Shana Tova, y'all!

Yesterday (actually Wednesday night) marked Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.  I spent a good chunk of yesterday at services with my mom in Isla Vista, CA.  It was thus necessary to shirk blog duties.  Wikipedia has a very impressive Rosh Hashanah page, but I'll give you a brief recap right here:

Rosh Hashanah the start of a ten-day period wherein one takes stock of the previous year, or more specifically where one screwed up and hurt other people.  Rosh Hashanah is day one, the Day of Judgement.  Yom Kippur is day ten, the Day of Atonement.

In the literalist view of these ten days of Teshuvah, G-d determines what the next year holds in store for each individual.  On Rosh Hashanah the big Book of Life opens.  On Yom Kippur the determination is made and The Book is closed.

On a more personal level, it sets aside time for introspection.  The religious practices enable that.  One takes off time from one's usual daily schedule, gets dressed up, and goes to seriously loooooong services.  Lots of prayers.  Standing and sitting.  Sitting and standing.  Standing and sitting.  Repetition Repetition.  At some point, the mind slips away from the words and actions.  It goes to a quiet place and floats over the year left behind and all that's to come.  Sort of a Kosher meditation.  And because it's Kosher, there's a whole lot of "Man, I f----d that up" observations going on.

It's also a time for apologies.  And a time to consider what a real apology is.  It's not "I'm sorry if what I said offended you."  Rather it's "I hurt you. I was wrong. I'm sorry."  Culturally, we hear so much of the former and so little of the latter, that we need to make sure that when we say we're sorry we're truly apologizing and not transferring the burden to the other person.  And once we apologize, we neither expect nor demand forgiveness.

This is also the holiday wherein we hear the blowing of the shofar, formed from a ram's horn.  From a distance it looks odd and out of place.  But once sounded, it conjures feelings and images, primal and ancient.  I still enjoy it after thirty-three years.

I LOVE this picture for so many reasons. (Source)

We also eat sweet stuff to symbolize a sweet new year.  Apples and honey always head the list and I recommend that they be pared with white wine, brandy, cognac, or a Speyside single malt (of course).

It's also a great time to put together some realistic New Year's resolutions; resolutions that can be achieved through basic actions and adjustments.  For instance, for my new internet year, I'm removing all the hate-spewing blogs from my daily reading cycle.  Besides saving 30-45 minutes, it also removes considerable negativity from my day.  That poisonous energy is easy to come by, it's harder to part with.  I'm also removing as many distractions as possible from my iPod Touch.  At some point I started playing more App games than actually using my favorite toy for music.  These seem like simple little fixes when in fact they'll save me a lot of time and help clear my head for more productive writing sessions.

And on that note, I leave you with this mariachi band serenading a beluga whale:

Shana Tova!  A good year to all!

Single Malt Report (x2) - The Glenrothes 1994 AND 1991

Happy Whisky Wednesday everyone!

Last night I enjoyed the Raise the Macallan event in downtown LA.  Later in the evening, at another location, I made the rookie mistake of drinking bourbon, well bourbon.  Don't know if I should blame the waitress or the bartender for interpreting "whisky" as "bourbon".  But I give myself a sincere FAIL for drinking all of it.

I'm also awaiting an exciting delivery from Master of Malt who have been great with previous orders and customer service.

So much great whisky to write about!  Without further ado, the conclusion of my Glenrothes reports: The 1994 and 1991 vintages.

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The 1994

Distillery: The Glenrothes
Age: 11 years (bottled in 2006)
Finish: mixed casks
Region: Highlands - Speyside (Rothes)
Alcohol by Volume: 43%

thekrav's notes:

Let's begin with the name.  Why "The Glenrothes"?

Within Scotland, whisky production is divided up into six geographical regions: The Lowlands, The Highlands, Speyside, Islay, Campbeltown, and the Islands.  Speyside is actually within The Highlands region, but (due to the powerful River Spey) almost two-thirds of all of Scotland's malts are produced there so it gets its own regional status.

Within Scotland, within The Highlands, within the Speyside region, lies the town of Rothes.  Rothes sits on the west side of the River Spey in a glen surrounded by the rocky hills.  The "The" designation is something that it shares with other whisky brands like The Macallan, The Glenlivet, The Balvenie, and The Krav (one of these is not like the other...).  Though it seems showy and highbrow, it designates that the whisky within this labelled bottle contains product distilled and distributed by the whisky's producer -- and not distributed through an independent bottler like Signatory or Cadenhead's.  I also think Glenrothes includes "The" in its name because it shares the one-street town of Rothes with four other distilleries.  Thus it tries to establish itself as The whisky from the Rothes glen.

The previous two Glenrothes bottlings that I'd reviewed (Select Reserve and 1998 vintage) were included in a three-100mL-bottle-set that I bought at Royal Mile Whiskies in London.  This one was not.  I enjoyed this vintage at a free Scotch tasting at The Daily Pint on June 16th.

I'm grading this similarly to the 10-year 1998 vintage.  The honey note is still present in this one, but vanilla stands out the most, especially in the nose.  It's more dry than sweet.  Like its Glenrothes brethren, this whisky's finish is very short.

Also similar to the previously reviewed vintages, its texture is very light, though each one seems to be getting richer as I progress into the older bottlings.  Of course that could be psychosomatic; knowing a whisky is older and more expensive may subconsciously alter one's perception.

So that's something that I really caution other rookie whisky tasters: Forget about whisky age and price when tasting.  Miracles of chemistry form the flavor.  Sometimes hotter, livelier, youthful batches will be more to one's liking.  Sometimes a 12yr from one distillery will be smoother than an 18yr from another.

Keeping all of that in mind, I think that these Glenrothes prices remain too high.  For something of this age, quality, and high supply it costs too much.  I shouldn't be able to buy three bottles of Glenfiddich 12 for the price of one of these.


Pricing - Overpriced! at $70-80
Rating - 74

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The 1991

Distillery: The Glenrothes
Age: 13 years (bottled in 2005)
Finish: mixed casks
Region: Highlands - Speyside (Rothes)
Alcohol by Volume: 43%

thekrav's notes:

During that enjoyable (all free scotch tastings are enjoyable) Scotch dramming at The Daily Pint, the exceedingly enthusiastic Glenrothes representative kept pressing on us how rare the 1991 vintage is and how lucky we are to be sipping it.

Well, if it's so darn rare, why do I have some here right now at my desk?

It's not rare, but I was quite lucky to get a free sample.  AND I also have this 100mL from that three-pack of The Glenrothes purchased at Royal Mile.  So I've been able to sample it a few times, both neat and with water.  And it is my favorite of the four Glenrothes that I've tried.

The nose is sweet and sugary.  Definitely a dessert whisky.  Add in a tiny measure of water and the sweetness mellows, bringing forward the vanilla note from the 1994 vintage.

The palate, the best part.  Marshmallows and shortbread cookies.  The texture is very smooth, enhancing the dessert-y nature.  Adding water brings oaky notes to the forefront.  Thus I prefer it neat.

It almost evaporates on the tongue......and so does the finish (alas, sadly) like the other three Glenrothes bottlings.

The price range isn't great.  $90?  No way. $75?  Getting closer but still steep.  Again, between the four The Glenrotheses sampled (Select Reserve, 1998, 1994, and 1991), this one suits me best.  I've even saved a dram for another try with dessert some time very soon.


Pricing - Overpriced at $75-90
Rating - 83

The George Herman Hitchcock project: Table of Contents

Get it? It's a table...of....um...contents.

Last week's project introduction can be found here.

In surveying these two considerable careers, I've now seen the sizable task in front of me.  So what I've done is divide up their professional time into chapters, which will in turn allow me to compare and contrast with a little bit of control over the scope.

Behold, the table of contents:

Chapter 1 shows these two stalwarts in training -- Ruth in the minors and Hitchcock as a screenwriter and art director -- then continues on to their rookie efforts.

Chapters 2 through 5 highlight their less remembered early successes; I match Thirty-Nine Steps with Ruth's 1918 and his 1919 with The Lady Vanishes.

Chapter 6 documents both men changing teams (UK to US, Boston to New York) and the sensations they created on their arrivals.

Chapters 7 through 12 track their early prime.  I've matched up Ruth's 1923 with Hitch's Rope, 1924 with Strangers on a Train, and 1926 with Rear Window.

Chapter 13 rhymes Vertigo with Murderer's Row.

Chapters 14 through 19 detail their late prime and gradual descent.  And chapter 20 will close their careers.  These men didn't end on their biggest successes, so I'll provide a concluding post to brighten the subject up a little bit.

Giving the table a cursory look, yes, it's a little top-heavy (in honor of the subjects themselves?), but I've gotten a small headstart on the early Hitchcock films.  If I find a gem that's enjoyable to discuss, a chapter may be extended to a second post.  Also, once these gentlemen have entered their prime, I'd like to focus a little closer on some of Sir Alfred's individual productions.

So tune in next Tuesday for Chapter 1: When Boys Leave Home.

Look! Another table of......yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm going.

Crime and Punishment

Mikhail Romanovich Kravitznikov lay in a sickened daze, the fetid wind dragging musty odors from Lebezyatnikov’s rendering plant into this dank chilled hollow-walled gray undersized apartment.  Kravitznikov had stopped eating the day before; the bland tea Sonya had brought to his bedside this morning had long since gone cold.  Mikhail Romanovich turned slowly in his sweat-dinged sheets, the bedframe shrieking for relief. Kravitznikov stared down at the floor where amongst the dark scurrying bodies of starving rats lay a figure he had thrice slain.  Thrice!  First in the burning sunshine of adolescence, then again, hand forced by the pressures of the state.  Finally, a third time, because only a truly great man murders the same form thrice.  Thrice!

Mikhail Romanovich Kravitznikov said to himself, “What foolish cretin of a so-called author writes pages of unending paragraphs of characters talking out loud to themselves (with parentheticals, no less!)?  Is it Dostoyevsky?  Or Dostoevsky?  Fyodor or Feodor?  Curse history, multiple translations, and the Anglicizing of the Russian alphabet!  And what warped individual convinces himself that reading the same novel thrice (Thrice!) proves the brilliant mind of a truly gifted man?  It is I, Kravitznikov, also occasionally written as Mikhail Romanovich in adjacent sentences.  Mikhail Romanovich, I, purchased this particular battered dog-eared besmirched volume once my sweet ailing mother, Pulkheria Alexandrovna, declared great love for her own brittle copy of the tome.  And I, Kravitznikov, thus read this novel, he he he he, having unconsciously disregarded my past experiences with it.  The trudge, the strange suffering in the darkness, was slow and blurred, but yes it was I, a truly profound man like Napoleon, who thus finished it in the late empty hours.  He he he he he.  Then my mind dropped into the abyss of Nyx and opened the ancient wooden doors of dream; not of tortured horses or crumbling societies but of sewage laden Siberian fortresses.  It was a good dream.”

The white sun barely burned through the rotting yellow clouds and pulled angular shadows across the room. Mikhail Romanovich closed his eyes hoping that sleep would once again relieve him of the guilt of admitting that he found pleasure in the resolution of this overwritten book about crime and punishment.

Kravitznikov said to himself, “Mikhail Romanovich, you should recommend this but to only the most masochistic of wounded souls.  But beg of them to never complete it thrice. (Thrice!)”

Happy Friday! Jedi Kittens.

If watching these two videos doesn't warm the cockles of your heart, then you, sir, have no cockles.

A Hard Day's Night review

It bursts onto the screen with the thumping, jangling title song and the great visual homage to the insatiable female pursuit of Keaton’s Seven Chances.  It ends with another Keaton homage, this time as a big British kiss to Cops.  Everything in between zips along like a Marx Brothers movie wherein everyone is Groucho.  It’s one perpetual chase.

(Source)

The image jiggles and wiggles via handheld cameras and setups inside cars and trains.  And if the shot slows for even a moment, the editing keeps pushing momentum forward.  If the viewer mutes the A Hard Day’s Night and just watches it play out in silence, he or she may start to feel a bit of Tony-Scott-style vertigo, as everyone involved in this production seems to be on an espresso-and-amphetamine enema.  But in a good way.  This is all joy.  The worst that will happen is that one may get a headache from the onslaught of happiness.

(Source)

There was precedence for pop music stars in narrative film before 1964.  Al Jolson helped break the cinematic sound barrier.  He was followed by Eddie Cantor and Bing Crosby.  Then Sinatra came along and bared his acting chops in dramatic roles.  Elvis then sent the progress back thirty-one steps as he played roles that were not “Elvis” in name, but were clearly an non-actor stumbling through scripted lines.

But here in Richard Lester's A Hard Day’s Night, The Beatles are playing The Beatles – sexual angst, live-ish musical interludes, wacked-out fans, and all – as an alternate universe version of themselves: The Four Groucho Marxes.

Four Grouchos means four times the non-sequiters, four times the god-awful puns.  The issue with this is the terrible hit-to-miss ratio.  If there’s a "joke" every 10 seconds (I really attempted to measure this), then that means there’s about 880 jokes in the film.  That’s impressive, in its own way.  But once one subtracts the stuff that charming due to its unceasing spill, there’s only about a dozen jokes that are actually funny.  That’s about a 1.4% success rate.  Yes, some of the quips are dated (I wish I spoke ‘60s British), but otherwise the film becomes a very unique experience in absorbing an ocean of words.  Thus the humor is bold in its own way.  Plus if you listen carefully, there are quips about orgies, drugs, producers, PR, trend setters, and television.


My own favorite bits were the visual ones: a silent vaudevillian losing his dove act, shaving on the bathroom mirror, Lennon playing with toys then disappearing into his bubble bath, the end credit sequence, and the aforementioned chases.

Unlike Elvis, the Fab Four fare very well with their line reading.  That’s no mean feat with the bounty of dialogue.  Ringo comes out the best since he’s given the most to do with his character.  Oddly, it’s the professional actors that come off incredibly hammy and awkward.  Wilfrid Brambell, who plays Grandfather, is unwatchable which is unfortunate since he’s in every other scene.  I’m not sure if I should applaud a punk-style actor’s direction, but it takes great efforts by the Four to keep all of his scenes from sinking the momentum.

Different movie, but Brambell's general acting style in A Hard Day's Night (Source)

That’s a mild complaint, though.  The visual energy, constant invention, and The Beatles win out in every scene.

(Source)

Pardon this abrupt change in tone, but I want to close with an observation about the ending, which itself is a shift in palettes.

(Source)

As The Beatles perform in a small auditorium, hundreds of girls shriek out of control, weeping, screaming incoherently, bodies contorting and spasming.  At first it’s irritating, then funny, then frightening.  It’s filmed so intensely that it’s not a visual accident.  I understand that the specific context is dated, but it’s very unsettling.  There’s probably a sociological explanation for it, but what is it?  Hundreds of years of sexual repression?  (Also see: Justin Bieber, Twilight.)  It reminds me of Alan Parker’s and Roger Waters’ vision of a rock band as a fascistic power, working up the mostly male youth to the brink of insanity then setting them loose to destroy in The Wall.

(Source)

Here at the end of A Hard Day’s Night, the young hunting horde has cornered their pop star prey.  But rather than ravishing them like the Maenads of myth, the girls stand in place screaming in a frenzied mass, perhaps hypnotized and unaware of their own sexual power, or just seduced by four boys in bad haircuts.

Single Malt Report - The Glenrothes 1998

Distillery: The Glenrothes
Age: 10 years (bottled in early 2009)
Finish: mixed casks
Region: Highlands - Speyside
Alcohol by Volume: 43%

From Royal Mile Whiskies:
The official bottlings are bottled by the wine merchants, Berry Bros. & Rudd who offer them as vintages, which is not surprising given their status as respected wine merchants. Their distinctive dumpy bottles are massively popular and have been highly praised. The casks they select, carefully chosen from 2% of the distilleries annual output, are mostly matured in sherry casks with 25% being fresh, and a few bourbon casks occasionally used to provide balance and extra depth. There is absolutely no colouring in any official Glenrothes whisky. It is all natural colour from the casks.

thekrav's notes:

The second 100mL bottle from a three-pack of Glenrothes that I purchased at Royal Mile Whiskies in London.  My post about the first bottle, the Select Reserve, is here.  I also sampled this at the splendid free Scotch Tasting at The Daily Pint back on June 16th.  (The 1998 is very difficult to find in the US, UK, and online.  Per notes I've seen online, I think the '98 was primarily released in Asia.)

I mostly just wanted to post the above pic of the quaint label and the tiny bulb-like dumpy bottle.  Though the "handwriting" is likely digitally printed, it's a nice touch.  I really like the birth and bottling date listings which many of the independent distributors choose to include on their labels as well.

While I understand that providing tasting notes somewhere on the packaging makes for an acceptable tasting guide, listing the "character" so prominently (the top of the front label) strikes me as a bit heavy-handed.  Taste and smell are linked to an individual's sense memory and chemoreception system.  Whisky is a work of art, so the author's intent doesn't matter; everyone takes something different from the experience.  Six professional tasters will generate six different sets of notes on the same bottling.

For instance, the folks who compile the Complete Guide to Single Malt Scotch reference lots of orange, toffee, and vanilla in this specific single malt.  Serge Valentin tastes honey, marmelade, apples, and toasted bread.  Those are the pros.

This amateur's notes were:  "HONEY. Honey prominent in the palate and finish. There's even honey in the nose. Looks like honey too. A tiny bit of vanilla. And it shares that butterscotch moment the Select Reserve had. But mostly honey. The jury's out if this is a good thing."  Additionally, the texture is thin and the finish is very clipped.  And yet again, this whisky was not memorable.  I'm thankful for my notes.

It's a half step up from the Select Reserve overall.  Though I wouldn't call that a ringing endorsement.

Pricing - Overpriced! at $55-65
Rating - 73