Tired Hands is enjoying an Alamanac-esque gentle repose of late. They finally shed themselves of hoarding shitlords and hypemen and now have been silently slitting palates in half with their Hattori Hanzo bottles. Those Ardmore boys used to exist in perpetual comparison with their Vermont brethren up north, but with a canning machine and altogether different drives, the paradigm has changed for JB4 and Co.
Let’s see if this new direction is something you should lube up the anal egg for in today’s rundown:
Para47. Alright, I am no fucking math master but. Forty seven? This may be a riff on the non-linear nature of the timescape and relativity of ordinal experience, but it’s pretty fucking confusing from a consumer perspective. It’s almost as bad as those ridiculous Beachwood Propagation bottles that are factorial and already on like #4350928 at this point.
So instead of the usual acid trip that the other Paras have embraced, this is off the AWA greens and into the danky trees. Para47 is a Mosaic IPA fermented in Vin Santo barrels with the Para culture. So immediately your mind will drift into the Dorothy/Noble King realm, or perhaps Sue even. This is amongst the hoppiest wild ales I have ever encountered and it somehow pulls it off. It’s like when Honda released the Del Sol and you were happy that the homosexual community had a car to call their own, but, deep down you know it is amazing. The mosaic lays this pinewood with corkboard, sheets of lacquered mangos, elegant lemon pledge, and waves of landscaping majesty. It is unerringly bright and radiates like some floral elixir. Never quite acidic nor IPA, it is this odd cross section of a punnett square that I doubt you have ever encounter prior. The mouthfeel is that whiskey sour egginess that is whipped and frothy, absolutely crushable and the 500ml format is almost a tease. I would def. recommend scooping this overlooked guy off the trade boards. It will likely get panned by expert palates in the BA/Untappd world, but I dig it.
Waiting for the Bloom. IPA brewed with oats and hopped in the kettle with Simcoe and the almighty Cascade. Heavily dry hopped with Nelson Sauvin. This is one of those beers that when you read the label you have practically already had the beer. You know exactly what you are getting and you can transpose vision for taste. It’s like when a band is setting up and you see Schecter Guitars or a Warwick bass, chances are this band might be totally shitty, or the best prog rock ever.
This is turrrrrbiddddddd, not quite in the realm of those with Hoof Hearts, but god damn is this a milky way. The oats steal the show here and give this parapet for those sticky danky dabs to adhere to. The finish is long and herbal, highly drinkable but nothing that will shake the orange julius cadre to their foundation. This is that Treehouse vein that is perhaps 90% as well done without giving up organs to obtain. If I were compelled to live in PA, that vast expanse of Nascar plainsland buttressed by two cities, this would be my calm solace. Pour out a splash of this for the Latrobe homies lost in 2005. The struggle.
OURISON. Mama said dont get a tattoo of Ourison, but what mama don’t know wont hurt her.
This is one of the best beers that Tired Hands has made in a long time, [tired] HANDS DOWN. I came into this expecting a lazy scaled melody of wheat saison, some mixolydian runs and relative minors, acidity and a watery body that closes like some Arthur cover song. I was fucking wrong. The beauty of this is in its direct and stripped down simplicity. No fruits, not fucking wheelies or spinning rims, no pageantry, just Chevy II tires on the pavement with a roll caged bretty interior.
Them Ardmore ballers say it best:
“Ourison represents the progression and evolution of our Saison fermentation program. Ourison is Our Saison, SaisonHands, left to condition in oak and then allowed to fully express itself via a lengthy bottle conditioning period. The end result is a highly refined snappy and pungent Saison that, I feel, is one of the most simplistic and exciting iterations of Saison that we have ever produced.”
Let’s admit that Tired Hands is no stranger to needless complexity, fucking escargot shells, labels named after Semiotic works, obscure fruits, and not all of it works. THIS WORKS LIKE A KOREAN GROCER. I loved HandFarm and this is the logical extension of this canon. You get a blast of creamy chobani yogurt, so much ripe apricot and creamy nectarine pith. It feels so integrated and frothy, a touch of brett L+C to balance one another with gruyere and dusty twine. It’s like that fruit packing warehouse that Richie worked at in La Bamba. U KNO. The drag on the finish has this lightly acidic profile that is tart yet creamy like a tangy 50/50 orange and vanilla bar. It is endlessly simple and complex at the same time, like the first Decemberists albums. I don’t think I have seen a single bottle of this traded and this is something that begs to be experienced outside the realm of cheesesteak grinders and liberty bell bangers.
It is easily one of the best beers that they have ever made. Stop fucking around with endless ANTEAD offers and get back to the simple lines of this vintage saison Volvo. You won’t be disappointed.