The Great American Beer Festival
Denver, CO
by Lex Marburger
The call comes in. “Lex, this is Lollipop. Your mission is to fly to Denver, Colorado. Once there, you will meet Pete Slosberg© of Pete’s Wicked Ale™ and, using the Wicked Winnebago®, you will go to the Great American Beer Festival and encounter 1300 beers from 250 breweries across the United States. By the way, Pete© is picking up the tab for everything. Good luck. Your plane leaves in two hours.”
I scrambled to pack. Pirate shirt, leather pants, aspirin, condoms… forget taking a notebook. After so much drinking, I’d never be able to hold a pen straight. Tape recorder. Two hours to get to the airport, and the rain is coming down in a deluge, cold as a whore’s heart.
I was worried about this assignment. Not only was Pete’s Wicked Ale™ not my favorite beer, but the pressure for me to actually have a good time, was overwhelming. I had an attack of performance anxiety, and rehearsed some lines. “I swear, this kind of thing never happened to me before. I don’t know what’s wrong… how about you tie me up…” Wait. Wrong scenario.
Such a wonderful feeling, to have one’s name on a placard for debauchery. Visions of Bud Lite commercials weaved in and out of my head, “Are you going to the GABF? Then I am Mr. Mah-boi-gah,” as I approached the black car and driver, my name in his hand. I was not alone. The founder of P.O.V. and his girlfriend were in the car. Also included as attendees were Axcess, Bikini, Kulture Deluxe, New Woman, and In Fashion, all of which have sold their souls to Dewars and Guess.
Not that this makes them bad people. I mean, they’re making more money and living comfortably off their magazines-as-catalog format, and they don’t search the couch for bus fare like some of the Lollipop staff. But, to quote Edwyn Collins, “Their idea of counter culture is their Mama’s charge account at Sears.” The average circulation was about 400,000 issues a month. So I was the underground contact for Pete’s Brewing Co.®™. What a scoop!
We arrived at the Brown’s Palace Hotel, a swank place where the staff is polite, even to a long-haired, leather jacket wearing, person such as myself. King sized bed, TV with cable (and dirty movies), and some great bathrobes, one of which found its way into my bag without my noticing. There wasn’t much time to appreciate everything, though. I had to go schmooze with the rest of the contingent, as well as Pete© himself, in the “Wickedly™ hospitable suite.” We were subjected to “Beer 101.” Explaining the effect that barley, hops, and water has on the final product was the wonderfully intelligent and highly attractive crew of Manning, Selvege and Lee, as well as Pete’s Brewing Company©™.
Then we were off to the GABF in the Wicked Winnebago®, an immense land yacht with two kegs in the back and propaganda merchandise plastered everywhere. The beer was, of course, all Pete’s™. I was beginning to feel like I was on tour with some rock band, without the hassle of having to actually perform (“Okay, a little more to the left… Great! Now don’t move for the next fifteen minutes and keep the strap between your teeth…”).
The Currigan Exhibition Hall is enormous and the place was packed. There were 25,000 people expected to attend, and do nothing but drink (and drink) beer. Large as several football fields, or at least it felt like that when looking for a bathroom, the Hall was still surprisingly pleasant. It could be that I was simply transported into a Zen state of acceptance due to the fact that all of this was free and I didn’t have to worry about finding my way home.
Before we charged the stalls and got righteously plowed, Pete© showed us around and introduced us to his favorite beers. He’s a dark-and-rich type of drinker, as shown by the Alaskan Smoked Porter that he presented to us. The barley is cooked over an open fire, which then transfers itself into a sock-knocking beer better made for contemplative drinking rather than the blatant disregard that most post-adolescent party monsters have for the taste of an alcoholic beverage (hey, why is everybody looking at me?).
Next, Pete™ had us try the Celis Grand Cru, and the Celis White, two Belgian style ales. The Grand Cru was strong and meaty, while the White was unique. Instead of adding hops, which gives beer its bitter taste, they added orange peel and cardamom. The result is shocking, an unparalleled brew worthy to drink at any time. Pete© seems to have good taste, for all these beers won awards. I guess, being a judge, he’d bring us to the winners.
And then it was off to the races as we were faced with 1300 beers to choose from. The policy was that each stall would give you one ounce of their beer to taste. Not much, you say? 1300 ounces in five hours (the time we spent at the GABF) is about 16 pints an hour, or roughly one pint every three minutes for five hours. I decided that the best policy is to choose two styles of beer and see what America had to offer. I went for IPA’s and Fruit Beers. I like a strong hops taste (sometimes), a bitterness that makes you realize life, a taste to open your eyes. The IPA’s do this in spades. As for fruit beers, I think they’re quizzical, intriguing little bastards that kick ass over any wine cooler made.
Brief impressions: After extensive drinking, all beers tend to blend together, and then only the most aggressive brews stick out in your mind. The ones you remember the most are not necessarily the ones you want to drink, just the strongest.
There was a Scottish bagpipe band, and a beer called Wanker (“I feel like a Wanker”) that tastes like shit but has great packaging. In the fruit section, the Marion Barry Lambic (made with Marion berries) had an intense cherry taste, exciting and full and named, of course, after D.C.’s favorite crackhead. Also standing out was the St. Brigit’s Porter, which fulfills the myth in that she turned bath water into beer (although who would want to drink that?).
Soon it was time to head back to the Wicked Winnebago® and go to a late night dinner with Pete™ and friends. It has been said, “Beer is food,” and I believe it now more than ever. I was already stuffed with hundreds of different beers sloshing around in my stomach. Seeing that pool and blues were not our style, a group of us decided to check out Denver nightlife.
We headed to the Wicked Winnebago© and tried to find a club that played industrial and other “counter culture” (see Edwyn Collins quote above) music. As we drove around (with the help of Howard, a man who could park the Battlestar Galactica in the space of a goldfish bowl), we spotted a couple necking on a bench. We jumped out and grabbed them, pulled them into the Wicked Winnebago© and demanded that they take us to a club.
Our search continued, people dropping off to do their own thing periodically, until it was just me and Kris Gilbert, a beautiful Amazon (at a self quoted 5′, 13″) who has the job title, “Director of Creative Media Strategies,” which I guess includes dancing until 2:00 am with a drunk, long-haired writer in leather pants. Work is so tough sometimes. We finally made it back to the hotel at around 3:00, where Kris and I parted ways. I decided to see what kinds of dirty movies the Brown’s Palace Hotel had to offer.
The next morning, it was time to go back to the GABF so they could announce the winners. Some highlights: American Lager – Red Dog, Gold (at least it beat Coors). American Specialty Lager – Olympia Dry, Gold (“It’s the water”). American Malt Liquor (The Brown Bag Award) – Olde English 800, Gold (lots of cheers for that one). Dark Lager – Red Wolf, Gold (Winning over Dixie Blackened Voodoo (Silver)? I smell a fix). American Cream Ale – Genesee Cream Ale, Bronze (a staple when I was going to college at Oberlin). And finally, American Brown Ale – Pete’s™ Wicked® Ale©, Bronze (I knew you could do it, Pete®!). At this point, I was sick of the Festival and the myriad of choices. I went back to the Wicked Winnebago©.
Then the doors closed. No more one-ounce samples to be had for another year. We went to another blues bar, danced, and ended up staying out all night again. Everyone was completely trashed at this point, making that instant alcohol bond which brings complete strangers from totally different ideologies together. People outed themselves, told stories of projectile vomiting, and shared secrets that can’t be printed here. Once again, it ended when Kris and I were the only ones left, and again, went to our separate rooms where I (again) watched dirty movies.
