Alright, lest you think DDB has turned into some kind of LA brewery pimping mechanism let’s just get this out of the way off the top: This beer is good, but it’s not MINDBLOWING. However, it is certainly worthy of your contemplation as there are not many clear analogs to this unless you happen to have Black Currant Saison, SHBRL or Imperial Black Raz Bu falling off the shelves.
Go buy this shit here: 600 bottles, 3pp. So of course proxies are allowed.
So from the get go, this beer is fucking beautiful from the regal purple satin robes that drag across the fuchsia marble, to the crackly clouds of autumnal sunset capping the stillness. Nana’s blush was streaked across your shoulder, that rosy farewell of sweet hibiscus and orangeblossom. She kept a bowl of hard semi-sour candies, berry and plum, adorning her oak table in the foyer. How many afternoons did you watch those cumulus cirrus strata slide unceasingly into the horizon, cotton candy and Lisa Frank binders, glass tubes of rubaeous neon flicking imperceptibly at the roller rink?
Feel free to drag your fingertips across the glass of the fragrance counter, you belong here, flowerbomb and juicy pressed boysenberry. The stark produce arranged in tiny crates, that rush of red 5 attendant to fruit leather, smeared jelly, vines that make the air feel colder and more vibrant like fruit scented markers.
A touch of discomfort sets in along the bicuspids, the crackle of teeth whitening trays, acidic to basic interplay with the receding flesh, that electric pang in the canines, the dryness of gauze dripping with sticky juicy goodness. A Tantalus paradigm is created, each sip pushing the vinous tide out further, depth creating the mild sharpness of an acidic undertow. These are the things you endure for the squeezed goodness, tannins kicking like a Rockford Fosgate sub in a berrybandpassbox. The swallow is long and clean, no residual sweetness to the adolescent memories, just that crackly morning air of anticipation. The first day of school for your next sip, endlessly, each sip warranting reflection but working against the impulse for being present in that farmers market moment.
It’s fucking sour and that kinda detracts from how well done the fruit profile is. While it is certainly no Southampton Black Raspberry Lambic, it is undeniably finely crafted and I cant think of many comparable entries that run a soft palm on your back while digging currant nails into your skin. If that’s the kind of Backpage action you are looking for, then go get ur berries stomped on tomorrow morning. Who am I to tell you how to live your life?
We all know people are just gonna say I have gorilla tits and that my toaster is shit and that DDB is a sellout for writing about anything and that being needlessly cryptic is a soft dodge for actual ciceronic insight.
I’ll be doing naked burpees on my balcony if anyone needs me.