Blurry beige-hazed puffy white-headed fruit ale hides sweet ‘n sour cranberry motif beneath softly acidic limey brimstone tartness, lemon-candied cherry-apple souring, and orange-peeled cinnamon-coriander spicing. Herbal raw-honeyed twinge seeps into white-breaded wheat spine. Light red-fruited finish tails off a tad.
All posts by John Fortunato
JASON LYTLE GOES SOLO FOR ‘YOURS TRULY, THE COMMUTER’
Ex-Grandaddy mastermind, Jason Lytle, relies on beautifully textured symphonic moods and swooning sad-voiced ethereality to reach nirvana. Taking a surrealistic pilgrimage beyond the Flaming Lips astral weeps, Grandaddy’s subtle orchestral provocations attached Lytle’s diligently detailed compositional mastery and gorgeously sequenced keyboard regalia to main comrade Jim Fairchild’s interlaced fuzzy guitar gauze, helping define the minimalist computer-generated rock landscape of the late ‘90s.
Now a venturing soloist after an uneasy breakup with his fellow Californian pals, ex-skateboard pro, Lytle, still manages to dazzle auricular senses with majestically grandiose wanderlust. A consistently transcendent mysticism sweeps over his wondrous solo debut, Yours Truly, The Commuter. Though he’d rather admit allegiance to ‘70s Classical pop icons, Electric Light Orchestra, or ‘90s complaint rock lampooners, Pavement, Lytle’s lathering oeuvre continues to radiate with the same crestfallen melancholia Radiohead and their contemporary British ilk (Coldplay/ Travis) judiciously spume.
Originating from the once-agricultural blue-collar metropolis of Modesto, Grandaddy’s refreshingly coherent and surprisingly mature ’97 debut, Under The Western Freeway, brought a Luna-related lysergic intimacy to static-y reflective lullaby’s and lushly ornate epiphanies, giving Lytle’s resolute combo instant indie-rock club cred.
Three years forward, wryly titled sequel, The Sophtware Slump, an interestingly intricate technology-bent suite, was even better, conveying utmost tranquility, especially when sweeping ELO-styled strings adorn lustrous tone-dialed euphony “The Crystal Lake.” Invigorating guitar-driven standout, “Broken Household Appliance National Forest,” is a gloriously discombobulated obfuscation that’d serve as a high water mark.
More endearingly heartfelt and nearly as challenging, ‘03s Sumday retained Grandaddy’s spellbinding warmth. “El Caminos In The West” should’ve been the great mainstream radio crossover but had to settle for being one of the catchiest tunes ever about traveling far away from home. Another contagious electro-rock dreamscape, “Stray Dog And The Chocolate Shake,” maintained an infectious uplifting glimmer. Lytle’s introspective misanthropic sensitivity reaches a zenith on resoundingly eloquent “The Group Who Couldn’t Say.”
For ‘05s home-recorded 8-track 30-minute EP, Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla (influenced by a lazy-ass cheese-ball hillbilly and a Tahoe-bound Monster truck), Lytle’s troupe kicked serious ass on clangorous emotional hardcore wrangler, “Florida,” and frazzled Cheap Trick-informed hard-candied bombast, “Pull The Curtains.”
But uncertainties surrounding Grandaddy’s reflective final album, Just Like The Fambly Cat, led Lytle, a self-described “diehard realist,” to wonder if his best ideas were running out. Contemplating whether or not he was in a holding pattern, Lytle moved to expansive northwest hideout, Montana, and struck out on his own with ’09s restorative Yours Truly, The Commuter.
The one constant amongst Lytle’s solo and band endeavors is the way his soothingly caressing falsetto butters interstellar lyrical alienation atop soft-focus arrangements resplendently utilizing Casio, analog synth, and vintage keyboard gear to create picturesque pirouettes. Title track, “Yours Truly, The Commuter,” merges liquid-y Ventures guitar reverb with oscillating Joe Meeks-inspired synthesizer and a distant audio transmission for a cool pre-British Invasion flashback. The pristine acoustic constancy of “Brand New Sun” gets inundated by sympathetic Impressionist notions and drifting piano dirge, “Forget It,” unwittingly heists Eden Ahbez’s cosmic cocktail lounging. He also celebrates the weekend with a raucous turnabout before finally crawling back into Montana’s blithe seclusion by album’s end.
I spoke to Lytle over the phone, June ’09.
Does the solo album feel like a reprisal following the demise of Grandaddy?
JASON: Grandaddy had a good thing going – label money to spend. We had good ideas but the label essentially ran out of money and eventually we ran out of steam on a number of levels. There were no reserves and I felt it was time to pack it in and start a new chapter. I had my first ultra-bout of exhaustion with ‘02s Concrete Dunes. We had a run-in with a smaller label and that got released without our consent. For every record sold, he got money. Once we got on tour and made Sumday, I was worn down. Just enough time went by for him to put that out with no approval. I never saw artwork or small minutiae. People liked it even though it was a bummer I had no extra input.
I thought Sumday may’ve contained your best low key abstractions and had more of a thematic flow than Sophtware Slump.
The closer I got to finishing Sumday, the more I felt I was sealing my own fate. I was afraid to hand it off because once that happens the whole program starts again and the treadmill fires up. There was pressure following up Sophtware Slump. I retreated the only way I knew how, going inward and making simpler, cleaner, more concise songs. My being addicted to an album having balance – I tried to branch out but felt tired during the recording process. To make it seem enjoyable, I made it heartfelt. I found myself digging deeper than if it was a lighthearted, fun process.
The alpine artwork for Sophtware Slump seemed to prefigure your move to Big Sky Country a few years hence.
If anything, that’s just fate, proving where my head was at. Even in California, I’d spend free time in mountains or open spaces. It’s a clearinghouse process of getting my head right. I knew then I’d be surrounded by scenic wilderness. I believe Sophtware Slump’s art was taken from a big coffee table book which, coincidentally, features Montana’s Glacier Park. That was a happy accident.
The solo debut alludes to a new beginning.
That played a part but I wasn’t trying to be too exact about references. If anything, it’s nice to have something valid to write about. You’re not just pouring out cliches. If I’m lucky, something will resonate for a long time. That means I’ll be able to sing the songs for years to come. It’ll mean a lot to me. I won’t feel full of shit wasting peoples’ time. My downtime’s pretty quality. I’m able to reflect and figure things out. I could deal with everyday stuff, people, and business for awhile and then I shutdown. Proximity-wise, I’m now ten minutes from being in the middle of nowhere. It’s a good way to recharge, reenergize. In Modesto, downtime wasn’t productive or healthy. I was bummed, depressed, and tried stifling that.
Ambitious title track, “Yours Truly, The Commuter,” seems fixated on pre-Beatles electronic experimentalism.
I love primitive on-the-cusp recordings that seemed on the verge of something exciting. People were fascinated by what came out of their speakers back then. Innocently, they were messing around with sounds. I like getting to the point where I lose myself in the studio. That prods me along when I’m failing to find interest.
Just smoke a joint to get motivated.
(laughter) I’ve got wine stains on my console. I’m not a big pot smoker. It makes me hide in the corner paranoid.
I felt comforted you didn’t take any left turns away from Grandaddy’s gossamer tone.
For a hot minute, I was considering going all over the map. But I reeled it in since it was my only opportunity to make a solo debut. My compromise was to make it well-balanced. The second’s gonna be a complete mess. (laughter) I consider this one a nice compromise of concise songs and instrumental bits. The next will be a little more lopsided. My career had become imbalanced in a bad way. Everyone was reasonably concerned about money. Keeping the machine going was suffering because the cart was ahead of the horse. The cart was a bunch of shit I had to dump and I had to get a new horse.
Was “It’s The Weekend” written on an emotional high. Its zooming arena rock guitars and ‘80s synthesizers really soar.
I’m still confused by that song. I called a few people to offer apologies. I had to fit it somewhere. I remember being on a backcountry hike with an annoying melody in my head and the chord progression. All I could equate with the feeling was how stoked and happy you were as a kid when morning cartoons came on and there were endless possibilities for the weekend.
Grandaddy’s been graciously called America’s version of Radiohead much the same way the Byrds were considered America’s Beatles in the ‘60s.
I wish there was more Pavement in what they do. Thom Yorke’s too damn dark and serious. No humor. But in terms of what they did with OK Computer, this new era of experimentalism mixing trash with elegance and making use of multi-tracking turned things on its ears. I was only half a fan before. When that came out, I was like, ‘Thank you.’ Afterwards, my fan-dom petered out. I tend to forget what a huge Cars fan I was coming out of that Classic/ prog-rock phase of too-long songs. The Cars were tight, well-produced, and blended synths, guitars, and big Roy Thomas Baker drums with purposely confusing lyrics that impacted me alongside heavily produced new wavers A Flock Of Seagulls, The Cure, and Depeche Mode. Then, the Pixies came around and screwed things up in a good way. I realized there was this experimental punk energy blended with slightly more orchestral arrangements that were just wrong enough. I also had brothers and sisters subconsciously pumping the Beatles, Beach Boys, and Pink Floyd into my head via headphones as a child.
ELEVATOR BREWERY
COLUMBUS, OHIO
Within walking distance of Barley Brewing, historic former speakeasy, ELEVATOR BREWERY, located in the Columbia Building (built 1897), featured antique ballroom ceiling and religious pane glass windows, July ’04. Its rustic interior perfectly duped old pre-Prohibition atmosphere and the beers flowed from large right side bar with eloquent marble columns.
Quaffed fruit-hopped caramel-coated Vienna-malted Prohibition Amber Lager; ashy soft-watered raisin-chocolate-y Procrastinator Doppelbock; fruity-hopped Necessity IPA; spicy tea-hopped Bleeding Buckeye Red Ale; chocolate-y stout-like Dirty Dick’s Nut Brown Ale; and wood-smoked cherry-dropped chocolate-coffee lightened Coal Porter during initial visit.
On quick two-hour stop on the way to Wheeling-Pittsburgh in August ’06, tried dry medium-bodied 13th Floor Pale Ale, with its wort-like waft imbuing sour wheat frontage, toasted oats spine, minor spruce hint, and acidic citric accrual. Followed that up with cotton candied Belgium Wit, a spicy lemon pith-y mandarin orange-licked banana-snipped softie.
FLYING FISH EXIT 4 AMERICAN TRIPPEL – CHERRY HILL
Wavering Belgian-styled amber-hazed tripel remains indecisive, yet strong, to herbal gin-soaked currant-like finish. Initial vanilla-extracted banana liqueur tease and meager red-fruited nosing abruptly tail off as acidic white-peppered caraway-seeded clove-coriander-spicing tingles scruffy apple tartness and green banana triviality pungently disrupted by musty wild yeast fungi and nasty alcohol-burnt harshness.
FLYING FISH EXIT 11 HOPPY AMERICAN WHEAT ALE
Well-balanced bottle conditioned straw-hazed ‘pale wheat’ ale (celebrating Jersey Turnpike exit) juxtaposes piney floral-hopped lemon-orange zest and mild grapefruit-currant bittering against tangy apricot-apple-tangerine sweetness. Candi-sugared Belgian yeast softens alcohol burn at fruity sherbet finish. White peach, purple grape, and parfait illusions come and go.
BAVARIAN BARBARIAN
WILLIAMSPORT / DUBOISTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
Opened June ’08 and visited December ’08 with wife, Karen, Williamsport’s newest brewery, BAVARIAN BARBARIAN (since closed),was located inside a pristine old car dealership a few blocks south of Bullfrog. Available on draught, at select local bars, or in half-gallon growlers were six worthy brews. An earthen deep-grained assertion anchored each well-crafted selection.
Dry ethanol-fueled gin-soaked First Snow Ale layered cinnamon-nutmeg-ginger-clove spicing above molasses-soaked raisin, sugared fig, and rye bread illusions for woozy seasonal spellbind.
Soft hop-roasted coffee-dried chocolate-resinous Steel Drivin’ Stout bettered best-selling nut-roasted raw-honeyed phenol-dried Headbangerz Brown Ale.
Dry spice-hopped rye-breaded chocolate-powdered Hammerin’ Ale, lemony banana-soured apple-sweet fig-prune-dried Square Feet Wheat Ale, and dark-fruited pumpernickel-centered herbal-spiced pine-hopped Weldspatter IPA retained brute manliness.
ABBEY WRIGHT BREWERY
WILLIAMSPORT / DUBOISTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
Across the Susquehanna River four miles from Williamsport, Duboistown’s capacious cedar-planked green-trimmed Valley Inn added brew tanks in 2006 and operated as ABBEY WRIGHT BREWERY until closing 2019.
Visited April ’08, the rural saloon with octagon-shaped bar, windowed brew tanks, oak tables-chairs, billiard tables, and small stage area is connected to a beautiful banquet space with black walnut-hickory interior and gas hearth.
A certain grapefruit rind bittering, perfect for hop-heads, consumed lively apple-pear-peach-lacquered Alpha Deuce IPA, lemon-limed orange-peeled Mosquito Wheat, biscuit-y phenol-hopped Irish Red Ale, and washed-out apricot-led juniper-backed XPA Hoppy Ale.
Soapy berry-tart citric-soured Blackberry Wheat lagged and black cherry/red grape-fronted, walnut-faded Quaker Oatmeal Stout seemed too delicate. But milk-sweet, cappuccino-fronted, black chocolate-centered, bruised cherry-soured, hickory-charred, vanilla-beaned, peat-mossed Smokey Oak Scottish Ale ideally hit the spot.
BULLFROG BREWERY
WILLIAMSPORT, PENNSYLVANIA
First visited home of the Little League World Series at tail end of April ’06 Western Pa. sojourn, putting family up in historic Genetti Hotel’s Bob Hope Suite. Across midtown street in an old red brick building with green awning lied tiny stoic corner tavern, BULLFROG BREWERY, a trusty pub that compared favorably to regarded westerly competitors North Country, Otto’s, and Johnstown.
Opened in ’96, Bullfrog’s exposed ducts, copper tin ceiling and green ‘frog’ walls had blue-collar saloon atmosphere. But the delightful menu and even better fresh beer selection gave this rustic dive class. Copper kettles welcome patrons and silver holding tanks backend the left side bar.
Had beer mussels with ale battered fish sandwich and remainder of kids’ ‘fapizzas’ alongside sour candied Fruit Wheat Beer (a veritable raspberry lollipop with tart apricot eclipsing honeyed wheat) and lagered Bicentennial Blonde (mainstream fodder reliant on raw maize-wheat acridity and passive floral hint).
These light bodied offerings merely set the stage for the truly superb cognac-fronted Old Toad Barleywine, a wonderful digestif served in a brandy sifter. Its awesome candied apricot splurge and juicy orange peel tang enhanced bruised cherry, ripe melon, and fig-raisin illusions belying caramelized butterscotch apple seduction.
In between, I quaffed frothy nitro-injected tea-embittered nectar-daubed Cascadian Cream Ale, bitterly floral citric-dried Lil Slugger Pale Ale (with its glancing tropical punch), caramelized orange-bruised fruit punch Inspiration Red Ale, and dry black cherry-bruised, orange-burnt, coffee-roasted Susquehanna Oatmeal Stout.
Before heading out, I was totally sold by exquisite candi-sugared, nutmeg spiced, floral-daubed, dark rum-finishing Diabolique Belgian Golden Ale and honey-glazed, prune-ripened, orange-bruised, caramel malted Atomic Belgian Dark Ale. Yummy!
Revisited Genetti Hotel and Bullfrog Brewery, November ’06, quaffing pastry-glazed, lemony-hopped, biscuit-buttered, raspberry-cranberry-tart Raspberry Wheat and tangy peach-orange-grapefruit-rimmed, spritzy lemon-licked, resinously pine-hopped, peppery-snipped Edgar IPA with bounteous Cobb salad lunch.
At dinner, returned to Bullfrog to down orange-pureed, cherry-bruised, licorice-blotched, date-fig-splotched, burgundy finishing Friar Frog Dubbel and medicinal, peach-grapefruit-ripened, mandarin orange-crested, lemon rind-embittered, Trappist yeast-endured Unique (a dry-hopped Belgian-American-mingled Pale Ale).
After seafood dinner, had cured meat-wafted, cedar-burnt, beechwood-charred, black chocolate-roasted, espresso-like elixir Smoked Porter.
Ventured again to Bullfrog April ’08 during my son Johnny’s pre-college tour daze. Tried moderate bodied fare such as bittersweet lemony orange, caramel-malted, phenol-hopped Endless Mountain Amber, musty corn-oiled, wheat-husked, floral yellow-fruited Billtown Blonde and orange rind-embittered, mandarin orange-clipped, white pepper-zipped, eucalyptus-tipped, mushroom-snipped Boysenberry Belgian Wheat.
Better were two full-bodied mocha-centered brews: coffee bean-embittered, lactose-sugared, black java-finishing Coffee Cream Stout and dark chocolate-malted hop-charred Chocolate Bock (with its luscious crème brulee, Kahlua, vanilla, and Godiva-Belgian chocolate illusions).
During post-Christmas ’08 jaunt, quaffed tart apricot-candied, tangerine-soured, wood lacquered Apricot Wheat and heady XXXX Quad, a superb Belgian-styled quadrupel with bruised banana and stewed prune overtones prevailing above spiced apple, sugared fig, and green raisin notes.
Thereafter, swigged Fast Eddie’s Pale Ale, a fizzy hop-dried stone-fruited light body with sour orange, leafy twig, and herbal-spiced nuances atop marble rye breading.
Stayed at historic Genetti Hotel across the street to revisit Bullfrog twice during May ’22 W’burg brewpub tour, discovering nine new brews and the ‘latest iteration’ of an evolving dried fruited perennial. I was drinkin’ with the Dead playin’ in the background as I conversed with owner Steve Koch on a hot ‘n sticky Sunday afternoon.
Given a sourer makeover, the current ’22 Apricot Wheat retained a dryer apricot-pitted tartness and lemonier tangerine pucker above a parched white wheat base.
‘Drinkable’ light golden ale, Photon, caressed its mild citrus spritz with moldy fungi mustiness and subtle herbage.
Peaty tea-like Hellbender Red placed dried fruit spicing and sweet chestnut wisps beside its chalky cocoa powdering.
Vinous black grape tannins and acidic citric sharpness dominated cherry-soured Flanders Brown Ale, Jong Bruin Kriek, relegating its black-peppered charcoal singe.
Sharp sweet ‘n sour mango juicing permeated brisky pine-hopped tropicalia, Mango Saison, bringing sunshiny juniper-berried yellow grapefruit bittering to its dry raw wheat rusticity.
Even more rustic, wild apple-soured Graf Saison, an aluminum cleared farmhouse ale, besieged its hard cider bittering with musky barnyard funk, dry wort herbage and musty green grape esters.
Utilizing tropical New Zealand hops to gain its waxy gooseberry-guava-passionfruit souring and lemony grapefruit spritz, Tank Gurl India Pale Ale, let mild cellar-like fungi suit the musty green grape esters beneath.
Dry Simcoe hops galvanized the earthier whiskey-malted grain base for The Elder Barleywine, leaving cedar-tinged bourbon, burgundy and port wining plus delicate raisin-fig snips and mild blackcurrant saucing upon its star anise-laced dark chocolate foundation.
Weedy black tea outdid the oats-flaked dark chocolate powdering of Chocolate Williamsporter, a dryer stylistic departure with miniscule sour dried fruiting.
Softy seductive Alabaster coffee roast and nutty espresso milking greeted Alabaster Oatmeal Stout, leaving mild oaken vanilla tannins inside its chocolate pudding skin.
WILLIMANTIC BREWING
WILLIMANTIC, CONNECTICUT
Out of the rural hilly sticks in central Connecticut pops up the small metropolis of Willimantic, home of arguably the best Northeast brewpub, originally visited October ’07. Over a frog-pillared bridge in a historic street-cornered granite-limestone ex-post office, WILLIMANTIC BREWING (formerly Main Street Café) has cozy left side wood bar with eclectic wall-bound specialty tap handles, windowed side tables, and encased brew tanks plus separate right dining area.
Bottled beer selection included amiable local, English, Irish, and Belgian ales. And though I sleepwalked through acrid wheat-oats-fronted, dry-hopped, grapefruit rind-embittered Certified Gold, subtly citric-hopped corn-sugared Mail Carrier Maybock and cardboard-y fruit-crimped pecan-skimped oxidation Autobahn Alt on my initial stopver, the proceeding seasonal offerings were terrific.
Most Wanted IPA had illustrious grapefruit-peach-mango burst harboring Cascade-hopped maple-sapped piney bark bittering. Well-calibrated Willi Whammer Barleywine boasted 10% alcohol-soaked cherry luster, bruised orange-banana sweetness, teasing brandy snipe, and buttery vanilla finish.
Scotch-rye-affixed, fig-date-tinged, raw-honeyed Extra Postage Pub Ale went down gently alongside flatbread pizza, nachos, and sandwiches.
During March ’09 revisit, discovered five more worthy brews. Vienna-malted Saaz-hopped corn-sugared hop-spiced Czech In The Mail suited connoisseurs and nubians alike. Cask-conditioned barrel-aged cider-sharp grape-soured fig-dried Willi Funk Hammer maintained tart tannic acidity. Piney citric-spiced pear-sweet grapefruit-embittered Pushing The Envelope Extreme Unfiltered Double IPA possessed heady ethanol flare. Citrus-tingled honey-sweetened pilsner-malted Springfest and unfiltered tea-like cocoa-powdered fig-sugared honeycomb-finishing Winter’s Dunkel had easy appeal.
Amazingly, on my third trip to Willimantic Brewing, February 2011, there were seven (!) more new beers to try. I’d already quaffed eleven preferable libations on my past two visitations, but there were two amazingly distinct and differentiated stouts to discover as well as a terrific IPA, expressive pale ale, and four other favorites. My wife and I settled into a vegetal pizza while dipping into lightest fare, dry-hopped German Pils, Hope & Hops, a perfumed corn-husked wheat-grassed moderation with lemony grapefruit tingle that may’ve topped tranquil Carrier’s Credo Cream. The latter, a dry-bodied grassy-hopped maize-flaked wheat-cracked clover-honeyed cream ale, placed cooked veggie, orange rot, lemon meringue, and white apricot illusions in the subtle backdrop.
Bettering those promising openers were three diversified medium body brews. Excellent Spam Mail Pale Ale brought woody Amarillo hop parch to dry lemon-seeded grapefruit-juiced grape tannin, apple skin, apricot, orange, and tangerine tartness contrasting ascending honey-sugared crystal malting.
Creamy Double Black IPA retained intense hop-roasted tobacco chew, black cherry, prune, raisin and fig frenzy contrasting rich chocolate malt durability. Nearly as fine, Scarlet Letter Red situated sweet caramel-crystal malting alongside dry spice-hopped alacrity and compost-wafted vegetal mineral graining.
An engaging sidestep, Scotch Tapped Scottish Ale diverted away from any restrictive regimented style with its Band-aided beechwood-smoked peat malting contrasting sweet honey nuttiness.
I was admiring the terrific, colorful tap handle collection above the walnut bar while imbibing astonishingly reciprocal dessert treats. As much as I enjoyed creamy espresso-coffee fronted Just Stout, with its dry hop-roasted vanilla bean bittering coarsening black chocolate, anise, hazelnut, and walnut illusions, its chocolate-milked counterpart reached nirvana quicker.
A perfect chocolate dessert beer, S.W.A.K. Stout, advanced creamy brown chocolate sugaring and rich vanilla sweetness above soothing coffee roast, allowing rich chocolate cake, Belgian chocolate, and Hershey Kiss opulence to spread across the mouth.
My long-time pal, Dennis Flubacher, brought back growlers of two previously untried brews, May 2011. Roaden Zok Flanders Sour Red Ale retained crisply tart green apple spicing and hard cider pucker above fig-dried oaken cherry, vinous white grape, and sour pomegranate fruiting, embittering raspberry-boysenberry conflux along the way.
Next up, Victorian Neighbor Pale Ale placed caraway-seeded rye breading and caramel-roasted chocolate nibs snip atop fungi yellow-fruited apicot-fig dryness for proper English ale styling.
Quaffed another five rangy brews during 2011 winter solstice (December 21st) on trip back from Boston with wife and daughter. One of the most popular local selections, Rail Mail Rye, maintained a soft, unfiltered flow with fig-dried citric rye gently caressing mild hop peppering. A sturdier dried fruiting spread across brown sugared, dark-spiced Edge Of Darkness Brown Ale.
Just as approachable and twice as delectable, Pushing The Envelope Double IPA plied brown-sugared cinnamon spicing inside orange-cherry fruiting, crystal malted sugaring, wood-singed walnut sharpness and sweet hazelnut clusters.
Nearly as great, Coco Porter took dry cocoa powder and smoked chocolate malts to the soft black cherry midst, where mild caramel latte, milked coffee and espresso illusions claimed ground.
As for the wintry seasonals, unobtrusive Winter Fest had a musty dry-hopped fig-plum-date astringency and very little spicing. But 1st Class Festive Imperial IPA doused a load of brown-sugared cinnamon spicing inside sugary crystal malting, leaving wood-singed dried cherry, hazelnut and walnut undertones.
MOAT MOUNTAIN SMOKE HOUSE & BREWING
WHITE MOUNTAINS, NEW HAMPSHIRE
In a historic 1840 building just outside ski-crazed North Conway midtown in the upper east White Mountain region, well-respected MOAT MOUNTAIN SMOKE HOUSE & BREWING has enclosed side entry patio to mid-sized bar (with multiple TV’s) and large dining facility (visited December ’06).
It was 9 PM when I got to Moat Mountain and my kids were tired so I only bought growlers of bittersweet barley-roasted mocha-nutty caramel-hopped coffee-finishing Square Tail Stout and coarsely nutty maple-sapped coffee-mocha-soured Bear Peak Brown.
But got to suck down pints of buttery nut-roasted orange-burnt pumpkin-lined Opa’s Octoberfest and orange rind-embittered coriander-spiced gourd-cushioned KA Belgian Double before heading out New Year’s Eve.
Website showed different brews then those mentioned as seasonals and year-round, December 2010.
WOODSTOCK INN STATION
WHITE MOUNTAINS, NEW HAMPSHIRE
20 miles South of Italian Oasis in the heart of the White Mountains lies placid cedar-faced North Woodstock brewpub, WOODSTOCK INN STATION (visited December ’06).
Located behind a nostalgic Victorian country inn, its side-windowed brew tanks (wood-jacketed; stainless steel; brick-based), multiple cozy dining areas, and central low-ceilinged wood paneled bar provide rural splendor. Large menu included well-portioned pizza, steak, seafood, and chicken items while bar fare included frozen margaritas and daiquiris plus transcontinental coffee and mostly excellent brews crafted by Butch Chase and Rick Marley.
Seven-barrel fermentation system below ground level offered biscuit-honeyed maple-syrupy White Mountain Weasel and eloquently brandied cherry-fig-tangerine-bruised prune-stewed bread-buttered sedation Wassail Ale on the moderate side.
Healthier thirsts will gravitate towards tangy heavy-hopped citric-laced Pemi Pale Ale, silkily maple-birch-sweetened Kano Country Maple Porter, brown chocolate-coarsened nutty-ruddy hop-toasted cologne-tongued tea-like Pig’s Ear Brown Ale, and tenderly barley-roasted coffee-dried Old Man Oatmeal Stout.
ITALIAN OASIS RESTAURANT & BREWERY
LITTLETON, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Plainly put, there were three interesting brewpubs running the gamut encircling snowy White Mountain region on December ’06 trip. Located on the second floor above Elephant’s Trunk in bustling mid-state village of Littleton, ITALIAN OASIS RESTAURANT & BREWERY featured inexpensive pub fare, small carpeted seating area, and sled-lined oak bar, but went out of business around 2014.
Brew tanks nestled alongside kitchen served unfiltered raw-honeyed wheat-chaffed diacetyl-tinged Oasis Golden Ale, prickly-hopped dry-grained orange-grapefruit-soured Cannon Amber Ale, and soft-tongued barley-stacked licorice-doused walnut-dried ice coffee-finishing Black Bear Stout.
Parkers Marketplace, 106 Main Street, Littleton, NH