There's new arms to hold back the revolution.
There's new eyes to recognize what you've become:
New blood to recover
A new will to honor
All God's creation.

---"All Things New Again"

Jakob Dylan and the Wallflowers + Chimay

Modernity lusts for innovation. Classics are merely quaint. Only the extreme receives hearty applause. Well, let them eat abstract cake, drink extreme beer, and listen to vague, computer-generated experimental prog-rock.

Greatness is timeless. Tradition is hard. Just ask the Trappist monks at Scourmont Abbey who live an ascetic life by the Rule of St Benedict, trying to meld work and prayer while producing a beautiful, beautiful beer. Of course, some American brewers have tried to mimic their style, but these counterfeits are rightfully disdained in general. A true disciple deserves canonization. The Trappist brothers of Chimay have created a tradition; the Wallflowers have fulfilled one in the lineage of Mellencamp, Springsteen, and (duh) Dylan.

The Wallflowers invented nothing, blazed no trails. Jakob Dylan and his band craft rock-solid rock albums with regular consistency. Yet these are no Warholian pop prints; Jakob's lyrics befit his pedigree. He weaves gorgeous poetry and imagery, matched to crisp guitars and American beats. They flow smoothly, rhyme too easily, but always hold meaning and grow throughout the song. Sometimes he echoes his father's cryptic, oblique imagery ("Sleepwalker"), other times he speaks as an everyman (or at least an eloquent, rhythmic everyman).

The music is, of course, more than a traditional archetype just as "Belgian abbey beer" is merely a vague outline of the glorious examples thereof. Each fulfill the fundamental criteria (i.e. dark malts and low hops or guitar-fueled structure-versed songs), then surpass them through independent complexity - Chimay's dark dried fruit notes and brown sugar flavors; the Wallflowers' meandering between gorgeous melodies and aggressive guitar riffs to match Dylan's well-woven lyrics.

Yet, amazingly, both the band and the beer maintain their respective style's smooth sensuality, masking its depths with an alluring first taste. It may seem simply sweet, but probing each note unveils the unique intelligence - smart, but not sharp, never harsh. These gentle nuances create an enjoyable addiction, and thus an evening of singularly diverse delight. Chimay has three versions, each different, but all distinctly theirs and within their tradition, just as the Wallflowers albums are varied but unmistakably stamped by the distinctive flavor of Jakob Dylan's voice and rich lyrics.

The spiritual interest of both cannot be denied, even if Jakob seems a little more doubt-ridden (see: "God Says Nothing Back" or, from his upcoming solo album, "Evil is Alive and Well") than the Trappist brothers would appear to be. Nonetheless, such earnestness certainly befits the well-grounded, simple life in the monastery which is not nearly as plain or passé as you might think. Take a pilgrimage and find out.

Go melt back into the night, babe.
Everything inside is made of stone.
There's nothing in here moving,
And anyway I'm not alone.

---"It Ain't Me, Babe"

Bob Dylan + Arrogant Bastard

He rasped his lyrics, wheezed his harmonica, and hacked his guitar over decades to become an icon. Yet still, the curly-locked song-prophet grates on smooth-seeking listeners. To them, I offer the words of Stone Brewing's Arrogant Bastard label: "You're not worthy."

Indeed, those who cannot stomach Bob or AB are not worthy for such greatness. They wimp out at the intimidating power of seemingly inscrutable lines or a thick foundation of hops. Yet despite these abrasive fronts, both have persisted and are never dismissed by true connoisseurs. Neither has frills, but both have power, be it from aggressive hop additions or stark political messages woven into memorable storylines ("The Hurricane", "John Brown").

Neither is light by any standard. Sure, Bob has some playful tunes ("I Shall Be Free #10"), but we revere him for the pain of Blood on the Tracks or the struggles of Highway 61 Revisited. But because there is balance between anger and hope (for every hard rain that's a'gonna fall, there's a shelter from the storm), the art is not rendered unpalatable by the bitter notes or lyrics or hops. It just needs to be consumed slowly, lest it simply taste like a rough cup of anger.

Stone Brewing has become a very influential brewery in the beer game; their conscience-less heavyhanded hop methods have been mimicked by many other microbreweries and beloved by many craft beer drinkers. Similarly, Bob Dylan remains an idol of many contemporary singer-songwriters, though most don't deserve to hold his pen even if they can sing circles around his creaky voice (though that can be an asset, just as AB's refusal to temper its IBU maelstrom makes it so adored by those who are worthy).

Besides, who other than an arrogant bastard would answer an honest (if naive and bad at interview questions) reporter like this:

Reporter: Bob, what are your songs about?
Dylan: Some of my songs are about four minutes, some are about five minutes, and some, believe it or not, are about 11 or 12.

I am up in the clouds, I am up in the clouds,
And I can't, and I can't
Come down.

---"Where I End and You Begin (Your Time Is Up)"

Radiohead + Dogfish Head Midas Touch

In the realm of craft beer creativity, Dogfish Head is the shark of the pond. Things they've thrown into the brewpot: muscat grapes, beet sugar, saffron, brown sugar, chicory, apricots, peaches, raisins, juniper berries, blueberries, blackberries, chrysanthemums, hawthorn fruit, and spirulina (???). And these are just the ones they've offered to the public. Not exactly the place to sample a mystery beer confidently. On a slightly different note of audacity, one label once promoted a "Golden Shower" until some feds caught on to what that meant.

Anyway, DFH is the brewery that seriously strains my quest to brew only what I could not possibly buy in a store. Radiohead does the same for would-be musical innovators. They've tried it all, from guitar hits (The Bends) to electronica (Kid A) to post-modern rock (Hail to the Thief) to arguably the best album ever (OK Computer). Heck, they even did a garage band sound (Pablo Honey). Amnesiac has a blues tune. They even blew up the arena of distribution, offering a pay-what-you-want download for their latest, In Rainbows (which brought its own new tone, too: melodic use of percussion and other minimalism).

They transcend stylistic boundaries, just like DFH's Midas Touch. Brewed with grapes and honey, fermented with a strain of yeast normally used in champagne, Midas Touch is cross-style gold. It's not really beer (but it uses barley and hops,) it's not mead (but it uses honey,) and it's not wine (but it uses grapes and wine yeast.) It's awesome.

DFH makes my brewing life so hard because no one else does what they do. Imperial Stouts were once an innovation; now they flow from everyone who wants to make a name from himself as an investigatory brewer, no matter how many people he leaves drunk and bloodied and dying along the way. It's supply and demand, really. Beer snobs love 'em, so brewers make 'em. They're easy, and almost guaranteed to please. DFH wants none of this "just throw more dark malt in the pot" garbage. Thom Yorke said something to that extent about the success of their ever-changing albums. So they did something people liked. Great, but why make OK Computer again? They've already done that. Radiohead never sits contentedly in comfortable productions. Not even literally; Thom Yorke sang one song while lying on his back, drunk.

I bet it was because he had been throwing back pints of Midas Touch. They will certainly leave you on the floor after only a few, just as Radiohead's intensity - lyrically, musically, creatively - is as certain to hit as a blackjack dealer on 14.

But there's more here than outrage (etym: beyond). There is meaning, depth, and specific flavor. "Exit Song for a Film" emotionally depicts Romeo and Juliet with minimalist lyrics, just as Midas Touch packs full taste into a light-colored brew. "There There (The Boney King of Nowhere)" is the song to send a brooding ex-significant other along with a placating bottle from DFH. "Videotape" is an album-ending memento mori that will make you cry, which will also happen when you finish your four-pack.

Dogfish Head, Radiohead...c'mon, this one was obvious.

You can see a million miles tonight
But you can't get very far.

---"Mrs Potter's Lullabye"

Counting Crows + Old Jubilation

Adam Duritz peppers his lyrics with many such hope/reality couplets. The malty sweetness of million-mile vision is restrained by hoppy bitterness of some unknown tether creating traveling impotence. These see-saws rattle us, jolting up then falling fast.

Old Jubilation plays this waltz on the tongue. First, roasted sweets, then a point of malty balance, then a swing to a bitter hoppy finish. Wait, what? Another sip. Now, chocolate? A swallow of orange. The up-down spins, too, bringing something new with each successive swig: one for sorrow, two for joy, three for girls, four for boys, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told. (Though let's be honest, after 7 Old Jub's, you'll be willing to tell anything.)

This varied depth makes both suitable for cellaring. Go to any CC concert (or listen to a live album, legal or bootlegged (a practice encouraged by the band)) and hear the same song with new nuance. Hear how turning "Mr Jones" acoustic makes it a solitary sob rather than an outreaching cry just as a bottle mellows after a few months by itself. Find how "Rain King" can salute Bruce Springsteen just as an Old J seems to take on Belgian-style fruit notes after time. Or simply watch Adam live out "Mrs Potter's Lullabye" in the same way you get more animated to unleash the one you managed to save for that moment. Suddenly it's something even more amazing, even deeper than you thought.

These revolutions/revelations make the Counting Crows and Old Jubilation dangerously bingeable, darkly warm elixirs that heat your soul through both bitterness and optimism at once. They feel your pain while offering a million-mile panorama. You won't get there tonight, but you do deserve a little more.

"A little more" is about as precise as you can get to defining either one. Old J is too heavy for a brown ale, too light for an imperial stout, too bitter for a porter, and too boozy for a stout. CC are too diversely instrumentalized for rock, too aggressively nuanced for pop, too melodic and acoustic for experimental, and too good to pass up. What they both are is intense. Despite the palliative rich flavors, Old J packs a liver-punch with its near-9% ABV (scarcely noticeable), and behind the beauteous harmonies between piano, accordion, mandolin, and layered vocals are poignant, pleading, longing lyrics.

Grab a six pack and a CC discography, have a beer with each of their five studio albums, but age the leftover one and sneak it into a concert. They'll remain the same at heart, but now bring something a little more.

And I heard from the trees a great parade.
And I heard from the hills a band was made.
And will I be invited to the sound?

---"All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands"

Sufjan Stevens + Bells Two-Hearted Ale

Any beer that references Hemingway must not carry any added weight. And so Bells' legendary IPA packs basic malts, up-front hops, and strident notes of citrus and flora. Through its simplicity shines its beauty. Same for Sufjan. Sure, he employs almost every instrument known to man, but if you listen, the harmonies are hummable, the tones are clear, and the effect rings as long as the mesmerizing finish of a Two-Hearted Ale.

Refined is not the first word that comes to mind at first sip/listen. They are far too earnest for that (pardon the pun). Two-Hearted runs wild in its hop dominance, as unrestrained as the Upper Peninsula that inspired the eminent short story, "Big Two-Hearted River". This upfront force, wielded wisely by the brewers, gives it quality that a more timid hopper would fall short of. Sufjan's sparse (dare I say Hemingwayan?) lyrics, reiterated riffs (see the arpeggios of "For the Widows in Paradise" or the stoic strums of "Seven Swans"), and reliance on bold solos call to mind van Gogh's broad brushstrokes and Two-Hearted Ale's selectively emphasized hops.

Any fan can tell you that each has a rabid following. Me, I would throttle you for the last case of Two-Hearted Ale, and I'm sure that many a girl (or boy) would do the same for the right to be the bride (or groom) at Sufjan's wedding (and there are plenty who actually even love him for the quality of his music).

The seal: both were born in Michigan.

Well you can knock me down,
Step on my face,
Slander my name
All over the place.
Do anything that you want to do, but uh-uh,
Honey, lay off of my shoes.

---"Blue Suede Shoes"

Elvis + Guinness

Two of the most iconic names in their fields, they are known by all though not necessarily beloved. Casual drinkers shun dark beers, and teenyboppers think Elvis's style lame. Stout aficionados find Guinness too be tepid compared to bolder brews, and modern critics chuckle at what was supposedly provocative about Elvis, to say nothing about his mediocre instrumental skills.

Yet, somehow, when these folks try it, they never actually dislike it. Serious fans can't resist the fun of getting all shook up, and a pint of Guinness is just delightful. The tenderfoots find that it's not as heavy as it looks, and the young'uns get a little drunk on the catchy style of the man from Graceland.

Budweiser may object to this one (as if I'd have concern for their quibbles), but both are the King of their respective realms no matter what Michael Jackson (both the pederast and the beer critic) may have proclaimed. Elvis still reigns many a jukebox, and Guinness is the beer you could find on tap in both fine brasseries and bad dives. And even if anyone tries to knock them off their respective thrones, well, they each have natural, widely revered crowns on their respective heads.

At this point, the pair have been around for ages and ages and show no sign of going anywhere. "Blue Christmas" will always be watched, the dark lady with a blonde head will always be on draught. This is why impersonators will persist. Many a modern brewery has tried to make a dry Irish stout, but none have really stood up to Guinness. And no matter what you saw in Vegas, it was only a usurper to the throne.

I've heard aliens regularly abduct kegs from the St James Gate brewery.