In 1893 at the age of eighteen, Julian P. “Pappy” Van Winkle, Sr. started working as a salesman for W.L. Weller & Sons wholesale in Louisville, KY.
In 1908 he, along with Alex Farnsley (a fellow Weller salesman) , bought Weller & Sons.
In 1910 they acquired the A. Ph. Stitzel Distillery which made bourbon for Weller. The two merged to become the Stitzel-Weller Distillery.
From 1920 to 1933 (during prohibition,) Stitzel-Weller was one of six distilleries licensed by the government to produce whiskey for "medicinal purposes."
On May 4, 1935 (Kentucky Derby Day) the Stitzel-Weller plant was opened. Their major brands were W.L. Weller, Old Fitzgerald, Rebel Yell, and Cabin Still.
In 1972 the Van Winkle family sold the distillery and it was eventually closed 1992. Since that time, a very limited amount of bourbon has been sitting in stainless steel tanks. It is bottled in 15, 20 and 23 year expressions and released only once or twice a year.
In June 2002, Julian P. Van Winkle, III (Pappy's grandson) and his son Preston entered into a partnership with Buffalo Trace Distillery to produce the Van Winkle line of bourbons.
PVW 15 is 107 proof and is a wheated bourbon which means that the main ingredient is corn and the second grain is wheat (as opposed to rye) with malted barley making up the rest of the mash bill. (Other wheated bourbons include Maker's Mark, Old Fitzgerald, and W. L./Old Weller, and Rebel Yell.) It is my understanding that any bottle with Pappy’s picture on it is whiskey that was distilled at Stitzel-Weller (not Buffalo Trace) which means when you drink this, you get a taste of history.
This is a spectacular whiskey and one of my personal favorites. I share this with you because all reports seem to indicate it will soon be gone from the shelves and if you enjoy great bourbon, this may very well be your last opportunity to get it at a fairly reasonable price. The taste of PVW 15 has been described as (among others) buttery, vanilla, caramel, toffee, & maple with a finish that is sweet, balanced and smacks of oak. I would agree that it is a complex drink that, if savored, does reward you accordingly.
For those of you who concern yourself with ratings, the Beverage Tasting Institute rated the PVW 15 at 98 points (Superlative) in Feb. 2004. (Similarly, the BTI gave the PVW 20 a score of 99 in January 2008.) It generally sells for between $50 and $100 and if you can find it at the low end, you owe it to yourself to buy all that your budget allows. To quote a friend of mine: "It will never be cheaper than it is today."
My sources tell me that there may be one final release of PVW 15 in the spring of 2011 so this could be the last time you'll see it on the shelves (reportedly to be "replaced" by Old Rip Van Winkle 15 year 107 proof, perhaps due in November 2011?...). Of course, you may still find it as a "dusty" bottle (something discontinued but remaining on the shelves of stores where discerning patrons don't know better, wink, wink) but chances on that are shaky. The name alone makes PVW 15 an automatic grab for most folks and a February 25, 2011 CNN piece seems to agree with me regarding availability. And note that after the 15 year disappears, it is only a matter of time before the 20 year disappears as well. Consider yourselves duly warned.
That said, I leave you with Pappy's motto:
We make fine bourbon. At a profit if we can, at a loss if we must, but always FINE BOURBON
Review by Brian Cogan, Go Metric’s Senior Broadway Critic
While there have been many pre-opening reviews of the new Spiderman musical (inexplicably called “Turn off the Dark”), all you need to know about Julie Taymor’s creative vision for Spiderman: Turn off the Dark, is that she once had me and my friend Kevin play orangutans in a PBS special. No, really.
The production was called Fool’s Fire (an adaptation of an Edgar Allen Poe story) and it was a puppet heavy special about an evil king who constantly humiliates a court jester and his true love. In an act of revenge, the fool dresses the king’s court up as large costumed orangutans and kills them via arson. Sounds lovely? Well it was, the costumes were incredible, the settings lavish, and the fool himself, played by Twin Peaks backward speaking “man from another place” Michael Anderson was top notch. So why am I mentioning this in the context of Spider-Man?
Well, because I’m not an actor, and neither was my friend Kevin. We were working as set PA’s and at one point a flunky with a walkie came over and asked us if we would like to earn a little more money. Broke as we were, we said yes before even asking what the nature of the task ahead was. Fortunately for us, it was merely to climb into large, bulky and extremely hot orangutan outfits, along with about ten other men, and rush into the throne room chained together acting as primates when “action” as called. Naturally, as I am simian-like by nature, this was a role I was born to play, and we gleefully ran into the throne room several dozen times, overacting our best as courtiers disguised as orangutans. Or perhaps it was the other way around? I’m not sure at this point.
However, a major downside to this glorious cinematic achievement was the horrific temperature inside the costume. After a minute or so of filming, you would grab the large headpiece off as quickly as possible and grab for an air hose that cooled down the rapidly perspiring cast. The costumes were designed for their look, not functionality. Most of the time we stood around with our orangutan heads off trying to cool down.
As we waited to see if another take would be called, we heard an anguished cry coming from one of the producers. Apparently a Screen Actors Guild representative was making a surprise inspection! (This made me wonder how many other times had Julie Taymor pressed non-actors into orangutan outfits before? Was there a special Julie Taymor orangutan inspection squad formed for just such a purpose?) Acting quickly, they herded us, in full costume into a small side room, where twelve of us stared at each other wondering what to do next. After several minutes of idle conversation, two more producers walked in and one blanched and cried out, “Oh my god! They’re still in costume!” He then directed us to strip off the costumes. Of course as the costumes were so incredibly hot, we were all wearing nothing but our underwear. Our outer clothes were in a locker several rooms away. As we sat in our underwear passing the time, yet another producer walked in with a production assistant carrying newspapers. He explained that it would look much more natural if the SAG rep came in to show her that we were simply on break. Luckily the rep never came in that particular room to check, but if she had, she would have found twelve young men, sitting together in a room, almost naked thumbing though newspapers while sweating profusely.
The only reason I mention this story before writing about SMTOTD is that this is the world in which Julie Taymor resides. Where things that seem absurd to other people make perfect sense to her, and vice-versa. And that’s the crux to understanding the Spider-Man musical. It is not terrible. It is not good. It is absurd. Absurd in so many ways that is hard not to enjoy it, no matter how terrible certain parts of it are.
Spiderman is one of the most well known franchises in the world, with the comics, films and other merchandising efforts hauling in billions a year for Marvel Comics, and its parent company Disney. It was only natural that eventually a stage show would be made starring Spiderman, but the powers that be had a more audacious thought, make it into a musical! This is not as silly an idea as one might suppose. For those who are not comic book fans, Spiderman’s original story was not simply a superhero retread, but under Stan Lee and Steve Ditko’s guidance, it was both a story of teenage angst, as well as one of the most intriguing morality tales of the twentieth century. The main point of Spiderman, as summed up by his sage, and soon to be departed Uncle Ben, is not the classic tale of absolute power corrupting, but the more benign, “With great power, comes great responsibility.” Spiderman learns this lesson the hard way, a burglar he fails to stop kills his Uncle Ben. Spiderman later stops the killer, and learns to live selflessly, no matter how much it complicates his life. The first major story arcs revolved around Peter Parker learning to use his powers, and how to negotiate personal responsibilities (such as he girlfriend Gwen Stacey’s needs) and the fact that his best friend Harry Osborn, is the son of The Green Goblin, his greatest foe. The first hundred or so issues of Spiderman are classic archetypical stories about good and evil and innocence maintained amid great tragedy. All of the major themes that comfortably work as the plots of classic Broadway musicals.
But that was insufficient for the producers of Spider-Man the musical. They drafted not only big rock stars (Bono and the Edge) to write the score, but even more audaciously they tapped Julie Taymor, now best known for her direction of another mega-musical the Lion King on Broadway (also owned by Disney). Surely, this blockbuster team would deliver the goods, presenting the audience with what they called a “rock and roll circus” a spectacle of grand themes and spectacular special effects. But, apparently even this was not enough.
Without going into the many stories that breathlessly followed the troubled origins of Spider-Man the musical, we must realize, as Shakespeare wrote, the fault lies not in our stars, but ourselves. To Julie Taymor the problem was not in cutting down almost forty years of Spiderman lore and history into a two act musical, but in the source material itself. Apparently to Taymor, Spiderman was not archetypical enough, it needed something a bit more highbrow, shall we say? Despite the grand universal themes inherent in the comic books, and in some of the movies, Spiderman was lacking something, and Julie Taymor knew what it was: shoes! Actually, I’ll get back to the shoes in a minute. What Spiderman needed was a broader, more mythological story, one that combined the everyday life of an American teenager with new super powers, could satisfy both the 99% of the audience who came for thrills and the original Spiderman story (on the night we went, half of the audience was under twenty) and the 1% that demanded more, aka, Julie Taymor.
Spider-Man is not an absurd mess because of all the safety violations and mechanical problems. It is a mess because it only makes sense to one person, Julie Taymor. The plot itself in the first act at least, is somewhat straightforward, and seemingly largely cribbed from the first movie version. Peter Parker, a bullied high school student who is bitten by a radioactive spider. This gives him the usual Spiderman powers that the audience would be familiar with, and slowly (about 45 minutes into the musical) he becomes Spiderman and learns what it means to be a superhero.
Sadly, this Spiderman is unlike any other ever seen. He lives next door to the lovely red haired MJ, but instead of his wise but intrusive Aunt May and Uncle Ben, he lives with two old seemingly cranky shrews, who impart little wisdom but to hound him out of the house. Uncle Ben is killed, but Peter seemingly learns nothing from it, his only reference in the musical to Uncle’s Ben’s pivotal words of wisdom, the entire raison d’etre for the character, is a throwaway line while fighting the Green Goblin. Yes, as in the first movie, the Green Goblin is the villain, but with subtle differences. He has no son Harry for Peter to agonize about. Oh, and the actor chosen to play him also talks with an accent that is a less appealing then you would imagine cross between Kramer from Seinfeld and cartoon rooster Foghorn Leghorn. Eventually, following the script of the movie more or less, Spiderman defeats the Green Goblin and saves MJ. (The movie version and the musical have eliminated the Gwen Stacey character.) The curtain falls and the entire audience runs for the bar. In the last hour and twenty minutes, we have seen a fairly standard plot, where spectacular flying effects (some are truly stunning) are mixed with large seemingly cheaply painted cardboard cut-outs for sets, and special effects that range from the outlandishly amazing, to ultra-cheap looking small Spiderman dolls being pulled by a visible string across a cardboard cut-out of the Chrysler building. We have also learned in the first act, the story of Arachne, the first spider and Greek goddess, who is apparently behind the creation of Spiderman. There is even a helpful “class report” by Peter Parker that explains the myth in the playbill. This is also redundantly read aloud in the first act. Arachne, we gather (because at times both the vocals and the story are jointly fuzzy) wants to come to the physical plane. In a jaw-dropping musical number where singing women form a web or glossy fabric across the stage, Arachne bemoans her fate, never to experience the physical world again. Unless…hmmm?
Most people at the theater, especially the young kids looked satisfied with the first act. Had it been padded out by one or two more songs (more about the songs later), they could have bought their Spiderman hoodies for a mere seventy-five bucks and gone home to tell their friends how cool it was when Spiderman fought the Green Goblin mid-air, or landed on the balcony next to them. Instead, after almost half an hour intermission, presumable to fix a set that had broken and delayed the first act by ten minutes, they returned to their seats for the rest of the spectacle.
I am unsure what their parents told them on the way home. Cribbing this time from the second film, MJ is now a Broadway actress, and Peter is too busy saving the world to see her on stage. Also, after fighting garishly costumed villains including the “Sinister Six” (featuring classic Spiderman villains, as well as an all new Julie Taymor creation, “Swiss Miss,” a large pocket knife of a villain of whom the less is said the better) , Peter decides to retire from being Spiderman. Now, here is where is gets tricky. Arachne either needs Peter to be Spiderman to get her energy to come from the astral plane to earth, or maybe just loves him, or maybe just needs her spider-minions to steal high-end shoes. It is unclear as to which of the three may be correct, as it is almost impossible to hear the lyrics, it might be something else entirely. Although he wanted out of the game, Spiderman is lured back by a resurrected Green Goblin and the now undead Sinister Six who are terrorizing the city. (Apparently for a wise-cracking young kid, Parker sure ups the body count!) After defeating them, Spiderman realizes that unless he dives into a pit at the front of the stage, Arachne will never leave him alone. (This is also the site of a famous accident during production.) Eventually, Arachne decides to leave, perhaps because of Spiderman’s superior pit dive and the day is saved. The show ends with a new revised ending (apparently previously the curtain just dropped ) with more aerial ballet, and then the actor playing Spiderman comes down upside down on a web for his encore, to kiss MJ as in the film. Does this all make sense? Not to me either, and I’m not even mentioning the “Geek Chorus” (get it?) who are either commenting on the action, or writing the Spiderman mythos. It's never really clear, and they largely sit back and watch for the second act.
But it’s not just the book that’s confusing. Despite some good efforts, there are many clunker songs. Do we really need a song called “Bullying by Numbers” where various bullies, all for some reason in their thirties (is this grad school and are they out to steal Peter’s thesis?) dance to a clunky tune with sub-Backstreet Boys choreography? Or a song “Pull the Trigger” by the generals who urge Norman Osborn on in his construction of the Green Goblin who sing an even clunkier rap song, akin to House of Pain or Onyx? And lastly, the now infamous song, “Deeply Furious” where Arachne’s female spider minions steal high end shoes makes one wonder if you suddenly wandered into the theater where Sex and the City: Turn off The Lights So You Don’t See Our Wrinkles is playing? There is a redeeming song “Rise Above” which is beautifully sung and is reprised for the ending (and as a Black Flag fan, if you are going to call a song “Rise Above” it had better be good)! But overall, except for three of four numbers, including a couple clearly written for Bono’s cadences, you don’t really walk out the theater humming them, a major faux pas for a major musical.
And that’s the trouble with Spider-Man, it is a spectacle, and there are some stunning bits, but it will never make sense to most of the comic book friendly audience (Glenn Beck aside) who will wonder about needless plot complications and obfustication of the major theme of the original Spiderman story. Not to mention the fact that many of the costs involved in the production were done to make the theater aerial friendly. A good musical to most critics and fans of the genre, survives in revivals and catchy or poignant songs that can be performed outside of the original production. Outside of the “Deeply Furious” number about shoes, which may make for a campy sing-along at a piano bar, this is not the case, and a touring version outside of a major sports arena seems unlikely.
Ultimately, Spider-Man was just not well thought out, as if the producers, Bono and the Edge and Julie Taymor all lived in a reality distortion field where things that made perfect sense to them would puzzle or cause disdain to the lowly audience members, who continue to line up outside the theater daily to see what all the fuss is about. Not that this means Spider-Man will be a flop. Already tweaks are being made and a new musical director and a book writer have been brought in to fix the show less than a month before its latest “opening.” In the long run, it may be a huge hit, recoup all its money and became a catchword for truly spectacular theater and play lucrative stadium tours for the next twenty years. But, as long as Julie Taymor lives in the kind of bubble where it is perfectly normal for orangutans like me to have to hide in a sweaty room in my underwear reading a paper, it is highly unlikely.
I wake up in the corner of a basement rehearsal studio in the outskirts of Baltimore. The first stop of the day is a local winery/deli to, as per someone’s request, buy a sandwich and deliver it to them in Los Angeles. Unfortunately for that person, our generator has been broken for days, which means we don’t have a working refrigerator. On the plus side, we can get decent breakfasts for ourselves.
We’ve received an offer to tour “The Slave Pit,” which is the work space/studio for the band Gwar, where they work on designing and building new costumes, set pieces, and other materials. Chris makes an awkward phone call, and within minutes we’re on our way.
We find the studio, and are greeted by a nice fellow named Matt, who’s one of Gwar’s crew members. Upon walking inside, every room is filled with assorted old set pieces, props, and other memorabilia. Looking around, it’s funny to watch Chris, Shannon, and Will beat each other up with comically large robot arms and hammers. I’m incredibly excited; here I am getting a view at something that not everyone gets to see.
We finish up and head to the venue. Chris has to do an interview with the local NBC Affiliate over Skype (which we ruin), and have time to get dinner at a local barbeque restaurant, where we treat a bunch of locals to their meals. I unwisely base my dinner around hush puppies (which are delicious, but make me feel terrible).
The venue is a fairly large art space called Gallery 5. There’s a large stage with a movie screen, plus a zine library and art exhibits upstairs. The LLC sound checks and I wash my hair in the bathroom sink as best I can.
The show goes well, though I keep worrying that the audience isn’t really into it (however, I’m built to worry). As per Gwar’s request, the show includes a tribute, with audience members pouring Bloody Marys on Chris, while wearing only a thong and nothing else. Backstage moments before the bit, Chris is furious, mumbling “I don’t want to do this, this is going to be awful” over and over again. But it gets good laughs. After the whole thing finishes there is post-show improv jam, and while changing Chris, Will and Shannon invite me to join them, which blows me away. I don’t do much, just a few walk-ons, but the fact that they mentioned it at all was incredibly flattering.
After the show, we have another place to stay, in an apartment above a garage in the suburbs. There is inevitably a party in the house. I hang out at for a while before walking back to the garage-apartment and tucking myself under a table to go to sleep.
The day’s agenda: Destroy a fallen tree in our friend’s parents’ backyard, then drive to Richmond. Typical comedy tour fare.
We’d hoped to rent chainsaws, but the company doesn’t trust us with them, and gives us handsaws instead. Turns out that it’s really hard to cut up a tree that’s been buried in snow for weeks with handsaws, so Chris goes and rents an electric saw from a different place that doesn’t care as much. As soon as Chris bends over to start cutting, his pants start falling down, and I hear someone say “Can’t he just have a triumphant moment?” We finally got a few small sections off the tree. Sadly, this takes us well into the afternoon.
We hit the point where we have to admit that we have no chance of chopping up the tree up all the way, probably even over the course of this week, let alone the day. We have to move on. We’re a little disappointed in ourselves, but our host mother doesn’t mind in the slightest. “Just make sure you have fun!” she keeps telling us, before feeding us lunch, and taking us to see an art installation she was responsible for around the corner from Yale University. Then we get back on the road.
We’ve had some offers to head to Philadelphia – someone who wants to make us dinner, and someone who wants to fight Chris. It’s not the longest drive from Connecticut, but it still feels weird, especially passing through New York City and New Jersey. Our first stop is a comedy show that Chris’s brother Greg hosts. When we get there, Chris storms the stage, and he wrestles the mystery challenger. They only go for a few minutes, but Chris wins, and is not humble about it at all, calling out another group (“I don’t know who they are, but they’ve been talking shit.”). They’re apparently in the audience, and immediately storm the stage. However, it’s a four person sketch group, so Chris calls up Shannon and Will and needs one more, so I decide to step up and run on stage, at which point I quickly realize “I have no idea how to fight.” It takes only seconds for me to be pinned by the largest member of our opponents, but I don’t tap out, and moments later, we win. We rushed out of as the audience boos us.
After storming out, we head over to our dinner invitation. It’s a fairly casual meal of spaghetti, and by casual I mean “there’s no silverware, so I eat with a pair of skewers.” It’s a little strange, but sitting in the living room, silently contemplating what else there is to come on this trip, I can’t complain.
After we finish up, it’s snowing fairly hard, but we have to take off again, driving a few more hours south, finally stoping for the night in the outskirts of Baltimore.
Up next: The gang heads further South, and get a tour of the Slave Pit.
First thing in the morning we get up to make our way to Boston. Before we leave, Chris yells at me for sleeping on the floor (truth is, I have crazy-levels of personal space issues). We get up early. No one feels like stopping and we make great time. With the exception of the fact that we can’t seem to get the side door to stay closed while we’re on the highway, there are no problems. Everyone feels great, and there’s a feeling of “this is happening” just like at the beginning of any tour. Until we realize we’re about to hit a bridge. That’s when panic starts to set in. We stop just in time, and eventually call 911 for help. The officer waves us through slowly, and we get through with no problems. Until we also realize we left the props for today’s main bit behind. We’re barely down the road, and tensions are already high.
Once we get to where we’re going, we take a few minutes, and collect our thoughts. We replace the props easily and we’re back on track. Our friend Noah, who is a staunch Jets fan, is allowed to ride along with us for the day, as long as he harasses Patriots fans before a very hyped game. Patriots fans are surprisingly calm about the whole thing, but once we see everything is going ok, we calm down a bit. However, we start realizing that none of us have really eaten anything all day, and that it’s freezing (quite a difference from how I thought we’d immediately be heading South for the whole trip).
We finish up and head over to the venue, ImprovBoston but also discover that it’s not easy to drive a seven person RV through narrow, hardly plowed city streets. We have to park at a grocery store, and arrange for a caravan to pick us up and bring us over, so we can finally drop off our stuff and eat. I get a veggie burger and fries nearby, and after everything else today it feels like it’s the first thing I’ve eaten in a week.
This marks the first show we’ve ever done outside of New York City, so I’m anxious. But when we start, the whole theater is filled, and the crowd starts clapping in unison. They’re into it. They’re not entirely sure of what to make of everything, like Will’s stand up, Shannon’s characters, and our interview with some of Chris’s college friends that (one of whom just hit on girls in the audience, and me the entire time), but they’re into it.
When the show finishes up, we head back out on the road almost immediately. We get to a house in Connecticut where we have to film more bits the next day. I set up my sleeping bag underneath another table, on top of couch cushions, barricading myself inside with chairs, and go to sleep.
Up next: Everyone uses saws, and Joe gets involved in a four on four wrestling match.
I’ll admit that for most of my life, I’ve been aimless. Never being sure of what I wanted to do with my life, I’d bounce around various dead end jobs while working on other things in my spare time, like bands and writing. Over the past year, I’ve been doing part time office work while performing in the house band of The Chris Gethard Show, a monthly talk/comedy/variety show that takes place once a month at the UCB Theater – balancing my time between a dream job and a menial job. A few months ago, Chris wrote everyone about doing a show in Los Angeles – getting there by driving there cross country together in a seven person RV (there’s more than seven of us). I decided to go for it, not just doing the tour, but also doing my own separate stand up tour immediately after. It was a harder decision than you’d think.
The week leading up to the tour was busy, but it got even busier when we added an extra Gethard Show before leaving New York – on account that we’ve gotten millionaire rapper Diddy to appear as a guest via Twitter. It was a last minute event that immediately caused a notable surge of hype. When I got to the theater there was already paparazzi outside, and I was a few hours early. By the time the show started, the theater was packed. When we finally introduced Chris and Diddy (with an Ergs!/Diddy medly) the crowd was going nuts--I spend most of the show in awe of what was going on. Before I knew it the whole thing was over, it was 4:30 in the morning and I was trying to fall asleep on my friend’s couch in Brooklyn.
The next day I ate brunch with my friend Hallie before heading home for the last few free hours I’d have to myself for the next month. That time was spent packing, and trying to relax. When I ran late on my way back to our official kick off show, I felt like it’s a bad sign, which puts me in a nervous, worrisome mood. I assumed that no one was coming out tonight, but it turned out all right. When we finished up, we all headed to Gethard’s parents house in the New Jersey suburbs where the RV was parked. On the way we passed by malls, diners, and other places I’d go to hang out in high school, which feels like a strangely appropriate way to start the trip, as I’m moving towards a new phase in my life. It was almost four AM by the time we got there, and I realized I'd forgotten toothpaste, and went to sleep under the dining room table.
Up next: The crew manages to get in trip-ending trouble, before even reaching their first stop in Boston.
Having been invited to be a Go Metric contributor with Bourbon (Whiskey) as the suggested column content, I thought I’d start off with a little introduction to "America’s Native Spirit" and address some common misconceptions.
Here are a few Bourbon “requirements”:
Only whiskey produced in the United States can be called bourbon. If it says bourbon on the label, it’s from the good ol’ US of A.
Bourbon (like other whiskey) must be bottled at a minimum of 80 proof (40% ABV - alcohol by volume). The highest proof bourbon I know of is the 2007 release of George T. Stagg bottled at 144.8 proof. Any proof above 140 is legally considered to be Hazardous Material so you’ll hear this GTS affectionately referred to as HazMat IV (the 2003, 2005 and 2006 bottlings were all over 140 proof as well.) Once you get into proof like this, don’t be afraid to add a few drops of water to make it a bit more palatable.
Bourbon has no minimum specified duration for its aging period, however to be called STRAIGHT bourbon it must be aged in new, charred oak barrels for a minimum of two years. The rules say bourbon must be aged in new charred oak barrels but they don’t say for how long - some of the smaller craft/micro distilleries only age their bourbon for a few months. Bourbon aged for a period less than four years must be labeled with the duration of its aging so if you don’t see an age statement on the bottle, it is at least four-year-old juice.
There are four levels of char, ranging from #1 ("burnt toast") to #4 ("crocodile" char). Most distillers use #3 or 4 char. I believe Maker’s Mark specifies a 3 1/2 char.
To be labeled as "Bottled-in-Bond" (BIB) or "Bonded," the spirit must be the product of one distillation season and one distiller at one distillery. It must have been stored (aged) in a federally bonded warehouse under U.S. government supervision for at least four years and bottled at 100 proof. The bottled product’s label must identify the distillery (by DSP number) where it was distilled and, if different, where it was bottled. BIB bourbon is at least 4 years old and 100 proof and makes for some might nice drinking.
Some common Bourbon myths:
Bourbon whiskey must be made in Kentucky. Not true — Bourbon may be made anywhere in the United States.
Kentucky is the only state legally allowed to put its name on a bourbon label. Again, not true - no such law or rule exists.
Jack Daniel’s is not bourbon. Technically, Jack Daniel’s (and George Dickel) are considered to be Tennessee Whisk(e)y but they could probably be classified as bourbon.
They aren’t labeled as bourbon because they choose not to be. In 1941, JD’s Reagor Motlow solicited (and received) a letter from the Alcohol Tax Unit of the Treasury Department acknowledging that Tennessee whiskey is distinct from bourbon. Reagor’s concern was that because his product met all the requirements for bourbon, it might be required to label itself as bourbon. He wanted, and got, a piece of paper from the government that said "Tennessee whiskey is not bourbon." But that is all it says – it offers no reason or explanation.
Awright, then. If GM doesn’t get too many complaints and they’ll have me back again, next time I’ll give you my thoughts on Pappy Van Winkle.
OK, and if you want new music, would it kill you to check out these four?
Tied for Last
One of the few bands I would climb from my deathbed to see live. These modern day punks (with some rockabilly thrown in for good measure) are indeed the hardest working folks in town, with catchy clever songs that never disappoint. Please, don’t take it from me, see them live, you will go home converted (and if not, probably because you are the type to stand in the back of the room with your arms folded over your chest at every show shouting “Boo! Do the old stuff!” but that’s your problem, not mine).
Screaming Females
The New Jersey scene that brought us the Ergs among others still produces stunning bands and my newest fave is the Screaming Females, even though only one out of three is a woman. Great mixture of guitar heroics and weirdly slightly distorted vocals make them local heroes, and yet another great band on Don Giovanni records.
Left on Red
If you ride the NY subway, you probably have seen the two gorgeous intelligent and funny women busking at one point or another. They are political without being didactic and whether they are playing old timey music, or modern pro-women anthems, they back up their politics with beautiful harmonies and expert interwoven violin and guitar. Try and see them before they are too big to play Penn Station.
Marty Rivas
OK, this may count as cheating, as I’ve know the guy for thirty years now, but while a lot of white singers sing soul music, Marty actually has soul. Whether it’s him and Craig on drums doing their repertory of seemingly a thousand obscure covers, or his dynamic full band shows, Marty (I know he goes by Martin these days, but I have seniority) is the bastard child of Sam Cooke and Otis Redding.
2010 marked the Fiftieth (!!) Anniversary of the Bee Gees' career as fully professional all-singing, all-playing musicians, songwriters, and performers.
This January 12 marked eight years since self-styled “man in the middle” Maurice Gibb's tragic passing. And in 2011, remaining Gibbs Barry and Robin are actually threatening to continue recording, and perhaps even tour the globe, beneath the hitherto-mighty Bee Gee moniker.
This is a proposition I frankly find quite incomprehensible to fathom, let alone purchase three-figure tickets to witness in person. Though with Messrs. Pete and Roger insisting on conducting business both on stage and off as [sic?] “The Who,” I do suppose anything is possible (if not exactly practical and/or ethical).
Nevertheless, I'm far happier to report that 2011 also sees the appearance of a grand new five-decade-plus DVD retrospective on Barry, Robin, Maurice and even Andy Gibb entitled In Our Own Time. And from its very opening ultra-decibel, fire ‘n' flashpot-festooned montage of “You Should Be Dancing” footage spanning '76 clear through '96 – which then cleverly cuts far back to a '56-vintage Elvis and his similarly dance-crazed “Blue Suede Shoes” – it's clear this is going to be one of those far too rare roc doc's which actually has a wise and sharpened sense of socio-historical pop perspective. I mean, who was Tony Manero after all than simply Vince Everett in polyester white as opposed to jailhouse black?
Our ride duly launches out of post-war Manchester, England as Barry, Robin and (via interview footage culled from David Leaf and John Scheinfeld's equally adept This Is Where I Came In documentary) Maurice describe years spent as pre-teen Everly wannabe's who eventually emigrate all the way to Australia, where they form a singing act to perform for spare change at a local race car track. But such is this young trio's charm and already obvious talent that they soon blossom into bonafide Down-Under Beatles: the televised performance herein of a ‘63 Bee Gee “Please Please Me” alone makes In Our Own Time nothing short of Required Viewing. Yet the fully airborne promotional footage we're treated to next for their first Number One hit, 1966's still-buoyant “Spicks and Specks,” displays a far more Monkee as opposed to Beatle-like mastery of the lip-sync'd absurd.
Returning to their homeland and soon after magically hooking up with none other than Fab sub-manager Robert Stigwood, a recording contract and string of (self-written and purposefully “melodramatic,” it is revealed) classics appear in typically Sixties warp-speed. Colourful “New York Mining Disaster,” “I Can't See Nobody,” “To Love Somebody,” “Massachusetts,” “Idea” and “Words” clips follow, and even a glancing view towards each should erase all doubts that The Bee Gees were one of that genius-packed decade's surely most accomplished by far. Case closed.
Caution: What shoots way, way up must of course fall down. So as Sixties become Seventies our heroes found themselves struggling beneath the weight of red velvet-ensconced rock operas, mutinous solo projects, meddling better halves and even their very own ill-fated television spectacular, Cucumber Castle (which may indeed be much more fun than Magical Mystery Tour , though it's certainly no Monkees' Head ). Once the audio-visual wreckage cleared however, the brothers found themselves chastened enough to not only fully reform, but come up with two unashamedly allegorical gems, “Lonely Days” and “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart,” which appeared to all concerned to be their career swansongs.
But! We're less than half-way through our show! And so what exactly did spare The Bee Gees at this critical point from a fate worse than Oldie Goldie residencies near Clacton-on-Sea?
Two words: Arif Mardin.
Luring them to the decidedly more sympathetic climes of Miami's Criteria Recording Studios, then cleverly steering the brothers towards their previously unexplored r'n'b leanings (via Barry's falsetto most pointedly), the result was a slow but steady climb both back onto their feet and then extremely high back up the international sales charts. No further explanation is really needed by me here: At least 100 million of you out there bought the ensuing records.
The backlash, of course, was instant and fierce. “Bee Gee-Free Weekends” on radio stations the world over. “Bee Gee Bonfires” of Saturday Night Fever soundtracks in Chicago baseball stadiums.
“The enigma with a stigma,” as Barry still brands The Bee Gees to this very day.
And I'm sure he doesn't just mean the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band movie either.
Yet for anyone who tuned away from the tale right about here, In Our Own Time continues on through subsequent years of Gibbs stubbornly continuing to craft monster hits …only for other singers (Streisand, Celine, The Divine Miss Ross and Kenny and Dolly, for example: why, there's an additional twenty-or-so million in sales right there). Unfortunately, this otherwise platinum period also saw the loss of a severely over-self-medicated Andy Gibb, and the frightful near-exit of a similarly lost “Brother Mo” to boot. Most thankfully indeed though, Maurice eventually bounced completely back to help create what, tragically, would be his final Bee Gee masterpiece, “This Is Where I Came In,” before death on January 12, 2003.
Well, the story perhaps does not end there. One hour and fifty-one minutes into Our Own Time finds a stoic Barry insisting, and I quote, “The legacy of the Bee Gees MUST go on, one way or the other.” Cut to contemporary footage of he and faithful brother Robin, recently reunited before twin microphones in some faux-recording studio setting, crooning “To Love Somebody” and “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart.”
