CONSTELLATION'S VALUES AND CULTURE

THE AUTHOR AT THE GATE OF JOHN REYNJELL'S VINEYARD, NOW DESTROYED BY CONSTELLATION AFTER 161 YEARS OF FINE WINE PRODUCTION.

The Big C Pulls One Out
Constellation Refines Its Strategy
Premiumising Philanthropy
by PHILIP WHITE ... This first appeared in The Adelaide Independent

“In fiscal 2009, we made significant progress toward premiumizing our portfolio and saw the early benefits of this effort.”

The premiumizer is Richard Sands, Chairman of Constellation Brands, the world’s biggest wine company, owner of what was Hardy’s. His brother Rob is CEO. Their headquarters are in Victor, New York.

Part of this premiumizing directly affects many aspects of South Australian life, in line with the Sand’s brothers “refined strategy”, which has the bold goal “to elevate life with every glass raised” and to “make a positive difference in the communities in which we live and work”.

In the late eighties Mike von Berg, one in a long chain of colourful PR flaks, summoned the Australian wine press to Hardy’s new headquarters at Reynella. He lined us up, clicked his heels, and told us our attitudes to the bulk wine market were far too negative. No longer would flagons be called, well flagons. “We’re relaunching them”, he said with a grin. “They will now be known as Jolly Jugs.” The new Jolly Jug was a flatter flagon that would fit in the door of a fridge.

Like von Berg, the Jolly Jug very quickly disappeared into oblivion. But it’s the same old same old at Constellation. The grand old Hardys Nottage Hill brand has been granted bladder pack status for the first time, and is selling in the huge UK liquor chain, Sainsbury’s, in Freshcase, a 2.25-litre bladder pack with the tap built flat into the base. It can be stored horizontally in the fridge, and one can fill a glass without removing the whole pack. Sainsbury’s hails this as “one of the most exciting packaging innovations in wine that we have ever seen ... offering real benefits to the consumer in keeping premium wine fresh for longer in a convenient pack”. Premiumizing, see.

Constellation’s PR troops have been working very hard on their premiumizing. They’ve now “defined three areas in which all of its Corporate Social Responsibility focus will take place: sustainable business practices, philanthropy and social responsibility. From these three focus areas flow specific categories of emphasis, including our environmental impact, corporate giving, marketing and advertising codes, community involvement and much more. All of Constellation's social responsibility efforts flow directly from its values and culture.”

Values and culture, eh? The terrible reality is too much of this business depends entirely upon a sick Aussie dollar, an eternal oversupply of grapes and cheap water to pump them up, and a market that will drink everything you can tip into it. And all that’s dependent on the discount bins of the Old World, where profit barely exists. Given all that, Constellation appears to be marching backwards out of Australia.

It’s closing its eleven year old, $20 million Stonehaven Winery at Padthaway because it can’t find a buyer. It has closed its brand new Leasingham winery at Clare. The brands will remain, but they’ll be virtual, now being glued on wines made at Reynella, Tintara or Berri. Constellation has eight other regional wineries for sale around Australia, and has managed to sell only seven of the 23 vineyards it no longer wants: 175ha of vines in Padthaway and Clare are being pulled, so the properties can be sold as farmland.

In recent months, Peter Dawson, the chief winemaker, was sacked. John Grant the CEO soon followed. Even the revered environmental scientist who ran Banrock Station, Tony Sharley, has had the chop. Banrock, by the way, has just released a suite of wines called The Mediterranean Collection. These “Mediterranean” wines are grown at Banrock and made at Berri, which shows incredible sensitivity to the notion of honest labelling and terroir.

The cruellest metaphor for this whole bloody mess is the recent removal of John Reynell’s 161 year old vineyard opposite his elegant colonial cottage at Reynella. Constellation hired an historian who found that this vineyard was unduly respected, because generations of PR people had overblown its historical importance in order to sell more wine at a higher price. This information led the Onkaparinga Council to approve the destruction of the vineyard in spite of a heritage listing on the entire Reynella site. It will be replaced by 41 tiny apartments.

This leaves the door open for another team of PR flaks to take the blame should another manager decide to sub-divide the much bigger heritage-listed vineyards to the west and south of the enormous Reynella winery. If a historian could be found to contradict the first one, as I most fiercely do, it would be easy to admit to a terrible mistake, thereby show that the important vineyard was indeed the one now removed, leaving the greater vineyard with no valuable history, but an enormous value as housing land. Watch that space!

CONSTELLATION'S HISTORIC CHATEAU REYNELLA. JOHN REYNELL'S FAMOUS CABERNET MALBEC VINEYARD, CIRCLED AT LEFT, ORIGINALLY PLNATED 161 YEARS AGO, HAS BEEN UPROOTED TO MAKE WAY FOR A YUPPIE GHETTO. ,

Brazen backflips are not new in Constellation’s community involvement. Until recently, it flogged its USA kiddylikker, Wide Eye Schnapps, a potent mixture of caffeine and alcohol, with the promise that “consumers who drink Wide Eye will remain alert when consuming alcohol.” The social responsibility came into play when Constellation suddenly agreed with the Federal Trade Commission ’s ruling that their marketing “was deceptive, unsubstantiated, and in violation of federal law”.

Like John Reynell’s 161 year old vineyard, that one got pulled, too.



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AUSTRALIAN FLAG OR ENGLAND AT NIGHT?

Flagging Our Tangled Past
Jesus Would Be Disgusted
Dangerous Nationalist Thought

by PHILIP WHITE - This was originally published on Australia Day 09 - I publish it again after the ridiculous hoo-haa in the British press upon the record price an old Union Jack has just brought at a British auction, after being flown at the battle of Waterloo and languishing in a drawer in Sydney since the 'sixties.

At Easter, the chalk board outside the little Protestant bookshop in Clare sported a sketch of a cross. “Jesus built a bridge”, it said, “with two planks and three nails”.

Overlooking the fact that the bridge was actually built by the Italians, whose consequent, un-Christlike version of Christianity turned the cross into the world’s most powerful trade mark, I began wondering again about the Australian flag.

It was very strange, hearing people decry the savage hoods of Cronulla for draping themselves in their flag during Sydney’s race riots those short years ago. Even stranger were the subsequent demands that mosques should be flying it. The crescent moon and star on the flags of many Islamic states represent life and peace.

That should do at a mosque. The Australian flag - really the British Blue Ensign with some southern stars on its blue fly - carries five primitive representations of the Roman form of the gallows. Perfect poncho for rioting yobbos.

And that’s just the beginnings of the religio-racial horrors involved in our flag. Some of these are explained in an amazing little book that every Australian should have read: Carol A. Foley’s The Australian Flag, (Federation Press; 1996).

It says something for the musical Welsh that they never insisted on having a cross, a leek, or even a harp, included in the current Union Flag of Great Britain: the Blue Ensign that we disrespectfully call the Union Jack. Maybe they realised that their harp would have to go in the middle of all those crosses, on top of the cross of St. George, which the English would never permit.

The Scots scored with the cross of St. Andrew – a white saltire on a blue ground, a saltire being a diagonal, X-shaped cross, like the tail of the early Christian fish graffito. Roman crucifixions were conducted on saltires, not on the standard vertical cross later popularised by revisionist Christians, who made it their logo, and used its shape as the floorplan of their church buildings. There would be many fewer right angles in modern architecture had the saltire correctly been the model.

Nobody knows exactly why the Scots adopted Andrew as their patron in the eighth century. Foley makes clear that he wasn’t a Scot, and his saltire didn’t begin to appear as a national emblem until about 1290. At least he was crucified, a distinction begrudged Saints George and Patrick. St. Andrew died on his saltire in Greece, at Patras, in 69AD. Three hundred years later another Greek, called Regulus, took some of his preserved bones and a tooth – for good luck - on a journey which ended with him shipwrecked on the coast of Scotland, where he eventually started a Roman church called St. Andrew’s.

St. Patrick was the dissolute son of a Scots monk. He eventually took the cloth and worked his way up to Bishop before heading south to Ireland as a missionary. While there were never any snakes in Ireland, his famous purging the Emerald Isle of them had a lot more to do with him ridding its infant church of its dangerous tendencies to accommodate wisps of Druidic, Moorish, and Coptic theology, not to mention its obsessive confusion of the Virgin Mary with a sort of profligate faery queen, the Mother of Life, whom they celebrated with keystones in the arches of their churches. Other bas reliefs of this woman, squatting on her bottom, her arms about her vertical shins, her hands holding open the labia of a vagina that extended to her grin, were installed decoratively about church walls, like stations of the cross. These stones, called sheilagh na geeks, gave Australia its colloquial term for females. While the pious St. Patrick had them removed from the church walls, thousands of them miraculously survived, and still lie in the basements of the museum in Dublin. But Patrick was never crucified. He died of long life in Armagh in 463AD.

The Irish used the golden harp or the shamrock as their emblem, and we don’t know precisely how the red saltire on the white ground ended up representing them on the Union Flag, although it seems to have been convenient to the graphic artists of the time - its red saltire fitted neatly within the white of saltire of St. Andrew. But it also has to do with the fact that this saltire, finally named after St. Patrick, was in fact the flag of the Fitzgeralds, who’d been sent by the leonine Henry II, father of Richard I, to bash the Irish into submission in 1169.

The English cross of St. George, a ‘cross throughout’ in heraldic terms - in this case a vertical red cross on a white ground - came from France. French warriors fought beneath it in their invasion of the Islamic east in the Third Crusade (1189-1192). Their English mates carried a white cross on a red ground. By the Seventh Crusade (1248-1254) the English had adopted the French version and sometime thereabouts also adopted St. George as the patron of England.

There’s a serious move afoot to have St. George’s Day (April 23^rd.) made a public holiday in England. In its St. George’s Day Special Issue of 19^th. April 2008, The Spectator’s Diary was written by that venerable scholar, Beryl Bainridge, who calls St. George a scroundrel. “Why on Earth [he] was made our patron saint is a mystery”, she wrote.

Born in 303AD, George was a soldier in the time of the Emperor Diocletian. He made a great deal of money selling pig meat to his fellow troops before he was ordained Archbishop of Alexandria, a position from which he gorged his coffers by taxing the bejeesus out of the Christians while he gave everyone else, like the Jews, the horrors, by pillaging their places of worship. Eventually he was imprisoned, but a mob broke into the jail and chopped him into bits which were chucked into the ocean. Call that a matyrdom if you must; he was certainly not crucified. His spirit was believed to have miraculously assisted the English by visitation to battles fought centuries later by the terrible warriors Richard I, Lionheart, (who was tough on Jews, Moslems and the Pope), and Edward I, Longshanks, (who was tough on the Scots, the Welsh and the Moslems). The bit about the dragon was invented by an Italian biographer of saints, Jacobus de Voragine. George killed many pigs, but a dragon? Uh-huh.

Bainbridge recounts asking her grandson whether they’d taught him anything about St. George at school. “No”, he said, he hadn’t, “apart from the fact that George had a friend who was a dragon.”

That accounts for three crosses. The fourth is a phantom: it’s not really there. Then, you could say it was always there. When the first Union Flag, named after Queen Anne, was designed in 1606 to symbolise the union of Scotland and England, the creative types down at heraldry found they had to retain some of the white background of England’s flag in the form of that narrow white border around the red cross of St. George. At the same time, had they not retained its blue background, the white saltire of St. Andrew would have disappeared into the white ground of George’s cross. And the English cross, of course, had to lie atop the Sottish one, lest the Scots dream of dominance. So the fourth cross represents nothing more than the English presumption of superiority.

The fifth cross is even more ethereal. To somehow imagine a group of stars was put there by God to remind us of his son’s crucifixion is well, stretching it. Why didn’t he stand it up the right way? Shouldn’t it be a saltire? Why is there the annoying fifth interloper? Is that the original Crux, the middle star, slipping down to the right?

It’s too late now to ask Augustin Royer, the French astronomer who first named it Crux Australis in 1679. In those days austral meant something grave, sober, harsh, stern, austere, dry, windy, threatening, astringent and tannic in the great southern unknown.

On the 1901 version of the Australian flag, the five stars in the group each had a different number of points, indicating its magnitude of brightness in the heavens. Poor old Epsilon, the stray one, rarely visible these days from our cities, scored only five. Which it still has. For ease of manufacture, the rest had officially settled at seven points by 1908.

The seven was convenient in that the large Federation Star, aka the Commonwealth Star, below the Union Jack, has seven points, indicating the six states and Papua New Guinea. Yep. Papua New Guinea.

If the Gaelic states, Ireland and Wales, had united and colonised Australia, we could have a flag bearing a sheila, playing a harp amongst the shamrocks.

Which reminds me of South Australia’s first official state badge, or cartouche, which showed a helmeted Britannia standing coolly on a beach, surrounded by cliffs like those at Rapid Bay. Her blowing, flowing robe looks as loose and casual as hippy cheesecloth. She has casually put her shield on the sand, resting it against her right hip, and extends her left hand to an aboriginal bloke who’s hardly dressed at all, sitting on a rock, holding his spear. Maybe it’s her spear. They’re obviously having a chat. Might just as well chat about spears.

Just what the Australian flag represents to aboriginal people gives me the horrors. There are many aboriginal words for bits of the Crux Australis; of course many tribes had their version of how those stars got into the sky, or who, or what they are, but they never, of course, saw a cross in it, preceding, as they did, the invention of God and crucifixions by tens of thousands of years.

Pretty hard, too, to imagine what a God-fearing Islamist sees in our flag. Unless, of course, it’s wrapped around the shoulders of the white crusaders of Cronulla, where it makes absolutely perfect sense.

The Australian flag was best summarised by Seinfeld during his visit to Adelaide. Having spotted the huge bugger flapping in the square outside the Hilton, he said “I love your flag. It’s like England at night.”

COMMENT

As a soldier who has "served under" that flag I do not share the sentiments of so many of those, who in resisting change to a more appropriate bunting, always use the defence that the flag is somehow sacred because so many have "died under it".

From my experience that is a load of codswallop. Certainly, in Vietnam there was no such flag sentiment that I ever noticed. Unit logos, badges and other less formal signs, usually of black humour, dotted the unit lines at Nui Dat. I don't recall seeing too many Australian flags flying although there may have been at Task Force HQ. Vehicles carried stenciled red kangaroo logos to identify us as Australians and there were no Australian flags on our uniforms (I do note that our modern day diggers in Iraq and Afghanistan have Australian flag badges on their uniforms and fly Australian flags on their vehicles but I presume this is because they operate in multi-national forces and they do it to be recognised as Australians). It is always a good idea to ensure that you cannot be mistaken for an American.

I reckon soldiers, particularly those in war zones, are not very flag conscious at all. Not in my day anyway. Everyone was too busy getting the job done and getting home in one piece to be that patriotic - although scratch a digger not very deeply and patriotism will gush forth.

In 1967 if you had asked an Australian digger in Vietnam what the Australian flag should be he probably would have said it should depict a can of VB with two Melbourne Cup winners rampant.

PAUL CLANCY

PETA VAN ROOD - 27 AUGUST 46 - 12 JULY 09

I have been delinquent in my blogging lately, for which I apologise.

Apart from what the harder side of me calls emotional indulgence, there are two major reasons for this, the first being the skinny old bloke with the scythe.

On Sunday 12th July, Peta van Rood died, totally unexpectedly, in her sleep. With her beloved, Stephen George, she had spent a week immersed in the Adelaide festival Of Ideas, and after the last of those sessions had dined heartily with friends, returned to the home she shared with Stephen in the Adelaide Hills at their Ashton Hills vineyard, and gone to sleep. When he woke in the morning, Stephen discovered Peta had left him in the night. Returned to the great silence.

I first met Peta in, perhaps, 1973. I think it was winter. I was babysitting with a trippy university mate, looking after some kids that were nearly as old as us. When the parents came home late that night, they were accompanied by a group of exotic-looking – and sounding - people. I would know these beauties for the rest of their lives: Peter van Rood, his wife, Sophie, and their daughter, Peta. What a relief for the young Philip, to discover there was actually some adult bohemia in Adelaide!

In those years I would regularly meet Peta at anti-war demonstrations, rock shows, and parties, events which often seemed inseparable. I was quickly enamoured by the brightness of her intellect and wit, the fierceness of her passion, and the rigour she showed argument and discussion of any sort.

Her parents later had a bone dry vineyard in the Barossa, across the road from where Greenock Creek now thrives. Being another tireless intellectual hungry for challenge and delight, Peter soon found the rigours and flavours of that almost dead vineyard were not to his liking, and he helped his bonnie daughter and her new partner in establishing a pioneering vineyard at Ashton Hills, near the Piccadilly Valley. While Stephen and Peta slaved away in the vineyard, I remember eating oysters with Peter on the verandah, and hurling the shells amongst the vines to increase the calcium in the soil.

In 1974, with Tom Spender, Sophie opened a famous fashion emporium specialising in her burgeoning collection of clothing and accoutrements from the Victorian era through to the ’sixties, with a lovely list to art deco. She had commenced this collection in 1967. This business was in what had been a banana storage room in Adelaide’s Rundle Street, in the East End fruit and vegetable markets. She named it The Banana Room. As it was a hundred metres from The Exeter Hotel, a favourite thirst emporium for naughty bohos like me, I would frequently see Peta there, too.

After some itinerant years, I discovered her again, as the beloved partner of Stephen George, a highly skilled and sensitive winemaker who had previously made wine at Skillogalee, in Clare, at his father Spencer’s vineyard. Now they were living at Ashton, in a house which, to the uninitiated, seemed a little, well, quite a lot like what Anselm van Rood called Transylvanian, there amongst the moody, misty pines.

In the years since, the Adelaide Hills wine business has boomed. But always in the fore of the quality stakes have been the elegant, determined Ashton Hills wines Steve made there with the assistance of Peta’s astonishing gustatory skills.

Upon Sophie’s death in 1998, Peta took over the management of The Banana Room, which had moved to a larger premises in Melbourne Street, and with her sister Candi, Tom Spender’s partner, curated this incredible collection of eight thousand items, created between 1850 and 1980. After a small but significant bequest to Sydney’s Powerhouse Museum, the rest of the collection was catalogued and sold at auction in 2004. This included beautiful, rare, fabulously expensive items from bespoke tailors and the famous fashion houses of Europe, as well as the stuff of very ordinary life. I saw a lot of Peta then, too.

She taught me much about style and the boldness required to deliver it.

Never once was I been bored or less than delighted with the scintillating, challenging company of this incredible woman. When I did a lot of broadcasting on Adelaide radio in the nineties, Peta was the scourge of the talkback. So feisty was she, and hungry to enter the public fray, that the producers grew tired of her insistence, and often refused to let her back on air, suggesting she’d had her fair share of the airwaves. So she’d disguise her voice, give a false name, and get into the wireless anyway. There’d I’d be, sitting, running the show, pretending I didn’t know who she was. She’d be pretending that she didn’t know that I knew who she was. And off she’d go: alarming in her precision and fire, exquisitely armed with solutions to problems so large they remain unsolved to this day. If only more had listened.

Peta’s death, coming after too many significant others, knocked the stuffing out of me. Then I had a bag stolen, which contained all my notebooks from the last six or seven months of my work. Tasting notes, interviews, story outlines, field notes for the Mclaren Vale geological map ... nearly everything. These two events wore enough of me away to see my production slow so much that I could barely manage my weekly newspaper column. Of course there are many whose loss is deeper than this of mine, but I don't want to go any deeper, and Peta would be terribly disappointed.

Finally, I resurrected a little of her bright fire, and I am back. Please excuse me.

Below are the eulogies Peta’s brother and sister delivered at her wonderful funeral.



Candida Spender-van Rood remembers her sister

Today we are having the biggest Solar Eclipse of the 21st Century.

A few weeks ago I read somewhere that big Spirits are born and die at Eclipse time.

I never dreamt that I’d be standing here at this time in our lives talking about my big sister in the past tense. And the full impact of her sudden and premature death has not fully settled in my being yet.

Peta has been there all my life. But it is only in the last five years or so that I feel like I have got to know her as the remarkable woman she was. Finally we were able to share our stories, our tales of motherhood, sisterhood and womanhood. It was such a blessing after the fraught times of our parents’ death eleven years ago.

One of her most extraordinary qualities and the I’m sure even people who didn’t know her well will miss, was her ability to make everyone feel loved and most of all included. Her great big shining golden heart shone like a beacon in the often drab and bleak, impersonal landscape of everyday social interactions. She was feisty, stubborn and tenacious; qualities which I would not have appreciated or admired much as her little sister when we were children. But qualities which I have grown to learn from and be inspired by, as I’ve negotiated my way into maturity.

She was unconditionally loyal to those in here life, and would passionately and sometimes fiercely protect and nourish them with her love and wisdom. Her courage in dealing with some really big set-backs in her life was enormous. She would still go on giving her listening ear and support to others, even when things were unbearably hard for her.

When I rang people to tell them the terrible news of her death, inevitably there would be a silent moment while the person on the other end of the phone was trying to reckon with what I’d just told them. And then they’d burst into tears.

It is to this extent that Peta touched people’s hearts.

The morning we arrived in Adelaide, the skies had opened with great torrents of tears, it felt truly appropriate, for we have lost one of our most exotic and rare flowers with the death of Peta van Rood.

Anselm van Rood remembers his sister

Peta was born in London in 1946, within a year of my father’s return from POW camp in Germany.

She was our first authentic Baby Boomer.

To the 5-year old Anselm, she looked like the Enemy, a usurper of his position at center-stage of our parents’ love. I don’t remember it but family myth has it that I was so provoked by this that I attempted to flush the unwelcome intruder down the toilet. This was one of the first of the many physical challenges that Life would confront her with.

In 1947 our father got a job with Shell Oil in Venezuela and the three of us, Peta, Sophie and I duly followed him there. We lived in a variety of small oil-drilling encampments: Bachaquero, La Concepcion, Lagunillas and Bucaramanga. Peta responded enthusiastically to this expansive tropical environment and although we moved home and school pretty much annually, the swimming pool was a constant in our extra-curricular life. I remember Peta as a little golden-skinned Sprite, her white-blonde hair tinted emerald by the chlorine.

While this nomadic life-style did very little for our academic education, it made us very adaptable as well as fluent in Spanish.

In 1951 our sister Candida was born and Peta got to act out reciprocally all those acts of terrorism that had been inflicted on her by her elder brother.

Peta was a natural athlete from an early age and much to my annoyance, frequently won prizes for being the fastest, most agile or most courageous. It is her courage that seems to me to be one of her most enduring and admirable traits. As a child it made her daring, reckless and sometimes foolhardy. She was pushed off diving boards, got nearly electrocuted by trying to mow the lawn and, in the process of becoming an outstanding equestrian, frequently fell off her horses. She remained undaunted however and those of you who knew her in later life will recall how she never backed off from confronting an issue, whether it was social, political or personal.

In 1964 while I was studying in London, our father quit Shell and the family decided to move to Adelaide. Sophie’s sister Pat and her family were already well established here. For the first time in their lives they were able to buy a house of their own. Peter and Sophie lived in number 19 Walkerville Terrace for the remainder of their lives. During their first dozen or so years here, I was living and working in London and so my contact with my parents and sisters became attenuated.

When I next saw Peta, she was already a mother as well as a property owner. I first visited them in the early Seventies when she and her son Sam were living in a house in Kent Town. Their lives seemed freewheeling and expansive and Peta was enthusiastically involved with the reformist politics of that Dunstan era, as well as with a rich cultural and social life. I liked this woman I was getting to know enormously, with her mane of dark blonde curls and her Bohemian dress sense and for the first time in our lives we became friends as well as just siblings. In particular I remember lavish Asian-influenced meals that would include not only friends and family but also passing travellers and strangers encountered in her meanderings around Adelaide.

Peta had an enviable knack of turning apparent misfortune into advantage. For example that leafy two-storey house in Kent Town was bought with the proceedings of the insurance from a motor-scooter accident. Her next house in Semaphore was bought from the profits she made from the sale of the Kent Town house and she was able to trade up again when she and Stephen bought the dark old farmhouse here in Ashton Hills. At the time I could never understand why they wanted to live in what looked to me a dark and unattractive place and it is only comparatively recently that I have come to see how beautiful this place is, with its breezy pine-scented airs and its wonderful bird life.

Over the past few decades I took on the self appointed role of Peta’s artistic conscience and would often try to encourage her to draw and paint as well as making her pottery. She clearly had talent and ability in those areas, particularly in her beautiful and original ceramics. But I have only recently come to realize that she was more interested in the living. I see now that her real creative fulfillment came from the abundant social life she cultivated with Steven and the slow organic development of their property here in the Adelaide Hills.

This creativity included not only living people but also her ever-changing menagerie of birds and animals, as well as the flowers, plants and trees that surrounded her house. It seems to me too that her relationship with Stephen, which started as a friendship, has grown over the years to be a rare blossoming of mature Love which, I know, has demanded from them both an ongoing commitment and creativity.

She could overwhelm me with her spontaneous generosity. For example, I was idling around the Banana Room one time in those days after Sophie’s death, when Peta had taken over the running of it, when I spied an interesting-looking tweed suit on the rack.

“Look at this” I said, “ I didn’t know you had stuff like this here…”

“Try it on” she urged, “ see if it fits you”.

“No” I replied,” I never wear suits and I don’t like them anyway”

“Go on” she said,” just try it!”

So, I allowed her to persuade me and I was amazed when it fitted me perfectly. We both admired it and then she insisted that I should have it: “It’s yours! Go on, just take it!.” It is this very suit that I am wearing today in her honour and now I have two other suits too.

When I think of my beautiful sister now, what first comes to mind is her Heartfulness: her smile and the embracing warmth of her voice. Nobody has supported me as an artist more than she; her loyalty and belief in me have been unwavering and unstinting.

I love you Peta and I know your memory will be with me until the end of my days.
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ALCOHOLIC REDS TOO STRONG? TRY THESE

Big Ocker Reds Too Strong For You? Forgotten Your Drinking Heritage? C'mon You Bastards, Drink Like Your Kids!
WORDS: PHILIP WHITE. ILLUSTRATION: GEORGE GRAINGER ALDRIDGE

Since the kiddylikker issue seems to have slipped off the village screen, again, and winter has properly arrived, your correspondent has been playing with a few ancient cocktails which make your average Red Bull and vodka look like communion wine.

Part of the interest comes from the current international obsession with bagging big alcoholic Australian reds. Putting the gastronomic quality of the wine aside, it seems that there’s suddenly developing a moral limit to the amount of alcohol which one should permit in wine.

There are, of course, many drinks which are highly popular, and which are three or four times stronger than wine, whose alcohol levels are never discussed unless they’re too low. Like whisky. And its north American cousin, whiskey. The abovementioned vodka. Gin. Rum. Get the drift? Galliano. Cointreau. Tia Maria. These have not been honestly discussed, relative to the sanctimonious piety shewn the kiddylikker debate.

It’s always amusing to find, say, the sort of wine bore who would attend more than three free wine tastings in a Saturday, tugging on about high alcohol wines being a thing of the past, then getting stuck into the Kahlua like there was no tomorrow. What’s the difference? One is made from grapes. One is a concoction of many flavourings and chemicals, and alcohol.

While this column is not about wine, experience proves that some wines of, say sixteen per cent alcohol, are in better balance than others, just like wines in any other alcohol bracket. High natural acidity, and very carefully grown fruit from happy balanced vines, will render a much more approachable drink than one produced by the artisan, the artificer, and the artful garagiste who simply copies the famous original, but gets it wrong with higher yields, lower acidity, and little more than black alcoholic syrup in the glass. Sometimes, surely, a Kahlua would be the better buy in the flavour stakes as much as the boom for your buck index. These are the wines which the world is wisely refusing, just as Britain did after the Second World War, when strong “ferruginous” Australia wines were welcome for a while, while the Poms put their condition back on after a decade of ration tickets, but then suddenly went out of fashion, while all England suddenly lurched back to the lighter, finer wines of France.

Repetition of such cycles should be expected.

I found myself interrupted by a brace of lovely lasses the other day, one of whom pointed to the drink in my hand and said “I’ll have one of those”. Suddenly, I had to admit what I was drinking. I’ve been buying long pepper – Piper longum – from the organic spice trader who does the Willunga market Saturdays and runs a stall outside The Exeter in Rundle Street on Sundays. This is more piquant than normal black peppercorns, as if it also contained a little chilli. I grind it with my mortar and pestle, small enough to put in a normal pepper grinder, then sprinkle it liberally over a glass of Bombay gin on big ice. A dribble of vintage port completes the assemblage: the racy Old Mill Estate Touriga Nacional model, or the new Kalleske Fortified Vintage Shiraz will do nicely. The result is a tincture which seems capable of both awakening and retiring the drinker, leaving him or her lost in a piquant dream that’s somewhere highly ethereal between Burgundy and Portugal, and not a bad place to be, thanks very much. If you replace the gin with a good vodka, which will provide none of the acrid juniper piquancy of say, Bombay, your cocktail is even more strangely reminiscent of the pinot the devil drinks. Kiddylikker AO, see.

My colleague on the other paper, John McGrath, should be acknowledged for the creation of one of the greatest modern cocktails, if the seventies could still be regarded as modern. There was a little cider press near Summertown called Cobbleys, which produced a sweetish cider in a champagne bottle with a Blue Moose on its label. The cider was bright blue, thanks, no doubt to a little cyanide-based colouring, probably from apricot kernels. This went swimmingly in a big balloon glass with big ice and a shot of Cointreau. The brave could attempt the same effect, without the blue, with their favourite cider today, provided, of course, you’re of the right age. It is, after all, pretty much your basic Victorian punch, when strength was required as much as masking agents to hide the flavour of the day’s rough spirits.

When last I heard of Cobbleys as a cider company, it was owned by Robert Champion de Crespigny, then MD of Normandy-Poseidon gold mining company, fourth largest in the world, and Perry Gunner, MD of Pernod-Ricard Australia. Pernod-Ricard? Now there's a mob who understands the power of strength! The apples are gone now, not to housing, as the Champion-Gunner axis no doubt dreamt, but to vines, courtesy of John Greenshields, who sold his beloved Koppamurra bush vines to Brian Croser, mate of Champion-Gunner, who promptly changed their names to Tapanappa, which is bullshit geologically, geology being BJ's current and ancient obsession. Ask Andrew Jefford.

Critically, significantly, even wisely, the recent kiddylikker debate failed to address another mighty confection which was introduced to me by the same great writer, and which, as far as I know, remains mysteriously legal. This is the Nelson’s Blood: a shot of dark rum in the bottom of a pint of stout. Punch? You bet! One of these would have Mother Theresa snotting the abbott.

BOOKS VS. BLOGS: ALL BESPOKE BULLSHIT?

SHIRAZ MUST AT YANGARRA ESTATE, 2009. photo: PHILIP WHITE

Blogosphere Fractals: Buggering The Bumptious?
Wine Writing: Written Right Off?
Newspaper Columns: Dogfood Wrapper?
by PHILIP WHITE

“A good wine with a pleasant nose and balanced palate, a wine which could be drunk now and also put away with advantage for cellaring”, wrote Dr. Bryce Rankine of the Mitchelton cabernet sauvignon 1979 in the early ’eighties. Goodbye that's all he wrote. This was the nature of wine reviewing thirty short years ago.

While that was the total 1983 appraisal for Winestate by the leading academic at the great Roseworthy winemaking college, one could argue that it was a respected provincial academic’s opinion of an ordinary provincial red in a country a long long way from the rock’n’roll of the winebiz. So let’s head to the honeypot of those days: London, and check the wine writing of, say, the great Michael Broadbent, examining a wine of considerable provenance, the 1970 Chateau Mouton – Baron Philippe Rothschild, Pauillac, Bordeaux.

BROADBENT, 1890

“Fairly quick developer,” Broadbent wrote, “very flavoury.”

And that was it. That’s from his Great Vintage Wine Book, Mitchell Beazley, 1980. I tasted with him and the bumptious Len Evans one year about then at the legendary Yalumba Museum Tasting, and was confounded by his inability to discuss or describe any of the great old wines the Hill Smiths had generously dragged out.

WHITE, 1980

Now those weren’t typical reviews of the day, but such bland writing in the name of gastronomic appraisal was common. Since then, the gastroporn glossies have struggled to keep the form alive, whilst some of the more adventurous newspapers and wine mags went right out the other way for a while, and actually got adventurous.

But the curtains are coming down now on formal newspaper wine columns, if their shrinking size indicates anything. All over the English-speaking world, at least. While I don’t think the wine industry fully appreciates this, it has even less chance of understanding what’s suddenly happening in the digital ether.

The internet is jammed with wine blogs that offer the opposite of the above examples. Thousands of them. People simply start one and put their thoughts on it. These vary from rather risky reports from, say, a review of a licensed premises in Yemen, to the minutae of the entire drinking lives of some poor lost souls. Turn on a searcher, for, say “blogs - Australian wine”, and you can get hundreds per day. Search “chardonnay”, and you’ll be sick.

Unfortunately, most of the stuff on the blogosphere is patent claptrap. It’s opinion, sure, but it’s not the place to trawl thinly for facts. Facts are pretty scarce. But the opinion’s really on a roll.

ROBERT PARKER BEFORE THE FALL

It was the blogosphere which led to a certain unwinding of the influence of Robert Parker Jr., for example, as suddenly there were endless venues for people to disagree with him. The big newspapers know this in the USA: within the span of a couple of weeks of each other, it seemed every major US daily from one coast to the other recently ran pieces about how America was sick of big thick jammy wines beloved of the Parkerilla. These papers weren’t following each other. They were following the blogs, the first democratic forum for people who like wine. Throw a contrary trend into the ether, like no more big thick jammy wines, and the odds are that it’ll catch fire internationally within a week.

Over many years with my nose to the winestone, I have accumulated a small, decentwallful of wine books. It is here that I trawl for history and memory. And while I keep it well culled, I’m always on the lookout for handy new volumes crammed with facts.

Along comes A Taste Of The World Of Wine. Revered academic Drs Patrick Iland and Peter Dry, of the University of Adelaide, have written this with Peter Gago, the Penfolds chief winemaker, and Andrew Caillard MW, the wine auctioneer who co-founded Langtons Fine Wine Auctions, which was recently sold to Woolworths for a motza. Iland is also the publisher.

While this looks and feels like an academic textbook - it’s not meant to be pretty – it is much more than a cold schoolroom tome. It’s essential. On my shelf, it’s already nudged in beside John Gladstone’s Viticulture and Environment (Winetitles), which could do with an update but is the key to Australia’s vineyards.

A Taste Of The World Of Wine starts when the vine was cut into two species after the Eurasian and American plates separated in the Pleistocene glaciations. It finishes, two hundred polished pages later, with an uncommonly intelligent treatise on the matching of food and wine. Between the two, these four masters of their realms take you on a tour of the vineyards, the countries, the varieties and the methods which I cannot find better addressed in any other single volume. Its chapters on ferments, on oak, and packaging have you dying of thirst just in time for the taste section. Then it whisks you back for an intensive session in the vineyard, and repeats the basics, but in much finer detail.

I’m sure this worthy local work is already finding its place in the hallowed halls of academe, but honestly, I think that a lot of people won’t need to spend years at the University – or on the internet - if they simply buy themselves a copy and get studying.

A Taste Of The World Of Wine, AU$59.95, www.piwpwinebooks.com.au, Dymocks, Imprints, Angas & Robinson, contains no cigarette advertising. It would probably look better if it did.

BASS PHILLIP DANCES TANGO IN EXETER

THE TWO PHILS GETTING FULL OF BASS PHILLIP DURING JONESEY'S PHILIPPIC IN THE EX ... all photography MILTON WORDLEY

Phillip (sic) Jones Brings Bass Phillip (sic) To Fill Up Philip The Pinot Sicko ... One L Of A Night In The X
by PHILIP WHITE

Phillip Jones came to The Exeter for a few slow quiet ones last week. An engineer who fell in love with pinot noir is a scarce beast. An engineer who so frequently masters the mystical and confounding nature of such an ethereal drinking genie is an absolute rarity. For Jones is a passionate and erudite man, and makes his wines with the flesh of his hands and feet rather than employing anything as harsh and brash as a pump.

I first suspected this man had studied and practised engineering purely to eventually focus all his engineering skills upon one critical job: the disconnection of his brains from his heart, as he seems to run most of his life with the latter organ. Which is, as any cardio surgeon will tell you, a lot more visceral and gentle on the life-juice than your average open-throat mono pump made of steel. And which is never to say Jones is not an highly captivating and rewarding conversationalist. After an evening wallowing in his estimable company, one could only wonder what in the hell his engineering was like. You don’t get sensual engineers.

Away back in the ’seventies, when Jones began his errant vineyard dreaming, there was bugger all of this weird Burgundian variety about. Murray Tyrrell had a patch in the Hunter; having tired of the frustrating monoculture and frosts of Coonawarra, David Wynn was planting it at Mountadam on the High Eden Ridge. The most common one was the Hardy’s Keppoch, a vast-volume cheapy made from a huge monoclonal vineyard near Padthaway. And that clone was in fact a sparkling wine model, so the chances of it being a great red pinot were remote. That wasn’t what Jones had in mind.

Although he started out growing Bordeaux varieties, he sought somewhere as cold and damp and humid as Burgundy, south-east of Melbourne. He passed the outbreak of Jaguar XJ12s of the Yarra Valley, and even the Ferrari and Porsche appellation of Mornington Peninsula. This obsession was no hobby. He went to Leongatha, away down near Victoria’s southernmost point, Wilson’s Promontory, at the bottom corner of wet old Gippsland.


Leongatha’s wetter than Burgundy. Mainly dairy and onion country, it gets over 1000 millimetres a year. It rains roughly every second day from April through October. The average daily maximum temperature peaks at 26 in January and February, but through June and August it’s all twelves and thirteens. The critical mean’s 18.2.

So much water is not much of a problem: the extremely deep loose soils south of the mountain ash country of the Strzelecki Ranges just soaks it up. “It’s so absorbent there are hardly any rivers”, Jones tells his glass disbelievingly. “But jeez the rain brings the moulds. I can’t spray 500 in the ripening season.” He refers here to the biodynamic preparation which encourages white fungal tendrils to sprout in the soil, where they perform a healthy enlivening function, and somehow assist the vine roots to better extract every hint of mineral. “Unfortunately, 500 also encourages moulds in the foliage when it’s so wet,” he said. “There’s so much cloud that light management is more critical: I fine tune it with 501. It’s all about canopy and light management.” 501 is the silica-based biodynamic preparation which works as a light diffuser.

Jones now takes his fruit from four sites spread over 24 kilometres of country. “Every site is different,” he said. “Like the ferric soils require a different approach and give different flavours to the ferrous.”

Because he wanted low yields – hard to get in such prosperous country – he planted his vines very, very close: 9000 vines per hectare. Most of Australia’s vineyards sit on about 2000. He thins everything: leaves, tendrils and bunches, to limit his yields to 250-350 grams of grapes per vine. Then his winemaking is more like a lyrical slither than anything industrial. And his wines? Sloppy, stupefying, seductive dances all. Make that dancers.

Constant high humidity, as in Burgundy at vintage, does something to the tannins of grapes, which are highly concentrated around the skin’s pores, which constantly transpire water. A single variety grown to a certain ripeness in a dry place will generally be harder of tannin than the humid model, perhaps due to the background humidity limiting the amount of transpiration. Jones’s Bass Phillip pinots show this to the extreme. “In older vineyards, the humidity really brings out the provocative aromatics,” he said. They also seem softer, plumper, and wetter. Freakishly Burgundian. Yet below each peculiar beauty, there is the tickling piquancy of the soil and the rock from whence it came.

Away down at the bottom of Australia, Bacchus and Pan do the tango, held up by the Norman Lindsay lasses, the Rubens mob having occupied every couch. Soused in Guerlain’s Jicky, of course.

Bass Phillip Estate 21 Gippsland Pinot Noir 2006
$53.75; 12.8% alcohol; cork; 93+++ points
This, the twenty-first vintage, came from a difficult year, in which Phillip Jones says he “blended everything” to make this wondrous confrontation. It smells like maraschino cherries soused in lemon juice, with a whole barrage of other stuff coming in soon after: the potato sack earth, the gingery oak, the plump dancing girls. In fact, my notes are specific about the lass here in question: it’s Vanessa Redgrave’s Isadora: dancing like a giraffe, then too keen to leap into the deadly Bugatti, the silk scarf immediately dragging the neck t’wards the beautifully spoked wheel. Give it six years, breath in, accelerate. (All my other Bass Phillip notes were stolen in the Great Bag Heist of 09)

PHILLIP JONES CLINKS PINOTS WITH EXETER PUBLICAN KEVIN GREG ... IN BACKGROUND, WRITER LANCE CAMPBELL (LEFT), WITH WINE MERCHANT PAUL JAMES. all photography: MILTON WORDLEY

AUSTRALIA CLOSES ITS ONLY RIVER SYSTEM

Murray-Darling Finishes In Dumb Muddy Lunge At Mouth
Wong And Rann Complete Australia's Greatest Act Of Vandalism
by PHILIP WHITE

This is the "Goolwa Regulator", the Australian government's incredibly stupid attempt to heal the thousands of kilometres of scabby cancer that once was the mighty Murray-Darling River system.

Labor starlet Penny Wong, pictured, the Federal Minister For Climate And Water, thinks this is the best that can be done just now. The "Regulator" is designed to stop the ocean salt flowing back into the Murray River estuary, which is dying, because fresh water no longer flows down into it.

It connects Hindmarsh Island, or Kumerangk, to Clayton, to make a recreational pond for boaters at Goolwa. Two freshwater streams will flow into this pond, which is now protected from the salt of the ocean by the Goolwa Barrage, and from the salt of the Murray by this very stupid levee.

Inland irrigators use all the fresh water on stuff like wine that nobody on Earth wants to drink, as best manifest by the current irreversible collapse of Australia's cheap plonk industry. Half of Australia's wine is sold in bladder packs at about the cost of bottled water. Or cheaper. Half of the other half is equal in quality to this goonbag juice, but sells for a little more in bottles.

Chardonnay wine is now available in bulk at 40 cents per litre.

Irrigation and winery washing included, it takes up to 1200 litres of water to make one litre of plonk.

South Australian Premier Mike Rann, pictured, another Labor genius who prides himself on his regulatory skills, has helped Wong avoid taking any decisive action on the River, which is obviously finished.

Mike's been very busy with his mistress, Laura Norder.

Sickest aspect of this "Regulator" is that it's being put on top of very deep estuarine mud, and will eventually sink, irretrievably. Look closely at Charles Matheson's photograph, above, and you'll notice the mud being forced up on either side as the levee sinks.

Apart from its innate racism in the recent butchering of the estuary, the home of the Ngarrindjerri nation, and total ineptitude in understanding the other original inhabitants of this country, the "Regulator", as far as I can see, is the best indicator of the intellectual decrepitude of white Australia.

She'll no longer be right, mate.

But she'll be white.







To read the history of this location, and the background of the commercial luxury marina which is being extended at the taxpayers' expense to provide the fill for the "Regulator", read Margaret Symons' forensic work on black and white Australia, The Meeting Of The Waters - The Hindmarsh Island Affair (Hodder, 2003).







The photographs are of one location on the Finnis, one of the two meagre freshwater streams which are now expected to keep the new freshwater Goolwa Pond and marina full. The top photograph was taken in 2006, the bottom one in 2008. Both were taken and supplied by Leo Davis.