Rock n' Roll Trivia. Brought to you by Scotland.

“Hair of the Dog,” probably the most enduring song by Scottish rock band Nazareth, is one of that intriguing minority of rock tunes in which the song’s title is not mentioned anywhere in its lyrics. And unlike (for example) Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Faith No More’s “Epic,” or Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit”—for which the songs’ titles can be seen as describing either their style or themes—the phrase hair of the dog seems to be completely unrelated to its song, which depicts a man confronting and challenging a manipulative woman, telling her that she’s met her match.

Adding to the muddle is the fact that the phrase hair of the dog has a colloquial meaning, one that is also totally unrelated to the Nazareth song. Most everyone who has awakened to a crippling hangover after a night of alcoholic excess has thought—assuming the simple act of thinking isn’t unbearably painful—of taking a bit of the “hair of the dog that bit them.”

Novice drinkers or those unfamiliar with English-language slang will be relieved to learn that taking the hair of the dog that bit them does not necessarily involve being bitten by an actual dog—although it could be argued that a properly executed bender would, in fact, greatly increase one’s odds of being bitten by any number of species, most of them unsanitary.
 

“First the man takes a drink, then the drink takes a drink,
then the drink bites the man and poops on the rug.”
We’re pretty sure that’s how the old saying goes.

Furthermore, hair of the dog does not involve mixing actual dog hair—or, God forbid, any other dog parts—into one’s drink. It’s fair to point out, though, that your average drunk is generally willing to eat or drink all sorts of awful things that a sane and sober person would never consider: dog food, dog hair, mat shots, bottles of Tabasco sauce, Jägermeister—the list is practically endless—and if you’ve managed to convince yourself that a tall glass of dog hair will make you feel less hung over, we won’t stop you unless you’re standing on our carpet at the time. 

No, to take the hair of the dog, in a drinking context, simply means to try to cure a hangover by getting right back up on that vomit-colored horse and starting to drink again.

To the non-drinker, this seems counter-intuitive and nauseating, even borderline crazy, not to mention likely to spiral into ever-bigger problems down the road. The experienced drinker, on the other hand, knows that the best way to undo a mistake is to continue making it, again and again and again, until coming to the partially-sobering realization that shut up, I don’t have a problem, I can quit any time I want.





Any listener with a passing knowledge of the English language will find it safe to say that “Hair of the Dog”—we’re talking about the song again now—has nothing to do with hangover cures, alcoholism, hair, bites, or dogs. How, then, to explain the title?

We’re glad you asked. Back in 1975, right around the time when Nazareth was working on the album that became Hair of the Dog (which, not coincidentally, contained the song of the same name), certain parts of human society actually were troubled by naughty language. This is why recording artists had to wait more than thirty years to truly express their musical genius through insightful song titles such as “Fuck” (Bring Me the Horizon), “Fuck” (Derrick Jensen), “Fuck You” (Cee Lo Green),  “Fuck You” (Nuno Bettencourt), “Fuck You” (Dr. Dre), “If You Seek Amy” (Britney Spears—she can spell, get it?), “Motherfuckeroos” (by a band called, believe it or not, Fuck),¹ “Shit” (Tall Tall Trees), “Shit?” (Whiskey Tango), and “People = Shit” (Slipknot), or band names such as Oh Shit! and Shit Robot.²

Nazareth wanted to name their album and the song Son of a Bitch—because, hey, they actually do say that in the song, quite a bit actually—but their record label didn’t like it. John Lennon could probably have gotten away with it, but Nazareth didn’t have quite the same clout, so instead they had to get clever. Hence, the title is a play on words, which is a kind of thing smart people sometimes do to convince themselves that they’re smart:

• A son, as you may be aware, is often an heir to his parents’ fortune or land; heir, pronounced correctly, sounds kind of like hair.³
• Bitch, as you may also be aware, is a name for a specific kind of dog.
• So, Hair of the Dog = Son of a Bitch.

And he says son of a bitch in the song! Get it?

Ha! I get it. It spells F-U- . . .
Wait, let me start over.

We’re well aware that many of our readers had probably either learned or figured out this little bit of irrelevance long ago. We ourselves caught onto it almost immediately when it was explained to us, several weeks ago. For the rest of you, though, we hope that this has provided a small but intriguing insight into the history of rock and censorship. And for any of you who seriously believe that “If You Seek Amy” is a clever title for a song, we’re quite confident that this absolutely boggled your minds.

NOTES

1. We’re guessing they bring the house down at all the junior-high dances they’re invited to play. Although the title “Motherfuckeroos” is such a bizarre combination of offensive and silly that we are forced to admit that we laughed when we first read it.

2. We suspect that they’re not very good. 

3. Pronounced incorrectly, it sounds like “tractor.”

Some Guy's Adventures Through the Pint Glass, Part 5

Day 5: They speak of my drinking, but never think of my thirst. (Scottish proverb)

 

The familiar word claymore comes from the decidedly less-familiar Scottish Gaelic word claidheamh-mòr, which translates (from what I’ve read, anyway; my Gaelic is rusty at best) as “really big sword.” Wielded with both hands by fierce men without pants and often exceeding five feet in length—still talking about the literal sword here, you perverts—the claidheamh-mor for centuries was used to casually and cleanly split human heads in two. 
 

Since the Second World War, the word claymore has probably been more recognizable as the name of an American anti-personnel mine (invented, interestingly, by a Norman A. MacLeod—a name that suggests Scottish heritage, and possibly even a secret life as an immortal swordsman from the Dark Ages). The Claymore mine raised the ante on its ancient counterpart by unleashing destruction not just within its immediate vicinity but up to a range of some one hundred yards.

 

The claymore, in both its medieval and its modern iterations, has spread pain and destruction not only in the country (or countries) of its birth but also worldwide, and bears the blame for the creation of tens if not hundreds of thousands of sobbing widows and orphans.

By an odd coincidence, today’s selection from the Beer Mystery Case is Claymore Scotch Ale, Great Divide Brewing Company, Denver, Colorado.
 

 

One of the first things I noticed about this beer after fifteen or sixteen hours of staring at the label was that, despite its name, Claymore Scotch Ale is not brewed anywhere near Scotland. Denver, Colorado, is in fact quite far from Scotland, separated from it by (among other things) an ocean, island nations populated by leprechauns and/or volcanoes, several American states, and the flattest and least exciting parts of Colorado. That’s a long way for a beer to travel; even the European Swallow is not known to migrate so far (and of course the African Swallow is non-migratory).

 

That said, though, while it may not be brewed in Scotland, it seems safe to assume that Claymore Scotch Ale is nevertheless at least based on some sort of ancient Scottish recipe, one designed to terrify and humiliate the English in medieval drinking contests and later smuggled across the Atlantic hidden in some sort of newly-invented engine part, or possibly a coconut.
 

The beer that resulted from that long trek, Claymore Scotch Ale, has a burned, ashy smell, as if it had been brewed in an old fireplace. And it’s very dark, not in that “dark beer” sort of way but in that “absorbs all light within its event horizon” sort of way. The first sip, however, proves to be surprisingly painless, far less harsh than I anticipated. However, the label’s descriptions of the beer as “hardy” and “wee heavy” show a touch of subtle understatement not expected from the average bit of beer advertising. 
 

What the Great Divide Brewing Company’s marketing department probably should have put on the label was that—if you’ll pardon the crude expression—Claymore Scotch Ale will put hair on your balls.¹ And if you don’t have balls when you start drinking a glass of Claymore, you will by the time you’re done. 
 

God help you if you drink two.

 
The first few sips left a noticeable and not-altogether-pleasant aftertaste, but by the end of my second glass, that aftertaste has developed into something far more palatable, sweeter and with the barest suggestion of chocolate. Also, I’m suddenly aware that I can no longer feel my feet.
 
Scotland has given the world the steam engine, the flush toilet, the telephone (which was invented in America, but by a Scot), several good films starring Sean Connery² and Brian Cox, and “Auld Lang Syne.” On the other hand, not everything to come out of Scotland was genius; they’re also responsible for the kilt—known to Scottish Buddhists as trou wu trou³—and the caber toss, which, while not stupid, crazy, or cruel, still ranks right up there with chess boxing as one of the weirdest sports on Earth.

 

It’s hard to say whether Claymore Scotch Ale belongs in the genius category or the kilt-wearing/caber-tossing category⁴—possibly because I’ve had two of them on top of an early-afternoon black-and-tan, so clearly my judgment of good ideas vs. stupid ones is more than a little suspect. I’m happy to report, though, that this is a pretty damned good beer, and if I survive the hangover with my vision intact, I’ll probably find my way to the liquor store sooner or later for a couple more Claymores.
 

Some Guy’s rating for Claymore Scotch Ale: four thumbs up, two tossed cabers, and one crippling, eyeball-bruising headache.⁵

For more of Some Guy’s Adventures through the Pint Glass, check here: Day 1  Day 2  Day 3  Day 4  Day 5  Day 6

NOTES

1. If you won’t pardon the expression, please stop reading before you get to this point of the review.

2. Also The Avengers and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

3. Translated roughly as “pants without pants.”

4. Please keep in mind, angry Scottish and Scottish-American readers, that I’m not actually disparaging kilt-wearing, caber-tossing, or being Scottish. I’m merely suggesting that they’re not quite as brilliant, all things considered, as the steam engine or the flush toilet. Disagree with me all you want, but please, put down the giant tree.

5. I can’t help but notice that I have few, if any, pictures of actual Scots in this column. As much as that sucks for Scotland, and probably for my credibility, I suppose it’s appropriate for a review of a Scotch ale brewed some 4,400 miles from Scotland. And it’s probably no weirder than the fact that in Highlander, the 100%-Scottish Sean Connery plays a Spaniard, and the Scottish character (Duncan MacLeod) is played by a Frenchman. Although if this is the weirdest thing you can find in a movie about a 400-year-old Scotsman wielding a samurai sword in a worldwide fight for survival against other immortals who die only when their heads are chopped off, then you may be paying attention to the wrong parts of the movie.