Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Posted at
04:26
by
Shaula Clark
It’s June 16, and a mammoth line is coiling like
an intestine around the inside of the River Street Whole Foods parking
garage, clogged with cheerful miscreants in black T-shirts and baggy
pants. We’re circling a booth filled with wine, and inside that booth
is a tiny tent where Maynard James Keenan, the lead singer of Tool and A Perfect Circle, is waiting to sign every
single bottle. He’s spreading the gospel of his latest venture: a quest
to bring wine to Arizona’s Verde Valley, via Stronghold Vineyards (which Keenan co-owns with winemaker Eric Glomski) and his own Caduceus Cellars and Merkin Vineyards.
It’s
a strange that a guy as notoriously elusive Keenan would be willing to
spend the day giving himself hand cramps in this yuppie dungeon. Then
again, his fervor for the Verde Valley vineyards makes a lot of sense.
In contrast to his music, which has for so long served as fodder for
horrendously tacky MySpace profiles and unfortunate tattoos, wine is
unfuckwithable. As he quips in the trailer for Blood into Wine (an upcoming documentary about Stronghold),
“You let the grape speak for itself.” He’s finally made something that
no depressed angstling can repurpose into an away message or a shitty
piece of fan fiction, and that’s a hell of a feat.
I’ve been
dreading this signing, envisioning total chaos, but the event staffers
are running a tight ship. By the time we line up, we’ve already
pre-ordered our wine. I’m getting Stronghold’s 2008 Tazi,
a white “vino quattro” (made from Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling,
Chardonnay, and Malvasia grapes; $17.98). My friend Andy has sprung for
the red 2006 Caduceus Anubis (a blend of Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, and Sangiovese; $32.98). We both pick up the 2006 Merkin Chupacabra, a mystery red ($19.98).
There’s
a diverse crowd here: amid the obvious Tool devotees,
broomstick-skirted hippies with strollers jostle up against ruddy jocks
and khaki-clad office drones playing hooky. One of the wispy blondes in
front of us exclaims, “Maybe he’ll sign my body!” (Her plan is to turn
the flesh signature into a tattoo.) A guy behind her clutches a framed
Tool Revolver spread in the hopes that Keenan will put his scribble on it. Fat chance.
As
we near Keenan’s tent, we’re funneled through increasingly Draconian
security. We’re handed our wines, and then liberated of our bags and
any other suspicious objects. And then — pow! — the big moment arrives.
I’m face to face with Maynard and Glomski, and they’re smiling and
thanking me and scrawling on my bottles. Six nanoseconds later, I’m
washed up on the sidewalk, reunited with my belongings. Show’s over.
Afterward,
we hunker down in a (very gracious) nearby bar to uncork the
Chupacabra. The label proclaims: “Only a True Alchemist can draw holy
blood from a stone.” Peppery and leathery in the nose, it’s very smooth
and not too dry. “Totally cherries,” remarks my hobbyist-vintner friend
Jimmy. Thumbs up all around — seems like Keenan's stumbled onto some
true alchemy here.
