Weird Science - Kinglake’s Delicious Descent into Controlled Chaos.

There’s a fine line between genius and madness - and somewhere in the misty ranges north of Melbourne, Kinglake Distillery is gleefully dancing on it. Their newest experiment, aptly christened Weird Science, is less a whisky and more a case study in how far you can push flavour before it implodes. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It sings.

Kinglake, for the uninitiated, is no assembly-line operation. Everything - everything - is done on site: brewing, fermenting, distilling, bottling, even the fetching of water, which is scooped straight from the distillery’s own spring like some alpine sacrament. Their still? A hand-beaten copper beauty from Tasmania, seasoned by years of gentle abuse and spirit vapour. Their yeast? Well, that’s anyone’s guess. They let the local pollens and wild yeasts have a go - because why invite predictability when you can invite terroir?

Born sensible. Raised feral. Bottled beautifully.

And that’s really the mischief behind Weird Science - a whisky that treats process less like protocol and more like a provocation. Its foundation? Three New South Wales malts that behave like a trio of unlikely bandmates: one nutty and grounded, one buttery and biscuity, and one with a clean, citrus snap that keeps the whole thing from getting too serious. To this, they add a fourth malt from the Scottish Borders, a nod to old-world craft, as if to say, yes, we’ve read the manual - but we’re also doodling in the margins.

But where it really veers into madcap brilliance is the ageing: a collaboration with the lovable lunatics at Tall Boy and Moose Brewery in Preston. Together, they sourced ex-Bourbon casks that once held a 20% freeze-distilled Eisbock - a kind of beer-meets-sorcery hybrid that involves partially freezing the brew to concentrate both its flavour and its potency. Think malt nectar with a PhD. The casks, still echoing with caramelised malt, roasted nuts and that almost Riesling-like acidity that strong beers sometimes get, now cradle the whisky - soaking it in memory and mischief.

The result is a spirit that feels like it’s been both fermented and philosophised.

The first whiff is like stumbling into a country bakery that’s somehow built next to a vineyard and a chemistry lab. Aromas of Riesling and river pebbles rise first - clean, sharp, and slightly flinty - before softening into something warmer: crisp green apple peel, honeyed malt, and the faintest suggestion of sun-dried hops. There’s even a hint of something oddly nostalgic, like the inside of a just-emptied beer stein left to dry in the sun. It smells clever - the kind of aroma that feels like it’s already solved the riddle of its own flavour. There’s curiosity in the air, as if it’s quietly plotting three delicious moves before you’ve even taken a sip.

On the palate, the experiment deepens. The texture is silken but nervy, like a Riesling crossed with a pale ale and raised by whisky. Bright citrus oil and green pear meet the biscuity hum of malt, then twist into something more eccentric: lemongrass, wild honey, and mineral salt. A faint echo of that Eisbock past lingers in the background - frostbitten stone fruit, roasted grain, and a ghost of toffee. t’s crisp yet creamy - like taking a bite of a green apple in the middle of a warm bakery, where freshness and indulgence somehow shake hands.

Mid-palate, it starts to flirt a little - think fresh rain on sun-warmed sandstone, a bite of toasted brioche, and a sly wink of candied lime. The yeast-driven ferment lends a touch of funk - not wild enough to frighten, but just enough to intrigue. You can almost taste the Kinglake air: earthy, floral, alive with pollen and pine.

The finish? It doesn’t so much fade as evolve. A burst of lemon sorbet and malted milk, chased by a cooling minerality that recalls slate, cold air, and curiosity. Then, just as it’s about to leave, a subtle warmth returns - vanilla oak, a smudge of toffee, and the faintest ghost of Eisbock sweetness, like a wink from the brewers who started this whole beautiful mess.

It’s whisky that tastes like a scientific breakthrough conducted under a gum tree - structured yet untamed, elegant yet a bit unhinged. Weird Science doesn’t just flirt with contradiction; it makes it taste exquisite.

It’s not whisky for the conservative, nor for those who want a polite Speyside-style dram to nod over. Weird Science is for those who appreciate when distillers throw out the lab manual and start drawing equations in the air. It’s alive with microflora, conversation, and creative defiance - the kind of whisky that proves terroir isn’t just about soil; it’s about spirit.

In an age where “craft” has been diluted into marketing jargon, Kinglake is still getting its hands dirty - literally. There’s yeast floating in their fermenters, pollen in their air, and rebellion in their barrels. And somehow, from this charming chaos, they’ve bottled something with clarity, confidence, and a mischievous sense of place.

Weird Science isn’t just a name. It’s a manifesto disguised as a dram.

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Words by AW.

Photo courtesy of Kinglake Distillery.