I know, GABF is an acronym for Great American Beer Festival and rightfully so. There is no greater measure of how big the festival is than when you walk up to the Denver Convention Center and realize the line is wrapped almost entirely around the building—and said line is only for the current session. There were four sessions in all, which is truly an indication of how far craft brewing in America has come. Today, however, I thought I might take an unorthodox perspective on this my first trip to the GABF.
When you look for stories to share with others they sometimes reveal themselves in the strangest of places. Often they are hidden from plain sight and take a little contemplation and quiet time to see what is truly worth sharing. In this instance my story behind the pint comes from a blues “great” and an imaginary pint.
It’s Thursday, October 11th, 2007, and we board a Southwest Airlines plane headed from Nashville to Denver via Chicago, one of the historically great blues cities of American culture. Our destination is the 2007 Great American Beer Festival, which we have anticipated for two years. Accompanying us are our long-time friends and partners in beer discovery, Jim and Kristi Lockhart. My wife, Melissa, and I are waiting for the plane to fill in with stragglers and solo passengers when a smiling face greets us and motions to the aisle seat next to me. “Is this seat open?” he says with a gentle look. “Of course,” we nod. He stows his carryon in the overhead bin and rests his seemingly weathered body in the typical tight quarters of a commercial aircraft cabin. For a brief moment we all stare blankly at the seat backs in front of us. “Hi, I’m Nick Nixon” says our new row mate with an outstretched hand. I return the greeting and introduce Mel. As we shake hands I notice a guitar charm glowing intensely against the black skin of his neck, and the opening chords of Nick’s story unfold.
Leaving out of Nashville, it is not uncommon to encounter musicians or music execs jet setting the globe in search of fame and fortune. James “Nick” Nixon was neither of these. He had already traveled the globe and seen first hand what fame and fortune would get you, but today’s trip was more exciting than any treasure. Nick was traveling, not for fame or fortune, but to spend a weekend in Denver with his son David, whom he had not seen in a year. As the plane was assisted onto the tarmac and our journey to craft beer heaven was under way I shuffled in my head the possible connections of his guitar charm necklace and the music city we were about to depart. I must admit I can be slightly jaded when it comes to the stereotypes in the music industry, but I tried hard to block tired assumptions. I wasn’t left to my musings long before Nick handed me a card and said, “I’m a musician. I play the blues”. Immediately my ears perked up. I love the blues. It, much like beer, has a storied past and demands attention. “My voice is my instrument but I also play guitar,” he continued as we taxied to the runway. Upon takeoff, our new-found blues hound began to look a bit nervous and uncomfortable. He remarked, “I don’t like this part” as the plane accelerated and we ascended into the air. I was puzzled by his discomfort, but I suppose I can’t blame him. I really don’t like taking off in a plane either.
Once we settled to a cruising altitude we began talking. I revealed my affinity for the blues when I broke out my iPod and excitedly shuffled through the list of blues selections. “Here are some of my favorites,” I pointed out, hoping to impress him with my mp3 player’s snapshot of a scene that was, and still is, his life. I was amazed to hear that the characters and legends zipping across the screen were not the distant untouchables or black and white documentary centerpieces that I had been exposed to through the music scene. These “cats” were his friends. Some, if not most, are no longer with us. As he revealed some of the experiences the gift of music has afforded him, I found myself lucky to have the time to get to know James “Nick” Nixon. As a member of the New Imperials he met and played with many greats along the way including Honeyboy Edwards, Son Seals, Henry Gray, Luther Allison, Ruth Brown, and Scotty Moore to name a few. Then, he said Jimmy Hendrix…It was a real Charlie Brown’s teacher moment…you know, “wha-wha wha wha-wha-wha…Jimmy Hendrix...” Now, it’s not that I wasn’t listening to all the other details, but that little Hendrix tidbit rang out, loud and clear. It seems Nick was a friend of the late guitar legend as well as Hendrix’s partner in psychodelia, Billy Cox. In fact he and Cox are still in contact today and often write or perform together. To be quite honest, I began to think this guy was putting me on. He was so humble and unpretentious it just didn’t seem to make sense. Usually musicians are obnoxious and over-the-top. You spend more time rolling your eyes at them instead of appreciating what they have accomplished and experienced. Not James. He was a genuine smile and his personality warmed the space like a fireplace in the winter.
When conversation began to fade a little I interjected who we were and why we were on this plane. I asked if he enjoyed beer and handed him a Behind the Beer card. He said he indulged in maybe one beer a year but that was about all. Regardless of his lack of consumption he seemed very interested in our passion for it. I explained we were heading to Denver to attend the largest beer festival in the country. At the same time, I tried my best not to sound like a wild kid just looking for a good chance to get lit. Rather, I explained, we were mostly interested in the stories about beer and the brewers who brew it. To be sure we enjoyed tasting the fruit of these craftsmen’s handiwork, but drinking beer was not our only objective. To him this was a satisfactory answer and he conceded to visit the website despite his lack of computer or internet savvy.
As our discussion of the blues and many talented musicians like Stevie Ray Vaughan, Bobby “Blue” Bland, Leadbelly, Big Bill Broonzy, Odetta and countless others, all of whom he had a story about, continued, I began to contemplate what he said about only drinking one beer a year. I was but a few hours away from the country’s premier gathering of beer brewers and enthusiasts and sitting next to a blues legend who rationed himself one pint a year. I was about to taste from 1,884 different beers from 408 different brewers, and if I could choose only one to drink, which would it be?
Clearly, this presents quite a quandary. At the 2007 event, the GABF had a panel of 107 judges from 7 different countries who were challenged with the task of selecting the best beers out of 75 style categories plus one pro-am category. Of the 2,793 beers entered only a handful would go home with the distinguished title of a GABF award-winning beer. Considering that only domestic breweries enter the competition and are on the floor for tasting, it is quite a task to select one favored beer, especially when you throw imports into the mix. So supposing I could only drink one beer from the thousands available became quite an interesting dilemma indeed. I imagine it would be like asking Nick to sing only one blues song a year. Where would he choose to perform that song and what song would it be? You see beer and the blues are not all that different. Craft brewers pour their heart and soul into the beer they make. If you’ve ever seen or heard a true bluesman at his craft, you know it is pure emotion. Blues musicians are called to their art by images of the past and a lifestyle focused on inner demons. They exorcise those demons through a pouring out of emotion in song. I would bet if you asked a craft brewer, he would agree that the beer he makes for us to enjoy is representative of those who came before him with a big helping of what lies deep within his own creative spirit and the terroir of his brewery. His message is delivered to us not by song but in every pint he offers up. Both are heartfelt offerings for our enjoyment and edification.
If I could choose only one beer, it would be an imaginary pint that would include all the fond memories and stories told by the pioneers and craft brewers who love making beer for the pure pleasure and satisfaction of crafting a fine brew. If Nick could play only one song, I’m sure it would be indicative of the masters who created the rich landscape of blues with voices rising and falling in the fields and weeping guitars moaning in smoky juke joints throughout this country. Most of all, it would be a song that sang to him of his friends, past and present, and his family: A song of all the loved ones who’ve touched his soul. May your cup runneth over with bountiful blessings and may your hearth be crowded with friends.
Cheers Friends!