If you ever need a clear example as to why you can fully disregard the neorone palates on BA, then go read the cringeworthy reviews of this “87/100” stunner. Sometimes Tired Hands can get a touch out of pocket with conceptual prog rock tier bottles that riff into uncharted territory. In merging endlessly clean minerality with a wholly familiar pilsner realm, some latent DuPont Avril alleles magically generate within the nucleic acid. Avrilleles. It tastes exceedingly similar to the Live Oak and Jester King collab, so read that as: nipples on full ache. It’s so fragile and delicate like lilac petals in an Ardmore creek, but the stillness belies depth, some rocky gems at the bottom. Part lemon seltzer and part fescue, it finishes with this intensely herbal fennel and sage swallow. All of the latter is somehow choreographed with this pilsner instruction. The Belgian table beer rolling in the hay with a lowly lager Czech pilsner, the working class cum de debutante is almost Clarissaesque in its hardly believable nature but, unlike the endless Richardson novel, this was consumed instantly. It’s volume is a canard as this will likely disappear faster than Mayweather at an Infinite Jest reading. Translation: this is “forgettable” in the context of filthy 1oz pours in a sweltering Jacksonville backyard amongst confectionary chocolate water. Let it be forgotten, right onto my doorstep. This annular therapy isn’t here for a long time, it’s here for a fleeting good time.