Jester King, Black Metal Imperial Stout, Austin, Texas Turning Out Something Besides Meth and Sunburned Hipsters

I remember seeing people going all apeshit over this beer last year and whenever I looked at the reviews I was like “I can buy a Speedway stout, I am not paying Fedex to bring me this shit.” Anyway, a year older, year dumber, this finally got some limited distribution to the west coast, so my laziness and $12.99 got the best of me. WATCH WHAT HAPPENS.

Why is the blackest metal usually performed by people from the palest places in the world?

Jester King Black Metal Imperial Stout, 10.4% abv

FUN FACT: I wrote this entire review while listening to Hammerfall. If you aint know Hammerfall, you and Spotify need to have a chat.

A: The appearance is about as dead on as stouts can get. It has a fantastic depth and hateful depth to it that is as dark as a Norwegian winter and a jet black pallour of that goth kid no one bothered to talk to, now look at him, dot com millionaire. The lacing is non-existent but that foam looks like Banana Republic khakis, except there’s actually something dark inside, unlike that racist ass store.

This beer is a strange hybrid of greatness that is awesome in its own right.

S: There is a mild raisin, chocolate, light coffee, and a big sweetness that finishes with a fleeting acidity. I am not unstoked for this, but knowing there’s no bourbon magic dust in this, my stout arousal is around 6/10.

T: The taste delivers in a huge way about and beyond the nose of the beer. There’s a delicious coffee initial note that lays the groundwork for a baker’s chocolate 85% cocoa dryness that is just sweet enough to be fantastic. At the end the light woody and mild hop notes round out the palate. This is a solid non-BA offering and does a ton with the malts presented. The alcohol is smuggled in like prohibition Canadian whiskey. 7th graders could class it up and drink this while listening to KoRn and complain about how their middle-class parents don’t understand their middle class adolescent life, like if this stout could just get its own car it would totally be out of here, like now.

There's a deep childlike satisfaction that comes from this beer. No beards necessary.

M: The mouthfeel doesn’t go full on apeshit like Hunaphu’s but it hits a fantastic lingering coating and frothiness that lingers long after the sip, let’s call it 40 seconds and just go about our lives, jesus why does everything have to be a competition for this guy? The label says “It is best enjoyed while pumping out blast beats, summoning trolls, or enjoying a nice leisurely reading of the Necronomicon.” God damn, extra points for the awesome label and classy 750ml packaging. I came into this wanting to dislike this beer but left with ebony teeth and a nod of approval.

D: This is not exceptionally drinkable but is a great beer to share amongst friends. Not that I am some raging labia who can’t handle one, I can rock this all day long. Other mandolin players might not be able to handle the face melting 24th fret solos and wicked sick runs it sets forth. I could beer bong this no problem and still have room for spicy Thai, I try to write to the common 8th grade Newsweek audience. Writing beer reviews for 8th graders seems on point. Super cutty.

This isn't the child that I never had, but it feels familiar.

Narrative: Sarai bore the silent communion with God and nodded solemnly as her name was changed to Sarah, my princess. Her fallow belly was infused with a deep power to change the world and eventually she begot Isaac, which by all accounts was the beginning of power black death metal. In a roundabout way, the humble beginnings in the fertile crescent would have never foreseen that in a mere 6000 years beyond their legacy that Norwegian and Swedish youths would push the nature of dithyrambic dissonance to face melting power. The Ark of the Covenant possess a power to smite and destroy a man where he stood. Likewise, man built in the image of God sought to control this mixolydian speed and fire within their own fingertips and scales progressively were run faster, hammer on pull offs harder, screams higher. Finally, as the lost scrolls prophesied, a deep unworldly power was discovered: THE PINCH HARMONIC. When man discovered how to mute a struck harmonic, the screeching power of simple melodies hit black, evil levels. This dark art was furthered by low class Ibanez guitar owners until the black science was reduced into a fine art. This deep communion still takes place at forgotten realms within the midwest, wherein the metal bands have been banished to obscurity for their blistering, shredding ways of worship.

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