GOTTA HAVE THE FUNK

By Alan Goldfarb

Oct. 9, 2022

We want the funk. We need the funk. We gotta have the funk. Parliament Funkadelic knew all about the funk, and so did Ben Harper when he gave us everybody’s got ‘em, the funk that is. So, what’s the problem funky natural wine people? You don’t like funky? Be careful what you wish for. When you began hyping hands-off wine, you shoulda known there was gonna be funk. And to me, that’s a good thing.

Consider: kimchee, cabbage rolls, Gorgonzola,  fermented black beans, fermented anything, then throw in some garlic full sour pickles and durian and then some Dylan vocals, and Dirty Al Hrabosky and whatta ya got?

Funk, funky, stinky, smelly, unique, hip, weird, and wonderful.

So, what are you bellyachin’ about, you pet nat pusillanimous ninnies? You knew what the gig was when you took it. You knew you were tweekin’ the hoi polloi and the swells when you dug in your heels and began screaming, “unhand that wine”. Now that you seemed to have gotten your way (and BTW, I’m with you, to a point) as do-nuthin’-to-my-wine has reached critical mass and seems to have gained a stompin’ foot-hold on the gentry.

So, cease and desist your whining. You don’t want any of us interventionistas calling your oh so righteous elixirs, funky? Then come up with a better adjective you can live with. One that obfuscates the ugly delicious, aromatics that make our proboscis’s flare and our mouths drool with anticipation of what could or could not be a satisfying quaff.

You’ve embraced the weird, the off-putting, the truly musty, misty, and unconventionalness of your wines – and many of us bought it – literally and emblematically. You made the statement. You jumped the shark(s) and you’ve even managed to make a few shekels out of it.  Brilliant, good for you, and brava(o). Natural is better than unnatural any day of the week and especially on Sunday, Billy.

So, put your Jimmy Durantes evermore deeply into your stemless stemware and take a hardy whiff, hardier than you’ve ever taken before without the aid of a CPAP, and revel in the blissful utterliness of the stink. Now, that’s a smelly smell. Don’t it reek of natural goodness? Isn’t it reminiscent of clean, wholesome earth (read: god-given manure)? There’s nothing like it.  That, with a schmear of matjes herring on your onion bagel (the latter to be baked by Ethel’s). Ain’t that what you staked your schnozes on? 

Now, go to your corner and continue to snivel. Or come out, with mouthpiece firmly implanted in your maw (unlike my man Steph), and box. Keep throwin’ those haymakers. Maybe then you’ll become as funky as George Clinton. Nah.