by Fred Noe
“They flew in a what?”
I shrugged, shook my head.
“Hell, boy, if there’s one thing I know you know how to do, it’s talk.”
I shrugged again.
“Listen,” Booker said. “Don’t let them tell you what to do. You be your own man. You’re a god damn Beam. You say what you want, when you want.”
Sounded like another plan. And I still follow that one to this day.
Another part of my education was to immerse myself in the distilling process. Know every detail, in and out. Obviously, I already knew a lot about it, I had grown up at the distillery and worked there for close to 20 years, so there weren’t a whole lot of people in the world who knew more than me, but still they wanted to make sure I knew how to make bourbon blindfolded just in case I ever had to.
I had help from some of the brand people back at the corporate office, most notably a woman named Kathleen DiBenedetto. She pretty much knew everything about the Small Batches and she shared what she knew. She was a passionate lady, and she spent a lot of time teaching me the marketing ropes. But my two main teachers were Booker, the artist who intuitively knew how to make whiskey, and Dr. Jerry Dalton, our Master Distiller.
Jerry was an interesting man. He lived in the house behind us in Bardstown and had a PhD in philosophy. He had even written a book about Taoism (which, I admit, I never quite got around to reading). He was tall and big and had a mustache and, even though he was a philosopher and was soft spoken, you didn’t screw with him. Among other things, he had been a Marine, and if he wanted to he could pinch your head like a grape, though I never once heard him so much as raise his voice.
Jerry was also a scientist, and his science was making bourbon. He was passionate about it. Could talk about it forever, which he did. He was as smart as they come. (I remember him breaking down some barrels, taking them apart stave by stave, then putting them back together again. He wanted to know exactly how a barrel was constructed. The man liked to learn.) So he put me through the paces, worked me hard. Gave me tests, made me read. Chemistry, science. Considering my lifelong allergy to school and books and teachers and homework, this was a challenge. Unlike college, though, there was no place to hide. I was in bourbon boot camp. Jerry during the day at the distillery, Booker at night at home. Man, I was getting it coming and going; they had me cornered. The only place I could relax was driving back and forth from work and home. Some days I drove as slow as I could; I didn’t want to get anywhere because they were waiting for me when I did.
“No one’s giving you nothing,” Booker would say. “You got to earn it.”
It was tough going and I’m not going to lie to you, there were times when I got tired of it all, frustrated. Why can’t they just give me the job? I’m a Beam, it’s my blood right.
But they made me work for it, and I kept my frustration to myself. I kept my mouth shut. I listened. I studied. In other words, for once, I made a real effort to learn. Looking back on it, they did the right thing, no question. They made me earn it. Finally, after what seemed forever, I got a passing grade from my tutors and was deemed worthy to start representing our 200-year-old brand.
“You’re not going to get a second chance at this,” Booker said one morning. We were sitting at the kitchen table in the Big House. (If you’re thinking we spent a lot of time at our kitchen table in the Big House, you’re right. Sometimes I think I’ve spent about 80 percent of my life at that table.) Even though he hadn’t been feeling well—he was starting to get sick but we didn’t know it just yet—he had made a point of getting up early to give me one more piece of advice before I headed back to the distillery to take one more quiz.
“You represent the family, everyone who works at the plant, the history. You’re not some hired gun. You’re a Beam. Lot of people going to be looking over your shoulder, see how you’re doing, how you’re acting.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A lot of people will be waiting for you to mess up and as soon as you do, you’re back at the plant.”
“I’m not going to mess up.”
“Every day you got to go out there and treat it like it’s the first day of a new job. Be enthusiastic. Look people in the eye. Remember people’s names. Let them know you appreciate their business. Make them feel special because they are special. There’s a lot of bourbons out there, they got choices. It’s your job to make sure they choose ours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right then.”
“All right.”
I thought he was done with that morning’s pep talk, but he wasn’t. He had one more thing to say and this last missive, it really hit home.
“They’re going to try to make you me,” he said. “Don’t let them. Come up with your own stories, give your own opinions, be your own man. Make them forget me.”
Now I knew that wasn’t ever going to happen—Booker was unforgettable—but I decided then and there that I was going to carve out my own identity, make a space for myself, do it my way.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and got up to leave.
They decided to start me slow, put me in front of a few small crowds. Walk before I run. As Booker more or less said, the company was taking a risk putting me on the road in front of the public. You have to remember, in our business in particular, maybe more than most industries, image and reputation are key, and ours had been built over generations. I learned (after the fact) that there was a big debate over me back at the home office, a lot of memos flying around. There were some people who thought I could do it, but a lot of others who thought I was too country. No experience speaking in front of a crowd, of dealing with the public, of being with the media. Maybe not the right guy. He’s going to say the wrong thing, or be too scared to say anything. Booker could pull it off, he was larger than life, had a personality and then some. But Fred, hell, they weren’t so sure. An unknown entity. I had kept a low profile in the company, stayed in the shadows. A lot of people didn’t even know I existed.
So, I admit, yeah, I was nervous. I was middle-aged, had spent most of my adult life as a working man. Now I was going to be a spokesperson. Be articulate, entertaining, informative, persuasive. Not much pressure.
I was ready enough, though. Jerry and Booker had primed me. The company and I had written a formal presentation for me. I had practiced it again and again and again, taking pains not to say “ain’t” or cuss. I knew my stuff. They even bought me a new suit from Nordstrom. All systems go.
I just needed somewhere to go, and soon I was given my orders. My first-ever public appearance would be close by, at Barren River, Kentucky, for a small group of people. The group was having their annual meeting and as a little diversion, had asked that someone come down and lead them through a bourbon tasting and give a talk about the history of our company and family.
Showtime.
Jim picked me up and drove me down there. I sat in the front, went over my notes, nervous and getting more nervous. They say the two things people fear the most in life are dying and public speaking. At that point, I would have disagreed with the order of that list.
“So, what’s this group?” I asked.
“What?”
“This group I’m speaking to. Who is it again? No one told me anything. I keep asking.”
“Oh right, right, you should probably know that,” Jim began. Remember, he was in public relations, which meant he talked a lot but never really said anything. “Well, it’s interesting. A unique group, a unique opportunity.”
“What are they? Rotary? Kiwanis? Bunch of doctors or lawyers or something?” A few years before, Booker had given a talk in front of a big bunch of attorneys in Philadelphia and it hadn’t gone well. He had gone off on them, sent them all to hell, stormed offstage. Lawyers don’t like to listen, he told me later, just talk. “Hope it’s not lawyers,” I said.
“No, no lawyers. It’s a unique group. Not sure why they scheduled this. But it will be fun.”
“Who are they?”
>
“Well, that part is interesting. Really interesting.”
I waited. Jim cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said. “It’s the FBI, to be honest. The Kentucky division or something along those lines. I didn’t read the whole memo.”
I digested this bit of information. “What do you mean? You mean the real FBI? The FBI?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure there’s only one.”
“You mean the guys who arrest people? The guys with guns?”
Jim cleared his throat again and switched lanes. “Well, I don’t know if they’ll have their guns with them. But, I mean, I guess they might, I’m not sure of their policy on firearms and alcohol, I guess I could—”
I cut him off. “Now, why the hell am I going to speak in front of a bunch of law enforcement people? You know this is a dry county we’re going to, don’t you? You’re not even supposed to have liquor there. Plus, these guys are going be all uptight and everything.”
“I don’t think they’ll be that uptight.”
“You ever meet any FBI agents?”
“Not personally.”
“They ain’t Larry the Cable Guy, I can tell you that.”
I was probably overreacting, but you have to remember, whiskey people and law enforcement people historically didn’t get along, at least not in Kentucky. I envisioned the group, imagined those guys who used to be on the TV show Dragnet. Just the facts, ma’am. A ball of fun. I imagined that some of their relatives probably put some of my relatives in jail 50 years ago. Why couldn’t I be speaking to a bunch of bartenders, or NFL cheerleaders? I’m being set up to fail, I thought.
Jim pulled up to the place, a small building overlooking the lake.
“I’ll go park the car,” he said.
“Keep it running,” I said. “This won’t take long.”
Now I know that there are more stressful things in life then giving a speech, but you have to remember that I had never done anything like this before, so it was a big step, a milestone in my life. I remember slipping in the side door and waiting my turn to speak. The room was packed with a bunch of men in suits and ties, and they looked serious. I was following a dry speaker, I think he was talking about the FBI’s new policy on reimbursement for car mileage, so at least he was an easy act to follow. But I had the jitters. Not for the first time, I wondered if I was up for this, if I was cut out to be a spokesperson, talk the talk. At the last second, I started to doubt myself, started to think I was better off back at the plant with my buds. Who was I kidding? I was a workingman, punching a clock. Now I was wearing a suit, trying to entertain and educate a roomful of complete strangers. I looked out the window. Jump in that car, push Jim out and be back in Bardstown in less than an hour. Maybe head down to the plant, help out the night shift. That’s where I belonged, not here.
But when they called my name, I took a deep breath and walked up there and got it done. Spoke 45 minutes straight about the history of the family, how we make bourbon, why our products are different, better. Then we poured ourselves a little drink and tasted some of our Small Batch Bourbons. The crowd was respectful, no one pulled out any handcuffs or tried to read me my rights. It all went pretty smoothly. Not perfect, mind you. I stumbled and stuttered a few times, cussed accidentally a few times, said “ain’t” probably more than I should have, but in the end I think it went okay.
“That went great,” Jim said when we got back in the car.
“Went all right.” I turned my head. I didn’t want to let him see how much I was sweating, or hear my heart pumping like an engine piston on a wore-out truck.
Things got easier after that first tasting. My next talk was at a casino in Tunica, Mississippi, a few weeks later. A room full of high rollers—whales, they call them. The casino was trying to show their appreciation to these men, thank them for losing millions of dollars a year to them. All you can drink, all you can eat. Waitresses in short dresses. Cigar smoke. A little different from the FBI event. That’s one thing I’ve always loved about our business: it cuts across all lines.
The casino tasting went fine. The crowd was a lot looser, and I fed off their interest and energy (and the fact that they already had a few drinks in them). I felt better up there, more confident. I remember thinking afterward that, hell, maybe I can do this.
One thing I learned about those early experiences was that preparation is everything. There’s simply no substitute for being ready, practicing, rehearsing, anticipating the questions you could get. I had help starting out, good teachers, but at the end of the day, it was up to me. I was standing up there alone. So I closed my door, shut out the distractions, and got serious. I studied like I never studied before. I went over my presentation close to a hundred times, knew it backward and forward. Practiced it in front of a mirror. You might think you could get by with maybe just personality in this job, tell a few jokes, maybe a family story or two, but that will only take you so far. The people who make a mark are the people who put in the time, who take their job seriously. I learned that a little late in life, but I did learn it and I’m glad I did.
CHAPTER 7
ROAD WARRIOR
It wasn’t long before I was on the road pretty much all the time, hosting bourbon tastings, speaking at cigar smokers, fundraisers, wine and spirit trade shows, bourbon dinners, and restaurant and bar openings. When I wasn’t at events, our sales team would be chauffeuring me around to retail liquor stores (we call them “off premise” locations) and to bars and restaurants (“on premise”), where I would meet and thank the people who were selling our bourbons, encouraging them to sell more. I was on the road again, just like when I was with Hank, except this time I wasn’t sleeping on the floor of the tour bus, and no one was shooting out TVs. Real hotels, real beds. Real nice. Pinocchio, you’re a real boy. New York City, Los Angeles, Seattle, San Francisco, Dallas, Phoenix, Miami, Minneapolis, Denver, Detroit, Chicago, Boston. Have bourbon, will travel.
But it wasn’t a vacation. Far from it. There were ups and downs, to be sure. Sometimes an event would draw hundreds of people ready to rock ’n’ roll, eager to hear what I had to say and taste some bourbon. Afterwards, they’d wait patiently in line for my autograph like I was a rock star. Other times, I would be at a bottle signing (where I sign bottles of Beam bourbon) at a roadside liquor store in the middle of nowhere and maybe three people showed. I learned early on that you had to go with the flow. Do the same job, whether it’s for a packed house or one person.
And the days were long. A typical one started early, with a breakfast with our local sales team to talk about the market, hear how sales were, what’s moving, what wasn’t. Then it was off to see some accounts: bars, restaurants, say hello to the bartenders, the people on the front line, answer their questions. Maybe make three or four stops before noon. At lunch, it was time for a waitstaff training, where I spoke to a small group of waitresses and waiters at a top account, explained our history, how our bourbons are different, how they’re made, how they should be tasted and enjoyed responsibly. Then we sampled, took a few sips. (That’s usually more effective than me talking.) Next, it was more stops at retailers, mostly liquor stores, maybe do a bottle signing, then back to the hotel for a quick shower and to check my messages.
By five or six o’clock, they were back to pick me up for the evening’s activities. That was usually the highlight of the day, the main reason I was in town. This could include anything from a bourbon dinner for a group of people at a large restaurant, or a bourbon tasting where I led consumers through a selection of our whiskeys. Sometimes we did something called a Great Whiskey Debate. Those were among my favorites. I would pair off with a representative of our single-malt scotch line; usually it was either Richard Paterson, a master scotch blender, or Simon Brooking, our scotch ambassador. We would make a grand entrance at these events, Richard or Simon to bagpipe music, me to a banjo, then we’d go at it, debating which is the world’s preferred whiskey, scotch or bourbon. It was scripted, but after a
while, we pretty much winged it, threw insults at each other—me making jokes about men in skirts, and Simon or Richard making fun of Kentucky and hillbillies. Classy, sophisticated humor. All the while we were sampling the two different types of whiskies, pointing out the differences as well as the similarities. It was part entertainment, part education, and all good fun. We used to draw hundreds of people and everyone loved it, including me. I couldn’t believe I was getting paid to do it.
After the big event, it was off to dinner somewhere, usually at another top account in the area, where I got a chance to meet the manager or the owners and pose for a few pictures, maybe sign a few more bottles. Around midnight, we would hit one more bar to thank them for their patronage, then finally off to bed. That wasn’t an unusual day for me. Still isn’t. It was fun, but at times, it wasn’t easy. I could be gone for weeks on end, living out of a suitcase.
Early on I missed my family some. I wasn’t used to being away from home, from Sandy and Freddie. But Sandy knew this is what I wanted to do, knew when she married me this is what could happen, so she went along fine. Freddie handled it okay, too. He was a little older when I hit the road, so he could adapt. I think it would have been tougher on me had he been just a boy. That said, I missed my share of baseball games and birthday parties. But it was the life I had chosen. Take the good with the bad. Sacrifices, we all got to make them.
My schedule nowadays is a little easier, but not by a whole lot. I’m not as young as I used to be, so I watch what I eat and drink when I’m on the road. When I first started out, that wasn’t always the case. In fact, things could get flat-out wild. Not Hank Williams, Jr. wild, but wild enough. Some of our sales boys could party as good as anyone back then. They were professionals. Adding to the situation, I think they felt an obligation to go out and show me a good time when I came to town. After a while, it became something like a competition out in the field. (“Hey, I kept Fred out to three in Chicago.” “Hell, I kept him up to five in Pittsburgh.”) I never had the heart to tell them that sometimes, after 16 hours of eating and drinking, my idea of a good time was my bed in my hotel room, but I always went along. Mornings came pretty early back then. But the sales boys were my buds, and we had some good times together, so it was worth it. In a way, the sales boys were like family. Still are.