Russian River Pliny the Elder
(A long overdue ode)
Punk rock in at the dawn of adolescence remains inextricable from my moldy, blackened soul. The thumping crunches of moshpits and remnant glue in my hair sweep my thoughts like a lunging, rusty rake.
In the same brain scalping manner, Pliny, has settled in tiny bubbles to form a dead pizza-crust ring around those memories. This hop wonder has bound itself in a mazy foxtrot with the echoes of my eternal youth.
So appropriate then, to be slavishly scrubbing dishes, stopping, quaffing Pliny, and popping in the next Bad Religion cee-dee. 8 D batteries of irrepressible angst and a pint of citric smiles nodding you on.
The sheer power of this brew just makes you stop yer complex noisetrain between yer ears and ponder. How did this come about? Will I ever know something this bogglingly terrific? Similar questions reached me when I was 16 and getting my ears rung by giant speakers in dank, sweaty basements.
Pliny urges all of us to ring out the damp t-shirt of our youths and pour its delicate but forceful nectar of slow maturity into our lives. There’s nothing short of magical in this bottle.