineers. I was a member of a home brewing club here in Portland. At one of the meetings a member who I had been speaking to could not believe I had never seen The Beer Hunter, never the less even heard of Michael Jackson. Embarrassingly enough I made the mistake of asking why we were talking about the King of Pop at a homebrew club meeting.

My friend gave me a dusty, old copy The Beer Hunter on a VHS tape. Remember those? It changed my life. I did not believe I had the strength and courage to change careers completely to brewing. But after listening to Mr. Jackson’s passion about beer ignited my own passion which had been brewing if you will for some time. I said to myself, ‘I want to make the type of beer He seeks out!’ And so it continues…

Now that He has passed I wish I would have met the man who helped me make a tough decision. But I vicariously have met him through my brewing friends who have had the honour. My traditional sessions brews and love of Real Ales are a testament and tribute to a man many of us in the brewing community have to thank for our blessed careers. And we will NEVER be able to thank him enough! Cheers to you Michael! You helped many of us live out our dreams, and we thank you!

Prost!

a solemn and humbled confucian brewer