Wines of the golden state

This seemed most un rock’n’roll to me especially as, to my utter astonishment, the band, including Mick Jones and, of all people, Jason Bonham, solemnly declared that they ‘...don’t touch a drop of the stuff.’ No wonder their music is so tepid and ineffectual, I secretly opined. (See how Eric Clapton’s music diluted into the sound of Surrey following his very public abstention).

It turned out that Foreigner’s home-turf venue was, in fact, a South Californian winery and they were granting favours to the owners by driving a truck-load of the stuff around Europe and flogging it to grateful fans before the gigs.

It certainly made a change from jelly-bellied roadies flogging black t-shirts and posters in the foyer.

However, it did make me wonder how anybody, let alone rock stars, could live in a place like California while denying themselves the glories of the local wine.

For Californian wine is now regarded as among the finest on earth. In fact, peel away the lingering snobbery still afforded to anything vaguely French, and there is a good case to state that, in terms of climate, soil type and production technique, it is hard imagine a more perfect wine area.

This was not always the case.

Everything changes
California’s many vineyards have suffered terribly over the past hundred years. In fact, it took the state 40 years after the ending of prohibition (in 1933) to finally shed itself of the prejudice that followed. (Wine critics, in the days before they became irritating televisual celebrities, found it quite safe to unleash torrents of unwarranted critical slurs on perfectly acceptable Californian wines).

The state became the whipping boy of the wine world.

It was the 1970s that changed everything.

For a start, I blamed The Eagles, arguably the most organic Californian band of all time.

It was, and remains, absolutely impossible to sit listening to an Eagles album in the sun without the accompaniment of a glass of chilled Chardonnay.

What is more, people who are snobbish about The Eagles tend to be equally snooty about Chardonnay.

Gentle, lilting, formulaic? Consumed by people in Essex who own sheepskin rugs?

Nonsense.

The Eagles, for all their mainstream status, made the mistake of writing great songs.

Simple, effective, evocative and just as capable of carrying emotive power as, say, a fragmented chunk of Radiohead. Arguably more so.

Exactly the same can be said of Californian Chardonnay which remains the wine that most effectively captures the relaxed vibe of a Californian afternoon, watching the sun arch across a vivid blue sky.

Truth of the matter
In truth, California is still linked with the cheaper brands of Chardonnay which flooded the market 20 years ago or so.

But the quality of that particular wine has risen beyond recognition and is now joined by particularly exceptional cousins such as Zinfandel, Pinot Noir, Merlot, Syrah (Shiraz) and Sauvignon Blanc.

If Chardonnay remains The Eagles, then think of Zinfandal as Guns’n’Roses.

To some extent, winemakers of California have it easy.

The stipulations of vintage that often shackle European wines are not enforced there and, also, with their impeccable sun quota, they can pretty much plant what they want, where they want.

This is a flexibility unique to California and it has been put to exceptional use.

Some of the Napa Valley classics, for example, now command prices as high as anything in Bordeaux or Burgundy. (Particularly the cabs or merlots).

The Napa Valley, arguably the most famous wine area of California, is surprisingly tiny.

A mere 30 miles in length and divided into many sub-regions. (Rutherford and Stag’s Leap gaining particular fame).

A true wonder
If perusing Californians in supermarket or wine shop, look down the label for Napa and its close neighbour Sonoma, which produces classy Pinot Noirs and - Guns’n’Roses time again – powerful, punky Zinfandels.

This is the key.

There is no dominating grape.

California is a lovely confusion and reaches the highest standards across the board.

Living there is a distant dream for most of us but, to be able to sample its beauty for less than a fiver is one of the true wonders of modern logistics.

Welcome to the Hotel California.

LA: A stop in the City of Angels
22420 Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu. How about that for an address? I can claim it to have been mine, albeit for a few short months and a handful of years ago, although I have returned since.

This fact seems all the more distant as type, glancing up at the leaden skies of Warrington, a tune from the Mamas and Papas running through my head.

Every day for four months would begin with the consuming of a football-sized orange, plucked from our own grove, unpeeled and consumed while languishing on the veranda gazing across golden sands to the island of Catalina in the dreamy Pacific.

Almost inevitably, the day would conclude with me in a similar position, watching the huge sunset explode into the ocean.

A scene of spectacular regularity, often enhanced by a couple of Marguerites.

If I glanced across the bay, I would be similarly entranced by the lights of LA itself.

Visiting Los Angeles is never easy.

A 10-hour flight from Britain is enough to discourage all but the more hard-bitten travellers. Nevertheless, even that arduous journey helps to instil a sense of distance into the holiday.

As west as maps will allow and, famously, a city of multiple personalities, from languid afternoons out in Malibu to the frenzied eccentricities of Venice beach, from beautiful haciendas of West Hollywood to a downtown edginess that simmers with malicious intent.

But it is impossible not to feel seduced.

Built for the motorcar
As David Hockney’s paintbrush informed us, primary LA colours are blue and white and only the swaying green of the palm trees are allowed to disturb the neatness of the scene.

It is not all favourable.

LA is a city built for the motorcar and yet, with 10-lane highways and signs that proclaim ‘MERGING BUSES AHEAD’ I do not find driving there remotely pleasurable. (Unless one is surging up PCH towards Santa Barbara).

Nevertheless the vast layout of the city is surprisingly easy to understand.

Most people will regard Hollywood Boulevard (rather Blackpool-esque in my view) at the epicentre but the glorious snaking drive down Sunset Boulevard will skirt Beverley Hills, West Hollywood, Bell Air, Westwood and Pacific Palisades.

As you drive, palm tree-lined boulevards slowly give way to the kind of modest abodes of which Jim Morrison would sing in LA Woman (‘With a little girl in a Hollywood Bungalow’).

This is, of course, the city built on rock’n’roll and even the lovely street names seem to echo in a thousand songs.

La Cienaga, Santa Monica Boulevard, Ventura Highway.

Warming to the rock’n’roll theme, I sought refuge in the original Barney’s Beanery in West Hollywood.

This low brow though romantic eaterie still boasts the pool table that the 60s set – Graham Nash, Joni Mitchell, Sky Saxon, Jim Morrison, Dave Crosby, Paul Kantner – would gather around in conspirational huddles, no doubt planning the course of the alternative society.

Tacos and celebrities
How strange it seemed to be eating Tacos on those same benches frequented by the 60s rock’n’roll glitterati.

But celebrity thrives in almost every corner of Los Angeles.

While shopping in the Malibu supermarket, for instance, we found ourselves picking vegetables alongside Ali McGraw.

While on Hollywood Boulevard, the girl with a mischievous grin who skipped passed on the pavement was Madonna and even John Lydon was spotted sauntering along Venice beach.

There is reputedly nowhere else on earth quite like LA for celebrity spotting, which seems natural for the city of pavement stars.

Hollywood itself, of course, is largely a place of the mind.

Of course the sign shimmers famously there above the snaking canyons, and Universal Studios will provide you with touristic highlights but the real workmanlike studios and film offices are to be found in nearby San Fernando Valley.

All is illusion, which rather adds to the charm.

Is charming, too, if you can stand seeing the trappings of ostentatious wealth.

Sit at any pavement side cantina on, say the smart shopping street of Melrose and all forms of human life will flutter by smiling and, given half a chance, befriending you, if only fleetingly.

City of ‘know how’
The great travel writer, Jan Morris, once described LA as the city of ‘know how’ and therein lies its secret.

Beneath the glitz lies a hard working, innovative town that takes a great pride in doing things well....very well.

To experience this, all you have to do is call a plumber.

He – or indeed she – will arrive within minutes, a huge array of tools hanging from his belt and a determination to ‘sort out your goddamn plumbing problems.’ He is the unseen glory of the City of Angels and every bit as relevant as the shoppers who flounce across the pavements of Beverley Hills.

But famous or not, rich or poor, from the surfers at Malibu – who rarely resemble anything on Baywatch – to the skateboarding ‘freakshow’ of Venice beach, it is a city for people watching and everybody appears fascinating and, in the nicest possible way, ever so slightly ‘bonkers’.