In law, the concept of “grandfathering” certain parties into new laws is quite old in America, dating back to post-Civil War days. It occurs, says Wikipedia, when “an old rule continues to apply to some existing situations while a new rule will apply to all future cases.” The concept applies across many areas of technology, law and sports. For example, the Green Bay Packers of the NFL are grandfathered out from a rule that prohibits corporate ownership of teams, because their corporate ownership dates to a time before the no-corporations rule was adopted.
When the U.S. and the European Union signed a trade deal, back in 2006, regarding American use of “geographic indications” on wine labels, the deal specified 16 “semi-generic” European place names that could no longer be used on American wines, including Burgundy, Madeira, Sherry, Port and Rhine.
However, under the deal’s terms, American wineries that were using these prohibited place names before March 10, 2006, were permitted to continue to be able to use them; they were grandfathered in. As the Department of the Treasury stated at that time, “If there is any question of eligibility for the ‘grandfather’ provision, we will rely on the information that appears in the ‘Brand Name’ and ‘Fanciful Name’ fields on the COLA that was approved before March 10, 2006.”
The deal had a ten-year time period; it expired this year, which led to the parties having to renegotiate it. Politico is reporting that, while both the U.S. government and the Napa Valley Vintners wish for a permanent ban on purloined place names, “the rest of the U.S. wine industry” is pushing to allow “American vintners to keep labeling their products with such regional designations as long as they were doing so before the agreement was struck.” This divide, between the Obama administration and Napa Valley Vintners, on the one hand, and “the rest” of the industry, on the other, “sets up a major showdown” between the U.S. and the E.U.
The Napa Valley Vintners offers a stark illustration of why they’re siding with the E.U. on this one: With the “Napa Valley” mark already appearing on at least one Chinese wine, “How can we go fight for our integrity around the world when the United States doesn’t offer that same reciprocation?” asks a NVV official.
Makes sense to me. I don’t see why we have to have phony European place names on American-made wines. These names may have had a useful purpose in the period after Prohibition, but they no longer do; they are useless anachronisms.
I’m sure that wineries that have used semi-generic places names for decades will have to go through a period of adjustment, if they’re no longer allowed to do so. But the actual wines won’t change, and consumers are smart enough to figure out how to deal with name changes. It’s called “a teaching moment” for the consumer, and you can’t have too many of those. Besides, the historian in me thinks that there will come a day when California (and America) no longer has any of these European place names on labels, and that will mark a significant tipping point in our maturation as a wine-drinking nation, as well as being a good partner to our European friends. And sometimes, in business, as in life, you have to take your friends’ feelings into consideration, even if it costs you a little.
Looking at the medal winners from the International Chardonnay Symposium, I’m struck by the geographic diversity of origins of the top-ranked California Chards. They range from Napa Valley down to the Santa Maria Valley, with Paso Robles, the Santa Lucia Highlands, Livermore Valley, Arroyo Seco, Sonoma Valley and the Russian River Valley inbetween. (I personally think you’d have to add Anderson Valley to the mix, although no Chardonnays from there were listed among the winners. Maybe there were no entrants.)
So from Mendocino to Santa Barbara for California’s best Chardonnays. That’s a big spread, about 375 miles. In France, we tend to think of the best Chardonnays as coming from a relatively narrow spread: Chablis down to Macon.* That’s a north-south distance of about 136 miles, but you’d obviously have to deduct most of the Cotes de Nuit from that, because it’s mainly Pinot Noir. So we have a Chardonnay terroir in coastal California that’s far bigger than the Chardonnay terroir of Burgundy.
Why is that? Examining California first, there is a true coastal terroir running along the Pacific Coast that’s obvious to anyone who regularly travels that route. Everybody knows the typical pattern: bone dry summers and autumns, warmish, sunny days and cool nights, as the maritime intrusion sweeps in dependably and bathes the land in fog. Yes, the soils differ. And yes, it is true that the further south you go the more of a change there is, especially in the quality of light. Cezanne would have loved painting the Santa Barbara mountains and coast. One senses it, also, in the softening of the air you feel as, driving from San Francisco, you hit Pismo Beach on any given summer day, then make your way southward down to Buellton. It feels different to us humans, so it must feel different to grapes, too.
But still, the terroir, in a macro way, is of one piece, and given the similarly of viticultural and enological practices nowadays, I doubt if anyone could tell the difference, on a consistent basis, between a Chardonnay from the Santa Maria Valley and one from, say, Carneros. Stones and minerals, green apples, tropical fruits, bright acidity, the usual impact of oak and lees and malo—this is why the coast makes such fine Chardonnay.
Perhaps the Chardonnay-growing area of France would be larger if it weren’t for the French system of appellation controllée, which is so much more rigid than ours. But it is what it is; the French system tends to favor a multiplicity of varieties. Ours—not molded by centuries of precedent, nor by Napoleonic law—is market-based; and the market being what it is, has resulted in only a handful of varieties, including Chardonnay, dominating vast regions.
It is a common notion nowadays that this system is changing. Led by sommeliers, responsive to a taste among younger consumers for the new and different, a new reality supposedly is emerging, of new varieties, tinkered with by a new generation of winemakers born in the waning decades of the 20th century, willing to venture where their fathers would or could not. This new paradigm—if that is not too strong a word—has much to recommend it, but it also faces stiff opposition. There is, for example, a Chardonnay Symposium in California, but not a Tannat or an Assyrtiko Symposium. One has to be careful predicting the future of anything, much less consumer preferences in foodstuffs; but we can allow History to be our guide. History tells us two things: First, what was popular, wine-wise, 100 years ago is popular today, and secondly, once a wine region becomes dominated by certain varieties, it tends to remain planted to those varieties. The two things are, of course, related.
But, you will object, younger people are turning away from the Chardonnays, Cabernets and Pinot Noirs, towards other varieties, said to be fresher, lower in alcohol, crisper and more interesting. Is this true? The media makes much of this meme. But is it more than just a story? Is it really a trend? The media loves trends, and has been known—shockingly!—to manufacture new ones for its own purposes. So, while I’m sure there will be new wines and new varietals that come and go, I’m equally sure that one grape variety—Chardonnay—will always be around. And I’m proud of my state of California for doing such a magnificent job with it.
* I suppose you could argue for extending the Chardonnay region south of Macon through the Beaujolais, but I wouldn’t go that far, either geographically or qualitatively.
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!
I’ve been on a sharp learning curve about Oregon Pinot Noir for the past year or so. In all my years at Wine Enthusiast I was “the California guy” and so my exposure to wines not from my state grew increasingly limited—one major negative of being a regional specialist (but the positive, of course, is that you get very knowledgeable about your region).
Because of Jackson Family Wines’ involvement in Oregon, and particularly the Willamette Valley, I’ve been involved in a number of projects that require this study, and have been traveling up there with some regularity. So, when it came time to schedule the latest in my series of tastings at JFW, I decided on Oregon Pinot Noir.
Tasting Oregon Pinot Noirs is more challenging for me than tasting California Pinots. The latter are easier to “get”: generally fruit-forward, riper, softer and lusher. The Oregons, by contrast, have all sorts of earth, mushroom and black or green tea notes, firmer tannins and brighter acidity, all of which can mute them in youth, making them harder than their more southerly counterparts to appreciate straight out of the bottle. So it’s important to let these wines breathe, to see what they might begin to do down the road. Certainly, this was the case in yesterday’s tasting.
My three top wines were Penner-Ash 2013 Pas de Nom Pinot Noir (Yamhill-Carlton), $100, Zena Crowne 2013 Slope Pinot Noir (Eola-Amity Hills): $?, and Siduri 2014 Pinot Noir (Willamette Valley); $24. (These are all Jackson Family Wines, which numbered 9 of the 13 in the tasting.) Almost in the same league was the Evening Land 2013 Seven Springs Vineyard La Source Pinot Noir (Eola-Amity Hills), $75. All of my scores were at least 88 points; most were above 90, and the four I just cited all scored at least 94 points. I found, over the course of 2-1/2 hours of tasting, that I was raising my scores consistently over my initial impressions, which illustrates the point I made in the preceding paragraph about letting the wines breathe. I must say I found the Antica Terra 2013 Botanica ($75) a little too robust for my tastes. There was one wine whose score I lowered over the course of the tasting: The Cristom 2013 Marjorie Vineyard Pinot Noir (Eola-Amity Hills): $65. At first I loved it; everyone else in the tasting pointed out a funkiness that initially eluded me (I called it mushroomy). This resulted in a discussion about brettanomyces, and while I can’t say this wine had brett (because I didn’t do a lab analysis), after a couple hours in the glass the funk really took over, so I lowered my score to a still-respectable 91 points.
Oregon Pinot Noir offers a real counterpoint to its California brethren. It’s not a question of better-worse, but different. The Oregon wines also tend to be lower in alcohol: Of our 13 Pinots, only two were above 14% (Siduri Willamette and Penner-Ash Estate), and those were only 14.1%. All the rest were either in the 13s or, in the case of the Evening Land and the Zena Crown, 12.6% and 12.7%, respectively. These low alcohol levels make the wines fresh, vibrant and delicate, which is what Pinot Noir ought to be. Also, probably, more ageable. In general, I’d say that most of the bottles we opened were victims of infanticide.
This was the table when the tasting was finished.
When did all this talk about unicorns get so crazy? Suddenly, it’s unicorn this, unicorn that. Fifty-five million results on a Google search, of which this one, published earlier this year in Fortune, is most explanatory: “a unicorn is a private company, valued at $1 billion or more, and they’re seemingly everywhere, backed by a bull market and a new generation of disruptive technology.”
New, over-priced tech companies. Hmm. We’ve seen this before, haven’t we? Back in 2000 we called it the “dot-com bubble,” the catastrophic melt-down of a short era in which seemingly any company that ended with a dot-com enjoyed meteoric growth on the stock market. A good example was a startup called onsale.com. It was popular for a while after amazon.com got too expensive for most people to afford. I should know; I bought a bunch of onsale, and got slaughtered when it collapsed, along with all the other phantom dot-coms.
Now, the word “unicorn” is being applied to wineries. Wine Spectator picked up the term from Twitter back in 2013, quoting Raj Parr’s tweeted definition: “A [unicorn] wine that is ‘rare,’ ‘not seen much’ ‘special bottlings.’ Not always the most expensive but just hard to find.” By 2015, unicorn wines were all the rage in somm circles: the Wall Street Journal said “they confer[red] status not by cost but by the skill—or luck—it takes to acquire one.” Eater jumped into the fray, describing unicorn wines as “a new category of wine taking hold in Manhattan—the once in a lifetime bottles that every sommelier dreams of drinking, and bragging about, before they die.” Eater’s list was exclusive to Old Europe, mainly France. You would never find a California wine on a unicorn list, especially not in Manhattan.
Most recently, here’s Wine Spectator again, with Dr. Vinny asking the question, “What is a unicorn wine?” and pointing out that the opposite of unicorn wines are “first-growth Bordeauxs, or ‘cult’ California Cabernets.” Interesting. Not that long ago “cult California Cabernets” were the hottest wines in the world, coveted by everybody. Can it have been only eight years ago that the San Francisco Chronicle called Aubert, Ovid and Sloan “six cult wines to covet”? Today, you won’t find them on anyone’s unicorn list. They’re more like your great-grandfather’s wine than something the cool kids drink.
By the way, the hashtag #unicornwine still gets a lot of play on Twitter, although the category finally seems to be opening up to include California wine—as long, that is, as it fulfills the requirements of being rare and impossible to get. Someone tweeted a link to an Instagram post from “Mcvino82,” who posted this pic of an Inglenook 1978 Petite Sirah with the hashtags #unicornwine and (funnily) #whereisfreddame.
So a nearly 40-year old California Petite Sirah just might qualify as a unicorn. Story time: Years ago, I was on one of my first assignments for Wine Spectator, to interview a wealthy rock-and-roll lawyer who lived in the Hollywood Hills and was a bigtime wine collector. As I pulled into his driveway, a UPS truck was unloading case after case of Dominus, Dunn Howell Mountain, Opus One, Petrus, Tignanello—you get the idea. As we shook hands I tried to make small talk and said, “Man, I see you like the good stuff.”
He pointed with his chin to the stacks of cases on his driveway and said, “That? Nah, I hate it.”
Wow. “Then why do you buy it?” I asked, mentally doing a financial calculation of the cost.
“Look,” he explained, “those are what I call ‘pissing wines.’ You know how, when you’re kids, you have contests to see who can piss the furthest? Well, ___ and ___ [and here, he mentioned some real Hollywood heavyweights] invite me to their homes, and they serve Petrus ’66, so I have to invite them here and give them Petrus ’64.”
I took that in. Then I asked, “So, if you don’t like these wines, what do you like?”
“Ahh!” he grunted, grabbing me by the elbow. “Let me show you.” He led me to his backyard, where he’d dug a storage cellar into the hillside. Rummaging through the racks, he pulled out a bottle. It was a Petite Sirah from San Benito County whose producer, even on that day 25 years ago, was long defunct. “This is what I like!” he exulted.
“What do you like about it?” I asked.
“I like it,” he replied, “because no one else can get it!”
That was the rock-and-roll lawyer’s unicorn wine. So, you see, there’s nothing new about the concept, only the word. And while we’re on the topic of fantasy, it looks like Napa may be getting ready to allow marijuana dispensaries within the city limits. It’s far from a done deal, but I can see a time when upscale tasting rooms selling sips of unicorn wines will also offer unicorn weed to inhale, leading to the very real possibility that tourists emerging from these establishments, staggering down the street, may visualize actual unicorns.
Photo credit: goodmenproject.com
I take Reka Haros’s point that there is “deep confusion around the term ‘marketing,’” specifically that marketing all too often is “confused with sales and… marketing tactics confused with marketing strategy.” I’ve been in this business for a long time and even I can’t be sure of the differences; but after all, these are only words we use to describe slippery and overlapping concepts. Let me explain.
Haros, a marketing manager who wrote her op-ed piece in the “Trends” blog of the alternative closure company, Nomacorc, identifies three phases of marketing (similar to my five-phase analysis of West Coast Pinot Noir), stretching from the 1950s (think of T.V. automobile commercials of that era), to Marketing 3.0, our present time, when the Internet has empowered people, leading to all sorts of challenges to marketers.
What kinds of challenges? Marketers, says Haros, now need “to access [consumers’] hearts too,” through such concepts as “emotional marketing,” which itself is based on establishing “trust with consumers through identity, integrity, and authentic image.”
It shows a mom and her little boy, on their way presumably to or from school. The little boy wears a Mackintosh (raincoat to you non-Brits) made of Burlington’s waterproof fabric. The ad capitalizes on the emotional bond between mom and son, on her sense of security that her boy won’t get wet in the rain, on the boy’s innocent trust, and on the “comfort and safety” Burlington Industries provides to Americans in the everyday pursuit of their lives. That is emotional marketing from nearly sixty years ago, right down to the scrawled drawing in the boy’s hand, of a sun shining on a stick-figured little boy much like himself.
The problem with wine marketing today, says Haros, is that the wine industry has “a confused idea” of what it means. She accurately concludes that, too often, social media is used by wine marketers as a strategy, rather than the mere tactic it actually is. Haros also accurately understands that marketing and sales people speak entirely different languages: marketers propose, but sales people dispose; and sales people—hard-driven road warriors, as opposed to the desk-bound creators in marketing–can be “hard to convince.”
For these reasons, Haros concludes that “wine marketing is still in its first stage of evolution.” It is here, however, that she runs out of solutions: it’s easy to diagnose a problem, hard to fix it. Granted that wine marketers need to develop “a long-term vision,” but this is easier said than done. The chief obstacle to this development, as I see things, is that marketing, as classically understood, may be an anachronism. [Italics mine] Marketing used to be based on the [true] assumption that most consumers were idiots who would fall for craftily-conceived campaigns designed to convince them to buy products and services they might not even really need. Using “emotional” and other [misleading] tools, marketing agents could appeal (often subconsciously) to consumers’ secret fears and desires, manipulating them in desirable directions. To refer back to the 1950s again, this approach worked: Marketers (and advertisers) were dealing with a naïve, credulous population that proved over and over again that it could be manipulated, even without being aware of it.
We have now in America, by contrast, an entirely different population, especially the young. No longer naïve, they are suspicious to a fault. No longer credulous, they believe practically nothing, except if their friends believe it. They particularly disbelieve anything deriving from authority. If it’s a billboard, a pop-up ad on the computer screen, a television commercial, a radio pitch between songs, it’s automatically tuned out.
If marketing indeed is as outmoded as rotary phones, then why do wineries still engage in the practice? Because they know that, if they do nothing, the chances are close to zero that they will continue to exist. This is their dilemma: thrust between the devil and the deep blue sea (or a rock and a hard place), they see, on the one hand, the necessity of spending time and money in a practice with no guaranteeable results and, on the other hand, doing nothing, in which case the result is guaranteeable: catastrophe. Given such a choice, it’s easy to see why wineries continue to engage in marketing.
And the truth is, every once in a while, lightning strikes: a marketing tactic actually achieves something. It’s also true, though, that serendipity is probably as effective as marketing; sometimes you just need to be in the right place, at the right time, and then do nothing to screw things up. As for marketing strategy as opposed to tactics, well, it sounds grandiose, but it’s really a unicorn. I’m not big on strategies, which our modern world seems to dismiss.
Can sales succeed without marketing? Probably. If a winery has to choose between the two, obviously sales is vastly more important. You do need a properly educated sales force, one that has at least some grip on the winery’s basic facts and ideas, but this isn’t necessarily hard to do. At some point, though, you have to wonder whether or not classic marketing can be updated to the 21st century, or whether it’s time has come and gone. If there’s a next phase of marketing, I don’t know what it is…and neither do marketers.