Quaint bourbon-barreled elixir needs thicker molasses-sapped malting. Creamy brown chocolate thrust fades fast as brown-sugared toffee, marzipan, and almondine illusions contrast alkaloid oak tannins and phenol hop bittering. Cherry, fig, and date spread across subsidiary vanilla spicing. Pleasant, but ultimately uninteresting. 
On my February 2011 visit to Andy’s Corner Bar, my wife settled into a tapped German wheat beer, the luxurious lemony banana-clove-draped Franziskaner Weiss, while I quaffed the previously untried Six Point Pilsner from Brooklyn. Sitting across the 12-stooled right hand bar in one of the six opposing black tables, we immediately encountered a gray-haired man claiming to have consumed at least one of each of the rear refrigerator’s one hundred-plus beers and ales. This boast was no joke since there’s at least a hundred people listed on the wall of fame plaque situated behind my head. As we speak, George’s cordial, diminutive wife, Barbara, working alone at this point, poured our servings with great care, adding a pretzel to the thin stick hanging out from inside the beer glass perimeter.
No doubt about it, Andy’s Corner Bar maintains a winningly rustic saloon appeal, with its gorgeous mahogany mural sprawling top-shelf liquor across the shelves and two olden TV’s (probably installed before high-definition became all the rage) clandestinely tucked into the corners. The hunter green-walled, red tile-floored space may be dwarf-sized, but the selection is fabulous and the ever-changing taps and cask-conditioned lines are clean as a whistle, allowing impeccable flavor profiles to shine through.
Before I met owner George Gray, I’d seen reviews on BeerAdvocate gloating about his bar’s immaculate tap lines. And I’ll be damned, the first time I chatted with George he was cleaning the cask lines for tomorrow evening’s Troegs Brewery celebration. He graciously apologized for being out of cask beers this evening, though no one’s complaining.
A tidy small town alehouse patronize by the older male crowd this early Tuesday evening, its clientele usually changes to younger adults by nightfall.
"Wednesday night is geek beer night with unique seasonals and unusual fare. Last week we had the new Sierra Nevada Hoptimum Imperial IPA alongside Belgium’s Gulden Draak. The kegs were both gone by the end of the night. There is a changeover crowd. The younger ones come in later. They’re almost all beer geeks. And almost as many are female now." He adds, "I’ve been very impressed with the latest wave of 25 year-olds coming in. They know their beers. Twenty years ago, nobody had a clue."
While the front jukebox plays classic rock like The Who’s "Going Mobile," two bar frequenters join in on my typically sarcastic banter as I dip into Southern Tier Old Man Winter Ale, a caramel-toasted dry-spiced seasonal with brusque fig-date illusions. These long-time clients, one blue collar and the other white, live at least fifteen minutes away from Andy’s, but always make time after work to down a few great microbrews.
Naturally, the limited edition tapped brews are key to Andy’s growing success. I return the next day at 3 PM for the 9th Troegs Promo event. Immediately I reconnect with Jimbo, the retired gray-haired postal worker whose legendary beer consumption’s earned him a spot on Andy’s coveted ‘100 Beer Club,’ where trusty devotees quaff 100 different beers over a one-year span to receive territorial hall of fame recognition.
I decide to break tradition and quaff the heartier dark beer prior to the two new lighter-hued medium-bodied India Pale Ales. Full of brown chocolate sweetness, Troegs Old Scratch #41 Chocolate Stout layered cedar-burnt pleasantries above piquant chocolate-caked vanilla, toffee, coffee, black cherry, hazelnut, and cola nut illusions.
The dozen or so customers seated next to me at the bar concluded the best of Troegs three special offerings was Old Scratch #40 IPA, a sumptuously mellow caramel-malted, crystal-sugared delight draping soft peach, grapefruit, orange and grape tang across mild juniper bittering and neutral celery snip.
Neatly complementary, Old Scratch #39 IPA Simcoe revealed woodier hop dryness and sharper piney recess to deepen lemon-soured grapefruit bitterness above winsome pineapple-peach-melon tropicalia.
As the sun disappeared, the time was right to try Troegs two regaled cask conditioned amber ales, both richer and bolder than typical stylistic competitors. Soothing caramel-malted, apple-candied, spice-hopped Troegs Hopback Amber Ale retained truly subtle crystalline effervescence in its cask version. Better still, Troegs Nugget Nectar imparted creamy tropical fruiting to ample wood-dried easement, gaining grapefruit-peeled pineapple, mango, clementine, and tangerine tang.
George concludes, "I cater to my clientele and get the people I want. It’s not everyone’s game. I’m not looking for a power drinker or someone who is looking for the strongest beer we’ve got."
www.andyscornerbar.blogspot.com
Fertile Scottish combo, Mogwai, became a provocative ‘post-rock’ beacon in the mid-‘90s, extending upon the profound reverb-heavy shoegazing Jesus & Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine devised and the proverbial noise rock experimentalism Sonic Youth pillaged. Fronted by proficient guitarist Stuart Braithwaite, these artful punks established themselves as one of the most investigative post-grunge acts, marveling the coolest indie scenesters with frighteningly awesome distended live jams (captured best at Music Hall of Williamsburg for sensational 2010 Secret Moves disc).
Nearly the antithesis to fellow Glaswegian trendsetters, Belle & Sebastian, whose eloquently picturesque pop whimsy counters their frostily frenetic fretwork, Mogwai’s finest art rock explorations tend to be drifting instrumental exploits weaving lovely arpeggiated chords, fuzzy scree crackles, spiny feedback shards, and distended obbligatos inside various symmetric textural shapes.
"We’re actually friends with Belle & Sebastian. We played the same scene, did some shows together. We’ve both survived and lasted for over a decade. I think we’re the last ones standing," a jovial Braithwaite informs me as we stroll down memory lane.
In fact, he’s right. While the whole rock landscape blew up and slowly changed coarse, leaving a gathering of overlooked, underdeveloped, and sidestepped bands in its wake, the two Stuart’s (Braithwaite and Murdoch) continued gaining firmer access to an extended international audience, half of whom might’ve been babies when Mogwai took hold.
In the beginning, teenaged schoolyard pals, Braithwaite and bassist Dominic Aitchison, hooked up with drummer Martin Bulloch, then subsequently, keyboard programming 6-stringer, John Cummings. Despite their deliciously devilish Cantonese Chinese moniker, Mogwai lean closer to celestial beauty these days, migrating a bit from the fiery ‘evil-spirited’ irascibility of yore, at least by current indications.
Gallant ’97 debut, Young Team, pitted subtle transcendent poignancy against distorted pedal affects, turbulent riffs, and discordant clamor underscored (strangely enough) by the same dangling conversations, incoherent mumbles, and distant murmurs still inoculating Mogwai’s extemporaneously tailored abstractions. Abstruse instrumental highlight, "Like Herod," a cathartic creepy crawler, builds ample tension prior to its jarringly explosive release, setting the general course of action for the rest of this powerful early landmark (at least before it dissolves into an eerily cocoon-like catacomb). The crunchiest cacophonous clamor, reminiscent of grunge igniters Nirvana, Green River, and the Melvins, vanquish the intriguingly majestic soft-toned complexities with a brutal assault.
A perfectly rhapsodic rainy day relic, ‘99s Come On Die Young went just as easily from elliptical to bombastic. Piano-playing flautist Barry Burns, came onboard, adding an extra dimension that’d permanently solidify Mogwai. Soon after, a few EP’s and remixes flooded the market, followed by ‘01s even better Rock Action, where the blissful atmospheric tranquility (mindful of contemporary slo-core designers Slint, Codeine, and Low) yields tremendously fruitful results. Abrasive anthemic eruptions provide maniacal gale force winds rising above the leisurely balladic restraint.
"Slint was absolutely inspirational," a humbled Braithwaite offers. "My earliest musical enlightenment came from Velvet Underground, Jimi Hendrix, Sonic Youth, The Cure, and My Bloody Valentine. I always had a big interest in rock music."
As Mogwai’s live reputation grew, so did their stimulating repertoire. ’03s epic masterwork, Happy Songs For Happy People, cajoled sweeping symphonic melancholia out of ambient pieces that shunned the pasts metal-edged hardcore derivations, sounding remarkably like pioneering generative artisan, Eno, in retrospect.
"I think musically we just try different things. It’s nothing really drastic, just organic changes. We tried a lot of different instrumentation over time. So we’ve definitely developed since our first album," Braithwaite says. "But it’s hard to pin down. We try to change up just about everything."
Though ‘06s extravagantly detailed Mr. Beast and its exclusively instrumental successor, ‘08s The Hawk Is Howling, didn’t luxuriously expand Mogwai’s sonic template, both received critical respect. The former featured "Auto Rock" (used as incidental music in Miami Vice film), an ethereal piano brooder that blossoms into a fully blown onslaught. The latter contained frenzied pile-driving scrum, "Batcat," and the appallingly christened, "I’m Jim Morrison, I’m Dead," an ominous slow-burner reaching crushingly skull-splitting metallic crescendos.
Having accumulated an extensive catalogue to fall back on, this enduring troupe continues to grow, rising to the occasion once more on their seventh studio set. A monumental re-entry, Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will, absolutely exceeded expectations.
"The Hawk Is Howling was a more sparse, heavy record, whereas Hardcore is probably more upbeat and optimistic. But I definitely like both records," Braithwaite asserts.
Dramatic commencing overture, "White Noise," may seem akin to Lou Reed’s disquietingly shrill Metal Machine Music via its title, but the deliberately-paced neo-Classical framework, bell-like jangle, and melodic piano create an interstellar effervescence even Braithwaite’s zooming guitar cannot crash through. The galactic traversing stays afloat on "Mexican Grand Prix," a neo-psychedelic organ-droned illumination that wouldn’t seem out of place on an early Yo La Tengo album.
Braithwaite contends, "That’s definitely inspired by (‘70s-related krautrock band) Neu. There are bands from Germany we’ve liked for a long time, so those sounds we’ve kept in our minds. There’s a sweeter organ sound."
As for the weirdly titled songs, he believes sometimes the band’s plain lazy and just name each track after how it may sound. But mostly, they keep each member "vaguely amused." Designating the closing vignette, "You’re Lionel Richie," was easy enough.
"Some songs are named after things that happen. Like one time, I saw Lionel Ritchie at the airport. I was hungover and I said, ‘You’re Lionel Ritchie.’ The guys remembered that years later," he shares.
Sometimes the epithets are completely random, such as "San Pedro," an upbeat straight-ahead rampage that has nothing to do with the coastal California city. And why should swooped orchestral lullaby, "Death Ray," with its glistening Cathedral organ, be labeled thusly?
"That’s a nice number. I’m not really good at talking about the songs, to be honest. It’s fun to play live," Mogwai’s main man quips.
If there’s one kindred band, it may be cinematic Texas phantoms, Explosions In The Sky. Both bands put on monumental shows and enjoy crafting beautiful guitar-etched tunes that touch the sky.
When asked if there’s a correlation, Braithwaite concludes, "Yeah. They’re friends of ours. Good guys. They probably like the same bands as us. That wouldn’t surprise me. When we go out to play concerts, it takes awhile for us to get up to speed. But once we get our shit together and hit stride, watch out."
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FOREWORD: During 1999, I got to interview one of my favorite musical artists of all time. Paul Westerberg spent his youth leading a reckless band of fiery individuals whose recorded output is still being digested by indie rock denizens. When I got to speak to the legendary front man, he was already past his thirties and highly reflective of the past. Following this conversation, Westerberg continued to make worthy albums such as ‘02s Stereo and ‘03s Come Feel Me Treble, and ‘04s Folker. Sick of being tossed aside for newer artists’ repertoire, he resigned to his basement to make a few less heralded, but equally fine self-released discs, including ’06s animated soundtrack, Open Season.
As leader of the Replacements, counterculture indie rock icon Paul Westerberg was arguably the most important post-punk artist of the ‘80s. Influenced by local Minneapolis punk forefathers, the Suicide Commandos and signed to maverick regional label, Twin/Tone Records, the tumultuous teen trio got early attention with ‘81s impressionable Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash. But that merely got the ball rolling for ‘83s admirable Hootenanny, a well-developed and thoughtfully composed set receiving national attention.
Known for performing rowdily sloppy shows while intoxicated (breaking instruments just for the fuck of it), these Twin City natives threatened to implode at any given time, creating a fabulous disaster worked-up fans couldn’t get enough of. Soon, they’d become underground legends alongside fellow northwest bands such as Husker Du and Soul Asylum.
In ’84, Westerberg’s idiosyncratic troupe hit another peak with Let It Be, an amateur masterpiece highlighted by caustic provocation, "I Will Dare," and the spare, glam-induced allegory "Androgynous." A year later, the equally splendid Tim shook the pavement, parading teen insecurities on throbbing expurgation, "Hold My Life," and generational ode, "Bastards Of Young," while saluting college radio on "Left Of The Dial" (featuring subterranean legend Alex Chilton on backup vocals).
Invigorated by former Box Tops and Big Star front man, Chilton, the centerpiece on ‘87s streamlined contemplation, Pleased To Meet Me, was none other than the siren "Alex Chilton."
Following two less critical Replacements long-players, Warner Brothers signed Westerberg as a solo artist and tried desperately to re-create his glorious past with a few lukewarm hard rock albums (‘93s 14 Songs and ‘96s Eventually). After a thorough self-examination and a new contract with Capitol Records, he hired respected producer-to-the-stars Don Was for guidance on his third and best solo venture, Suicaine Gratifaction.
Skirting the latest grimacing rock-is-dead debate and off to a fresh new start, the self-effacing, revitalized singer-guitarist hopes to be accepted on his own terms. From the deadpan, home recorded opener, "It’s A Wonderful Lie," to the lonesome closer, "Bookmark," the tongue-twisting Suicaine Gratifaction deals openly with newfound spirituality ("Actor In The Street"), nocturnal sadness ("piano ballad "Self-Defense"), and regret (acoustic respite "Best Thing That Never Happened").
Between depressives, Westerberg does manage to kick into high gear on the punchy, Neil Young-ish "Lookin’ Out Forever," the propulsive "Whatever Makes You Happy," and the beat-driven "Fugitive Kind" (inspired by a movie based on a Tennessee Williams play). Ironic, witty, sarcastic, and sardonic, Suicaine Gratifaction offers serious introspection and sharp self-analyzing.
Like Bob Dylan’s recent Time Out Of Mind and Willie Nelson’s Teatro, Westerbeg has exorcised inner demons and purged self-doubt with a subtle reflectiveness rarely attempted beforehand.
I spoke via phone with the matured artist who deserves Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame consideration more than a quarter of the musicians already elected.
Instead of a grueling rocker, you went against the grain and put two stripped-down bare-bones songs at the beginning of Suicaine Gratifaction.
PAUL WESTERBERG: Yes. It could have flown no other way since the majority of songs are quieter. It sets the mood right away. It’s a serious record with no knee-slappers in the lyrics of the tunes.
On "It’s A Wonderful Lie," you conclude ‘I ain’t in my youth/ I’m past my prime.’ Are you just being sarcastic about your past?
Yes. If I was able to write a more clever tune that didn’t involve my gut feeling, I would have. I was completely drained of anything other than the truth. I wasn’t making this record for a supposed audience, but instead putting down what I felt. If you ignore them, they’ll put it on like a coat.
The soft piano ballad, "Self-Defense," has a neo-classical arrangement reminiscent of Tori Amos. Is it trying to sum up internal strife?
That was probably the showpiece that made me realize I had the makings of a new kind of record. I played those melodies and chords on the piano for about a year before I put a lyric to it. That’s a rarity in itself. I’m not the most accomplished pianist, so it took me that long to get the lick down. I felt I had to put poetry to it rather than just sing a song.
Your caliginous, low voice and the orchestral piano on "Bookmark" compare favorably to Tom Waits.
I could hear Tom Waits and Joni Mitchell in there. By the end of the record, I didn’t see it fitting in. It was written in a key that was a piano melody that wasn’t necessarily meant for me to be singing it. I wrote the prose over it and it became a song. It was a tough one to deal with, but Don Was’ opinion was it had to be on the record. He convinced me to put it on.
Do you feel more secure as you reach age forty?
No. In a good way, no. I don’t feel that I’ve got it made. I feel if I follow my gut, I’ll make another good record. But I’ve bypassed my instinct and second-guessed myself before and edited my gut feelings. And that’s not usually how I make my best works. But this album came from the heart. What you’re hearing are complete takes rather than producers forever trying to get me to sing things over and over and ‘comp’ together the vocals. I despise that. Engineering the vocals at home gave me the sound I like, which is a warmer voice sound. I don’t bother to re-do things. If they’re not perfect, but give me goosebumps, there’s no reason to fix a flat note.
Besides, most artists have the best feel for a fresh song on first take.
That’s absolutely true. When you’re used to being a performer, it seems superfluous to do so many takes. Once should be enough unless you forget a really good lyric – which does happen.
Do you feel cheated because the best ‘80s bands – The Replacements, Sonic Youth, Meat Puppets, Minutemen, and Husker Du – never received the massive exultation several lesser heavy metal bands have?
I think all the bands you compare were fairly mediocre if compared to the Beatles and Rolling Stones. I think it’s a joke to put Sonic Youth in the same category as the Stones. Do you want to hear them in the year 2020? I mean, they’re all viable bands. I don’t mean to put them down, even though I certainly put my old band down before any of them. Maybe if you picked the Ramones to pit against them I’d agree.
Do you still enjoy old Replacements standards such as "I Will Dare"?
I still hear "I Will Dare" on the radio. It always shocks me when I’m clicking the dial. The way the record sounds… it was such a horrid mix. One thing I’ll say about those records is they never sounded very good. It’s not my stock in trade to make beautiful, lovely, warm records. I certainly like stuff that sounds funky, but when it’s your own you wince a little.
What did you listen to as a youngster?
My mom would play records. I know Ray Charles’ "Crying Time" and the Temptations were a favorite. My sister, who was ten years older, used to listen to the British Invasion 45’s, black R&B, and great classic music by the Beatles. The first music I truly claimed as my own was ‘70s glam: T. Rex and Slade.
Are there any current bands you enjoy hearing?
Not many. I don’t readily go out and buy records. And I’m not up on new groups. I’ve maintained the theory of ‘let me hear what’s great and not what’s new.’ Once the newness of something has worn off and it’s great, I’ll get around to it. More often than not, it doesn’t last.
Producer Don Was seemed to revitalize veteran rockers such as Bob Dylan and Bonnie Raitt. What did he do to enhance your new songs?
He left them alone and only did something when it was necessary. That’s what you want, someone who’s capable of doing anything, but realizing his greatest role could be as a companion and listener. His selection of a handful of musicians from Shawn Colvin to Jim Keltner on drums and Suzy Katayama on cello added just the right touch.
Could you have made Suicaine Gratifaction in ’79 when the Replacements recorded Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash?
No. For one, I wouldn’t have wanted to. And if I were capable of writing some of these songs, I wouldn’t have taken them from my bedroom to the next stage. I wouldn’t have played it for anyone, except in secret. But it took me a long time to realize the things you’re afraid of, or ashamed of, are the best art. It doesn’t mean people will understand or play it. But that’s the stuff that in time will be held in high regard. I’m still the same guy who started twenty years ago. Maybe I refined the rage and turned inward instead of being an aggressive performer.
How would you feel if you were selected to the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame?
I still think about stuff like that. I’m sure the day will come when I will get some sort of sympathy award. That’s what it would smack of – like giving the Oscar to the guy who’s dying. Let’s just say it won’t happen.
But if the Replacements don’t make it in the Hall Of Fame, very few deserving ‘80s bands will be considered.
If you look at it that way, it’s interesting. I don’t know when we’d be eligible.
Why’d you come up with the jumbled title, Suicaine Gratifaction?
It was my safeguard just in case I was up for a Grammy. They would pass on it because they couldn’t pronounce it.
Does Alex Chilton ever cover the song named after him while doing concerts?
I think he’d just assume I never wrote that song. It embarrassed him. I think it has done him some good getting people hip to him. But I’m not his biggest fan. I took a crass stab at telling everybody how good he was.
When you delvier the hooky lyric, ‘I’m in love with that song,’ to which Chilton song are you referring?
I think it was "September Gurls." Last time I saw him was a few years ago in New York. We were watching the World Series. It was the Atlanta Braves versus the Toronto Blue Jays. I saw him on the street. We went up to his hotel room and ate some Thai food.
As a Minnesota native, how did you feel when Jesse Ventura won election to become governor?
He’s refreshing. But he’s still a wrestler in my mind. He could probably win presidency and either be our worst nightmare or a lot of fun.
On tap, hardy crystal-malted dry-hopped golden-tanned lager packs quite a wallop, retaining rich wheat graining and loud citric-peeled bitterness contrasting soft clean-watered crisping. Caramelized Munich malt toasting, lemony orange-dried tangerine tang, and minor floral eccentricity create well-balanced flurry. "A sessionable year round Oktoberfest," indeed. '14 re-tasting: dewy Vienna malts anchored musty ESB-like peat moss and fig-dried orange compote. 
On tap, robust Dortmunder-styled Bavarian lager with billowy white-headed yellow-bellied dry body reveals earthen peat fungi soiling not unlike a proper English Extra Special Bitter. Wheat-cracked barley-corned graining comforts moderate wood-dried grassy-hopped bittering and teasing citric twang to toasted bread base. 
Dry ink black mocha porter overcomes slick nature. Lactic dark-malted cocoa-dusted Blackstrap molasses, black chocolate, burnt coffee, crème brulee, and creamy fudge nudge muted hop-oiled astringency. Black cherry, purple grape, raisin, prune, anise, and fennel notes skewer ashen peat-smoked backend. Iodine-like aftertaste may be off-putting. A bit thin compared to heartier porters, but not unlike a simple mocha-chalked schwarzbier or less roasted Black IPA . 