As The Crow Flies - Ed.8 - of Punks and Lagerboys

“Beavertown, Never Normal” I hear for the 13th time this week. I don’t know if all podcast listeners are being subjected to the same ad bombardment, or if this torture has been algorithmically curated solely for my displeasure. What is it about this specific tagline that so provokes my ire? The fact that I have heard it a dozen times in a matter of days? Well that certainly doesn’t help. It is repetition that rankles but it’s the sentiment, not the specific words. It is the bitter irony of big beer frequently playing into counter cultural themes. Nobody wants to feel as though they are just part of the crowd, another cog in the machine, and so we are always desperately searching for ways to distinguish ourselves from one and another. You aren’t normal?! You’re a punk, a rebel, relentlessly sticking it to the man one £6.80 pint of mass produced mediocrity at a time. 

The situation that big beer has found itself in is one entirely of its own making. The relentless pursuit of growth synonymous with big corp and private investment necessitates a decline in quality as costs are slashed whilst demand (in theory) rises exponentially. In this way breweries like Beavertown (now fully owned and operated by Heineken) and Brewdog (completely beholden to private equity), once at the forefront of the UK’s burgeoning craft beer revolution, back themselves into a marketing corner. ‘Craft’ beer drinkers, particularly those who remember what the original Gamma Ray tasted like, aren’t going to shell out for an inferior product. They know this and so they abandon the craft beer market and focus on converting the masses. Don’t drink lager like your normy mates, be different, push the boat out, drink Beavertown. The Hobgoblin would be proud. “Never Normal”, “Pints for Punks”, it’s all just “what’s the matter lagerboy?” rehashed for the modern drinker. 

I have heard the argument that the likes of Beavertown and Brewdog act as more easily accessible (cheaper) gateways for new people to get into ‘craft beer’, and this may have been true at a time I've long forgotten, but I don’t think the same can be said now. Out of curiosity, I checked with one of our suppliers what it would cost for us to stock Beavertown’s Neck Oil and was shocked to find that 50 Litres would set us back £5 more than what we pay for DEYA’s Steady Rolling Man which has long been our house pale (and which we admittedly buy direct, not through a supplier). I was aghast. On what plane of existence would I have to be operating to spend £5 more on an inferior product?! I was so taken aback that I vowed to do something I had not done for maybe 7 years. I would drink a pint of Neck Oil. Perhaps I had been wrong all this time, maybe I was the lagerboy, afraid I might taste something other than corporate apathy.

I sit down with my newly acquired ‘Neck Oil’. I have chickened out on a half, as I didn’t wish to spend the full £6.15 on a pint I knew I was unlikely to enjoy. My socks are pulled up, studs showing, as I prepare to go in two-footed. But I can't. The initial taste is better than I had anticipated. What strikes me harder than anything else, is the pleasant bitterness, which I so often criticise modern beers for lacking. In the knowledge that this is my first beer in a handful of days, not to mention the first of the day, I give myself a minute and a sip of water to try and reset myself. Now that my tastebuds have adjusted, I am able to continue with more discerning.

I swill the liquid lightly over my palate, taking in tiny gasps of air, trying as I might to pick out a couple of stand-out flavours. At the most basic of levels, my judgement of the quality of a drink can be reduced to how easy it is to pick up individual flavours, and I am struggling. There are passing nods to flavours I recognise, primarily grapefruit, but they are whispers in the wind. Now that my palate has adjusted, and the beer has warmed slightly, the initial bitterness has all but completely faded, and my palate is overwhelmed by the distinctly sweet taste of cheap malt. The product I am now drinking feels like an entirely separate entity to that which took my unsuspecting tastebuds by surprise just moments ago. It feels like eating leftover McNuggets in the cold light of the following day. All the sins that were hidden by the temperature at point of service have been revealed, overwhelming the short-lived initial satisfaction. An unrecognisable sweetness is all that remains, and it is difficult to swallow. By the end of my drink I actually catch myself wincing, and I decide to leave the final gulp in the glass.

I return to The Crow to write down my final thoughts, doing so with a half pint of Steady Rolling Man, which ricochets notes of yellow grapefruit and lemon pith across my palate.  I realise I am setting the bar high by using Steady Rolling Man as a comparison but I’m not realistically expecting Neck Oil to be able to clear it, rather to neatly pass under it without dragging itself disgracefully along the floor. It manages that, if unspectacularly. The word I keep coming back to is ‘basic’. “Never Normal” rings hollow. It is the primark t-shirt of beer, it does a job in a pinch as long as you don’t subject it to closer inspection. However, even in a pinch, I think I'd take a decent macro-lager over Neck Oil without hesitation. As I write those words I feel the scornful stare of the Hobgoblin burrowing into the back of my skull, I was the lager boy all along.