Off to Sacramento early this morning for a trade tasting the organizers are billing as “The Critic Vs. the Somm.” It’s kind of a M.M.A. smackdown beween Master Sommelier Sur Lucero and myself—or, at least, that’s what it’s purported to be.
They expect a big turnout, I’m told. We’ll taste through a half-dozen or so wines. Sur, like myself an employee of Jackson Family Wines, will do his M.S. thing and explain his analytical process. I’ll do mine.
The M.S. grid (I think this is it – I got it off the Web)
certainly looks helpful; it encapsulates just about every quality you could find in a wine, and thus helps you identify what the wine is in a blind tasting in which you’re using deductive logic to identify what’s in the glass. Deductive logic, you’ll remember from philosophy class, is where you take a top-down approach to reasoning: starting with the premises, you reach a conclusion that must be true, provided that the premises are true. Thus, if the wine satisfies all the parameters of a fresh young German Riesling, then it must be German Riesling—or so the Master Sommelier grid would have it.
That’s all well and good, if your objective is to pass the M.S. examination. But it’s not the way I taste wine. I always say that the way you taste depends on your job. Master Somms learn to taste the way they do because they want to be Master Somms; their job, as it were, during the period they’re studying, is to taste like an M.S., hence the grid. They learn to taste in order to deduce what’s in the glass and pass the test.
That seems to me a kind of closed-circle way to taste wine. I have no gripe against it, and I can appreciate the amount of hard work that goes into tasting a wine double-blind and being able to say it’s Bordeaux or whatever. That’s pretty good. It’s the Cirque du Soleil of winetasting: flashy, entertaining, a crowd pleaser.
I might have gone that route, except that the way I learned to taste wine was entirely different. It was basically the old British way, transferred to our shores via the media I read when I was coming up (the San Francisco newspapers, wine books) and, most importantly, Wine Spectator magazine. The latter was my Bible in those early years. I thought it was the greatest magazine that ever existed: I couldn’t wait to get my copy in the mail (this was when it was a tabloid, not a big glossy ‘zine the way it is now). And from Wine Spectator, I learned to taste wine using the 100-point system, in a way that—let’s admit it—is not nearly as rigorous as the M.S. grid.
So exactly how does the amorphous 100-point system work? Well, to begin with, it’s a subjective impression, but it’s not subjective to the point of random incoherence. The proper use of the 100-point system depends on extensive experience, the kind needed to draw upon a sense-memory of what “perfection” is and then comparing all subsequent wines with that rarely-encountered Unicorn. The way I taste is like a shortcut around the M.S. grid. It’s a lot easier: you don’t have to go through all those complicated line items, but then again, the sommelier doesn’t taste for quality; she tastes to be able to deductively identify a wine. I taste for quality. Those are two different things.
When I taste a wine single-blind, it’s not important for me to figure out what it is. That concept never even occurred to me when I was coming up. It would have seemed senseless. I tasted then, and now, with respect to the overall impression the wine made in my mouth and brain. Was it a Wow! or a Dud, and where on that continuum does it fall? After all, that’s the way actual human beings taste: do they like the wine, and if so, how much do they like it, or do they loathe it? It never seemed important to me to taste deductively; I wanted to learn to taste hedonistically (as Mr. Parker might put it). I wanted to get a job as a wine critic, and when I was coming up, wine critics got successful jobs based on criteria such as writing ability, knowledge of wine, and team skills, and not on deductive tasting. In fact, such deductive tasting is, to the best of my knowledge, a comparatively recent practice. Wine professionals never tasted the way sommeliers taste. Throughout history they have tasted the way I taste.
Is one method better? Well, like I said, the way you taste depends on your job. Wine writers of my generation never troubled themselves to think deductively (although there’s a certain amount of deduction involved in my kind of tasting). We either tasted openly, in which case deduction was completely pointless, or we tasted in single-blind flights, in which we knew many things about the wines (region, vintage, variety, etc.) and were simply comparing them qualitatively. That’s still the way I taste, but there’s something else: since I came up as a magazine writer, the object of my thoughts whenever I tasted wine was the consumer. I always thought of those anonymous people out there who might buy a wine based on my recommendation. They don’t care about the M.S. grid. They don’t get into that level of analysis. They just want to experience pleasure, and perhaps some good wine-and-food pairing too. And so that’s how I taste: Does the wine give me pleasure? Because if it gives me pleasure it should give most consumers pleasure. And if it gives me pleasure, how much pleasure does it give me? That’s where the points come in. Ninety points is a lot of pleasure. One hundred points is pleasure unbounded—a wine that’s right up there in my sense-memory with the greatest I’ve ever had. I might be less able than a somm to say “This is a Cabernet Sauvignon and this is a Merlot” but that sort of thing doesn’t matter to me, nor do I think the readers of wine magazines (or diners in a restaurant) care about that in a writer or server. They want someone who cares about them, who is able to predict for them what they’ll like, who can tell them stories about the wines. You don’t have to taste deductively in order to be that person. I think, ultimately, the skills needed to be a Master Sommelier are exactly that: the skills needed to be a Master Sommelier. One develops expertise at that sort of thing in order to climb the sommelier ladder and append those magic letters, M.S., after one’s name. That helps to get a job nowadays, in this intensely competitive environment, but how it helps consumers isn’t clear to me.
You’d think they wouldn’t give a hoot. Wouldn’t they rather hear about the toast level of barrels, the composition of the soil, the angle of the slope with respect to the rising and setting of the sun, the type of crusher-destemmer, and the all-important details of pH and acidity?
Well, actually, no. On these trips I occasionally go on, buyers routinely let me know how happy they are to leave all that geek speak behind and get down to what they really like: gossip!
Oh, I don’t mean who’s doing what to whom, behind whose back. That can be delicious, but it’s best postponed for the afterparty, when everybody’s half tanked. The lunches, dinners and inbetween tastings I do feature wine, and wine is certainly the rationale for our gathering, and I can usually talk with some degree of specificity about them. But often enough, what people really want, when you get right down to it, is good conversation about this industry we all love and are lucky enough to work in: Wine!
Look, these wine buyers spend half their days being pitched by salepeople. Most of them are pretty knowledgeable already about the wines, wineries, regions and so on. There may be some divots in their understanding, and if there are, they’ll let me know; if they request specific information, hopefully I can provide it, and if I can’t, I always have my trusty computer with me, and can look up the precise percentage of Semillon in that blend.
But—and this is simply my impression—restaurateurs and wine merchants who care enough to take three hours of their day to come to an event Steve Heimoff is hosting want more than technical stuff. I can’t tell you how often they tell me me how boring they find techno-sessions to be—a recital of geeky trivia. Yes, they want and need a certain amount of it. It’s necessary for them to have some technical foundation they can pass on to their own buyers—customers—as part of the story. But, like I said, most of them already have a ready store of knowledge, and if they don’t, they know they can find it online. So why would they happily spend the better part of a business day with yours truly? Because they want good conversation.
They want good back-and-forth, and not just about Jackson Family Wines. They want to talk about their jobs: the challenges, the complexities, the ironies. They want insider information about what really goes on behind the scenes at wine magazines: not just the P.R. but the facts. They want my opinions—and I always stress, in no uncertain terms, that these are my OPINIONS, although in most cases the circumstantial evidence for my opinions is substantial—about stuff like: is there a relationship between paid advertising and scores? Are wine critics paid off by producers? What will happen when Parker dies (which God forbid won’t be for a very long time), et cetera. And I get it: When I started blogging, in 2008, I didn’t even know what the word “transparency” meant. I didn’t know how untransparent we critics were: lordly autocrats, dwelling in ivory towers, who allowed our reviews to flutter down to the masses in the streets, who had to accept them without question. Thank goodness the early commenters on my blog taught me the lessons of transparency: tell us everything about how you review wines, every single last detail, or run the risk of one of us finding out that you’re a liar and busting you on social media.
Because, after all, restaurateurs and merchants—many if not most of them, anyway—still have to figure in the ratings and reviews of wine critics in order to sell wine. A few, here and there, don’t, and I applaud them. But many others do need to cite a score on a shelf talker, bottlenecker or newsletter, because that’s what customers want, and the customer is always right. So they—restaurateurs and merchants—have a natural curiosity about how the process works, and moreover they have a right to know.
I never give away information so confidential it could compromise me. I tell the truth. I explain how the commenters on my blog, and other wine bloggers, taught me about transparency, and how grateful I am that they did, and how happy it makes me to tell them everything I can, without violating confidentiality agreements that could land me in a lawsuit. What I think I bring to the table, when I’m on the road helping Jackson Family Wines’ sales force to sell wine, is something unique: anyone can talk about technical data. Anyone can give his or her impressions about the wine. What few others can do is to talk about wine from the perspective of a former famous wine critic who’s been there, on the playing fields, at the center of the action, and who moreover—and by happy serendipity—started a little wine blog eight years ago that dragged me into the wonderful weirdness of social media. I don’t always tow the J.F.W. P.R. line. I told my employers when they hired me that they knew who I was, that I wasn’t going to turn into somebody else—at my age—and that, if they could live with that, I would be happy to represent J.F.W., a winery company I had admired and respected for twenty years, founded by a man whom I loved and revered. They said, “Fine. That’s what we want. Go out there, be you,” and that is what I do. So, bottom line: There is no job I can imagine that is more satisfying than to be paid to visit with these wonderful restaurateurs and merchants and relax, over great food and great wine, tell them what I can about the wines, describe my admiration for Jess, and discover areas of conversational interest that engage us. My biggest challenge on the road is to stick to a schedule: We tend to talk so much and so interestingly that, before you know it, we’re thirty minutes behind schedule for our next visit, and in L.A. or S.F. traffic, that’s a haul! Professionally, that’s a problem. Personally—for me and the restaurateurs and merchants I’m with—it’s a delight.
Anyway: I’m back in Oakland tomorrow (today, as you read this) after two weeks in Texas and Southern California. I will be reunited with Gus, the mere thought of which beings me comfort and joy. Have a fabulous weekend.
JOURNAL OF ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE
Aug. 1, 2056
It may be hard for today’s younger generation to believe, but once upon a time, the evaluation of wine was determined by people, not smart machines.
Weird, no? But it’s true, and you don’t have to go very far back to arrive at such a strange era. Barely 50 years ago, there was a class of mavens, “wine critics,” who were held in high esteem, especially by the privileged classes. These people occupied a position in wine selection more or less an equivalent to that of priests and gurus in matters religious and spiritual. Their followers gave the highest credence to their pronouncements and proceeded to organize their lives worshipfully according to their edicts.
In retrospect, we can see that this curious phenomenon represented a last vestige of a dying epoch: the false belief in authority, which peaked during the Dark Ages, and began eroding with the advent of the Enlightenment and the Age of Reason, only to be completely undone by the Internet. Why it should have taken so long for the era of the wine critic to begin its slow demise, though, is problematic. For, even as the privileged classes became more highly educated and rational, their irrational dependency upon the edicts of “wine critics” became more strongly entrenched. I leave it to modern-day psychologists to explain this.
Whatever the reasons, we can be thankful that a bizarre period has come to a decisive end. That it took smart machines, powered by artificial intelligence, to administer the final coup de grace was inevitable. Look at all the wasteful human practices that have been eliminated by the widespread application of A.I. We no longer depend on fallible humans to raise or instruct our children, or even give birth to them. Smart cars, buses, trains and aircraft take us swiftly and safely to and fro on our rounds, without human interference. Our farms and factories are guided by robots; fires are put out by intelligent devices and criminals are apprehended by automated policemen; surgeries are performed, not by tired, irritable humans, but by the most exquisitely trained doc-bots. Bots walk our dogs and scoop up their waste; bots catch our seafood from the ocean and even lately have learned how to shuck oysters. And, of course, the President of the United States is a robot, non-partisan and completely objective. Humans no longer have to toil behind counters, on assembly lines, or imprisoned within cruel cubicles; artificial workers can perform those tasks far more efficiently, without fatigue, complaint or boredom. Artificial intelligence has liberated us from the drudgeries and indignities that plagued our ancestors; included among these is the task of adjudging the quality of the drinks we ingest, including wine.
J.A.I. caught up with one of most famous wine critics of the old time, although he is long since retired. Mr. Steve Heimoff is 147 years old, but his brain is still young and vibrant, kept alert and nourished by caretaker drones, in a sunny, plant-filled solarium along the California coast. Mr. Heimoff had a distinguished career in the late part of the 20th and early 21st centuries. One of the towering giants of wine criticism of that period, he has been referred to as the “Einstein of wine reviewing,” and compared to Alexander the Great, George Washington, Mother Teresa and The Beatles. A great Heimoff review, the Wall Street Journal once reported, could sell 500,000 cases overnight, while a bad one could, and all too often did, bankrupt a winery. Such was the power of Heimoff: autocratic, absolute, pitiless.
We asked Mr. Heimoff if he regretted the end of the human wine critic era, and he replied, through his intelligent translation device, that he welcomed it. Early in his career, he had believed passionately in the wine critic hierarchy; only it, he felt, could weed objectively through the forest of wines and brands to arm the consumer with knowledgeable, independent information.
But, Mr. Heimoff added, by the second decade of the current century, he began to have his doubts. The “clergy of wine theocracy,” as he called it, began to crumble; far from being an elite priesthood, it became “a sort of subway church of the masses,” wherein anybody and everybody could claim to be a wine critic, in much the same way as individuals can purchase online “certificates of divinity” and call themselves “Reverend. That’s when I knew,” Mr. Heimoff attests, “that the old ways were forever gone.”
Of course, not all human activities have been replaced by A.I. devices. We still have human restaurant critics; smart machines have so far simply proven unable to review the dining experience. And, of course, “the world’s oldest profession” continues to be practiced by real, flesh-and-blood people. But, with the recent death of the oldest surviving human wine critic,” 1 Wine Dude, who still was practicing as recently as last June’s Trump Day, the practice of wine criticism—not just in America, but from China to the Moon colonies—is now reserved to smart machines.
In the next five years, when you call customer service or technical support for help with your checking account, internet connection or credit card, you’re likely to speak—not to a real human being—but to a robot.
“Hello,” it might say, in its weird, Stephen Hawking-like drone, “my name is Robbie, and I’m here to assist you.”
In fact, “Robots already are starting to displace some humans from low-end tasks,” reports the Wall Street Journal, and “within five years” they’ll be “smart enough to replace the human phone operators who do jobs like fielding calls from bank clients or helping people reset their modems.”
Given Moore’s law and the advances in artificial intelligence, it’s only a matter of time before human wine critics are also replaced by machines. It’s not hard to imagine how this might work. Say you’re in the wine aisle at the supermarket wondering which wine to buy. You’ll take your smart phone, ask Siri about it, and be connected instantly to a cloud-based “wine taster” who will tell you everything you want to know about the wine. This wine taster will be as human as anyone “real” you could talk to. It will ask you questions to establish your personal preferences (which, of course, it will remember, the way iTunes does), and will be able to tell you if you can find a better deal down the street. Eventually, it will even have an emotional component, possessing the ability to get excited about certain wines and, if you wish, to rate them on a numerical basis. It will be tireless, able to review thousands of wines a day, and its reviews will be utterly consistent—unlike those of human tasters, who are subject to frailty and fallibility. And there never will be any suspicion of ulterior motives (such as advertising) in a robotic review. Like the Mentats in Dune, robot reviewers will be objective and truthful to a fault.
Looking out even further, it’s entirely possible that your smart device will be able to let you actually taste a wine you’re interested in. There’s already talk of “food-focused virtual reality”; meanwhile, Fast Company reports on a “simulate[d]…sensation of taste digitally,” whereby “a new methodology” can “deliver and control primary taste sensations electronically on the human tongue” that “trick” taste sensors “into thinking they are experiencing food-related sensations…”. Throw in a virtual reality headset, and you have what Britain’s Sky News calls an “immersive [wine] tasting experience.”
Looked at from this perspective, what we now call “wine critics” will someday be as antiquated as streetlamp lighters or rotary phone operators.
But wait a minute, could there be a fly in the ointment? There could indeed. Who will pay for all this gimmickry? It won’t happen for free. Moreover, how would you prevent a nefarious influence from hacking into the system? At the first sign of untoward activity, the system’s credibility would be compromised, as Yelp’s has been. There will still be millions of people who will believe in their robot wine reviews, but eventually a small cadre of wine lovers who think of themselves as special will revolt against the machine. They will find their own gurus—human, not automated—and anoint them to exalted status. This is precisely what happened in the 1970s and 1980s with the rise of Parker, Wine Spectator and the others. It seems likely to have been a process that will replicate itself.
I’m off to Oregon tomorrow and will try to blog from there. Salud, and stay safe.
Many years ago, I wrote a column in Wine Enthusiast (sadly, I no longer have it), in which I lamented the lack of excitement in the wines of the Livermore Valley AVA, which, if you look at a map, is one of the jewels in the bracelet of appellations surrounding San Francisco Bay, including Sonoma County, Napa Valley and the Santa Cruz Mountains.
I got some flack for that but it was true: Livermore was historically under-performing. Now, I have to admit upfront that it has been quite a while since I last paid attention to Livermore Valley, and things may well have improved. I certainly hope so. But even before I left the employ of Wine Enthusiast, there was one Livermore winery that turned me on, Steven Kent. He showed me what Livermore was capable of—why it had achieved its historic reputation for Bordeaux-style red wines in the first place.
Well, Steven has sent me his latest batch, and I must say the wines are as impressive as ever. Here are six reviews.
96 Steven Kent 2011 Lineage Red Wine (Livermore Valley); $165. As far as I know, this is Kent’s most expensive wine ever, and also the most expensive to come out of Livermore Valley. I imagine his motive to go in this direction—the ’11 Lineage is his fifth under that proprietary name–after the many critical plaudits he was receiving for his Cabernets, was to make a low-production reserve-of-reserves (production was about 300 cases). The wine is 62% Cabernet Sauvignon; the rest is Merlot, Cab Franc, Petit Verdot and Malbec. The alcohol is 14.1%. I mention that because, as superbly ripe as the wine is, it is in no way hot or heavy. It is an absolute pleasure to drink now, offering waves of blackberry compote, cassis liqueur, dark chocolate shavings, black licorice, violet petals and smoky, toasted oak, leading to a long finish of black pepper, cinnamon and star anise. The texture is as fine as any Cab I’ve ever had. Remarkably smooth, complex tannins, set off by lively acidity. This is really a beautiful wine, all the more impressive for the challenging vintage conditions. Steven Kent says how hard he and his team worked on assembling the final blend after “scores of mock blends” were tried out. They succeeded. I would drink this beauty over the next six years.
94 Steven Kent 2013 Ghielmetti Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon (Livermore Valley); $65. The wine is distinctive for an anise note, but otherwise, it’s not radically different from Kent’s Smith and Home Ranch Cabs. Like them, it’s dry, fairly tannic in youth and complex. It is, however, 100% Cabernet Sauvignon, and I think that gives it the edge. Shows good acidity framing complex blackberry, cassis, plum, pencil shaving, violet and dark chocolate notes, accented with plenty of new French oak. It is clearly a vin de garde, a wine to age. The stuffing is there, and so is the overall balance. There’s a yummy factor already despite its youth, a mouthwateringly sweet, umami taste, but you really do not want to pop the cork too soon. I’d give it another six years, at a minimum. Steven Kent himself suggests 15-20 years, which sounds good to me. This is another great accounting for Livermore Valley Cabernet from this winery.
93 Steven Kent 2012 Lineage Red Wine (Livermore Valley); $155. The big question in my mind was which Lineage I would prefer, the ’11 or the ’12. I tasted the ’11 first and was blown away. Then the ’12. My first impression was, if I had to pick, I’d easily go with the ’11. The ’12 is thick in primary fruit, oak and tannins. It’s clearly a well-grown, well-made wine, but is currently lacking the elegance and finesse of its older sister, being rather jammy and heavy, with a leathery chewiness. It also tastes oakier. Why would this be? Importantly, the ’12 is a year younger; that extra year can have a dramatic effect. It also has significantly more Cabernet Sauvignon (72% vs. 62%). It’s true that the official alcohol is lower on the ’12 (13.9% vs. 14.1%), although it doesn’t feel lighter in the mouth. The usual approach to these sorts of twin vintages is to say, Drink the ’11 soon, and wait for the ’12 to come around, which could be a long time. I have no doubt there’s a great wine in there, but not now, and maybe not before 2020 (eight years is not old for this kind of wine). In fact, I’d love to follow its evolution over the next twenty years. But for now, it’s just too heavy.
93 Steven Kent 2013 Home Ranch Cabernet Sauvignon (Livermore Valley); $65. I don’t know why Kent’s Home Ranch is so much more rewarding than the Smith Ranch. The latter is quite good, but the Home is really good, so packed with flavor and wonderfully structured that it’s irresistible. That makes it sound like a simple pleasure, and it is; but it’s also a very complex wine. Tiers of ripe blackberries, cassis, blueberries and chocolate cascade over the palate, with hints of anise liqueur, toasted French oak barrels and exotic baking spices. The mouthfeel is all velvet and silk, with soft acids providing just enough balance. This is the kind of Cabernet with which Steven Kent established his reputation as lifting Livermore Valley to a whole new level. As good as the wine is, I agree with his advice that the wine should evolve beautifully over the next 10-15 years.
91 Steven Kent 2013 Smith Ranch Cabernet Sauvignon (Livermore Valley); $65. There’s an olivaceous note that grounds the elaborate blackberry and cassis fruit, giving it an earthy, herbal complexity. The mouthfeel is profoundly smooth. And the alcohol is a refreshingly modest 14.1%. Wonderful finesse, so fine and elegant in the mouth, although it’s just a bit lacking in body. The finish is entirely dry. A real beauty to drink now and for the next several years.
91 Steven Kent 2013 BDX Collection Cabernet Franc (Livermore Valley); $48. The first duty of Cabernet Franc is to not be Cabernet Sauvignon, to be different enough to justify a separate varietal bottling. This one succeeds. It’s about tart red fruits—cranberries, just-ripe cherries, pomegranates. Might almost be a Pinot Noir, except for the body and the tannins. There’s also a complexing white tobacco note, and something I’d describe as edamame, which may be because I recently went to a Japanese restaurant, but there it is, an earthy, funky, green herbaceousness. Aged for 20 months in 20% new French oak, it has a smoky edge. Feeling fine and smooth in the mouth, this is quite a distinctive wine to drink over the next few years.
If Matt Kramer thinks that wine drinkers become “captious” (hypercritically argumentative) when comparing notes, he should overhear some of the conversations in California between Hillary people and Bernie people!
That is captiousness on steroids!
Matt rolled out that rarely used word, “captious,” in his Drinking Out Loud op-ed piece, in the June 7 online Wine Spectator. He spells out his view of the critic’s duty: They should not be captious, “not just a weighing and sifting, but also a willing availability to others’ views, to perspectives different from your own. Above all, being a critic means thinking not of your own needs but that of your readers or listeners. Simply put, you exist to serve, not merely to opine.”
This is largely true, but it does tend to under-value, IMHO, the “opining” nature of the critic’s role. We critics (I still consider myself one) are critics by virtue of an expertise we have developed over the course of years of tasting and studying. I like the democratic [small “d”] nature of Matt’s definition, which has a Kumbaya-like can’t-we-all-get-along hippieness: calm heads prevailing, sharing views and opinions, not insisting on one’s own point of view. But, let’s face it, if a “critic” is “critiquing” a wine, he is telling the world (or, at least, his readers) that he knows what’s going on with the wine, and if they don’t agree with him, well, they’re entitled to their own opinion—but they’re wrong!
I mean, that is the essence of criticism, isn’t it? Matt no doubt has been to unpleasant situations where pompous idiots who think they know about wine get all angry and bullying; “they always denigrate; they always polarize,” he writes. Yes, we’ve all known them. I can see them coming from a mile away, and generally will go out of my way to avoid them, because who needs some useless and draining argument about whether a wine is reduced, or how many hectares the DRC has? Not me, especially in a social setting. But these are not “critics.” They’re poseurs.
I don’t think that being a critic, with self-confidence and strongly-held views, means that you “never [have] any humor, never even any false modesty.” When I pronounce on a wine, I honestly believe what I’m saying, because I wouldn’t say anything about a wine unless I’d thoroughly tasted it and thought carefully about it. I am, of course, happy to listen to other people’s views, if they also have thoroughly tasted the wine and thought carefully about it. And I do have an open-enough mind that I can be persuaded by a compelling argument.
For example, in my tasting of Oregon Pinot Noirs the other day, as I wrote, I initially did not pick up on bretty smells in one of the wines. But after everyone else in my tasting group did, I went back to the wine and, lo and behold, there it was. How could I have missed it the first time around?
Okay, so you could argue that I let myself get influenced by peer pressure, because I didn’t want to be the outlier in the group. But that discounts the many, many times when I was happy to be the outlier. You have to be willing to be the outlier in the critic’s game: herd instincts need not apply. This illustrates the point Matt is trying to make: That even if you’re a great taster, you have to listen to the views of qualified others. We all have blind spots.
One thing Matt is entirely correct about—and this reflects his magazine background—is that “being a critic means thinking not of your own needs but that of your readers or listeners.” This point comes up a lot. When you come from a magazine background, as I do, you are always, constantly thinking of the end-user of your review, the customer. That man or woman who buys that glass or bottle of wine-they’re the ones who make the entire world go round. Without their money, none of us would have jobs.
This message was drummed into me early in my wine magazine-writing career, and it exists undimmed to this day. I write, or speak, for that end-user, the consumer. I don’t write or speak because I enjoy it (although I do), or to hear myself pontificate, but for one reason only: to help that consumer see things the way I see them. In that way—and in this intensely political election season, I guess I’m thinking politically—critics are rather like politicians running for office. You have to talk, talk, talk to convince people to listen to you and believe in your views. It is helpful if you’re already a well-known critic who’s established a certain degree of credibility. I think I was, and so I could commit my reviews to words, and know that they would largely be accepted because I had established that basis of trust with my readers. This is why beginning critics have a harder time of it: without reputations or much of a resume, they have a steeper hill to climb to establish credibility. Of course, everyone has to start someplace. That’s important to keep in mind; it helps you with that “modesty” Matt wrote about.
So another great, thought-provoking column from the inimitable Matt Kramer!