Thank you Richard for giving me the opportunity to review this beer. I entirely appreciate the bottle and the brewery’s efforts, that being said, bad beer Saturday is upon us again:
Bourbon Barrel Aged Sour, Lug Nut Lager, Skyscrape Brewing Company (El Monte, CA)
Bottle #341 of 372, hand signed
Appearance: From the outset I am suspicious of this alleged lager because it doesn’t have any other adjectives akin to lagers and it looks as reluctant as a Craigslist casual encounters endeavor. It is just languid and sits there, supplicant but distasteful. It is deep yellow, mellow gold and the carbonation looks like a crestfallen 8th birthday party with lacing streamers applied with judicious alacrity.
S: The smell of this beer reminds me of white zinfandel, toffee run over by a car, and a caramel kiss left in the microwave in a plastic container too long. My left eye does this staccato glitch like wild animals when they eat a monarch butterfly. I feel like this wont be getting better, like the third season of One Tree Hill.
T: Ok, to be fair, the tart bite is there at the outset, its like they used a simple sour mashing technique or maybe a poorly monitored spontaneous fermentation but the overall taste is not entirely offputting. That old toffee that I was mentioning earlier, Voltrons up into full on Wethers’ Original. The buttery coating is like a cruel Jelly Belly of the experimental kind. The butteriness is not unlike Lindsay Lohan’s complexion in execution. It seems like this is getting worse with age, much like Lindsay Loh- well, moving on.
M: The mouthfeel for the first half second is pretty awesome and is almost like “Ok guys, wow this is kinda like Supplica- ok no, that’s, vagina, a buttery vagina taste, wait wow.” So, if you have that Memento disease and you can only recall the last .5 seconds, then I guess, this is the beer….for you? You probably shouldn’t be drinking on that many meds though.
D: Again, this comes down to the user. Would you perform cunnilingus on a clown? Do you absolutely hate the tastes of butterscotch and regret? If not, then this might be your jam. It’s tough to blast it too, because it feels like something I would try, not the clown sex, the brewing. I look at the hand signed bottle, the numbered limited batch and then I just sit in my tower, acting like I used to be something. Well fine, I can’t put clown vagina in a bottle, but I can criticize, and well, here we are Mumra. Time for some HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Narrative: Raven Grimwood didn’t want to be born into this lifestyle. His days of listening to Depeche Mode and Bauhaus in his company bunk were regularly interrupted with emergency shift requests. “Earl! Come quick we need an immediate relief churner!” Raven sighed and gritted his teeth severely “I TOLD YOU ITS RAVEN AND I DON’T HAVE TIME TO CHURN FUCKING BUTTER!” He sulked and slammed the plywood door of his cabin demonstratively. They didn’t understand. He had higher ambitions. In fact, he identified with some of the most serious craft artisans within his community but, he he was pumping his fists around a slick pole churning out some butter. “If I had a serious sort of vexing curse, or a deep 7” vinyl to sum this up, I would totally rock that right now” he called out, extinguishing a cigarette into the molten butter. The whole air was thick with an infected greasiness. His face was sopping wet with this unnatural carnival fun time stickness that lingered with him day in and day out. It wasn’t exactly a press gang, but it beat his previous job, working on Clarissa Explains it All, that shit was a greasy nightmare.