Gravity Head 2007

by Matt Dunn

Some worts swallow light like a black hole. Others gather glasses and brewing implements in a clatter of near-wort orbit. It's hazardous for the brewer. Some get sucked right in. They have to wear special anti-gravity boots. And even then, well, even then it might be safer to stand on the deck of an Alaskan crab boat in a storm.

To wit: there once was a brewer in the high country of northern Idaho, the pan handle, way up past Coeur d'Alene, hunkered down in his cabin at 6000 feet, on the tree line in the Selkirks. He lived out the winters there, ten feet of snow at a time. Grizzly bears hibernated outside his door, ermines and marmots scampered across the snow, and one thousand pounds of the finest Canadian malted barley slept in his storeroom, waiting to release its fury.

Each winter he brewed and he brewed. Small beer for thirst, strong beer for warmth. And philosophy. Alongside the malt lay hundreds of bottles of decades of beer. Collecting dust until the occasion called, "yes, I think it's time for the '88". He worked shirtless over the fifty gallon cast iron kettle that hung in the hearth of his home, heated by a wood fire, consuming cords of split logs each day. The cabin would glow a hundred degree heat, the whipping winds threw ice at the door which generally melted upon contact.

He was found in early June. Ought-one. Crammed in his kettle, encased by a frozen block of syrupy wort, original gravity 1.200. The gravity got him. They thawed it out and made a fine, strong keeping ale. Tasted some myself. Very nice.

Unfortunately, none of this special brew made it to New Albany for Roger Baylor's 9th annual celebration of strong beer. But no matter, plenty of other good stuff did.

Bluegrass Brewing Company's Dank IPA (cask conditioned), 8% abv: the hustle and bustle of city-speed life consumes us as we barter on the street corner. I'm trying to get the Indonesians to drop their price on the sac of kaffir limes and leaves. I'm going to take them back to Louisville and make a beer. I'll need grapefruit too. A lot of it. I'll crush up the kaffir lime leaves and any other leaves I can get my hands on. I want this beer to be herbaceous. And just a bit too bitter for its own good.

Bell's Hopslam, 9.5% abv: I'm lounging on the beach, blinded by the sand. It sears my eyes with white hot heat. I'm disoriented. I'm Albert Camus on a beach in Algeria, but it's the Caribbean and I don't have a gun. I lay on the beach and the azure waters lap at my feet, warm as bath water. I stand slowly and proceed to my thatched hut. I've got the whole damn thing crammed so full of tropical fruit there's barely room to sit. Mangoes and coconuts everywhere. An abnormally large pineapple roles from atop the pile and knocks me on my head unconscious. I dream nice dreams.

De Dolle Export Stout, 9% abv: chained to the concrete ceiling of this concrete dungeon I scream as the licorice leather whip cracks on my back. It's very dark here, and dank. After several more lashes she feeds me lush chocolate from the palm of her hand. I over indulge and now she's bitter. Far more bitter than I expected.

Rogue Old Crustacean (2002), 11.3% abv: after five years as a slave on this Roman galley you'd think I'd be used to it. Shackled to thick timber beams I work the oar and get splinters anew every day. They prick and they slice at my hands and forearms. The motion of the sea makes me woozy. The rusty iron shackles around my raw ankles are heavy and painful. When will time tame this life?

New Albanian Brewing Company Thunderfoot, 11% abv: gray clouds give way to a jet black sky and thunder rolls densely in the distance. I lean against an oak tree, my only shelter from the storm. The wind wafts hints of vanilla across my face, surely a sign of devastation elsewhere. Something's falling from the tree. A squirrel tossing acorns? No. It's raining cherries. This storm is going to be interesting.

Koningshoeven Quadrupel, 10% abv: down in the big easy today. It's humid. Spanish moss drips from the trees. I stop in a small caf' for dessert. Bananas foster my good man. Butter and cinnamon and red candy sugar melt in the pan as a single drop of his sweat falls easily into the mix. Thirty seven large bananas and a gallon of rum are added and it catches fire. I devour it.

Our waiter sounds exactly like Tom Waits. He admonishes me for ordering the New Albanian Community Dark Mild. "Get something with some heart. This is Gravity Head."

I respond: "Don't you realize what I just went through? Sex slave, Roman slave, pineapple slave, shelter from the storm? I can't handle any more. I'm stretched far too thin. Another inch and the whole damn thing could give. Torn thread from thread, creaking with stress, buckling under pressure, I'd throw it in the dirt! Leave me alone!"

Like so many marmots I scamper from the scene. Not to return for at least another, um, week or so. Gravity Head is still happening people. Have your own little fantasy.