Wrapper: Honduran Corojo Ligero
Binder: Honduran Barrel-Aged Corojo & Corojo Ligero
Filler: Honduran Corojo
Size: 6 x 50 Toro
Price: $9.50 (A buck less online)
Today we take a look at the Camacho Corojo Distillery Edition.
Samples provided by General Cigar.
Released: June 2019
Factory: Diadema Cigars de Honduras SA
According to Davidoff of Geneva:
“The Camacho Distillery Edition is a collection of our best-selling core blends that offer a deeper, more complex and unique flavor profile by ageing our legendary Original Corojo in charred bourbon barrels for 6 months. They are all offered in 50 x 6 Toro formats.
“Allow us to introduce you to the Camacho Corojo Distillery Edition. The original Corojo seed had its roots in Cuba, but its legend is solely in the hands of Camacho. Our Master Builders added a deeper dimensions to this most legendary smoke by ageing our Original Corojo for 6 months in charred bourbon barrels. The result? A bold yet smooth, amped up Corojo smoke.”
Not a bad looking stick. Plenty of veins cover the cigar like a road map. Seams are nearly invisible. The hue of the stick is brown paper bag with a glint of oiliness, orange-reddish hints, and semi-toothy. The stick feels nicely packed although I do feel some soft spots here and there. The triple cap is nicely done. And the usual billboard banner of all new Camacho blends is in play.
SMELL THE GLOVE:
There are some beautiful floral notes, wonderful notes of milk chocolate, creaminess, caramel, volumes of maltiness, cedar, barnyard, a bit of baking spice, cinnamon, and roasted almonds.
The cold draw presents flavors of barnyard, Indian spices, black pepper, malt, a touch of creaminess, caramel, and milk chocolate.
The draw is spot on so my PerfecDraw draw adjustment tool is put away for another time.
The Corojo ligero pops up immediately. A very peppery start. With elements of cinnamon, creaminess, caramel, and salted nuts.
The cigar is a chimney spewing huge amounts of smoke from its arse.
The burn immediately goes wonky on me as did the previous two I smoked.
There are hints of complexity brewing in the cauldron. The finish gets ahead of the transitions due to the potency of the blend. There is a nice buttery, creamy, sticky caramel buttress coating my teeth.
The Camacho Corojo Distillery Edition is definitely a better blend than the more run of the mill Camacho blends.
I don’t really notice any influence of the barrel aging…but I’ve only started.
In recent reviews, I’ve smoked some sticks I consider heavy blends. Very meaty and dense. This Camacho Corojo Distillery Edition is not one of those. It is Meaty Lite. Not saying it doesn’t taste good; but I do not detect the level of richness-ocity as I did in those other blends. Nor the depth of complexity the other sticks displayed.
The barrel aging may have an impact but I can’t tell if I’m willing it subconsciously or actually tasting the benefits of that procedure. The mind is a terrible thing to use to get wasted…or something like that.
I’ve made it no secret that I’m not a big fan of the Davidoff Camacho blends. I still barely hang on to the memory of the Eiroa family version of the Camacho. Back then, their blends were stunning. Now, Davidoff is using Joe the Camel techniques to lure smokers in rather than making sure their blends are stunning.
There is a slight citrus component but still mostly unidentifiable. The bold flavors that smacked my palate in the puss at the start are on the wane. And not because the complexity has kicked in causing them to morph…it is more like they feel they’ve worn out their welcome and split.
The strength is barely medium/full.
And the sweet factors are all but gone now leaving only the savory portion of the blend. Unbalanced.
It is also missing an important richness. Transitions are limping along. The finish is the best thing so far.
I should be getting some sweetness from the barrel aging…but I’m not.
Clearly, the new Camacho blends have a gazillion fans or they wouldn’t keep reproducing exponentially every year. It remains to me as another fair to middlin’ catalog brand.
The price is too much. $10.00. I can list a shit load of great cigars in this price category, or better, that will shame this blend.
I have a Casdagli Dahman waiting on the right time to review and right now I wish I was reviewing it. Of course, the price point is twice as much as this Camacho stick but I’d gladly spend the dough for a cigar worth its weight in ED pills than one that has put me on auto pilot.
This review will be pedestrian (I heard what you’re thinking) because the Camacho Corojo Distillery Edition isn’t bad…it just doesn’t show any signs of greatness. And for $10, it should shine.
Generally, I don’t review many new Camacho cigars because I know exactly what I will write…like this one. And who needs the aggravation? I thought this blend might be special with all the hype. My bad.
With all the Corojo and Ligero, I expected a very potent blend. I don’t see it or taste it. It should be using my palate as a punching bag.
The strength seems to have slipped from medium/full to medium. How odd.
With an extra 6 months of aging before being slipped into their cellos, there should be some real zest to the cigar. Instead, the zest is coming from a lemony element. In fact, it reminds me of those sour/sweet lemon hard candies.
Complexity is just a wisp in time. Maybe with 6-9 more months of humi time, everything will change. And the transitions are dead in the water. There is no forward momentum. It is quickly becoming a one trick pony.
The strength bolts from the stables and hits a very intense medium/full. At last.
Some flavors come out of hiding: Caramel (sweetness at last), very malty (Probably due to the barrel aging), a touch of espresso, nutty, citrusy, a bit of caramel, a big load of spiciness, and oak.
The burn has been inconsistent from the start. But not so bad that I have to chase it with my lighter.
It lacks denseness. The cigar doesn’t feel or taste or draw like it is firmly packed.
It remains, mostly, on its linear journey. Finish 7. Transitions 2. Complexity 3.
If you want a simple blend to smoke, then this is your baby. I just don’t see the price matching the quality.
I have a Connie version but I doubt it will get reviewed.
Nicotine kicks in. The Corojo Ligero plants its flag with extreme prejudice.
I would put the value of this stick more in the $5-$6 range. In time, you will see this line show up on your favorite discount sites.
I like to be challenged when I review a cigar. I’m now writing mechanically.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the last third kicks the blend into high gear and shows some real potential?
At this halfway point, I’m just plain bored. This is the kind of blend I smoke later in the evening after my palate has been crispified.
I’m disappointed that the blend hasn’t shown growth. It just keeps on keeping on. No revelations. No real complexity. And transitions are lying dead on your door in a paper bag. I’m going to skip to the last third.
Why is that great blends seem to smoke way too fast and the mediocre ones go on forever?
My classic radio station is always Zoltar the Fortune Teller. If the music is inspiring, then so is the cigar. If, like this morning, the music is forgettable; so is the cigar. Odd how the Cosmos works.
Mustiness appears. Drat.
Most flavors vaporize.
Either the tobacco is subpar or it just wasn’t aged with some respect.
And you thought all I do is hand out ratings of 95.
Corojo Ligero isn’t there to cause hallucinations; it is there to provide a ball bustin’ smoke…although, I have nothing against hallucinations.
The cigar is now lazier than its start.
Thank God I don’t work in the cigar industry. I’m sure the cigar industry feels the same way about me. But if I did, I’d have a real conundrum on my hands about giving this cigar a good review.
Strength reaches full tilt. The Vitamin N is hacking away at my soul. I don a necklace of garlic bulbs…yet, I still see flesh eating vampires in my peripheral vision.
There are no real changes from stem to stern. Purely linear. Someday, Davidoff is going to stop worrying about presenting fluorescent cigar bands and concentrate on excellence instead. Will I be alive to see this? A roll of the dice.
Alas, the last third does not meet my expectations. Same ol’, same ol’.
And then my favorite Jimi song blasts through my speakers: “All Along the Watchtower.”
I had a good run with some fantastic review cigars…it had to eventually come crashing down around my ankles.
And now for something completely different:
I dredged up an old rock n roll story from when I was a young man.
AXSTV has a new series presented by AC/DC lead singer, Brian Johnson. It’s called “Brian Johnson A Life On The Road.”
I watched its first hour episode this week. Johnson started out with Sting. A good show as it balances a “60 Minutes” format with a rockumentary. Lots of good interview moments with the candidate and lots of concert footage.
17 minutes in, Sting talks about drummer Stewart Copeland and how he played in Curved Air. A promo photo appears and my friggin’ face fills the TV screen.
So here we go…no sex, drugs, and rock n roll:
After Curved Air, I moved back to Long Beach, CA. Things were not great for a couple of years. I should have stayed in Britain and toughed it out til the next big group needed a bassist. I was auditioning for several groups but we had no income…just the dough I had earned in CA.
But I would have absolutely needed to send the girlfriend and her 5-year-old home. I had to make a choice. I chose the wrong one.
I had my foot in the door and blew it by leaving. I chose family over opportunity. What a fucking dumbass I was. I was young and stupid.
I went through some tough times dealing with this. I went to work at my father’s structural steel fab shop as a project manager for a bit. And then a couple years later, I said the hell with it and quit.
I found a great rock band, playing their own original music, called The Attitude. For long time readers, you’ve seen the music video of “Hound Dog.” But for those that haven’t, fire away. The B side was a rip off of Devo and was called “Condo Bondage.”
The skinny kid playing bass is me. It was 1980. It was during the birth of MTV. The video is rudimentary and basic; but fun and dumb. But we did convince Little Richard to play piano on the recording. He killed it. He was in Studio A and we were in Studio B at the same time at Warner Brothers Studio. He doesn’t perform in the video.
Shortly after joining The Attitude, I saw an ad for The Police who would be playing in Santa Barbara. They just had their first hit of “Roxanne.”
I stared very creepily at the photo of the band and it hit me. It was my drummer in Curved Air: Stewart Copeland. He was one of those three blonde heads in the ad.
He made it big time by breaking away from Curved Air…who never broke through in America. Huge in Europe, though.
I called their management office in L.A. and told them who I was and could I get tickets?
The man himself called me back: Miles Copeland III. Stew’s oldest brother and the manager of The Police. Miles started with Wishbone Ash and branched off into a gazillion English bands you’ve heard of and listened to. Too many to list.
Miles seemed excited to talk to me and said he had an idea. He would give me backstage passes and we would surprise Stew and not tell him I was coming up for their concert.
I took my girlfriend, Teri, with me. Nice drive from Long Beach to Santa Barbara. I believe the band played at the university. Oingo Boingo opened for them.
We got there about 4 pm. Teri and I saw a small group of people huddled in the corner of the concert hall/gym. It was The Police and Miles. Miles saw me and motioned me over.
I sauntered over and yelled: “Hey douchebag!”
I had that beautiful ‘fro in Curved Air…But times had changed…so had the music; and…the look.
I now had short hair.
At first, Stew was shocked at being called a rude name. So, I said, “Hey douchebag. Forgotten old friends now that you’re a rock star again?”
(Copeland and I called each other douchebag the entire time we were in Curved Air.)
His eyes lit up and yelled: “KOHN!!!! You douchebag.”
He literally lifted me off my feet with a bear hug. (Tall guy and I was only 5’-11)
He introduced me to Sting and Andy Summers. They actually pretended to be impressed to meet me because Curved Air was such a big group in Europe.
I didn’t expect that.
We shot the shit for a while and then they had to do sound check.
Miles handed us our backstage passes.
Then Teri and I left and got a bite to eat.
When we got back, Oingo Boingo was just starting.
We hung out backstage with the three boys in the band and watched.
Great band and Danny Elfman went on to become a great composer for the movies. Director Tim Burton uses Elfman, almost exclusively, for his movies. Elfman went on to score other movies as well’ and has shelves full of Oscars and Grammys.
There must have been 100 Hollywood types that drove up from L.A. to see the concert because The Police weren’t playing L.A. this tour.
I had the white death with me. After all, it was 1981. The height of coke use in America.
You saw the movie, “Blow” right? With Johnny Depp as a blonde surfer dude?
Well, the boys had run out of their blow. They bought a bunch in S.F. and went through it fast.
I was introduced to their head roadies and I handed them small vials of the white powder. That did the trick. I had total access to every place the band did.
So, while the Hollywood self-important folks, that made the drive from L.A. to Santa Barbara, were kept at bay and not allowed in the dressing room, Teri and I just smiled and winked at the 8’-0 tall bodyguard at the door and walked in.
It was skeezy locker room. Not even a chair. Just benches in front of lockers for the players.
So, we sat and talked. Stew, Sting, Andy, Teri and I. Stew brought out a joint. And then I brought out the coke. Their eyes lit up like it was Christmas. That one-night cost me a fortune.
Sting. He was new on the scene. Really new. I couldn’t believe that his friends really called him that silly name in private.
So, as I passed the coke around, I did a dog whistle at Sting and said, “(Whistle) You want some?” Sting grabbed the coke dispenser and helped himself to a big dose.
Stew was miffed. He looked at me sternly and said, “His NAME is Sting!”
I stood corrected and I apologized. I hung my head in shame.
We sat there for about 45 minutes while Sting and Andy quizzed me about Stew in the Curved Air days. We laughed so hard that Sting freaked out and started his voice preparation process because he was fucking up his voice from laughing so hard.
The Police went on stage.
I met Elfman while The Police played and found out we had stuff in common. We were both Landsmen. He was also from L.A. We hung out in the same places on the Sunset Strip.
He told me how he almost died from malaria while he toured Ghana to pick up some musical influence.
And then we just stood there and watched The Police.
After the show, we all went back to the locker room. Miles was there along with Jerry Moss of A & M records. Partners with Herb Alpert. I didn’t bring out any coke.
Miles went on about how funny Stew and I were during the radio interviews we did with Curved Air and then he made me tell his favorite story. Anytime we did radio interviews after, or before, a concert, we were asked such stupid questions like: “How did you start in music?”
I had a pat response: “I was in Rabbinical school and one night the head Rabbi caught me in the closet indulging in a pork milkshake. So, I changed my career path to music.” It always angered the radio DJ’s that I was so flippant. I mean I know that’s a stupid thing for me to say. But how many times can you discuss what the music means to me? God knows how long-time big-time musicians answer the same questions for 40 or 50 years.
I had brought all The Attitude (“Hound Dog”) stuff with me. I brought our 45 single and the music video.
After I felt comfy with Miles and Jerry, I handed them the “Hound Dog” stuff.
Miles’ assistant sat there as well. Miles turned to the guy, handed him my single, and said with a wink, “You know what to do with this.”
I was stunned. The bastard, in barely veiled boredom, he told his assistant right in front of me to throw it away. I was pissed.
I excused myself, gathered up Teri, who was having a great time with the musicians, grabbed her by the elbow, and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
I gave Stew, Andy and Sting a hug and split.
And now, every 6 months, I beg the Miles Copeland office in London for my mechanical royalties. If I don’t beg for it, I will never get it.
Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS