The Arran Machrie Moor, the Peated Arran Malt, 2nd Edition, opens with a delightful old winey smell, as if you finally got around to opening that bottle of Riesling a close family friend gave your parents for their wedding, and that twenty years later, they never drank. It perfectly complements a meatloaf made from jelly bellies, jujubes, and a veritable gummi-Noah’s Ark. Fermenting crabapples and grapefruit in an orchard outside Bryn Mawr, and a swimming pool filled with unchlorinated apple cider, which is the site of a party featuring coeds bobbing for butterscotch. It’s rounded, harmonious, euphonious, and exemplary. Like a quiet melody beginning to stir at the back of a first movement of a mighty symphony, notes of peat curl around a turpentine forest as gently as a tropical breeze.
The mouth is crystallized myriagons of sugar condensed from pineapple sap. Stephen found liquid Christmas lights eaten by a strange albino python that slithered down a disco’s chimney—but John quickly corrected that to “A python with albinism.” (Thanks, John.) Over the next three days, the python then managed to eat the disco ball, and the party was on! All concerned found tinges of grass-stained oleander and sedge sawdust around the edges, some dry, some bedewed by python saliva.
The finish is acorn nutmeat left to dry on a ceiling fan blade spinning slowly—ever so slowly—on a turgid, hot summer porch. There’s creamy, yet muted, peppermint oils, zested orange oils, and oranges in estrous trying to mate with my tastebuds, but succeeding only in engaging in a little frottage, like a frittata effusively and exuberantly crawling up the sides a frying pan or my cheek. [John: Bill! That doesn’t make sense!] It doesn’t have to, John. It doesn’t have to.
On the scale of cross-over white rapper megahits–
The Arran Machrie Moor is Macklemore’s Thrift Shop.