In vino veritas.

I will freely admit that I am someone with a rather unsophisticated approach to wine. I do not see it as a magical elixir derived from a tradition honed and perfected over millennia. I do not see it as divine nectar, the swirling of its veiled complexities an expression of its inherent virtue. No, in my world wine is grape juice for grown ups.

However, I feel that having a developed palate and some kind of knowledge about wine are markers that prove you’re an intelligent, independent, well-rounded adult. The fantasy of being the perfect hostess, able to provide the ideal pairing of excellent wine to compliment every stage of an exquisite (but not excessively elaborate) meal holds fairly strong appeal for me. I once did a wine-tasting tour in Chianti in an attempt to develop my wine appreciation skills. All that happened is I got incredibly drunk before noon on a Wednesday. You can take the girl out of Australia…

There is one area in which I can claim to be an expert however. Years of post-performance, post-exam, post-opera, pre-lesson, what-the-hell-it’s-a-Tuesday drinks with a wide range of singers has given me a good understanding of some pretty basic principles in the conservatory singer – wine relationship. For instance:

  • If your favourite wine is cheap and/or comes in a cardboard box: you are a musician.
  • If your favourite wine can be described by any combination of the words fruity, sweet or sparkling: you are a soprano.
  • If your favourite wine is beer: you are an alto.
  • If your favourite wine is a 1973 Domaine de la Romanée Conti Grand Cru: you are a tenor. Nobody else gets enough work to afford such expensive taste.
  • If your favourite wine is whiskey: you are a bass.

Through extensive research (both active and observational) I have been able to identify a peculiar phenomenon that occurs far more frequently among singers than among the general populace. When normal people drink wine, they use their senses to draw conclusions and pass judgement on the wine. When singers drink wine, the overpowering insecurities that have driven them to alcohol in the first place mean that the wine ends up acting as some kind of oracle, drawing conclusions and passing judgement on the drinker.

In order to help singers everywhere make full use of the opportunity for self-discovery each glass of wine occasions, I have developed:

B’s Helpful Guide to Wine Tasting.

  1. Look at the wine in your glass. What colour is it? Is it murky and unclear, like your coloratura? Or is it pretty and bright, like the singer that got booked at the audition you did today? If your wine is in a teacup, bowl, or goon sack, feel free to skip this step.
  1. Swirl the wine in your glass. This will help liberate your inhibitions from any vestiges of good judgement. If you spill the wine at this step, you might want to slow down.
  1. Take a deep sniff of the wine. Do you smell the aroma of disappointed dreams? Of unfulfilled potential? Or do you smell the enticing scent of future possibilities? If the last one, you are probably a first year student, and should be aware that your naive remarks are probably annoying the older students who have developed more sophisticated palates capable of discerning the full range of cynicism offered to them by their wine.
  1. Sip the wine and swirl it around your mouth. What flavours can you detect? Is there the metallic tinge of crushing student debt? Or the syrupy flavour of guilt for not having learnt your aria before your lesson this week? How would you describe the texture? Is it full bodied, like how you feel in your concert dress after gaining the fresher five? Or weak, like your commitment to practicing?
  1. Swallow the wine, and pay attention to the aftertaste. Is it unbalanced, like you in movement class? Is it awkward, like the Monday following an opera after-party when everyone pretends they didn’t hook up with each other 48 hours earlier? Does the aftertaste linger, like the student in the lesson before yours, who always asks your teacher complicated questions right as your lesson is supposed to begin?
  1. Repeat steps 5 and 6 ad libitum. This is the most important step, and deserves much practice.
It's medicinal, I swear.

It’s medicinal, I swear.

In vino veritas, in cervesio felicitas.

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Wrong is the new normal.

I’m going to break the unwritten rule of the internet in this post. You know, the rule that says we only admit to and promote the aspects of our lives that make it seem like we’re living in a Coca Cola ad. The rule that has us spending a ridiculous amount of time adjusting light sources, doing hair and make-up, taking twenty three different versions of the same photo, adding filters and cropping out anything remotely unflattering, then claiming #Iwokeuplikethis.

If you’re looking to buy into the idea of a flawless, rainbow coloured existence where living overseas is a dream filled with magical sparkles and prancing unicorns, quit reading now because this post is not for you.

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