Superb hop-bitten fruit cocktail originally crafted by defunct Legacy Brewery returns to glory in 2011. Well-balanced IPA counters piney juniper thrust with lemon-curried peach, pineapple, pear, nectarine, and cantaloupe fruiting to sweet-malted honeyed wheat bed. Herbaceous undertones awaken grassy hay, alfalfa, and whey sway. Orange marmalade, ambrosia, and fennel add tertiary pleasantries. A distinguished treasure thankfully rescued from Pennsylvania dustbins.
All posts by John Fortunato
RAMSTEIN IMPERIAL PILSNER
On tap, robust saffron-hazed German pilsner with great head retention clusters creamy crystal malting with intensified yellow fruiting. Sharp floral hop spicing invigorates crisp lemony grapefruit tartness to biscuit-y wheat spine. Dry horse-blanketed hay, alfalfa, and whey scratch surface as parched wood snip increases. Perfect on its own or to complement meat and fish.
FLYING FISH EXIT 6 WALLONIAN RYE BELGIAN-STYLE ALE
Admirable Belgian yeast-driven, American dry-hopped, strong pale ale (circa 2011). Bitter orange-peeled lemon-seeded moderation and crisp white-peppered coriander-spiced floral hops contrast candi-sugared apple-candied peach, melon, and honeydew sweetness above polite rye malting. Ascending curacao orange, clementine, and orange marmalade illusions deepen pureed raspberry pungency. Teensy herbal nuance backends refined adjunct ale.
OMMEGANG GNOMEGANG BLONDE ALE
On tap at Andy’s Corner Bar, detailed saffron-glowed Belgian strong ale brings yellow-fruited goodness to creamy honeyed malting and gin-soaked ethanol astringency. Convincing lemony orange-peeled banana bubblegum entry given white-peppered coriander-clove spicing, candi-sugared apricot-pineapple-pear contingency, and faded floral whimsy. ’16 bottled version: candied lemon tang picks up brisk orange twist, light floral herbage and sweet banana-clove-coriander respite.
SIERRA NEVADA OVILA DUBBEL
In 1-pint 9-ounce bottle, ambitious collaboration between Sierra Nevada and the monks at New Clairaux Abbey layers Belgian chocolate-spiced caramel malts above black-peppered purple and red grape esters to musty basement-like yeast funk. Brown-sugared clove spicing trickles into ancillary fruitcake, raisin and prune illusions. On tap at Andy’s Corner Bar, sharp dried-fruited copper-toned Belgian-styled dubbel retained creamy brown-sugared dark-spiced tingle. Tannic grape skins cushion fig, raisin, and cherry fruiting. Recessive banana-clove sweetness contrasts peppery hop sop.
HIGH POINT BREWING COMPANY
BUTLER, NEW JERSEY
German philosopher Friedrich Neitchze’s timeless adage, ‘whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger,’ seems appropriate describing High Point Wheat Beer Company’s steady rise in the face of a thankfully bygone era when generic lagers ruled the roost, crowded store shelves, and saturated indiscriminant guzzlers.
Creating its inaugural Bavarian-styled beers under the RAMSTEIN banner a few years before the majority of impressive brewpubs started penetrating America’s rank and file, owner Greg Zaccardi’s small Butler brewery became the first all-exclusive German wheat beer enterprise in America during 1996. But now High Point’s Ramstein beer line goes way beyond German tradition.
In hindsight, the founding investors took a mighty risk marketing European flavored brews to a homogeneous public filled to the gill with Bud and Miller. Though Ramstein has grown beyond its German-styled hybridization into Americanized ales and lagers, Zaccardi’s award-winning lineup still utilizes preferred German ingredients.
Before Blue Moon Brewery gained a foothold in the burgeoning wheat beer trade, Ramstein had already shown the way with more distinct, flavorful, and robust offerings at a time when the ever-popular, less savory, weaker-bodied Hoegaarden Witbier commanded mainstream attention. Though High Point’s distribution may currently be limited to New Jersey, its Maibock, Amber, and Blonde brews have won prestigious medals in Hudson Valley competitions while its Winter Wheat took a local Suzie Q People’s Choice Award.
Yet Zaccardi admits the humbling educational experience initially took on a ‘make or break’ dilemma that could’ve sunk the brewery prior to its opening. Learning different bar’s dynamics and indoctrinating the unenlightened proletariat was extremely important to bringing cloudy banana-clove-flavored suds such as Ramstein Blonde to a previously prohibited populace confined to cheaply macro-brewed pilsner-lagers.
A spunky University of California-Santa Cruz chemistry major, the Montclair native learned his post-collegiate craft while brewing in Germany. He may’ve stayed out West in ’89, but San Francisco was shook by an enormous earthquake that affected the regions job market (pre-Silicon Valley computer boom).
Zaccardi recalls, “There were two Santa Cruz brewpubs back then. So I was used to great-tasting beer. When I returned to the East Coast, it was a barren wasteland for beer. Brooklyn Brewery was just a small brand. If you went to any decent place like Passaic’s Loop Lounge, the best you’d get was Sam Adams – which was rather unknown. Molson was considered exceptional, unique beer at that time.”
The eager zymurgist soon began home brewing, joining New York City’s Homebrewers Guild thereafter. He watched as the microbrew industry advanced eastward through Colorado, then Chicago, and finally, the Big Apple.
“I thought this might be something I wanted to pursue since I had the chemistry degree,” he says. “My wife’s family, at the time, were from Germany. She came from five generations of Leibinger brewers in the town of Ravensburg. German brewers are very regional. They did 100,000 barrels a year, a larger production output then that of Ommegang. So I went to Germany and got an apprenticeship brewing at Edelweiss specializing in wheat beer. They were the sister brewery of an Austrian company and don’t import to America.”
Pulling out a souvenir bottle of Farny, the Edelweiss family’s namesake hefeweizen, Zaccardi then explains the difficulties of prepping a neoteric Jersey brewery.
“In ‘93/ ’94, we put together a comprehensive brew plan for America, working with Rutgers Business School, where one of my co-founders went. We had a hip focus group comparing five different beers to select the best. Our Blonde Wheat was consistently chosen near the top. The feedback we got was it tasted like a beer some had tried at Germany’s American-run Ramstein Air Force base.”
Opening in 1996, Zaccardi initially favored property in High Point at the top of Route 23, a gorgeous landscape reminiscent of Germany’s hilly vistas. But converting cornfields to a production brewery wouldn’t be cost effective. So he chose nearby Butler as its locale, picking an industrial-bound red brick building with firm structure, existing utilities, and superior water source. He continues to use authentic Bavarian ingredients since the grain quality’s supposedly better and America’s malting houses aren’t as good.
“Sources of richer grains are concentrated in Europe. German hops are more delicate and floral whereas West Coast hops have a resinous, piney intensity that’s not conducive to keeping the balance and flow of wheat beers and lagers. The yeast we use, especially for the weiss beer and blondes, is unique and authentic. You have to use the proper yeast to get that taste. Butler’s soft water matches up well against German Rhine water. Soft water’s a blank canvass. You could adjust water to make a stout via sodium bicarbonates or calcium carbonate that mimic the style. But when you use hard water, it’s nearly impossible to economically rid the harsh mineral flavoring. We have an exclusive spring-fed reservoir and could pretty much do any style we want,” he proudly exclaims.
But Zaccardi admits High Point’s 5,000 square foot warehouse is too modest to drift into broad-ranging small batch beers. Though all Ramstein beers are available on tap, only two regular (Blonde/ Classic Wheat) and one seasonal (Winter Wheat) are currently bottled.
As we converse about Ramstein’s excellent tap-only Eisbock, Zaccardi’s former brewer, Paul Scarmazzo, a whimsically charming maibock-loving septuagenarian, joins in.
“Women love the Eisbock,” he claims. “They drink it like it’s soda. They don’t realize it’s 12% alcohol.”
Scarmazzo had gotten laid off an engineering job and just came back from a German vacation when he initially discovered Ramstein’s brews. Now retired, he spent nine years manning Zaccardi’s tanks. He began as a keg cleaner, tank sterilizer, and bottler, becoming the brewer when the position opened up. Within two months, he’d learned the art of brewing, resigning after nine years so a “younger, healthier full-timer came aboard.”
Ramstein’s newest brewer, Brian Baxter, a local musician with a superb low-key acoustical 9-song Simple Is Beauitful CD to his credit, subsequently took the reigns. The bearded, bespectacled brewmeister claims the first beer he ever tried was Genesee Cream Ale on an ice-fishing trip with his father at age sixteen. Thereafter, he home-brewed, then begged Zaccardi for a job, cleaning tanks until Scarmazzo had a stroke. Now in charge of brewing operations for six-plus years, Baxter completed a two-week brewing school program at Chicago’s respected Siebel Institute of Technology and will get further schooling in Germany later this year.
But several recent economic concerns pose a modest threat to High Point’s profitability. Prices of imported grains and raw materials have increased due to the weakened dollar versus the Euro, a wavering factor that pales next to temporarily high fuel costs and empty bottle surcharges. Plus, quality distribution is terribly important for getting fresh beer to the consumer, especially since 80% of High Point’s beer is on draft.
However, Scarmazzo envisions an unexpected benefit to higher import costs.
“There’s an upside,” he reckons. “The more expensive it gets to send ingredients from Germany, the less imported beers will be able to compete, helping local American brewers grow. Beer drinkers never had it so good. Besides, every single German beer’s been weakened over the years. It’s lighter beers in smaller bottles.”
Though High Point doesn’t make its own stout right now, they do contract brew increasingly popular new-sprung indulgence, Boaks Imperial Stout, for native Jerseyite home brewer, Brian Boak. Zaccardi acknowledges getting requests to brew a smoky German rauchbier and occasionally, he co-sponsors India Pale Ales for home brew competitions at Ridgewood’s The Office.
“We like to have a diversified portfolio going from light to dark and soft to heavy beers. I don’t see us making 18% alcohol headbangers since most are overwhelming and time consuming to create. As for local brewpubs, I’ve been supportive of West Orange’s Gaslight and Berkeley Heights-based Trap Rock. I’d like to journey to Newark’s Port 44,” Zaccardi divulges as I quaff a seven-ounce glass of amiable crystal-malted citric-peeled dry-hopped Northern Hills Amber Lager.
While Zaccardi’s “aspired benchmarks” include Ayinger, Weihenstephan, and Augustiner brews, he also enjoys Oregon’s Deschutes output and Sierra Nevada’s Celebration Ale – though this years’ model he found “harshly fresh-hopped.” He’s not the slightest bit tempted to make fruit beers or lambics any time soon. But he’s grateful for the converted dumptruck outside the brewery that boasts Ramstein’s insignia.
“We were running out of room in our dumpster, over-producing spent grain for West Milford farmers. So we went on Craigslist and sold spent grain,” he says while pouring me a sample. “A Verona man with an upstate farm in Monticello, who picks up manure from Lyndhurst’s Medieval Times and used to get grain from Newarks’s Anheuser-Busch plant, was looking for grain and needed a spot to keep his truck. Now we have a place to dump spent grain.”
On tap, robust Dortmunder-styled Revelation Golden Lager, a billowy white-headed yellow-bellied dry body, revealed an earthen peat fungi soiling not unlike a proper English Extra Special Bitter. Its wheat-cracked barley-corned graining comforts moderate wood-dried grassy-hopped bittering and teasing citric twang to toasted bread base.
As I prepare to leave on this brisk winter day in early March, Zaccardi pours me a newly brewed Maibock straight from the serving tank. An earthen leafy-hopped gourd-like autumnal crispness spreads across abundant red-fruited apple-spiced sweetness and tempered caramel malts countering a peppery rye-dried lip-smack. Less malt-sweetened than a typical Octoberfest, this superb maibock already receives first-rate consideration amongst provincial connoisseurs.
Things look up for High Point’s Ramstein line of brews right now. At least four customers have come and gone to fill up growlers and sixtels during my brief stay. So let’s have a toast for this admirable 3,500 barrel-a-year 5,000 square foot microbrewery stationed in a former rubber company space. Go to
www.ramsteinbeer.com for more pertinent info.
WEYERBACHER VERBOTEN
On tap, moderate-bodied Belgian-style pale ale (formerly known as Zotten) retains lemony grapefruit theme above peppery Cascade-Centennial hop spritz, herbal tea meditation, and reclining rosemary-thyme spicing. Honeyed malt sweetness caresses hard-candied peach, pineapple, and banana subsidy.
FULL SAIL BUMP IN THE NIGHT CASCADIAN DARK ALE
Wintry ruby-browned dry-bodied Black IPA (circa 2011) lacks distinct flavor profile and emphatic up-front thrust of similarly styled ‘Cascadian’ suds newly marketed across America. Ashy resinous earthiness may be the culprit, overriding piney-hopped grapefruit-peeled juniper bittering, tenuous rye-breaded barley roast, relegated fig-spiced date-prune swoon, and latent cola-walnut wisp. Reluctant dark-malted powdered cocoa murkiness and slick coffee-burnt waver lurk beneath.
(FIRESTONE) WALKER’S RESERVE PORTER
Stylistically lighter than expected. Distant dark-roasted peanut-shelled walnut, macadamia, and Brazil nut sharpness depletes dark-sugared oats-flaked caramelized toffee sweetness. Soapy molasses-draped cocoa-chalked coffee grounds reside below overestimated, but not insubstantial, wood-conditioned dry-bodied smoothie. On second passing, soft rye-breaded mochaccino-cappuccino creaming picks up wet-papered oats toasting, sweet hazelnut drift, and oyster-shelled crustacean nuance.
PB&J GOOD ENOUGH TO ‘GIMME SOME’
In a fair world, seasoned Swedish trio, Peter Bjorn & John, would’ve been big pop stars. An eclectic combo fashioning engagingly melodic hook lines with a keen eye looking towards rock and roll’s glorious past, these versatile Scandinavians bounce between various familiar contemporary styles while stuck just outside stardom’s short and narrow reach. In spite of it all, they don’t really care all that much about worldwide takeover.
Of course, PB&J did experience a modicum of international fame when their contagiously frolicsome whistled shuffle, “Young Folks,” became ubiquitous on album-oriented radio, a major car ad, and Grey’s Anatomy. But this catchy calling card merely scratched the surface since numerous charmingly insouciant trinkets have been spread across five English-sung long-players starting with a formative self-titled 2002 debut.
Though ‘04s promising Falling Out barely made a dent in America, it set the stage for ‘06s precocious pinnacle, Writer’s Block. Given universal exposure via “Young Folks” (featuring Victoria Bergsman of Swedish pop wunderkinds, the Concretes), this magnificently advanced follow-up gave the Stockholm-based threesome, consisting of schoolyard pals Peter Moren (guitar-vocals) and Bjorn Yttling (bass-keyboards), plus longtime percussionist John Eriksson, instant accessibility akin to likeminded peers, the Shins and New Pornographers. Moreover, murkily drowsy electro-pop epistle, “Amsterdam,” may’ve been inspirational for MGMT breakout hit, “Kids.”
However, the path to definitive mainstream celebrity was temporarily halted by ‘08s sidestepping instrumental excursion, Seaside Rock, a tribute to native Nordic villagers released only on vinyl and MP3. Perhaps revolting against those adversarial critics pigeonholing the tidy triumvirate as trendy Euro-trash pop swindlers, this divergent side trip definitely slowed momentum, at least on a multinational scale.
By the time ‘09s luxuriant Living Thing dropped, an unwarranted hackneyed commercial backlash grew. Despite being completely approachable and debatably bettering previous efforts, its broad-ranging fare nearly fell on deaf ears here in the States.
Yet there were many undeniable gems consuming Living Thing’s impressive ensemble of lightly symphonic constructions. In typical PB&J methodology, a certain duskily deviating contemplative melancholia counters the customarily buoyant ebullience. Though they still paint inside the lines of basic pop structures, the general template works wonders intersecting art-rock with twee pop and crisscrossing quirky psychedelia with new wave a la Orchestral Maneuvers In The Dark, Ultravox, and Spandau Ballet. Cautiously exploitative adventurers, PB&J herein douse their winningly rudimentary recipe with lessons learned from the Ethoipiques series of rhythmic Jazz-affected West African pop, best exemplified on the a cappella voicing, strict riddims, and hypnotizing repetitiveness lavishing the “Graceland”-spurred title track.
Moodier passages sweep through dubby trip-hop Industrial sendoff, “It Don’t Move Me,” itching to get at mightily mutinous mantra, “Lay It Down,” where the ominously defiant unison chant of ‘hey shut the fuck up boy/ you’re starting to piss me off’ wrings out loud and clear. An addictive children’s choir (reminiscent of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick In The Wall” or Jay-Z’s Annie-derived “Hard Knock Life”) pilots the sinisterly snarling sneer, “Nothing To Worry About.”
Prepared to gain a stronger marketable foothold without getting pretentiously indulgent, PB&J affably retain the glossily polished studio sheen for a bunch of roots-rocking regalia on ‘11s instinctually rousing Gimme Some. A brighter tuneful vibrancy, appropriated by likeminded outside producer, Per Sunding, girds each invigorating number.
Amassed tribal drums and a sitar-like Turkish lute (known as a cura saz baglama) create a mesmerizing transcendental motif for playfully parading foot-stomped Farfisa-flavored schoolyard-rhymed opening lullaby, “Tomorrow Has to Wait” (further excavating Living Thing’s exotic tendencies). From there, guitar-spackled conga-lined calypso “Dig A Little Deeper” finds convenient ‘80s-bound middle-ground betwixt Squeeze and Kid Creolo & the Coconuts. And the radiant “Second Chance” slyly dupes the Romantics “Talking In Your Sleep.”
As Gimme Some gathers momentum, a spry Bo Diddley beat propels “Eyes.” And jittery pile-driving cadences stimulate the Dave Edmunds/ Nick Lowe-fabricated pub rocker “Breaker Breaker.” All this nervous energy doubles on dizzyingly derailed rebuke, “Black Book” (the closest PB&J have ever come to emitting post-punk hardcore bashing). But they save the absolute best for last as exceptional dramatic closer, “I Know You Don’t Love Me,” slips into a reverberated surrealistic séance that locks in the album’s underlying lovesick anxiety then heads for the ionosphere.
Starting as informal recreational kid’s play, Peter Bjorn & John’s hobby turned into a bohemian lifelong vocation. It’s their incredibly steady pop ingenuity that serves notice to lesser, lionized lapdogs lamely lurking inside America’s restrictive airwaves.
Who were some early influences?
PETER MOREN: Back in the day I was a true ‘60s freak – Beatles, Beach Boys, Byrds, and Dylan. Later, I got into Elvis Costello and Tom Petty, then, Stone Roses and Teenage Fanclub. Some ‘90s lo-fi stuff as well. We formed our band right afterwards. But I’d already done some cassette recordings with Bjorn before high school.
Though Gimme Some’s theme seems to be about frustration and heartache, the whimsical arrangements are nevertheless joyously uplifting.
We don’t think of that much, but 60% of our albums have dark lyrics matched to positive sounding music. We also contrast sad sounding songs with positive lyrics. It should be more than meets the eye and ear so you’ve got to scratch under the surface. Gimme Some’s cover design projects similar contrasts as the music does. There’s a peppy thumbs-up here-we-go gimme some positivism but the hand’s cut off. So it’s morbid as well to match the dark lyrical underbelly.
How did Per Sunding, your first outside producer, help Peter Bjorn & John capture raw spontaneity without losing the gleaming dynamics?
He added a lot. He went with our ideas from rehearsals for the arrangements and vocal harmonies, but he put his perspective on lyrical changes. Then, we went to the studio and he provided the right energy, tempo, and takes. It sounded like a live band but we moved around a lot of gear. We took the drums into the kitchen and guitar in the hallway to create different sounds. It was very hands-on, like (electronic music pioneer and “Telstar” composer) Joe Meek. That was fun and brought a lot of enthusiasm into the studio instead of getting stuck in our old ways.
I thought Gimme Some diverted away from Living Thing’s Western African juju influences and art-damaged curios with its spunky garage verve.
I agree. (laughter) It’s different. Part of the reason is we wanted to make a more rootsy sounding record to reflect the live band better – where we’re more punky. But we focused on getting the arrangements correct early on with the three basic instruments. Instead of creating weird sounds deconstructed in the studio, we did more work and preparation beforehand. More thought was put into the playing for the live tracks.
The infectious “Dig A Little Deeper” may be the greatest dance floor contribution PB&J have yet made for the prevailing club scene.
That was actually a happy mistake intended to be a funk song. The last few years I’ve been digging funk, like Archie Bell & The Drells (#1 ’68 song) “Tighten Up.” I wanted to do something similar with the guitar riff. But I’m the worst drummer on the demo and the funky groove I gave the guys didn’t sound anything like funk. But John liked it and copied it anyhow.
On the other side of the musical spectrum, “Lies” maintains an exuberant power pop impulse.
That’s an old song written in 2002. We practiced it once but the guys don’t remember. I changed the lyrics a little. That’s more like we sounded in the early days with Box Tops or The Jam-type energy, sort of Beatles versus punk – a powerful thing. It would have suited Falling Out. We recorded that one later on in the Gimme Some sessions because we didn’t think it fit the album. But we did it really fast in a couple takes. Then, Per had the idea to overdub the entire band. So we played it twice and put the two takes on top of each other for a fuller sound that doubled the pleasure.
Many of your songs touch upon different rock-based styles. Has PB&J ever covered anybody’s stuff?
We do them live now and again. What we usually do is in the new wave or power pop vein. We’ve done the Nerves “When You Find Out,” “Fa Ce-La” by the Feelies, and “Silly Girl” by Television Personalities. However, if we do acoustic sets, we’ll play Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, or rockabilly.
What music styles would you like to delve into on future recordings?
We’re still hungry. We haven’t succeeded in doing a proper rap song. I’ve tried writing rap, but it hasn’t really worked, even though we’ve worked with Talib Kweli and GZA. Maybe I could rap with Dylan’s type of early ‘60s flow. We’ve been talking about extending this funky soul experience with some slower New Orleans-styled Meters grooves. I’ve also been into Origins of Guitar Music From Southern Congo and Northern Zambia, field recordings made in the villages where they play vastly different than the western way. You could see the formation of the High Life style. Also, David Byrne’s Luaka Pop put out Love’s A Real Thing- World Psychedelic Classics featuring William Onyeabor’s “Better Change Your Mind.” And Konono # 1-Congotronics is great as well. For me, soul, funk and rockabilly go well next to African pop. It’s almost seamless. Sometimes we might be influenced by Eddie Cochrane, but the song sounds like African music.
Getting back to your indie rock auspices, “May Seem Macabre” seems to glide along a grungy “Smells Like Teen Spirit” six-string groove.
The lyrics are really different from the rest. On the last record, I had “Blue Period Picasso,” written from the perspective of the painting. “May Seem Macabre” is actually like a dreamscape or an out-of-body experience, watching your own burial while friends and relatives mourn. You see what fabric you’re draped in. But you’re being buried next to your spouse so you’re not going to the other world alone. It’s a positive “When The Saints Come Marching In” thing. The title has different layers of meaning as usual.
However, there’s no denying the bitter acumen of “I Know You Don’t Love Me.”
That’s Bjorn’s lyric. He likes keeping it short. I’m a bit wordy. I especially like the tension of the band playing together and nailing it when the unplanned guitar solo comes out of nowhere. We usually end sets with that before encoring with past hits.
Tell me a little about the two solo albums you’ve done recently.
The 2010 one, I Sparen Av Taren, was Swedish. Both have stuff I felt I couldn’t do within band confines. The English record (‘08s The Last Tycoon) had some that could’ve been good PB&J tunes, but I was listening to old Brit-folk by Richard Thompson and Bert Jansch. Those were more self-contained, based around acoustic guitar and fingerpicking. Some lyrics may not fit a pop setting. They’re wordier and the sound’s softly laid-back. The Swedish record may be the favorite thing I’ve done combining soul and pop.
SOUTHERN TIER 422 PALE WHEAT ALE
Mild dry-bodied golden-hazed Earth Day tributary needs better malt-hop profile to be suitable summer session stash. Tingly orange-dried lemon zest softens sugar-candied pale malting, earthen mineral graining and wispy floral-hopped bittering to muted honeyed wheat finish. A somewhat trifling unfiltered ale.
(LAUGHING DOG) THE DOGFATHER IMPERIAL STOUT
Pour slowly thick ebony-hued full body or risk carbolic implosion. Heavy coffee-roasted espresso mouthfeel enriches hop-charred wood burn, tobacco chaw tarring and resinous pine acridity, reinforcing Blackstrap molasses bittering over black cherry, blackberry, and raspberry flirtations – but stylistic chocolate sweetness lacks. Black currant and juniper berry sharpness increases smoky ashen pine pungency. Serve to bolder dry stout enthusiasts.