The other day, I tasted a lovely white Burgundy. It was fresh and balanced and lots of other good things. On my not-overly-technical understanding, a lot of the flavours I tasted were a result of winemaker input; barrel fermentation, lees stirring, and malolactic fermentation being three that I know to have been applied to this particular wine. My tasting companion at the time remarked (and I’m relying on a hazy recollection) that he could see why many Australian producers emulate these wines and, perhaps more pointedly, how many fail.

Tasting this Burgundy, I wondered how its fruit character seemed so well matched to the winemaking treatment, showing synergies that, in the slightly alcoholic moment, defied many other wines I had tried. No doubt we produce some beautiful Chardonnays in Australia, and there’s a variety too, with significant stylistic variation between regions and producers. Yet these variations, and what seems to be a broad shift in style towards leaner wines, is telling. It’s as if the apparent naturalness and fit of the white Burgundy’s style is something we are still struggling to find in local expressions of this grape.

A recent discussion at The Winefront also got me thinking. In his introductory paragraph to a review of a Wedgetail Estate chardonnay, Gary Walsh writes: “Here’s a wine that plays to the strengths of both the Yarra Valley and Chardonnay. Hooray for that!” It seems perhaps too obvious that a producer would seek to achieve this sort of synergy when crafting a style, yet Mr Walsh’s point as I understood it was that some styles being sought at the moment aren’t sympathetic to their variety or region, leading to wines that may not capitalise on the potential of either. The discussion then devolved into questions of influence, inspiration and the process of settling on style. To my mind, these are complex considerations, without self-evident answers.

It’s not too long ago that Australian wines were identified explicitly by their adherence to Old World styles; hence, we had Claret, Burgundy, Chablis, Hock, etc. That might seem hopelessly outmoded, and perhaps it is, but it’s interesting to contemplate this approach in terms of where we are now. I would argue that, to an extent anyway, we still think in these terms. To continue the Chardonnay example, they may be labelled by variety, but comparisons with Old World styles are ongoing. One reads of local wines that are chasing “white Burgundy” or “Chablis” (or even “California”). And I get it; these models are often benchmark wines that, on one level, are worth emulating. Mr Walsh’s comment, though, throws things into disarray. By chasing a Chablis style with Yarra Valley Chardonnay, for example, are we applying a set of techniques to grapes that that may not respond sympathetically in turn? Or, to phrase it positively, I know what Chablis tastes like, but what does Yarra Valley Chardonnay, in its finest expression, offer? My bet is that, whatever its ultimate expression, it would not be mistaken for Chablis. As a consumer interested in a range of distinctive, quality wines, I would not want it to be, either.

One of the, perhaps naive, tendencies I have when tasting many wines, particularly those in the upper echelons, is to assume they are an expression of purely vinous intent. This is no doubt untrue. Winemaking is, in most instances, a commercial enterprise, so producers must consider the needs and desires of the customer in addition to their own. However, one of the attractions of wine is that, despite commercial imperatives, there is a level of passion for the product itself that translates to a focus on the sort of purity of craft and intent that, personally, is of great interest and value. And this purity, even if just one part of the picture, is the playing field in the present context. In other words, within the boundaries of the freedom afforded a producer, how does one set stylistic direction?

The easy answer is to copy something that already exists. I understand the urge towards homage, and am the first to admit that some lovely wines can result. There’s also an understable, somewhat romantic attachment to the tradition of Old World wines that can prompt the desire to emulate. But such wines frustrate me too. At their worst, they embody the pointlessness of Gus van Sant’s Psycho remake; it’s perfect, but why bother? They don’t tell me anything new or insightful. They are stillborn, in effect, because the concept behind them is an impossibility.

I’d like to think styles with longevity are those that tell us something new and that have, in and of themselves, unassailable integrity. Such a wine style would be sui generis, an inherent benchmark. Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc embodies some of these ideas. I believe it is a style with longevity; a genuine regional classic that will survive the vagaries of fashion as its own, truly authentic, wine. There’s nothing in the world like it. It wasn’t arrived at by trying to closely emulate another wine. Rather, it grew from the character of the fruit and an understanding of what is unique about the flavour profile of the region. Not to suggest it is a static wine style, but it remains broadly recognisable, and the mainstream of producers seem to agree on how the fruit is best handled.

Yet such a pure view of authenticity is also an impossibility, no matter how much I might wish for it. The reality is, precedents exist, so the manner in which producers navigate the landscape of influence is, perhaps, the most relevant question of all.

Returning to my white Burgundy, conversation at the time turned to influence and poetics, two words that instantly prompt a search through the bookshelves for Harold Bloom’s The Anxiety of Influence.

Bloom argues that poets are inspired to write by other poets, but that purely derivative work is inherently weak because it lacks originality. So, the influence of precursors must be negotiated in such a way as to produce work that is strong, and has longevity. The key point here is that precursors are used as a starting point, but are “misread” as a means of generating original work. The models aren’t simply reproduced, they are demolished, extended, hollowed out, improved upon, effaced, absorbed. The later poet, in other words, must engage with precursors in a destructive and creative manner, to avoid producing weak work.

The parallels aren’t perfect. The poetic canon, for example, works in terms of succession, whereas we live in a world of wine that is alive across geographic and, indeed, temporal boundaries.  But it’s instructive to look at how Bloom’s model might apply to the question at hand and see if it provides any answers. Underpinning all poetry is the notion of poetic vision. For Bloom, the task of the poet is to overcome the anxiety of influence and produce work that is strong and that expresses his or her unique vision, possibly in defiance of precursor poets. I liken poetic vision to terroir in wine. There is a truth, a uniqueness to terroir that, through vinification, can achieve its full expression.  As the poet uses language, the winemaker applies a series of techniques in vinification to most vividly communicate terroir. The job of the viticulturist and winemaker then, like the poet, is to identify and find the best means of expressing this truth. Which is another way of posing my question: how to decide what style is most appropriate given a particular parcel of grapes?

Take five Yarra Valley Chardonnays made from the same parcel of grapes but vinified separately, each in a different style. One has been made to taste as similar to Chablis as possible, a second in the Californian style but with less malolactic fermentation, the third like hyper Puligny-Montrachet, a fourth seemingly the reverse of everything we know about Meursault, the last a distillation of Chassagne style. The Chablis-like wine, to analogise Bloom’s theory, is “weak,” submitting to the influence of precursors and adding nothing new. It might be beautifully executed, and very tasty, yet it is destined to leave no lasting impression, to elicit a cosmic “who cares,” because it has nothing to say (except “me too!”). The other wines, in various ways, are attempts to produce strong work. They engage with precursors and misread them in various ways in an attempt to assert the truth of an underlying terroir. Some might be highly manipulated (there’s a sideline argument to be made here about the fallacy of minimal intervention as the best way to mediate terroir), all are potentially strong styles. Whether they are, in fact, strong styles is a matter for the vinous canon to sort out over time. It may be that the truest expression of Yarra Valley Chardonnay isn’t all that interesting (thought I doubt it). But what seems clear on this view is that an attempt needs to be made to engage with existing benchmarks in a creative, challenging and destructive way in order to understand the potential inherent to a particular terroir. One can neither seek to directly emulate existing wines from other regions, nor hope to create wine in a vacuum, uninformed by the good and great wines of the world.

There are a few implications of this argument. One is that terroir, as problematic as the term is, ought to drive style. It also suggests we need to engage deeply with Old World benchmarks in order to understand both the level of quality and style we are “up against” in the fine wine stakes. However, to see Australia as some kind of colonial outpost of Old World wine condemns us to long-term irrelevance. The answer lies not in emulating other styles, but in knowing them well enough, and being strong enough, to defy them.

Tonight, after news of Max Lake’s passing, no other wine would do but a Lake’s Folly Cabernet. And so I have a glass of the 2006 in front of me, richly regional and lip-smackingly delicious.

Truly creative people are frequently driven to publically, exhibitionistically realise their vision — not so much out of pure ego as out of a strongly held conviction that what they have to say is worth saying. The monuments that result can be sublime, grotesque, revelatory or ridiculous, depending on your point of view. But as time marches on, a canon forms, constantly evaluated and re-evaluated, challenged and affirmed. This hierarchy born of informed consensus validates the artist’s drive, and transforms an artefact into a standard against which other contenders are judged.

And so it is with Max Lake’s vinous legacy. Anyone who has taken the time to read his books can be in no doubt as to the passion he felt in matters of sensual pleasure, nor in the confidently expressed perspective from which his work sprang. I see Lake’s Folly as an integral part of Mr Lake’s oeuvre, as expressive and intellectual an artifact as his written works. Lake’s Folly wines are often discussed in terms separate from the mainstream of Hunter wine, and yet his Cabernet and Chardonnay are glorious exceptions that prove the two Hunter rules of Shiraz and Semillon. By being different, and successful, Lake’s Folly wines have carved a niche for themselves but also, ironically, have reinforced the Hunter’s classic styles. So Mr Lake’s belief both in the Hunter and in Cabernet are truly vindicated.

It is widely suggested that Lake’s Folly had a huge impact on the Australian industry. I’ve no doubt this is the case. For me, though, it’s about what I have in my glass tonight: Max Lake’s vision mediated via the (not to be underestimated) care and attention of Rodney Kempe. This is a beautiful expression of what wine should be. There’s nothing wishy-washy about its style or the intent behind its creation. That a wine can be simultaneously coveted, detested, discussed and dismissed speaks to its integrity. Tonight, I’m thinking about what wine in Australia might have been without Max Lake, and what it might be without him now. Surely, a glass of Lake’s Folly red is my only consolation.

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.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4