The future

In a sense, it’s easy to describe what has come before, but much more difficult to prescribe a future path. I speak as a consumer first and foremost, someone who is unhealthily passionate about wine and who hopes to gain much pleasure from it for the rest of my life. I care deeply about what I drink, not only because wine is bloody expensive, but also because, to paraphrase Len Evans, life’s too short for crap wine. I might amend this sentiment to reflect my own point of view, which is that life’s too short for wine that isn’t true to its region, and that isn’t made to engage deeply with its inherent potential.

It’s a truism that our only unique asset as a wine producing nation is our land. The same varieties exist all over the world, but there’s only one Yarra Valley, or Margaret River. The experiences of nations with a far greater history of wine production than our own inevitably tell us that, in the end, regions are what come to be identified with wine styles.

A lot of the work has already been done by our industry pioneers and current leading lights, and thanks to them we have a range of regional wine styles that ought to qualify as national treasures. Yet there’s still so much energy and experimentation underway, and perhaps this suggests a shared feeling that the best is yet to come. It may be that in many existing regions, we’re only just beginning to identify not only the highest quality wines at a broad level, but also how a particular style may vary based on sub-region, and which outstanding vineyards ought to be recognised as such through unique bottlings. Drilling down like this enables us to capture the variety and drama within each region in order to tell, and sell, this story to the world. It also enables us to hone our understanding of what works best in a given region, focusing time and investment in these wines instead of on wines that can only deliver mediocre outcomes.

As for an end state, if we regard the Old World AOCs and equivalents as the natural conclusion to centuries of experimentation with vareties and terroirs, then in order to achieve the same level of quality and renown, perhaps we need to take a correspondingly long term view. It takes time to identify the strengths of each region, what works and what doesn’t, especially if we liberate ourselves from the comfortable constraints of received wisdom around varietal definition and style. By all means look to the Old World for inspiration, but not for wines to emulate in a New World context. Instead, take the lessons around blending, terroir and appropriate varieties and put them to work in a uniquely Australian context. Most of all, identify the truth in a region, nurture these authentic styles, and ruthlessly cull the rest.

There are some challenges with a “region first” approach. From a commercial perspective, I suspect many consumers rely heavily on varietal composition when purchasing. It’s an enormous shift to start thinking in terms of regions, especially after years of marketing and indeed winemaking focus on grape varieties. Regionality is also inherently more complex. There are only a handful of commonly used grapes in the local industry, and it doesn’t take long even for newcomers to grasp the range on offer. Regions, on the other hand, are both numerous and hierarchical in nature. A deep view consists not only of a broad categorisation (“Barossa Valley”) but also sub-region (“Greenock Creek”) and even vineyard or plot. Perhaps the shift to a more regional focus will take a long time, and may require a degree of market maturity. But if we agree that a view of wine primarily in terms of varietal composition masks our unique strength — our regions — then it’s an inevitable, necessary change. It’s our opportunity to understand what Australian wine is really about.

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A sense of place

If you accept that a sense of place is one of the principal pleasures of wine, then it becomes natural to seek out a variety of distinctive goûts de terroir. I would suggest that, historically, the Australian industry has chosen not to cultivate a series of intricate regional identities, preferring instead to view regionality more broadly or not at all. And this has often served us well. Grange, our greatest wine, embodies this approach to wine, where an identifiable style of the highest quality is achieved by using appropriate raw materials without preciousness with regard to regional origin.

I think it’s telling, though, that we have only one Grange, whereas there are myriad top French (and Italian, and German) wines that are inextricably related to, indeed that leverage powerfully off, their regions. As complex as are the rules relating to AOCs, their very existence provides support for the idea that a product’s origin, it’s regional identity, can be a powerful indicator of (perceived) quality. So whilst a 1er Cru Burgundy may not be a good wine, chances are one’s initial impression is that it might be.

In addition, the complexity associated with Burgundy’s patchwork of vineyards, whilst perhaps forbidding to a newcomer, promises endless exploration and riches to the dedicated wine enthusiast. These nuances aren’t covered up; rather, differentiation between this or that soil type is an inherent mark of the top end. Terroir is priced into the product, and consumers lap it up. Not that it’s purely a matter of marketing. The Old World lesson here is that, as a matter of course, we gravitate towards a more and more nuanced feel for regionality as a culture of wine production matures over the decades and indeed centuries. It appeals to our natural urge to overlay taxonomies and to organise what may begin as randomness. It creates a journey for us to follow. And, perhaps most powerfully, it creates the tantalising prospect of an ultimate wine — a wine that best represents a specific intersection of variety and region.

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On the subject of ultimate wines, Mollydooker and its kin may represent the ne plus ultra of a particular trend in Australian wine. Broadly, this trend is represented by large scale red wines, perhaps high in alcohol, often limited run, historically popular in the North American market. They are often associated with specific wine regions in Australia: McLaren Vale and the Barossa Valley amongst others. Indeed, they have helped raised the profile of these regions substantially in the international market. Further, some such wines have achieved the rare feat of conferring on specific vineyards (or even plots within vineyards) an amount of prestige. One would usually think of Burgundy when beginning to understand a region in terms of its patchwork of terroirs, but our hard-hitting red wine styles have been amongst the few in Australia to encourage scrutiny to this level.

What’s interesting about some of these wines is they combine an identifiably indigenous style with a sense of regional identity. They are, one might argue, sui generis, both authentically Australian and authentically regional. No matter one’s personal taste, it’s worth acknowledging they represent a breakthrough direction of sorts. And, further, that this future might represent the future of all Australian wine.

At the other end of the stylistic spectrum, there’s the Hunter Valley. The Hunter is well known for its Semillon which is generally regarded as a singular wine style on the international stage. Historically, too, Hunter Shiraz has carved out its own niche, occupying a more delicate, medium bodied position than our full blooded red wines. Despite possessing some of the oldest vines in Australia, indeed the world, the collective portfolio of Hunter wines is, to my view, short on insight into these individual treasures. This is why the work Tyrrell’s is doing with its range of wines is so important. By identifying especially notable vineyards or plots within vineyards and bottling their contents, wines like the Tyrrell’s 4 Acres Shiraz move us in the direction of a Burgundian model of terroir. The results, I would argue, are distinctively Australian wines that capitalise on their uniqueness whilst acknowledging the beauty of a fine-grained understanding of regional character. These wines, though they borrow an Old World approaches to region, could never be made anywhere else. And they taste it.

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Varietal definition

There’s a lot of energy in some quarters around “emerging” grape varieties. At first glance, this is intriguing because it gives us a view into what happens when you combine, say, Sangiovese with, say, the McLaren Vale. But how to judge the result? One’s expectations of character and potential quality from Sangiovese-based wines will in most cases have been formed by Italian examples. This might cloud one’s view not only of an individual wine’s quality, but of the potential for this combination and variety and region.

If we can break from the dictates of established styles, though, experimentation with different varieties could hold the key to understanding our potential as a wine producing nation. Indeed, it may expose combinations of region and variety that we’re simply not aware of today, and so illuminate a potential level of quality that surpasses our current achievements. And yet, for all this unexplored territory, I think a view of wine in terms of grape variety is fundamentally limiting. I’m aware that much of the conversation in Australia for a while now has been around varietal definition and, in the context of raising the quality bar across the industry, something like varietal correctness isn’t a bad lever to pull. But once you have a Cabernet that, we all agree, tastes broadly like Cabernet, then what?

I’ve seen the concept of field blends enter the marketing literature of late. Although field blends have been around for a very long time, it’s interesting to consider why, all of a sudden, they are gaining a perceived currency both here and abroad (especially in the USA) with wine consumers. My take is they form part of a broader trend towards “hands off” winemaking, where terroir is perceived to drive the character and quality of a wine, not the winemaker (of course this is a gross simplification). In the context of this conversation, though, field blends are especially relevant because, by their nature, they emphasise the vineyard above varietal composition. Even if it were possible to calculate the percentage of each variety in a true field blend, it would be quite beside the point. Wine is a product of its vineyard, full stop.

There are local precedents. The Lake’s Folly Cabernet, a long-established Hunter Valley label, eschews a purist view of varietal definition in the pursuit of a clearly defined regional style. This wine is a veritable fruit salad of grapes, yet year after year tastes resolutely of the Hunter Valley and, crucially, of itself. It is also a wine of the highest quality. That it tends to divide drinkers only adds, in my view, to its worth. Real personality, after all, always provokes a reaction.

The Unison Selection from the Gimblett Gravels sub-region of Hawkes Bay is a contemporary Kiwi example of terroir-driven style at its most distinctive. Deliberately reticent about its precise varietal composition, its makers prefer to emphasise their flagship wine’s integrated flavour profile above its constituent components. Here’s a wine that blends several varieties found in Hawkes Bay to achieve something that tastes purer than any single variety might.

And rightly so; varietal “correctness” can be the great leveller, but it can also detract from an inherently unique regional influence. Who, really, cares the exact percentage of each variety that goes into a favourite Bordeaux or Châteauneuf-du-Pape? The enduring character in these wines doesn’t come from rigid ideas around varietal blending (which, indeed, continue to change over time) but from broadly understood notions of style. I love the Unison Selection and Lake’s Folly Cabernet because they, first and foremost, identify with their respective regions, and use whatever mix of grapes is required to achieve their stylistic goals.

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Consider this:

“Wine producers of the Old World have had hundreds of years to figure out how each variety best expresses itself. Therefore, we should look to these wines and to Old World approaches for stylistic inspiration in our local product.”

And this:

“Australia as a wine producing nation is definitively New World. We should focus on authentically Australian wines that aren’t afraid to violate Old World notions of regionality and style.”

Not direct quotes, mind you, but distillations of two especially interesting threads in the ongoing local wine conversation. Given they represent somewhat contradictory directions, it’s worth pausing for a moment to consider them in more detail.

The spectre of our cultural cringe hovers over both trains of thought. Just as we imbue the phrase “European-designed” with positive associations, I see a tendency to benchmark Old World wines and (tacitly) position them as inherently superior to local wines. For example, it’s quite common to see a wine described in terms of its similarity to an Old World style. Ostensibly, this comparison indicates a stylistic similarity, and can be quite useful. What’s perhaps less overt in these comparisons, but I would argue very much present nonetheless, is an implicit mark of quality by association conferred on the local wine. When one reads “Burgundy-like,” this suggests not only a general style but in many cases a level of quality too.

So, if we believe best wines are, say, French, then surely we should aim to emulate them? As a consumer, I’ll never argue with a drive to higher quality. What’s less clear to me is whether the quality equation implies a stylistic relationship between Australian wines and those from the Old World. Do we align ourselves with the first conversation, which suggests a single path to ultimate quality? My instinct tells me this approach introduces constraints that are fundamentally artificial to our wines. I just don’t see the point in Australian wine trying to be something it’s not. And yet, when I consider the second conversation, I can’t believe lessons learned over hundreds of years deserve to be branded irrelevant. So I find myself sitting, somewhat ambivalently, between these two positions.

With your indulgence, I’d like to post a series of loosely connected thoughts on this topic over the next little while. Feedback and (dis)agreement encouraged. To be clear, my perspective is that of an inquisitive enthusiast, not someone with deep technical expertise or even especially close industry ties. I write from a position of personal taste and limited means.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4