The Exclusive Malts Glen Keith Richards 1996 19 yo, much like the man, much like the guitarist, is a vigorous study in contrasts. (Who knew he owned a distillery? I’d’ve believed a poppy farm in Thailand, or even a company run by a stoat-faced, disbarred, weirdly-whiskered, homeopathy-believer lawyer that manufactured fecal transplant pills.) On the one hand, there’s the first rush of a late-afternoon orange grove having lemonade spritzed on the leaves to thwart aphids. On the other hand, there’s a faint scent of Marlboros and white carnations so deeply embedded in clothes that even after laundering, it tickles the skylights of your sinuses. It’s so balanced it’s almost as if the different aromas agreed to not let any particular one assume disproportionate power or influence. (Who knew that different classes of esters read the Federalist Paper No. 10? Or was it the Festeralist Paper No. 10?)
On the mouth, extreme righteousness in the face extreme unfairness: A rock-solid Ugandan gay rights activist fighting against bigotry with a passion that almost supersedes human mortality and will. There are seven pomes and seven hills of Rome—Candor, Freshly Milled Pine, Honied Bees’ Wax, Creamsicle, Crescent Moon Dipped in Pear Nectar, Fresh November Breeze Knifing Through Cracked Window, and Argus’s Emptied Visine® Bottle.
The finish breaks the tense stillness of my soft palate like being hit by a mattock sculpted of grilled veal chop. It opens me to a brighter future, and I can, in spite of the many first-world horrors that surround me, find hope in a lilac bush that sprang up, seemingly irrevocably, behind my uvula. Spectacular.
–Our thanks to ImpEx for the sample!