3 Floyd’s Bourbon Barrel Aged Alpha Klaus with Plums, Adjective Stacking FTW

I know what you are thinking “another rare Barrel Aged 3 Floyd’s beer? Give that shit a rest.” Alright, fair enough, but BA Behemoth was beyond amazing so I can’t stay away, the game needs me. This is another one of those 391 bottle, generic barrel aged bottle releases and so far, all the prior releases were amazing. Let’s see if this follows suit or IF IT DOESN’T HAVE THE PLUMS TO DO SO

Keeping it Alpha as fuck with Victorian literature.

Three Floyds Brewing Co. / Brewery & Pub
Indiana, United States
American Porter | 10.00% ABV

Oh shit, bottle number 221/391, .rar bonus.

A: This has that inky squid discharge look with the nimble porter wateriness that you’ve come to expect from those charming offerings. The splishy splashy cola notes give it a flat soda look with some moderate carbonation. It looks pretty legit, through and through, although some middle carbonation wouldn’t be a total turn off. But this isn’t a Hustler spread, so let’s leave these fictional dreams well enough alone.

Whenever I open a barrel aged 3 Floyd’s Beer: I HAVE THE POWER.

S: While it is plum, I get a deep grape and black cherry from the nose, mixed in like a Cordial with some chocolate and a marshmallow froth. There’s some booze holding this kraken back, but the whole thing seems sweeter and purple Flintstones vitamin more than chocolate rampage.

T: The plum kicks into a deep sweet grapitey grape rampage. Statutory grape, if you will. The plum comes across in more of a light tannin fairy dust sprinkled throughout the fracas like feathers in a sorority girl pillow fight and the chocolate and roast look inside through the malt window with visible erections. It reminds me of a purple fanta meets yoohoo outing that is neither suitable for hikes nor sitting by the hearth, discussing Roosevelt’s re-election. Like a plum bachelorette, neither classy, nor explicitly trashy.

This beer pulls of some strange stunts, which you appreciate but are not sure how to apply in a larger medium.

M: The mouthfeel is dead on and cartwheels into a nimble posture, tossing black cherry shurikens pell mell. It washes away clean but the booze hangs out on the way out, looking for trim on the way down. I would not suggest this to novice beer drinkers unless you want to hear a bunch of irritating adjectives that will denature your experience, “OH MAN IT IS LIKE A TAFFY BURNT TIRE BRO” see I can’t even make them shitty enough to impart realism.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable, but I am torn as to whether I like it more cold or warmer. Cold it is more chocolate with tame fruits, around 60 degrees this shit starts getting into Fruit Stripe Gum territory real quick, which is tasty and original, but maybe not as drinkable. If you focus on the lingering chocolate and cocoa phosphate aspect, it is fulfilling through and through.

Porterrr….plumssses…..bourbon….now….build me a dam sweet Indiana muses…

Narrative: William Goyette gripped his temples and popped another prune into his mouth. His status consistently garnered no showering of likes, thumbs, approval or otherwise. “GOD DAMNIT THIS GUY AGAIN!” he exclaimed and looked at his minifeed cluttered with “THE DOCTOR SAYD YOUR HAVENG A GIRL!” with 56 likes. Another status from a marginally attractive Mormon girl said “each day is a gift wrapped in a sunrise” that received 34 comments. “THIS MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE,” he thought to himself and took a bite from a juicy plum. William lives strictly off of Farmer’s Market food, did crossfit, read H.P. Lovecraft and thought that he was edgy as fuck. He still could not understand why the goldpan of life passed his pithy statuses by. “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what LPs Real Estate are going to release next fall” he could not understand how that gem of relevance and ultra ironic but self deprecating tone of metacritical commentary rolled in auspicious knowledge, somehow failed to elicit “likes.” Likes are the lifeblood and currency of the insecure. They feed the Williams of the world with a sweet succor of post-collegiate relevance. It is the sweet nectar for his race, the rare and relevant, the cloistered tiers of esoteric civilization. He popped a dried plum into his mouth from the Ronco food dehydrator and he began his 43rd screenplay, this time a SciFi re-imagining of Howard’s End. He was edgy as fuck.


Upright Fantasia, Come Along and Ride on a Fantasia Tick Voyage. Coolio References 50% Off

Here’s a familiar situation, a small run of rare Oregon beers come out, for two week you sit back and watch everyone ask for Blabaer, Vanilla Dark Lord, Black Note (read: things I have already reviewed on this site) and then after two weeks, the reality sets in and people become more reasonable. This is no exception. I have to thank a super generous trader for hooking me up with this peach gem. Absolute Peach O ring all up in my dome piece.

Plenty of peach sours rolling out these days, life is NOT THE PITS.

Upright Brewing, Fantasia, 5.75% abv

A: This has a golden hue to it, like the wild ale that the Argonauts were seeking out. There’s minimal wispy carbonation that just gets phoned in like 11:30 am orders to Dominos on a Sunday. But hey, this ain’t your first rodeo, you know how wild ales roll, all go and no show homie.

Me complaining about this rare peach beer not being sour enough is the pinnacle of first world problems.

S: There’s an acidic and musky nose to it that reminds me kinda of Stetson cologne but with a huge peach waft to it. It reminds me of puberty, smells like awkward kids who need deodorant and sticky peach o ring hands. I like it, not pubescent kids, peach O rings and drinks derived therefrom.

T: This has a fantastic (ba dum tish) crisp initial sweetness of basically anything made by Haribou, nice peachy tang to it that doesn’t overly dominate on the sour spectrum, but it reminds me that life ain’t all about cash money hoes, all a sour knows. There’s a tartness that resounds into a chardonnay sweet note without the oaky dryness. It almost reminds me of a classy ass energy drink, for those discerning truckers who need to jack off en route, but balance it out with a high brow beverage.

Unlike these generic asshats, I would actually seek this beer out again. This beer will actually make it.

M: The coating on this beer is super crisp like juice and doesn’t coat that well, but it would be weird if it had some malty ass base, syrupy peach goopiness. So not a whole lot to comment here, go sip some peach juice mixed with some grapefruit tartness and you’ll get the drying effect down dead on. I don’t need to pad out each section ok, it’s like this one guy I met from Portland said, oh out of space on to the next section-

D: This is incredibly, edibly drinkable. I could cold clock this bottle like a session sour and it has a strange resemblance to a shitty unblended lambic that I once made, albeit, this is the perfect version. My shit 2000 and late. Another crazy aspect to this is it’s relatively low alcohol content and delicious crisp finish makes me wish that I had a solid case of this to share with the bros at Havasu, me and the brahs just chilling at Coachella cracking sick brews and listening to Arcade Fire, a totally solid band.

This beer tears up my gumline, but I forgive it.

Narrative: In the early 16th century life was devoid of peaches for the most part, and all the canon of musical theory was rigid and predicated largely on ecclesiastic works. Then a tree of divine mystery sprang in a Prussian grove, shattering the rigid contemplative nature of formal music. It was really just rotting peaches, but, when moves into the country they inevitably will eat a lot of peaches. With enough fermenting and pitting, the sugars turned out some majestic works in C minor for the clavichord. Baroque composers were known to beat their mistresses savagely after imbibing the strange succor of peach alcohol. This carried stringent, diaphanous connotations. On one hand, the lithe tones of the Fantasia school created a refreshing lightness, it also meant 16th century wives got pounded on in more than a euphemistic fashion.