Of words. Hemingway, Jack London, Tennessee Williams and so many more brilliant writers were driven to drink. Why? No one knows but these were certainly tortured artists, so driven that somehow alcohol became essential for both survival and their artistry. Now however fine that is for them, it sure isn't for others...
Especially "reviewers".
Now as far as reviewing goes, the most respected - the giants like Dave Broom, Michael Jackson, Robert Parker, Serge, Ralfy et al - all have one thing in common. They are mercifully brief but manage to still communicate the reality and essence of a spirit, with ratings that actually mean something.
Now for Lance, aka Ruminsky aka The Lone Caner. The following is his review reproduced in its entirety for reasons that will become obvious. For a 75.3% overproof rum - read as far as you can stand to, then skip ahead...
Holy Moose Shit, Batman! It's actually unreadable. And I thought I was bad. Has Ruminsky developed a case of writer's elbow, or is he serious? This is not a review, it's a novella. Furthermore, for some strange reason the Lone Caner seems to have a bizarre notion that a real man - unlike Tonto - can hold his liquor and must always, always, always drink it full strength - then to bellow a near unending string of "it's an overproof!!" descriptors:Lance:
“Roar like a Lion”, the label remarks, in one of those tongue-in cheek references with which the SMWS likes to charm its buyers. After being battered into near insensibility (on more than one occasion) by the raging yak that was the SMWS R5.1 Longpond 9 year old 81.3%, you’ll forgive me for approaching the almost-as-torqued up 75.3% R3.4 rum with something akin to serious apprehension. I mean, I love strong and flavourful rums of real intensity, but it’s my personal belief that the folks at SMWS are snickering into their sporrans when they issue these massive overproofs, hoping that the lesser bred such as I will get a hurt real bad, be put under the table for the count, and swear off rums altogether. You kind of have to admire their persistence in the matter.
What we had here was a 75.3% rum issued this year (2013), with the usual obscure moniker “R3.4” which my research suggests makes the rum from the Rockley Still from the West Indian Refinery in Black Rock, Barbados. About which, I hasten to add, I know little, not having tasted their products (Bristol Spirits has a couple from there, which I hope to get my grubby little paws on one of these happy days).
Dressed up in that delightfully tall, menacing camo-green bottle that is their standard, the R3.4 decanted a pungent, blonde-amber rum into the glass, quite innocently. Here, come try me, it seemed to invite, and you just knew it was suckering me in…fortunately, I had previously sampled its sibling, so I was prepared, having learnt my lesson by now: I let it stand, and then nosed it very, very carefully.
Bam! it went, right away, even after a few minutes. My God, but this was strong. Shudderringly odd, this was a rum in psychopath mode, a snorting, rearing mustang of pent up aggression. Creamy, buttery, slightly salty, almonds and peanuts stomped my schnozz right out of the gate. As sharp as a sushi master’s knife, yes, but Lordie, there was a lot going on here. As it opened up it presented even more: bananas, some mustiness and smoke, the faintest odour of Benedictine. I was impressed in spite of myself, and marked it high for sheer originality, because all other 75% rums (the 151s, if you will), were so straightforwardly simple and relatively uncomplex, that finding this plethora of nasal riches was a welcome surprise, no matter how strong rhey were.
As for the palate, well now, be warned and be enthused: ‘cause I’ll tell you, holding on to this rum and then sipping it, was something like knowing you are grasping a live grenade. You’ll want to coat your tongue with fire suppressant material before drinking, because once you do, it suddenly grows fangs, the liquid attacks your face like a gatling gun went off, and life gets a whole lot more precious. The same creamy chewiness from the nose carried over well upon arrival – butter melting in an iron skillet, fried bananas, all wrapped up in a herbal background I couldn’t quite separate out. Intense, very intense. Wood, grassiness, rosemary, sorrel, with a snarky element of smoky peat in there someplace making mischief. It honestly felt like it was powered with fire and brimstone, this one, yet nowhere near as barefacedly badass as any of the other 151 rums I’ve tried in the past…there’s some real couth here, honestly. But of course it is damned strong, and so warning of sobriety transmuted to drunkneness in 2.5 shots is not me being overly metaphorical..
The fade, as befitted an overproof rum, was quite long and very solid, heat and warmth without real spice, somewhat fruity, nutty, salty, and giving up last hints of oats and bran. I s**t you not, this rum was quite something, and Stuart, who was drinking it with me (he had been clouted about the ears with the Longpond as well, and was therefore understandably cautious with this one), liked it so much he immediately started calling around asking where he could get hisself some too.
All right, so let’s sum up. Short version, if you want a good time, no stress or aggro, buy something softer…like the Centenario Legado, for example. If you want to be astonished out of your socks by a rum explosion of startling, muscle-twitching originality, this is the one to get (if you can). You don’t need to be a rum snob, collector or even a rum lover to appreciate a bit of badass blending skill on your table (or your office desktop after hours). Were you to rock this baby during a World of Warcraft or Call of Duty marathon, you can just imagine fellow Geek Squad boyos, thumb warriors and cubicle drones quaking in fear. That alone might make the purchase price worth it.
It’s been a long running gag on Liquorature that I resolutely refuse to admit that whiskies have pride of place in the spirits world, and the crown should rightfully go to the rums. Here’s one I wish we could get more of, ‘cause it kinda proves my point (it’s made by whisky lovers, much to my annoyance). Drinking this intense liquid javelin, recovering my voice and my sanity a while later, I happily compare it to the multiplexed joy of a conjugal encounter in a high-speed elevator, skydiving, base jumping, and of pulling my window blinds to find a winning lottery ticket attached to it. I don’t know. It’s crazy. This rum is crystalline, pharmaceutical-grade acceleration, an amour-fou of bliss and power. Suddenly, all of existence is reduced to simple clarity: C2H6O."
Lance we get it. It was an overproof, you sipped it straight, and uh, it's an overproof. Duh. Let's now extract the few real tasting descriptors:Overproof synonyms:
"“Roar like a Lion”, battered into near insensibility (on more than one occasion) by the raging yak, almost-as-torqued up 75.3% R3.4 rum, serious apprehension. massive overproofs, get a hurt real bad, be put under the table for the count, swear off rums altogether. a 75.3% rum, tall, menacing, pungent, suckering me in, nosed it very, very carefully. Bam! it went, right away, even after a few minutes, My God, but this was strong, Shudderingly odd, rum in psychopath mode, snorting, rearing mustang, pent up aggression. sharp as a sushi master’s knife, how strong they were, be warned, like knowing you are grasping a live grenade, coat your tongue with fire suppressant material before drinking, suddenly grows fangs, the liquid attacks your face, like a gatling gun went off, life gets a whole lot more precious, Intense, very intense, snarky, powered with fire and brimstone, barefacedly badass, damned strong, warning of sobriety, transmuted to drunkeneness in 2.5 shots, an overproof rum, clouted about the ears, understandably cautious If you want to be astonished out of your socks, rum explosion, startling, muscle-twitching, badass blending, World of Warcraft or Call of Duty marathon, quaking in fear, intense liquid javelin, recovering my voice and my sanity a while later, a conjugal encounter in a high-speed elevator, skydiving, base jumping, pharmaceutical-grade acceleration, an amour-fou of bliss and power."
Yup, there it is - the briefest possible review - but which you really, really have to work at to piece together, as Lance would say "like a starving miner madly panning to find at least a lifesaving grain of gold."Tasting:
"(Appearance): pungent, blonde-amber
(Nose): Creamy, buttery, slightly salty, almonds, peanuts, bananas, some mustiness and smoke, faintest Benedictine
(Palate): creamy chewiness, butter melting, fried bananas, herbal background. Very intense, wood, grassiness, rosemary, sorrel, smoky peat.
(Finish): long, solid, heat without spice, somewhat fruity, nutty, salty, hints of oats and bran.
Flat Ass Bottom Line
Total word count: 938
Look at me fluff: 685
Re overproof: 224
Descriptors: 29
IOW, 97% of his review is not one.
This is the near ultimate example of look-at-me writing that is (a) self-indulgent, (b) way, way, way too long, (c) doesn't use water and in sum, barely describes the rum. Among my favorite authors/books are Hemingway and his "Old Man and the Sea". Brilliant and impressively short for one of the great novels of our time. As for Ruminsky/Lance/The Lone Caner I have some short and simple advice.
If you want to be a writer, go for it. But a rum review that would be better labeled "Old Rum lost in a Sea of Words" is neither a novel nor a review. And fer gawdsake at some point...
Add a few fackin teaspoons of water... it's an overproof!
