Popes, Punks, and Posers: What Your Wine Says About You

In early America, hierarchy was brutally binary: you either owned land or you didn’t. Titles were gone, coats of arms discarded, and the powdered wigs left behind with the old world. In this raw new republic, land was the currency of power. If you had it, you were Somebody. If you didn’t, you worked for Somebody—willingly if you were lucky, forcibly if you were not. Race and gender? Let’s save that for a separate study—perhaps one paired with the opaque complexity of Nebbiolo.

This wasn’t the old European social class system, with its centuries of codified manners and class-based choreography. America promised a clean slate—but let’s not kid ourselves: it simply replaced inherited privilege with economic absolutism. Karl Marx would’ve drawn a line down the page—haves vs. have-nots—and claimed he had captured the essence. No offense to Karl’s pedantic economic determinism, but today’s blog is about something far more nuanced—and perhaps far more delusional.

Because what happens when those landless souls get a little money? They “climb”. And everyone cheers—Hallelujah, the American Dream lives! But the climb is economic, not cultural. You can buy the house, but you can’t buy the instincts. The lack of ease, the cultural dissonance—it shows. You’re out of sync, out of step, and you don’t even hear the music. And the tragedy? You don’t know it. You mistake consumption for sophistication. You think you’ve arrived, but what you’ve bought is the costume, not the character.

But what if—what if—you embraced your place in the order? Not with shame, but with clarity. What if you didn’t pretend? Then comes liberation. You are no longer a confused social climber clutching your Châteauneuf du Pape with trembling hands. You are proud of your pint, your laced boots, your corner of the world. You’re not imitating the elite—you’re owning your own code. This is cultural class consciousness—not in the Marxist sense, but in the very real, very grounded awareness of who you are and who you’re not.

And that, dear reader, is where the English Oi! movement makes its entrance. The cultural soundtrack of a working class that didn’t want to be invited to the gala. They brought their own beer. They weren’t interested in sophistication—they were interested in truth. No illusion. No pretense. Just combat boots on concrete and volume at 11.

Now you’re probably wondering what the hell all this has to do with wine. Isn’t this a wine blog? Why are we talking about hierarchy and street punk music? Ah—but you see—that’s exactly the point. Wine, like music, like class, carries meaning. Some bottles wear their history like a velvet robe. Others show up with a twist cap and no apologies. And just like people, some wines know who they are—and some are desperately trying to be something they’re not.

Let’s uncork that idea.

The first time I heard the words Châteauneuf-du-Pape outside a wine afficionado’s mouth was in a Beastie Boys track. Yes, the Beasties. Body Movin’, to be precise. And in true New York City swagger, Ad-Rock spits:

“Like a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape / I am like a fine wine when I start to rap.”

Now that—that—is cultural fluency. Ad-Rock didn’t say Merlot. He didn’t say Bordeaux. He went straight for the Southern Rhône’s aristocratic apex. Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The wine of popes. A bottle that doesn’t just taste rich—it signals it. And in one clever line, he placed himself in that hierarchy. Not by accident. With intention. Because if you know, you know. And if you don’t? You miss the reference, just like you miss the rhythm of a class culture that isn’t yours.

So yes, this is a wine blog. But it’s also a meditation on how we perform identity. Through music. Through what we drink. Through how we pretend—and how we sometimes, beautifully, don’t.

Let’s begin where the vines grow thick with history: Southern Rhône.

Châteauneuf-du-Pape literally means “the pope’s new castle.” In the 14th century, during the Avignon Papacy, the puppet Pope Clement V established residence in Avignon, leaving the Vatican behind, and had an appetite for great wine besides an appetite for the destruction of the Knights Templar.

To this day, Châteauneuf-du-Pape bottles bear a papal seal etched into the glass—a literal mark of sanctioned quality. This wine knows it is on top. It was born into it. And like old money, it doesn’t shout—it assumes you already know.

Compare that to Côtes du Rhône. A wide appellation with wine that’s often affordable, drinkable, and unpretentious. It’s not worse—it’s just not trying to impress your sommelier cousin at Thanksgiving. It’s the garage band to Châteauneuf’s cathedral choir. It does the job and gets you happy. But it’ll never be name-checked by a rapper—unless irony is involved.

Now back to class consciousness. Enter Oi!—a raw, loud, unapologetically working-class genre that emerged from the industrial heart of England in the late 1970s. It wasn’t interested in the pomp of prog rock or the pretension of art school punk- right Colin Newman? Oi! was boots, pubs, and shouting back at a system that never listened. It didn’t want to be accepted by elites. It reveled in being dismissed. Just like a $9 bottle of Côtes du Rhône with a screw cap that still pairs perfectly with sausage and vinyl.

In contrast to America’s illusion of class mobility—the “if you make enough money, you’re classy now” delusion—Oi! never wanted to climb the social ladder. It pissed on the rungs. It lived, drank, and shouted in its own space. And that is the entire point: cultural confidence isn’t about climbing. It’s about claiming.

So what does it mean when you buy a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape? You’re not just buying wine. You’re buying into a legacy, a narrative. You are, even if just for a night, participating in a pageant of aristocracy—papal robes replaced by linen napkins and stemmed glasses.

And what does it mean when you unapologetically drink a humble but great Côtes du Rhône on a Tuesday with pizza and watch reruns? That maybe you’re more self-aware than the guy swirling Burgundy while talking about “terroir.” Maybe you don’t need the seal, the prestige, the pope.

So Kyle, you asked why another wine blog? Because this isn’t just about wine. It’s about stories, symbols, and the delusions we drink with our Merlot. It’s about knowing when to pour the Pape and when to pop the proletariat red with pride.

Wine doesn’t lie. But we do—to ourselves. And sometimes, we need a little Châteauneuf clarity or Oi! honesty to break the spell.

Here’s to knowing who you are—whether you’re wearing a cassock or a Fred Perry shirt.