Well shit. It’s 1980 and you’re stil alive. What the hell can happen after all else has already happened? She never came back; from the grave, can you imagine, of course it never happened. You kept on keepin’ on at the pizza place for a few years but really it just didn’t fly anymore as you were pushing seventy. The new clubs started popping up - with new wave, punk, all sorts of madness you couldn’t imagine in ’45 - and here you are now, wondering why you ever learned to play the bass. Sure, it was fun for awhile but perhaps you should have just grinded away a few years down at the dockyard like your buddies. After all, you coulda been a contender. You coulda been somebody. But now you’re just a washed up bass player in Harlem squeezing out a few more years on what little she left to you. Hey - no regrets. You enter the jazz world, you don’t come out the same. Sure Miles had it al, he could disappear for years and people would still love him, but you a working bass player - you did not have this luxury. No one even knows if you exist, even at the best of times. No one wonders if you, of all the band, made his way over the past thirty years. No one wonders if you got a tumor sometime in your seventies and what that will mean for your lifespan. But you’re still in that same god damned apartment, Carol Burnett reruns and all, shag carpet to hell you’s all it’s still here and it’s still just damned good enough. Life seems a little slower these days but not so much so - you wash dishes down at the Brooklyn Pizzeria (name changed) a few nights a week to boost the income and no one asks questions. That guy, that guy played bass, so what, it’s all punk rock and disco now so fuck ’em. You don’t care, you got nothing to prove. But every so often you go down to the bodega and find something, in between old ’45s of supper club music from ’64 and ’65, and pour it out. This thing is jet black like you couldn’t remember and has no head to speak of. You’re back in Harlem, that guy with the tenor sax is goin’ at it, you feed in with the bass. The aroma is all sweet caramel, strong alcohol, hints of molasses. Sax man continues and you try to edge in a solo. It’s all muddled barley, hints of dark brew, you noodle away on the bass for awhile more but realize that the tastes have changed. Heavy coffee aroma and okay drinkability but this could easily be any other strong dark beer. You wonder if you missed the latest episode of Taxi while on this gig, that’s important at least. Yeah, alcohol is well hidden, but the black folk ain’t buyin’ enough. The chocolate holds on to you though - you pound out a solo like you haven’t done in thirty years. These kids today, do they even give a shit about instruments? It’s all screaming, punk rock, rebellion. Remember when bass meant something. When Paris was a focalpoint. When Miles made eye contact with him. He back at his place now, 1981 - so much to remember. The future? Doubtful. The chaper yearns on but seriously no one even remember his slick riffs in Boise from ’47. And that’s a shame, history forgot him, he forgot himself - he drinks the beer in silence in Brooklyn, staring at that skyline, wondering where it all went wrong. Is there still time enough to switch it around? Another ten years in New York, would that even matter? If not, then why not prune those vines and be done with these damned Americans forever? Gawd, life can present so many choices. Indecision. If only she had lived to see 1971.... and he takes another sip.

0.33 l bottle from Pivoteka, Zagreb, as Rasputin. Shared with Višnja 666, lovely Anja and Goran. Thanks Višnja! Dark brown, tiny off-white head. Leather, soy sauce, wood and dry fruits. Roasty caramel, salty, chocolate. Medium to full body, dry chocolaty finish. Quite dry with a nice finish.

Bottle as Rasputin. Nearly black, small beige head. Malty flavour, syrup and some kind of fruityness. Flavour has dark caramel, some dried fruit, malt and alcohol. Notes of licorice. Soft and smooth with light boozy bite. Gets some sherry-like touches as it warms up.

33cl bottle. Pitch black pour with a thin beige head. Smells of roasted malts, cocoa, dark fruit, dried fruit, caramel, molasses, toffee. The taste follows the same notes, mixed with a herbal hop bitterness. Medium body and bitter-sweet aftertaste. A bit too thin for an imperial stout.

Przeklejka oceny dla piw ocenionych na RB przed zalozeniem konta UT :)

Shared bottle (cellared, bottled February, 2013) at The Avenue Pub, New Orleans. As Cease and Desist. Almost black with tan head. Aroma and taste of roasted malts, dark chocolate, dark fruits. Some oxidation noted, has almost a rust-like, metallic flavor as well. But all in all, still very good.