It is strange to recall the
relatively little fanfare that a two day event from 2012 caused in comparison
to this last weekend. I sat in Port Street Beer House several times that year,
pondering the posters and beer mats that sang loudly of “Indy Man Beer Con;” a
contrived celebration of craft wankerage that was to break away from the norms
of airport-lounge-style beer festivals that Real Ale drinkers had patented. I
don’t even remember when I thankfully sliced off my own cynicism and purchased tickets
for that year but it wasn’t long before the event. So as I glanced at my
Saturday session ticket for this year’s Indy Man, I couldn’t help but grin at
the realisation these were purchased back in April to secure my spot. It’s
getting big.
It was a different occasion this
year. This year, anybody with a Twitter account and a beer G-spot was attending.
The build-up during the week consisted of my Twitter feed filling itself with
the entire world masturbating over the weekend’s prospects, lamenting that they
couldn’t make it or trying to tout their tickets as they were purchased so long
ago they’d actually forgotten the event was happening. It was wild excitement, usually
reserved for countdowns to Christmas or the release of a Harry Potter book, so
different to the short fanfare of two years previous. You stopped asking people
IF they were going and simply asked WHEN.
This, however, is not just Indy
Man’s third year of existing, it is my third year of attending. (Read all about
2012 and 2013 if you want.) The only difference for me this year is that I was
now attending the Trade Day Friday session, as well as Saturday’s afternoon
soiree.
Needless to say, I can not write
any post about the Convention with the same youthful, starry eyed vigour of
some of the festival’s first-timers, but it was still too good to not convey
into a post.
I arrived to the now-familiar
Victoria Baths on the Friday alone, without truly knowing if I was going to be
confined to a day of drinking in the Superintendent’s flat alone or making a
hundred new friends. I took my glass and tokens and headed to Room 2 as has now
become the routine to find an already full event swinging. I wouldn’t have
thought in my twenties I’d be the sort that could attend such events like a
friendless pauper desperately trying to fit in, but this isn’t a gathering where
one needs to worry about being alone. Before I’ve ordered my first drink, I’ve
already spoken to a few people whom I’ve never met but are so excited by their
surroundings they might as well be wearing t-shirts that read, “This is so
fucking awesome – HUG ME!!!” 
You speak to brewers about their
work and find, luckily that they are more than happy to talk about it. You walk
around; double taking at people you may have once seen a picture of on Twitter.
You stare people dead in the face, trying to match the real human features to
the small Avatar you see on your phone most days. Luckily, few beer folk seem
to filter the hell out of their photos and most are instantly recognisable. Occasionally
you are tapped on the shoulder and somebody asks “Are you Mark?” and you greet
old friends who you’ve actually never met before in your life. You talk, you
laugh, you drink and you don’t remember most people’s names after the tokens
have run out but it was still good to meet them anyway. I even bumped into
somebody I went to Primary School with and haven’t spoken to properly in
sixteen years – it’s a small beer world.
The festival hasn’t changed much
since last year. Magic Rock have decided to invade one of the three large pool
rooms leaving Beavertown to locate in, what I feel, is the prime spot in the
Turkish Baths and turn it into a mini disco. The festival has extended with
Brewdog’s portable bar-come-wagon that they’ve felt the need to bring. They are
forced to park in the smoking area where they are largely forgotten by most of
us, especially after glancing at their prices, which happen to be twice as much
as every other British brewery in attendance. They stalk around outside like
the unwanted cousin nobody wanted to invite but felt they were required to,
waiting for the moment that never comes to launch anarchy into your face.
The talks and tasting sessions
extend into small rooms, basements and old Committee Rooms. Once you’ve
finished giving yourself various lung diseases from the smokiness of Room 2,
relax in the darkened ambience of Room 3. Join the more hardcore beer
conversation in Room 1 or relax to talk, briefly, about non-beer things for a
while in the fold down seats, high above the pool.
There are more spontaneous
mini-talks happening at random intervals that involve little more introduction
than “Hey everyone, come over here and I’ll talk about beer and probably give
you some.” I taste three of Squawk Brewery’s beers for the first time and have
more than my fair share as the bottles are passed around. I listen to Wild Beer
Co. talk about much of their birth and brewing processes, whilst people throw
out generic beer questions in the hope of having t-shirts thrown at their faces.
We strain to hear Jay Krause of Quantum Brewing whisper about his Brett C beer
but love it all the same. You would think it could be hard to enjoy a beer that
the brewer has just spent five minutes convincing you is much too young at this
stage to be any good, but fortunately the beer is so delcious even the brewer doesn’t
know it.
The beers are so good so
frequently that I wouldn’t want to start dishing out awards. However, a special
mention to the collaboration between Indy Man Brew House, Black Jack and the
fabulous North Tea Power named Deer Hunter, that I did not expect to love, but
truly did.
Things get hectic towards the end and I am the one idiot you heard on Saturday smash his glass. I am possibly the only person to ever come to an Indy Man Beer Con and do so. It was me. It is all made good again though when I end my day at the ice cream stand I've sadly forgotten the name of and can't find in my programme. There are various ice creams made with beer - one made with Beavertown's Gamma Ray. If you ever thought that eating ice cream flavoured with Gamma Ray might just make you explode into a huge ball of smiling emoticons, you would be absolutely right. We're talking Gamma Ray Ice Cream here, people. Delicious.
Can’t fault it? Well, as a
veteran to this now, for the first year I actually CAN. Why? Well, it has
always been that Indy Man Beer Con, for all its other attributes that set it so
distantly from the older beer festival formats, has always made good on the
beer availability. Nothing satisfied me more at these events than being able to
peruse a beer list, walk up to the bar that promises it, order it and actually
be given that beer without any problems. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case
this year. The beer lists became more guides of products that could potentially
be on. Peruse the list, ask for that beer at the bar and then find yourself being
recommended a different beer because the one you want isn’t on. This is not
how we do things at this event!
I find the comical side in this on
the Friday when I come across a lost-looking and considerably hungover Brian
Dickson (now of Northern Monk fame) who looks like the only person in the
Victoria Baths who doesn’t want to be there, unless someone can quickly find an
ice bucket to pour over his head. I ask him why his Chennai Porter is not on
when it is clearly on the list. He simply shrugs his shoulders with an
expression that suggests that what he really wanted to say was, “Do I look like
a give a fuck?” This typical relaxed attitude soothes me somewhat, after all
there is still so much God Damn amazing beer here.
Come Saturday though and a few
grumbles are running through my group. The main problem seems to be controlling
the pressure from a lot of the kegs and most seem too lively to go on. At one
stage I reach the bar in Room 1 with three beers in mind that I really want to
try - and not one of them is on.
This year seemed to have fewer of
the brewers themselves serving you the beer, which has always been a nice touch
at previous events. I certainly do not want to criticise the excellent
volunteers who made the entire thing possible in their place. I just want to
share one story from late Saturday. I noticed Siren’s Rainbow Stout “Empress” was
available in Room 2, that I had missed on the list. As it was being poured for
me, I asked the server what colour Siren were. He looked blankly at me. “It’s
black this beer. It’s a stout.” I smiled, realising I had phrased it badly and
asked instead what colour Siren were in the Rainbow project for this beer, as I
couldn’t remember. He looked more confused. “Stouts are usually dark, mate. Was
it a light beer you wanted?” God bless him.
It doesn’t really matter of
course. It is still a brilliant weekend and even more so for the newcomers. I
watched from a distance this year at the
number of people striking poses in the changing cubicles along the sides,
remembering doing the same two years ago. The location is still fantastic, but
I do hope it finds a new home in time to keep things fresh.
Whilst I am reflecting on Sunday about the previous two days, I
remember exactly why I love IMBC so much through a text from my friend, who is
at the Sunday session.
‘I’ve just overheard a man saying, “the problem with these sort of events is you can’t get a pint of Robinson’s for example.”’
Yeah… exactly what we were all thinking too…
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