Stillwater Premium Deconstructs the Postmodern Saison Narrative


Filling out a greeting card is the hardest bit of writing you can be tasked with. Too much space for simple congratulations, never enough room for actual thought. The medium itself is a constriction.

Table biers have similar restrictions. The low abv and bone dry character ensures that you’re always cramming the brett profile against the edges, trying to cram in yeasty sentiment illegibly. If you say too little, you are a callous farmhand.

Postmodern Beer would imply that this has a metanarrative, a deconstructive purpose unto itself. I don’t feel like a pillowy soft crushable Biere du Pays really turns the focal lens on fermentation as a platform. This is Georgian at best.

The beer provides a soft enamel gloss over the edges of more complex, acidic saisons, but affords a mixed ferm profile that pulls it from the bubblegum hefzone of American westmalle strains. Maybe in the reconciliation it is that breathing space of beer prose, an E.M. Forster of sorts. Aviator Nation Divorcees in grating Tesla X’s and condescending tweedjacket bros can enjoy this alike.

Maybe the pivot from the previous gaudy “post-prohibition era” version of this beer is nod to the changing palates. It feels lagered, but saison forward. Brett, but with a lake-vibe to it. It brazenly spins the macrolager into bold places with cracked pepper, lemon meringue, construction paper, and minneola. If you’ve ever seen a woman who carries an iphone with no case, you know this recklessness. That rawdog disregard for peril, luxury by way of destruction. It is the truest flex.

So by giving us less, the greeting card connotes more. The saison jazz notes that aren’t played are the most important. You will feel firmly rooted in terrible baseball park beers, but pulled into a zone of deeper green glass appreciation.

If you’ve ever had a friend who shares album screenshots as Instagram stories, you know how concerning this can be. No one wants that, why are you doing this to us. But once in a while it hits, and now you listen to Father John Misty, or Behemoth, or drink grisettes. Let this be the irritation that pulls them into the fields.

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