When I read about the bits beneath the beer brand Rolling Rock, and all about the brew – the glass-linings, the “same as it ever was”, the silk-screen, the Titos, and, of course, the this-or-thatness of its number 33 – I am only buoyed up, reassured and re-decided by it all.
I once believed (still could) the glass of the Rolling Rock bottle to be a bluer green than others; and when the last of a summer night’s candle fell to its death inside, a phosphorescent bloom of blue, Le Rayon Vert, an after-sunset aquamarine, could be caught on the bedroom’s horizon. No other beer bottle held a candle to it.
The early days of Channel 4: the pool-shooting set-up of The Deer Hunter – when Christopher Walken dances and De Niro smiles – the Rolling Rock brand played a magical role. No ‘shameless placement’ to me, but an exactness (an exact bit of business) that placed a beer in its true and oh-my-starry-eyed limelight. Thirst-busting steelworkers in Pennsylvania, just as Stones’s did for Sheffield.
The current beyond-the-pale taste of the much-available Extra Pale, is of no concern, no trouble. I drink plenty and many a rich, deep and flavourful beer to be, or want to be, remotely pissy about Rolling Rock; or foamy about its owners.
Some beers just make it early on your life, some brands are simply made there; stay moving on, and solid as.
© Steve Mitchell, Fisher Lane, 2012