Raise A Glass: How Whisky Brings People Together

I can’t remember exactly what day it was, but it has been a decade since my father received his terminal cancer diagnosis. He phoned me to say he had been to the doctor, who told him his calcium levels were high. I didn’t know the significance of this at the time, but it meant that he had multiple myeloma, a rare blood and bone cancer that I had never heard of before.

Right up until he was diagnosed, he had been a warehouse worker at the Beam Suntory distillery in the east end of Glasgow. Prior to this, he had worked in distillery warehouses for all of his adult life, also working at White Horse and Long John distilleries.

When speaking to my mother for this article, it came to light that, unfortunately, my dad actually blamed where he worked and attributed whisky itself to his diagnosis, citing it as a "poison" rather than something to be enjoyed. Although I don’t blame him for looking for some kind of reason or something to cling to that might make his diagnosis make sense, the reality is we don’t know, and he didn’t know, the cause of his cancer. Therefore, my personal relationship with the drink has become a bit skewed. I had never really been a whisky drinker; it wouldn’t be something I ever reached for, but I was aware of the cultural status that it had. Maybe I’d like it when I was older.

An Experience for Everyone

Over his career, my dad had accumulated a small collection of whisky, and during his illness, I had been working in Òran Mór, the grand former church-turned-venue in Glasgow's West End. Kenny Macdonald was also working there as a steward, and I knew he had great connections in the whisky world. I had asked him for help with selling my dad’s collection; he was kind and helpful. At the time, his two sons worked in the main bar of Òran Mór and seeing that familial connection within the place that I worked was both comforting and sad.

Now, Kenny is a director at Dràm Mòr, an independent single cask spirits bottling company. His son Ruaraidh previously worked for the company. They began in 2013, initially as a whisky training and events company, before they moved on to bottling their own spirits. I wanted to speak to Kenny to get a different perspective on the world of whisky as it is now.

“Whisky, when treated properly, is an experience for every single person,” Kenny says, “whether they are an experienced whisky connoisseur, or whether they are a complete novice.”

Alasdair Gray mural at Òran Mór. Credit: Mark Wild, CC BY-SA 4.0.

Kenny’s own grandfather spent 33 years in the industry, working at the Hiram Walker distillery in Dumbarton; when he retired in the mid-70s, he had become the head foreman. Kenny himself became interested in whisky as a young man, trying different drams when he was out with his pals. They told him that was an “old man’s drink” – but Kenny saw the beauty in the spirit. He still does, now.

“We want the whisky to sing its song. We've got to allow it to tell us its story,” Kenny remarks when I met with him. His passion for how to properly treat the spirit was palpable and moving. “We don't listen. We drink it too fast. Slow down. Watch how it plays in the glass. Watch the tears form, and it'll tell you who it is. 'I am a light-bodied spirit'. 'I am a full-bodied, robust spirit'. It's telling you who it is. 'Here is what I am'.

“Then, you get to taste it. It gets to your heart. And it means something to you. By the time you finish that glass, you miss it as an old friend, because you've allowed it to sing its song; you've understood what it's all about. And if you're lucky, you might bump into that old friend again one day.”

Making Connections

After speaking to Kenny, I realised that whisky is bigger than me and how I feel about it personally. What it really can boil down to is connection, to sharing moments with people. It is, in fact, an experience that expands over time and history.

Raising a dram to those we have lost holds so much weight and power. Whisky being one of Scotland’s biggest exports, and both Kenny and my father acting as cogs in that machine, is not lost on me. These were two men who dedicated their lives to this spirit, whether enthusiastically or not.

My father passed away on the 4th of August, 2017. Since his passing, I have avoided drinking whisky. However, almost a decade later, I’d like to let it sing its song, to let it tell its story. Down the line, I would hope to meet it again, as an old friend.

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Alisa Wylie is a Glasgow-based writer who writes about music, mental health, and grief