Spirits Writing

[martin]

Back in 1918, H.K.M. kicked off his review in The New Republic of the multi-volume The Art of Music with a caveat that would go on to develop a life of its own:

(The whole article is worth reading.)

That first sentence, in particular, has been riffed on countless times since, almost always mis-attributed. It’s funny and catchy. The most common version, today, is “writing about music is like dancing about architecture,” traceable to Martin Mull in the late 1970s.

Of course, you can write about music, and you can most certainly dance about architecture—both figuratively and literally—and many remarkable words have been written about music, even if they’re a mere drop in a bucket of blather. (For one example of remarkable music writing, I always recommend Stomp and Swerve: American Music Gets Hot, 1843–1924, which our own @Splificator wrote before he pivoted to American drinks. In addition to being a fun read, it adds cultural context to drinks history.)

It seems to me that spirits writing and music criticism face similar challenges. H. K. M. goes on to memorably describe the writer’s task:

and finally concluding:

Thank goodness we have a handful of ‘rare souls’ in spirits writing, several of whom we are delighted to have on hand here at S&C! Speaking of which, don’t miss this delightful new piece from Wayne Curtis:

Would You Please Stop Calling Whiskey Smooth?

[Splificator]

Thanks, Martin, for the shout-out for my poor, orphaned Stomp & Swerve. Very much appreciated.

Pace Mr. Curtis, I do use “smooth,” and think it has its uses, at least in telegraphically-short descriptions. I use it in opposition to “fiery” or “hot,” to indicate that the spirit has matured (or been filtered or distilled or otherwise leniated) to the point that the spiky higher alcohols are tamed or eliminated.

But I do agree that it’s insufficient and will generally add something to it.

And yeah, writing about how things taste is a mug’s game. But, like writing about music, i don’t know how else to introduce people to things they might enjoy, other than sitting them down and making them taste it or listen to it.

[martin]

On a different angle, I recently had a glancing confrontation with the author of a new cocktail book, a high concept tie-in. It’s a creative project: dozens of “new” (derivative) cocktails with witty names and writing, original graphic art, even suggested music pairings. It all gleefully wallows in lowbrow fern bar culture and “fun”.

No doubt the book was great fun to devise and produce, and I’m sure everyone involved was happy to have the work. (I am all for fun and making things. I even happen to be a fan of that-which-was-tied-into.) But this book was probably more fun to produce than it actually is to read, let alone employ as a drink book. The recipes aren’t proven. Rather, they’re novelties nobody actually wants to drink. The recipes follow from the concept, they have no reason to exist other than the concept, and they are essentially indistinguishable from those already passed over in legions of forgotten, formulaic cocktail books past. Another wad of bad drinks, in hardcover.

In the end, this new book is just “merch”. Another of 2023’s unwanted gift ideas, to be graciously received by many fans of that-which-was-tied-into. Gifts of obligation. Nearly every copy of this new book is landfill-bound. The author, an artist, and a bunch of other people, spent a measurable piece of their lives on an externality. We’ve been awash in cocktail books like this for years. If I’m at all mistaken about this particular book, I’m sadly right about hundreds more.

I know the publishing industry is churning out similar “product” in many other special interest areas and intersections. (The more tenuous the intersection, the better—more freedom to make shit up!) I’m sure this sort of “product” is routinely justified in terms of survival. But if book publishing is on life support, is the brain still viable? If this “business” is the current cost of a continued publishing industry, where are the resources for cultivating, editing, and marketing original, lasting work? I hear it’s in vanishingly short supply. Rather, it seems that what might be serious work is routinely inserted into the same machinery with the fluff, cut down to fit the same parameters, and dumped on the market.

I’m certainly happy for—and grateful for—those writers who have successfully navigated this broken culture and managed to deliver, one way or another, drink books that matter. I worry about the ones that could’ve, should’ve.