Wrapper: Mexican San Andrés
Binder: Ecuadorian Sumatra
Filler: Nicaraguan Corojo ’98, U.S.A. Connecticut Broadleaf
Size: 5.5 x 50 Figurado
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $17.00
Released: March 2024
Quantity Released: 3000 boxes of 10
Factory: El Maestro Dominican Republic
Blended by Matt Booth, Justin Andrews and William Ventura

My cigars received 7 months of naked humidor time.

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
A gorgeously constructed cigar.

I looked for reviews online and found diddly. I was hoping to crib notes. Now I’m forced to have my own opinion.

Aromata from the wrapper is almost nil with faint notes of barnyard, black cherries, BBQ sauce, chocolata, and black coffee.

The draw is smoke on the water. Not a lick of air. My PerfecDraw is sipping on tea and eating tiny croissants. I call it’s name. Nothing. I call it again. Nada. A quick twiddle to its cheek with my middle finger, and it comes hopping on just one foot. I begin drilling but it takes a minute because I don’t want to pierce the toast…and it’s now as clear as the draft board reluctantly telling me I’m not gay; despite watching my dad’s super 8 movies of me ages 7 through 10.

The cold draw is very bready. Plus cinnamon graham cracker, barnyard, malt, brown sugar, milk chocolate, black cherries, and black pepper.

My photos above are misleading. This is not a big cigar. It’s a very pretty cigar, but petite. And that’s OK because small cigars are usually very potent in the flavor department. Yeah, it is technically 5-1/2” long with a girth of 50, but it feels small in the hand. Geometry in action. Look at the photo below and see the PerfecPunch and you get what I am saying:

A lovely start. Very tasty. Notes of graham cracker, Wonka wallpaper, black pepper, dark chocolate, earthy kitt, and day-old bondage gear.

My brain tells me to sip water. I comply because I fear my pate’s interior. Immediate bang the gong. My ears ring. Fat savory notes. MRI slices of sweet notations. Very rich and complex. My, my, my…oh my.

Naturally, I smoked one a week after receipt. I put it out after 15 minutes. Now my darlings? A slice of heaven. But can it maintain its erection? For its sake…it’s the time of the season when love runs high.

Potent malt like sitting at the Thrifty Drug Store soda fountain. Having a greasy burger and greasier fries with that chocolate malt sitting in front of me, taunting me. Good times when you’re young. Even better times after that.

The char line funkifies and doesn’t look so great. I shall allow its indiscretion and pray for its redemption but it better man up or I torch it.

Malt is an impressive part of any cigar flavor profile. Not that often do I see it. In earlier days, I tasted it quite a bit. I was mistaken. Or I’m just too old to spoon correctly. This cigar’s malt is the real deal.

Floral aromas meet the end of my massive schnoz like a zeppelin docking in Nuremburg.
I torch the foot to save face.

An inch in. Not bad. Not great. 7 months is plenty of time for the blend to step on tippy toes and dance like a swan. Maybe it needs a profound introduction. A few minutes from now will tell all. Like where it was during the F.B.I. sweep a few days ago. They found nuttin’ and I gave up nobody. Fuggedaboudit.

I like the cigar. Not a stunner. But very pleasant. I stop and look at the price tag. Fuck me. $17. It better man up soon.

The burn does its due diligence and is a perfect perfecto.

Copeland and I sat on the stoop of his apartment with a bird’s eye view of Abbey Road Studios. We had us some beers, a stove top hash pipe, and a good attitude. We watched as tourists tried to successfully accomplish the crosswalk photo. Some survived, some were maimed, and some flew into the air from London taxis aiming at them. More good times.

And then richness officially jolts at 1.5’ having given a best effort to Cardea, the Roman Goddess of Door Hinges.

Now it’s a $17 cigar.

The floral kicks in like cops at your door. Thank you, Cardea.

If I had to write with pre-thought, I’d be smoked in the water.

Years ago, a friend told Neil Young he didn’t know who he was and asked for an introduction. Young exploded: “You don’t know who I am? I’m fucking Neil Young.” That’s all he had to say. Young didn’t recognize my buddy was the guy that road managed C,S, N, & Y’s first two tours.

I’m thinking of Avowed Cigars, The Vow. Something Andrew Considine and Dave West cooked up with Klaas Kelner. Same $17 price tag. At the moment, I prefer The Vow.

The char line is as beautiful as a crispy tune by Harry Nilsson.

A surge. Like the waves at Doheny. A California boy am I who only tried surfing once. Jews don’t surf.

I’m yapping. Bad katman, bad katman.

I skip ahead. In public, only a saunter.

I slept well which explains all. I apologize. My next review will make up for my excessivity with a max content of only a Discord review of five sentences. And then you can comment with, “Nice review, man.” I’m only kidding. No, I’m not.

The first half was more than decent. I expect more than decent when I poach my wallet with a price tag of $85 for a fiver. Step up or sit down.

Lack of reviews might be telling the story. Everyone is afraid of Booth. I respect the guy but in some of his photos he dons the stare of a Manson acolyte. We met at a friend’s cigar lounge about 6 years ago. He was not pleased when I was introduced to him. We sat for an hour talking. He had to force a good attitude. I get that a lot.

I’m holding out for a 3,000-word review. Have AI read it to you when you have trouble sleeping. As is regularly discussed on cigar social media, ‘The katman is losing it.’ You don’t know the half of it.

I could go on. But I see my caregiver tapping his truncheon in the palm of his hand.

A very civilized blend. But maybe more comfortable in the $11 range and the Boys could have eaten the difference. It began with promise but just didn’t fulfill the obligation of being great. A shame.

You can purchase the Los Statos Deluxe Limited Edition from sponsor Small Batch Cigar. Take 10% off with promo code KATMAN.

OR you can spend the same dough on The Vow. No promo codes accepted. Send me your name, social security number, your address, and a valid credit card and I will reimburse you the 10% difference.

RATING: 91

And now for something completely different:

The band had finished its second album at the famous Island Studio in Notting Hill, London (artists that recorded there: Bob Marley and the Wailers, Led Zeppelin, Roxy Music, Jethro Tull, Traffic et al):

…and since Miles Copeland was a cheap bastard, he picked an inexperienced producer to ride herd on the biggest egos on the planet. The band ran all over him. I remember Darryl Way berating the guy so badly that the man was brought to tears because Darryl wasn’t getting his way.

I became the mediator of the group, and we all know what happens to that guy. And it did.

Two camps sprung up: Mick Jacques (guitar) and Darryl (violin, keys). In the other camp was Sonja (lead singer) and Stewart Copeland (drums). I was in-between trying to make the peace. Both camps were constantly at odds with each other…bickering incessantly. And me? I was looking out for myself. I had finally hit the big time, at the age of 24, and I didn’t want to see it get flushed down the toilet over band squabbles. I was so fucking naive.

Stew was a very good drummer but had no constraints. His style was akin to Keith Moon and just soloed throughout every song. On stage, this was torture because as Darryl and Mick were upfront trading lead riffs, Stewart was on some other planet soloing in all sorts of weird time signatures causing the boys up front to lose where the first downbeat of each new bar. Instead of allowing me to play interesting and profound (in my own head) bass lines, I had to pound out 1-2-3-4 quarter notes so the boys knew where the hell they were.

During the mixing of the album, Jose Feliciano showed up for a couple nights and added his own style to our English progressive recordings. He insisted playing on every song. He rushed into the studio, while his assistant held a pipe filled with hash, and played Spanish flamenco solos on our prog rock tunes. The only song that he sounded good on was my tune: “I Broke My Leg in Yucca Valley, but My Heart Lies in Palm Springs.” No bullshit. That was the name of the tune and of course, it was bass guitar forward. I got to show off. The band hated it. It was so intricate that they couldn’t figure it out. It was American jazz fusion-like…the exact reason they hired me. So they went to the booth and sulked. Copeland and I played it as an early rhythm track and then Mick and Darryl would try to add something interesting…they failed. I tried to teach Sonja the song styling lyrics but she didn’t have the range or ability to hit the oddball time signature. My tune became a bass solo with Feliciano playing guitar and Brazilian percussionist, Paulhino De Costa, playing every percussion instrument he had in his kit bag. Stew was right on point. This became the only instrumental on the album.

RCA had a big “Listening Party” debuting the release of the album called “Midnight Wire.”

It was a scene right out of “Spinal Tap.” The record was played on a continual loop throughout the party and each time ‘Yucca Valley’ played, I could hear mutterings of, “What the fuck is that?”

My heart sank. Feliciano liked it so much that he bought licensing rights…but I waited, and it never showed up on any of his albums.

RCA’s reaction to our album was a disaster. And not just because of “Yucca Valley.”
Behind closed doors, Miles Copeland and his henchmen figured out a new plan. They brought in two American hot shot brothers that had just finished producing Clapton’s latest album, “461 Ocean Blvd.”

In Amsterdam, they came to watch us perform and we got word that we better go meet them at their hotel the following afternoon. I went by myself because the band showed no interest. Instead, my comrades chose to hang at our hotel smoking dope and drinking them some beers. I sat in the producers’ hotel room and listened to these two fuck heads tear the album apart…just ripped it. They complained bitterly that I had zero stage presence. Sure, playing sixteenth notes and jumping around like Gene Simmons would have been easy.

To my face, they told me my bass playing sucked. They said the vocals sucked. They said the arrangements sucked. They said the violin playing sucked. They said the guitar playing was out of place. They thought Stewart was horrible. Holy Bat Shit!

I raced back to our hotel and with my eyes as big as saucers, I told the band we were in big trouble. They just laughed at me continuing their drinking and smoking dope binge.

The plan was to re-record the album, but something needed to be fixed. The two camps were called for a meeting. I was not invited. They blamed each other for the album failure. And guess what? Yep. I got ‘the’ phone call. I was gone. The album problems were laid right at the foot of the bassist.
Bastardos!

They hired a session bassist to play on the sides. But when I listened to the finished album, I heard my bass playing on 75% of the tracks.

The new album had no soul and was listless and sterile. No excitement, no verve. It was considered by the critics to be the end of the band. The band recorded another dud and then disbanded for several years. Because wounds never heal, 50 years later they are still gigging around the world. But without me. In fact, Curved Air turned into a constantly revolving group of musicians with only Sonja at the heart of the band. Again, much like drummers in Spinal Tap.

There I was, stranded in England without a gig. It was humiliating when the musical mags and rags started reporting that I had left the band because of differences inside the band. They fired me without any severance, and I was dead broke 6000 miles from home.

The roadies took pity on me and delivered a huge truckful of equipment stored in Miles’ Copeland’s warehouse so I could sell it and have money. Management made no stink over this. The roadies got in the face of Copeland and shamed him for doing what he did to me. I sold everything and had some money in the bank.

I spent another 6 months playing with several English bands, but it just didn’t click with me, and I decided to go home with my tail between my legs…and while I could still afford to buy an airplane ticket.

The upside? I still get player royalties. My last check in 2010 was $25.

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