The Death of the Vintage Report: Long Live the Vintage Report
Every vintage report I’ve written for the last five-plus years has had some version of the following notes baked into it. While these ideas seem just too important to ignore if you are thinking honestly about vintages these days, it also feels a bit absurd to try and stuff this extra baggage into the reports every year. It makes what is already an absurd and unwieldly text, all the more absurd and unwieldly.
So I figured, in preparation for the release of the 2024 vintage report, I’d do everything I could to proactively undermine the vintage report I’m currently writing (that’s a joke, mostly).
Note the criticisms outlined in this essay relate only to the “general” vintage reports written by importers and critics, or any reports positioned as general overviews of countries or regions. The most useful reports are those from the individual growers themselves, the personal narratives of those who have truly lived the vintage.
In summation: Vintage reports written by critics and importers are mostly bullshit; my bullshit will be released soon.
In the interim, please enjoy the following!
Chapter 1: a fairy tale
It seems to me that the “vintage report,” as a sort of monolithic truth or style guide, is dead.
Every year it becomes more apparent that these narratives, as we understand them, have become half-truths, myopic details of a complex landscape, stories told to make something complex, easily digestible.
These days, the vintage report is a fairy tale, albeit with a commercial application.
Yes, this has always been true to some degree. Any vast report has to distill many narratives into one. Yet, I’d suggest that these reports historically had more validity, more truth, than they do today.
I think it’s easy to understand that decades ago, in a different climate, winemaking was a more homogenous undertaking. Because of the cooler weather in October and November, when the Riesling harvest mostly took place, the physiology of the grapes moved much slower. From Monday to Friday, to maybe even the next week or the week after, in a consistently cold climate, not all that much happened within the grape. Whatever did happen, happened much slower. In this reality, it’s easy to envision a certain aesthetic sameness from a vintage.
It’s also understandable that the winemakers of fifty years ago didn’t have the same exposure to contrasting methodologies and techniques as the winemakers of today do. Communication was slow and more difficult, the market less specialized. The culture of the harvest, the unity and cohesion of the village as a community also likely fostered a certain like-mindedness regarding harvesting dates and practices.
I wasn’t there, but when the botrytis of the famous 1976 German vintage came, well, there it was. I’ve had enough German wine from 1976 to note a fairly consistent profile. I’ve also had enough German wine from 1975 to note a fairly consistent profile that is much different than the profile of the 1976ers.
In other words, a general theory of “the vintage” seems to hold here.
We should keep in mind that it’s also possible that history has edited out the challenges to our views of these older vintages. It’s conceivable that the bright and fresh, botrytis-free wines of vintage 1976 (where are all of those Kabinett Trockens?) have long-since been consumed. With those stories gone and only the luxurious dessert wines left, it’s possible these wines tell only one part of a more complex story.
Chapter 2: hot and fast
Today, we have a much different world; climate change is of course at the center of the story. It is, without question, condensing harvests.
The increased sunshine and warmer temperatures undermine the winter slumber of the vines and often push the beginning of the vine’s vegetative cycle earlier (greatly increasing the chances for frost to strike, as has been happening). This fact, along with the increased sunshine and warmth of the summer months, has also pushed the beginning of the harvest to be earlier. What took place in October and November only a few decades ago, and could be spread out over many weeks, now takes place in September – in a warmer September than only a few decades ago.
With these warmer temperatures, the grape’s physiology changes quickly: sugar can climb and acid can decrease at an alarming speed, to note only the most obvious factors. The weather also changes more quickly and with more extremes, from dryness to deluge and back again.
Therefore, what could take months in the past and be relatively stable, must now be done in weeks or days and can have a high level of variability.
The rather unnerving experience I’ve had many times over the last few years, of tasting wines from the same vintage that are radically different yet separated geographically by only a few villages, can be explained to some extent by these new realities.
One grower picked on Monday, the other on Wednesday, and the wines taste like they came from different planets.
It’s important to note that many growers are changing to adapt to this new age. Many estates are staying small – they are not growing – in recognition of the fact that they simply cannot work as many hectares in this new world as perhaps their mothers and fathers could. This is so obvious and central that it can almost be overlooked. It is critical however; we will talk more about this in chapter four: “scale is everything.”
Many of the most successful growers are now specializing more than ever, focusing their work on limited styles. It was not uncommon, even at the beginning of my career, to visit an estate farming only five hectares that made twenty or more wines. This is quickly becoming a thing of the past. Many estates are focusing on vineyards that offer different qualities, yet are geographically close, thereby maximizing efficiency.
The return to – even the emphatic embrace of – the more diverse history of pre-war German viticulture, including sparkling wines, all assortments of “rotlings” (red and white wines pressed and fermented together), and red wines, is a way of diversifying and, through this, extending the harvest.
If the Riesling harvest is being condensed into a matter of days or weeks by climate change, a sparkling wine harvest can precede this, as can harvests for Silvaner, Weissburgunder, Chardonnay, and Pinot Noir.
The profound increase in the quality of these non-Riesling wines over the last decades speaks to the increasing curiosity and cultural exposure of many vintners, for sure. Yet it also speaks to climate change.
Chapter 3: manual, and skilled, labor
Agricultural communities around the world have suffered similar fates. With a lack of obvious opportunity, with bleak financial prospects, with a cultural bias against manual labor of all kinds, generations have left the villages in favor of bigger cities. Untold numbers of wineries have shuttered all over Europe. This, in turn, has decimated what was once an ultra-local and highly skilled workforce. It is simply no longer there.
(This is a random parenthetical, but I’d like to share it: When I was sitting with Stefan Vetter some years ago, he was lamenting the problem of labor and he asked, almost as an aside, about all the people in the big cities. “I look at all these huge buildings on the T.V., all filled with people. What do you all really do?” He asked this earnestly and with genuine curiosity. I had no easy answer.)
As in the U.S., much (most?) of the real agricultural labor for many western European, wine-producing countries is done by workers from other countries. Organizing this labor is not easy to do at any scale, though obviously it gets harder as the scale increases. Nor can this labor be organized quickly. The bureaucracies of international labor make it very difficult for all involved; specific dates often times must be set months in advance; a legal system of applications and permits must be navigated.
Beyond the labor issue, there is a question of expertise, of experience.
Despite our modern-day biases, “manual labor” is not the same as “unskilled labor.” It’s our own removal from most physical work that makes us think it’s all the same. Picking grapes requires strength, yes, but also knowledge and experience, a certain sensitivity, a touch. A familiarity with the specific vineyard, the specific grape, all of these little details can become very important.
I also believe that the quality of one’s work depends on how satisfied one is, how meaningful the work is, how connected one feels to what they are doing, how connected one feels with the place. This, of course, highlights very real economic issues, such as: how well do you pay your workers? How do you treat them?
How can we honestly talk about terroir and ignore these issues?
I was once in the vineyard with Ulli Stein – this was probably 2012 or so – and he was eagerly showing me something, I can’t remember what exactly. We came across a group of four women from Ulli’s home village of St. Aldegund, each of them well into their 80s. They had all lived in this village their entire life; they took pride in the vineyards, in the village. They moved around the steep slopes, among the vines, talking energetically amongst themselves. They made it look effortless, and beautiful to be honest – while I slid and stumbled about.
They had all known Ulli his whole life. Yes, he paid them, obviously, but they worked in the vineyards often, Ulli said, just because they loved it. In a most non-romantic way, I think this makes a great difference.
I asked Ulli about them some time ago. They are now too old to climb in the vineyards; they are not working anymore. It is a great loss for Ulli, and for the village, and for us.
Yet I might guess that perhaps more than a little bit of the consistency, of the greatness of Stein wines over the last two decades plus, revolves around a family of Polish workers that have worked with Ulli, and returned, year after year for more than twenty years. This speaks to a relationship based on fair pay and on respect. In return, Stein has a workforce that is consistent, year after year. He has people he cares about that not only know the vineyards and the details of how Stein works, they care. This has made all the difference.
Chapter 4: scale is everything
One of the most important lessons I learned while working in retail was that small wineries usually made more interesting wines – no matter the country or region or style. When I shifted my focus to Germany and started vom Boden, it was obvious to me that this alone would be my guiding principle.
From the beginning, vom Boden has made its only rallying cry the following: scale. I am proud of the fact we work with “natural” wineries and with “classical” wineries. Assuming a high quality of vineyard work, to me the remaining differences are largely aesthetics. Size, however, I believe matters profoundly.
We are the only German wine importer with this exclusive focus on small. I’m proud of this as well.
I should admit that part of this is a selfish lifestyle choice. When I go to Germany, I want to talk to the grower. I want to sit at a dinner table and not an ultra-modern, architect-designed tasting room. I want to talk about winemaking, about life, the joys and the sorrows. I do not want to talk about business. No offense intended, as I’m also just a cog in the sales machine of it all, but I do not want to talk to salespeople.
I did not realize, at that time, what an advantage “small” was going to become in this new world.
At this point, there is just no question that small estates have a huge advantage. You can taste it.
Smaller estates have fewer hectares to cover and can more easily read, not the tea leaves, but the vine leaves during the season. They can organize and target their work more quickly; they are more poised to finesse a tricky vintage. These estates can meaningfully increase their harvest teams at a moment’s notice (going from five to ten is possible; going from 50 to 100 is impossible). They can process their fruit more quickly – there is just less to process.
They are simply more agile. This is a profound advantage.
There is one further fundamental truth about the small estate: Normally at a smaller estate (and in our case exclusively), the name on the label is the name of the person who is in the vineyards doing the work.
When the grower whose name is on the label is actually in the vineyards, on a day-to-day basis, doing physical labor (not driving through the vineyard to see the labor being done), an indescribable connection is made. I think this impacts every aspect of the human and therefore the winery and therefore the wine.
The other reality of size and scale is the rather childish logic of capitalism, of supply and demand. In other words: if you produce a lot of wine, if you have a large supply, you are going to have to create a large demand. And most people, alas, are not looking for singular, unique wines. Most people are looking for something in the middle, something generally comfortable and familiar – something average.
In other words, bigger estates may make very different wines than a smaller estate in the same vintage, not only for all the reasons I’ve outlined above, but because they have to. Growth has its consequences.
Chapter 5: you, vintage, are now standing on your head
There is one more complexity to throw into the idea of the vintage. I’m not exactly sure how to contextualize this, I don’t think it’s very central to the argument I’m making, so I’ll just reference it here casually, thereby turning what was a rather straight-forward essay into a more abstract conversation.
I do think that another complexity in discussing the idea of the vintage report and, by extension, the idea of “the great vintage,” is that every notion of what makes a wine great has been flipped upside down, at least for a certain wine-dork population.
To make my chapter heading more accurate: The idea of “the great vintage” has been completely inverted.
Historically the great vintages were, more or less, the ripe ones. This idea is so basic and dull it’s almost laughable to us here in the mid-2020ers, yet it is a simple truth that plays out in the historical literature again and again. Clearly there is a logic here: While Germany presented the most extreme version of this challenge, the de facto quest of nearly all historical viticulture was ripeness. This was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
No longer.
We all know that there is more to great wine, and a great vintage, than sugar and alcohol. We all know that a great wine shouldn’t taste fully expressive and developed at two or three months old, which is when most critics are tasting and declaring greatness, or the lack thereof.
Yet the game continued for a shockingly long time. In large swaths of the wine world, I think the game continues?
Within the world of German wine, three vintages covering a span of less than two decades highlight, perfectly, the total inversion of this ripeness-is-all paradigm.
Vintage 2003 was released into the market as the pinnacle of luxury. It was an excess that perfectly expressed our excessive desires. Growers spoke lovingly about the grapes’ extraordinarily long hangtimes, about the warm weather that lingered into September and October. Growers bragged about the ripeness levels (the Oechsle or Brix) they were able to attain.
It was a hot vintage, yet most philosophies of winemaking still revolved around maximizing ripeness – lowering yields, harvesting later, etc. (Yes, the reaction to this vintage changed quickly, at least among wine dorks, but it was released with bravado and fanfare.)
Exactly fifteen years later, a similarly warm (hot) vintage was released with the 2018ers, yet the methodologies of the growers and the expectations of the audience had already changed. Growers talked about shading the grapes, about using higher yields to lower average ripeness levels, about harvesting earlier to preserve acidity, freshness, and elegance.
The lesson was learned. Viticulture was now not only about maximizing ripeness no matter what. It could now also be about minimizing, or at least controlling ripeness in certain vintages. The 2018 vintage, although in many climactic ways similar to 2003, was celebrated for the very fact it did not taste anything like 2003.
To my mind, the 2021 vintage, with its shrill, high-toned acids and indifference to immediate gratification, represents the full realization of these ideas; the paradigm inverted. What was considered great only a few years prior (ripeness, power, depth, fruit, alcohol) could now be seen as a liability. Now it was lightness, energy, finesse, clarity, angularity, incisiveness that was put front and center.
Ripeness numbers that growers in the 1990s and early 2000s (2003, for example) would have considered insufficient, lacking, low quality, were now celebrated, lionized, canonized.
It seems relevant to note that even if the young wines of 2021 presented themselves with “unpleasure” – not pain exactly, but a tartness, a vigor – this toughness spoke to a certain promise, a certain nostalgic view of what a great wine was.
Part of the promise of the 2021ers’ “unpleasure” in youth seemed to be the glorious future they would have, if you could wait. It is, as stated, almost a sentimental notion of how wines were, back in the day – just like those tough Bordeaux from the 1960s that needed decades to unfurl into greatness.
I do believe this is a profound truth. There are no shortcuts. Easy is not always better, easy is easier, it is more efficient.
Regardless of what I believe, the reaction of the market to these nail-hard 2021ers – the decidedly strong sales – seems to indicate that other people recognized something special here as well. Cooler vintages previously had done well in the market, among certain buyers – but I cannot recall a vintage that was so critically and commercially celebrated because it was a cool vintage.
Either way, this is the meaning, the importance of 2021. It opened up a whole new possibility, another option for growers. The path to success might not come from ripeness or excess, it might in fact come from restraint.
And so what we now have is a more confusing landscape, one in which certain growers may be more aligned with one paradigm or another: ripeness, texture, power, or lightness, minerality, finesse… or some mix of both.
And this fact has confused the idea of the vintage report even more; it has made the spectrum of what one might taste even wider.
Conclusion
This leaves us in a rather complicated landscape, it’s true. In any vintage, there will be a multitude of styles, of qualities – finding a common thread may no longer be that easy, or even possible.
Yet I’d suggest that while this may make everything a bit more complex, while it may require a bit more work from us all, the thrill of discovery will be even greater.
It’s certainly possible that I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s possible that at least part of my sense that the vintage report is dead is informed by the fact that, as an importer, I have begun to see every vintage in terms of individual narratives, individual growers.
And maybe this is how things should be seen? I believe this perspective already has its tagline, a bumper sticker waiting to be printed. You’ve seen it before.
“Follow the grower, not the vintage.”
A more profound truth for wine, both in terms of quality and humanity, you will not find. How else do you reconcile the fact that in a so-called horrible vintage, a grower makes the greatest wines of her life?
It happens, all the time in fact.