When we heard about a new whisky bar called The Swan Song, we were a little concerned.
It seemed a little inauspicious for a drinking place to refer to the most final of curtain calls. The dictionary confirmed our fears.
The swan song is a metaphorical phrase for a final gesture, effort, or performance given just before death or retirement. The phrase refers to an ancient belief that swans sing a beautiful song just before their death.
Why would anyone name a whisky bar after this final melody? Our curiousity was piqued. Morbid curiousity.
Life
We stopped by the Swan Song on a dark and stormy Saturday afternoon, which seemed thematically appropriate.
Located in a quiet alley off Selegie Road, it was neither the largest nor the grandest bar that we had walked into. Quite the opposite.
There were seats, of course, and a large shelf filled to the brim with half-filled bottles of whisky. But little else. No extravagant ornamentation, no spiffy uniforms or thousand dollar membership fees. It was austere, almost religious, zen-like.
Just the way we liked it.
We met the owners of the bar, Kelvin Hoon and Arun Prashant, who, like their bar, were unassuming. While they were not in the flower of youth, they did not look like they were singing their swan song, either.
But appearances, as always, were deceiving. Most of the bottles on the shelf were formerly part of their private collections. The Water of Life ran through their veins.
And that collection was substantial. There were over 450 whiskies to choose from in that humble space, ranging from simple, everyday drams, to a 1970’s Samaroli Laphroaig which costs $450 a dram.
That price seemed steep at first, but knowing what we do about whisky prices, drams of this rarity were going for… a song.
In fact, the prices were so low that we actually felt compelled to ask why- and only half jokingly, if the business was also ready for that curtain call.
Kelvin, however, was quite open with us. The primary goal was never to wring a profit out of whiskies, he explained, but to share them. Money keeps the bar going, and goes toward new bottles.
That we could believe. We’d be hard pressed to find a better deal on some these drams, short of buying a whole bottle for ourselves. If we were lucky enough to find them.
Some of these bottles were hard to find indeed, but each and every one had a story; of the lengths one would go for a dram, the perils of the auction house and close encounters with whisky royalty.
Death
That last brought out the youth in Kelvin, who recounts a chance meeting with Giorgio D’Ambrosio many years past.
For 50 years, D’Ambrosio had been Italy’s foremost scotch collector, with a treasure trove of the rarest, finest whiskies, located in the vaults beneath his Bar Metro. He retired, sold much of his collection, and hung up the “closed” sign for good on the beloved bar earlier this year.
There was something fascinating about that story. When the bottle of the 30 year old Glen Mhor finally empties, a chapter, perhaps the final chapter, of Bar Metro’s legacy will come to a close.
We were reminded then of a scene from the movie Blade Runner, which, aside from being a gripping movie about a dark future, also reflects on the nature of life and death.
In the film’s climax (spoiler alert), the antagonist, Roy Batty, laments his imminent death. Batty is a replicant- an artificial human identical- or even superior- to a natural human in every way, but for one flaw.
Roy, like all other replicants, was given a lifespan that one could count on one hand- and he knows it. He spends the whole movie trying to extend his life.
In the end, though, it is all for naught. His last words are a lament.
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.
We reflected on those lines. Were we also to become tears in rain? Though we don’t like to think about it, our lives are winks in existence.
As if to make our point, many distilleries whose stills have thrummed their last are represented at The Swan Song.
Broras and Port Ellens sat on the shelf alongside a Convalmore. Those were proud names, once, but they now only live on in fragments; old stocks which were stored or secreted away.
And for some, the curtains have already closed. As beautiful as the golden fluids sitting within the bottles on the shelf were, what drew our eyes were the empty bottles sitting on top of the shelf like a row of headstones.
When Kelvin confirmed that it the row was referred to as the graveyard, we flashed him a knowing smile.
As sometime-collectors ourselves, we knew instantly what they were: shrines. Remains of whiskies that were honoured and remembered.
Perhaps The Swan Song might not be the only place where you can get limited edition, rare, or fine whiskies. But here, there is true respect and appreciation for both the spirit and the people who make it their life’s work.
The Swan Song is part temple, part memorial, and as you’ll see, part living history.
Legacy
This 1992 Cadenhead Clynelish, bottled at 51.6% was elegant, almost ethereal dram despite its high alcohol content. A light scent of citrus, peach, apricot and almonds drifted slowly into the nose. Then, the sweetness of honey, dried oranges, green apples, and apricots touched the tongue, attended closely by the distillery’s signature waxy mineral flavour. The finish was a touch herbal, with a very light dab of spice and nuts.
There are just over 200 bottles of this particular bottling. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that there were.
We then had a taste of a 70’s Isle of Jura 8 Year Old, bottled when term “Pure Malt” was still in use. It retains the distillery’s old style; flavours of seaweed, sea salt, and nuts blend with lightly floral notes- and we think, a little bit of jackfruit. We would be hard pressed to find one today, and tomorrow, that task might become impossible.
These whiskies might very well be gone by the time you read this.
Why then would we write these notes and ask you to go to The Swan Song and try them?
Simple.
Roy Batty was wrong. His memories didn’t become tears in rain. The world found it so compelling that it has now become indelible in our social consciousness. That was no accident.
We don’t try to remember things because they’ll be around forever; we do it because they won’t. We can’t live forever, but we can celebrate the life we have.
So it is at The Swan Song.
Whisky is never served by the bottle, but instead sold by the dram. Everyone gets a chance to try the whiskies and carry a small piece of its legacy with them. When the last drop has been poured, the empty bottles will remain to mark their passing.
We, too, leave little imprints on the world in our passing. The least we could do is raise a toast.
