All About Beer Magazine

Wrapping Themselves in the Flag

The history of nineteenth century American brewing is indelibly German, a heritage that became a liability by the twentieth century when Germany emerged as this country’s hated enemy in two world wars.

During WWI, many breweries were as concerned with battling the growing clouds of Prohibition than the war in Europe. The heavy influence of German Americans in the brewing industry—the minutes of brewers association meetings were kept in German for many years—only added fuel to the Prohibition movement. Family companies with identifiably German surnames like Schlitz, Pabst, Busch, or Schmidt wanted to identify themselves as solidly American.

Many breweries changed their names, giving us brewing companies called American, Consumers, Independent, Columbia, or Eagle. They named themselves after their city or region. Franklin, Washington and other patriots’ names were appropriated.

European beer styles—Vienna, Munich or Dortmunder beers—vanished, only in part because grain rationing made it difficult to brew the beers authentically. Just has hamburgers gave way to Salisbury Steak, and frankfurters became hot dogs, beer styles named for Austrian and German cities were scrubbed of their national references, substituting the generic word “lager” for a host of styles.

Some companies kept their names, but made extra efforts to align themselves with all-American messages and symbols. The Budweiser label dropped the double-headed heraldic German eagle during World War I in favor of the American national symbol.

Critically, the swastika, a Hindu symbol that had been associated with the brewer’s arts for centuries, was dropped from all brewing iconography once it had been appropriated—and permanently tainted—by the Nazis. A plaster backbar at the Kingsbury Brewery of Manitowoc, WI, decorated with swastikas, was outfitted with cloth covers to hide the now despised symbols.

Breweries with German backgrounds were among the most vocal in rallying the public to support the war effort. Pfeiffer Brewery in Detroit introduced a 48-ounce, “grand imperial” quart, in the interest of using less metal in bottle caps.

Another Detroit brewery, Koppitz-Melcher, launched a patriotic campaign urging the purchase of war bonds. Their Victory Beer bore a variety of labels depicting military vehicles and weapon systems. After the war, Koppitz-Melcher was sold to the Goebel Brewing Co., another name that probably could have benefited from a little strategic PR

Upholding American Values

At the end of World War II, the United States Brewers Foundation launched an 11-year program that would brand beer as quintessentially American. The series of ads, “Beer Belongs,” sought to broaden the acceptance of beer by showing prosperous middle class settings where the consumption of beer was a natural part of family life. A similar approach more recently was the branding of beer by the nation’s wholesalers as “America’s Beverage.”

In 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt devoted a speech to “The Four Freedoms,”the four principles that would guide U.S. action internationally. Artist Norman Rockwell, looking for ways to support the war effort, memorably interpreted the Four Freedoms in a series of drawings for The Saturday Evening Post

In the past few years, Anheuser-Busch has re-interpreted Rockwell’s illustrations on beer steins, with the American flag depicted on the stein’s pewter lid and the Anheuser-Busch eagle featured on the handle. The four steins present the American values of Freedom of Speech, Freedom from Want (the stein made, ironically, in Brazil), Freedom to Worship, and Freedom from Fear

Dubious Distinctions

Even before the turn of the last century, beer marketing occasionally went negative, crossing the line from patriotism to jingoism and ugly depictions of race. In the 1880s, the Kato Brewery of Mankato, MN issued a tray that commemorated the hanging of 33 Sioux Indians.

A few years later, in 1896, Anheuser-Busch marked the 20th anniversary of Budweiser, the first national beer brand, by memorializing the 20th anniversary of a different nation-changing event, the Battle of the Little Big Horn. The brewery issued a lithograph titled “Custer’s Last Fight,” delivering thousands of copies to taverns and restaurants. The rendering of the battle was deemed to be too gruesome on first release, and Adophus Busch asked for  the scene to be reworked: nevertheless, the images of fighting, injury and death on both sides must have made an impression on the print’s pre-television audience.

Two years later, when the U.S. Battleship Maine exploded and sank in Havana harbor, the rallying cry “Remember the Maine” emblazoned some American brewery ads in the period that led up to the Spanish-American war.

Ads that stirred strong sentiments—and sold beer—by focusing on the nation’s enemies persisted through World War II. In a rather extreme effort, perhaps, to distance itself from its German-sounding name, the Rhinelander Brewery of Wisconsin promoted its beer with a sign that showed Hitler hanging from a noose. The tagline read “Where’s Shorty?”—a reference to the Japanese premier, and a play on words alluding to Rhinelander seven-ounce bottles known as “shorties.” No matter how reviled the enemy, it seems unlikely that anyone today would try to peddle beer with images of executed or disgraced foes. Saddam Hussein’s hanging corpse hasn’t featured in any catchy beer promotions.

It’s intriguing that the most provocative material is reserved for print campaigns, signs, or point-of-sale pieces, but never makes it onto the beer bottle itself. No doubt, this is due in part to the stringent restrictions on what can and cannot appear on a label. But, in the past as now, your beer label is the universal image of your beer, whereas other advertising messages can be targeted to specific regions or demographic groups, and can afford to be edgier. “Remember the Alamo!” may still appear in advertisements, but for distribution in Texas only.

The Americanization of Modern Beer

In today’s more cynical climate, a frankly patriotic approach to beer sales has given way to more ironic or tongue-in-cheek references to country. In the lead up to the 2004 election, Miller Brewing Co. used humor to disguise the serious attack in a series of television ads that insisted that America needed a president—and not a king—of beers, a jab at Budweiser’s well-known handle.

A-B hit back hard, noting that Miller was by then South-African owned, and implied there was something slightly unsavory about Miller’s international arrangement—until, of course, A-B itself fell to foreign ownership.

These days, beers named for national figures are satirical or arch in their intent: Billy Beer, named for President Jimmy Carter’s brother, Billy; Slick Willy and Billary Beer, aimed at the Clintons, and Dolelightful, brewed for Clinton’s opponent.

The recent election saw Avery Brewing’s Ale to the Chief and Wynkoop’s Obamanator, both brewed in time for the Democratic National Convention in Denver; and a spate of celebratory beers with names like Barack Bock from Rock Bottom, and Baracktoberfest from Shlafly in St. Louis.

But it seems we are no longer a people who will wrap ourselves in Old Glory without tossing off a wink that says “Just kidding.” We are global, politically correct, and detached—and we can expect our beer to be presented to us in the same manner.