State of the Beer Union

Going through The Wall Street Journal last week there was yet another article about national discord, attempts at reconciliation, and ultimately failure to cooperate. Shockingly, it had nothing to do with the circus in Washington, D.C. or North Korean diplomacy. Rather, the American beer industry is acting out like children or Members of Congress, whomever you feel is less mature.

This particular article dealt with the US beer industry (or at least the American subsidiaries of multi-national conglomerates) and its attempts to stem the decline of beer consumption in this country. The idea was to come up with a catchy phrase along the lines of the dairy and meat industries and their successful “Got Milk?”, “Beef, it’s not just for dinner anymore.”, and “Spinach, not just Popeye’s crack.” campaigns. All was rolling along in communal marketing harmony until the good folks at Bud Light declared war. Using the sets and costumes from Monty Python’s Holy Grail, their recent ads featured medieval marauders attacking all those who used corn syrup in their brews. Dilly, dilly cried the competition, and like Nancy Pelosi and her weird hand clapping behind the President, everyone went back to hating each other, no closer to a common ad line.

All of this begs the bigger question: to paraphrase the voiceover of the movie Casino, “How did they managed to screw up paradise?”

Paradise in this realm would be my mid-80’s collegiate years. For a weekend party, the fraternity would have five or six kegs of Miller delivered. The beer would go for $25 a keg or so, plus deposit and tap rental. In corporate-speak, this offered a “great value proposition.” Inexplicably, local favorite Old Style went for a few bucks more. As it was Old Style, the words “great” or “value” were never applied. Neither were the words “tasty” or “drinkable” for that matter. Heineken was nearly 40 dollars a keg, so we only bought that for rush week to impress potential pledges. I really enjoyed rush week. 

And what did the beer makers have to fear back then? Wine coolers? Like you remember that Bartles & Jaymes actually had a “y” in its name. Blender drinks? Sure for two hours of TGIF cocktails, but not for an all-night party. Wine? Wait, there was wine back then? You mean the stuff people who had jobs could afford and knew how to order? Besides, what was the fun in chugging a Merlot?

Fast forward to today’s low-suds drinking environment. We live in a land where the wine is explained to us with pictures and phrases on the labels. Gin, vodka, and even bourbon come in more flavors than Halloween candy. There’s something called spiked seltzer. Line up drinks from a kid’s birthday party and a 20-something’s cocktail mixer, and you’d be hard-pressed to see any difference—and a sippy cup isn’t necessarily the giveaway.

Maybe the solution is some first-person research. A stone’s throw away from my apartment (well two throws and an infield relay if you play for the Mets) is a bar called Five Mile Stone. From the outside one always sees a busy scene of smiling young customers enjoying their “food and fare.” Easing onto a bar stool, one picks up a “beer menu” with descriptions about a “hoppy nose,” “organic barley,” and other verbiage usually reserved for Whole Foods shoppers. A bartender approaches in his youthful armor of jeans, plaid shirt, suspenders, and a beard so full it could stop a battle ax. The overall effect resembles a beer wookiee. He asks me what I want to drink, and I look around nervously, desperately searching for something vaguely familiar. But no, all the taps have weird animals on them in every color and in seemingly extra-terrestrial shapes. And then it hits me—beer isn’t an American staple anymore, it’s the bar scene from Star Wars.

Help me Obi-Wan, I just wanted a Bud Light.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved