Wrapper: Sumatran Oscuro
Binder: Nicaraguan
Filler: Nicaraguan Condega, Estelí, Ligero, Ometepe
Size: 6 x 54 Toro
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $12.49

BACKGROUND:
From Cigars Daily:
“The Espinosa Murcielago Echo-Hale is a Cigars Daily Edition collaborations with Erik Espinosa. The idea behind the blend was born from Tim Swanson’s passion for Dark Sumatra wrapper leaf. Together Tim, Erik and AJ Fernandez reimagined the highly popular Murcielago blend to include a new experience with voluminous flavor that expands the complexity of the original.

“The name, Echo-Hale, brings together the notion of the retro-hale (the heartbeat of flavor complexity), and the echo – how bats see the world. However the flavor in this cigar also echo’s across the palate. On the box, the words ‘sense everything’ are an invitation to dive into a deep and wide flavor that will capture your taste buds in a new way.”

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
I’ve always thought that the original AJ Fernandez Murcielago was a solid and reasonable smoke. It has a Mexican San Andres wrapper with Nic guts. A recommendation from a couple of Miami lawyers swayed me into trying this new variation on a theme. Does it work? Let’s see.

The Bat is a well-built stick. Firm to the touch like a thousand latkes gently caressing the cheeks of shiksas from Salt Lake City. The artwork is pretty cool. Only thing missing is a phalanx of skulls.

Aromas from the wrapper contain no surprises with sensory notes of barnyard, chocolate, espresso, almonds, dark peppers, and a touch of cool mint.

My PerfecPunch does a fine job. It is as reliable as my urologist in seeking new depths of my persona. Airflow is exactly how I like it.

The cold draw is intriguing with a subtle richness, pepperiness, mocha java, random nuttiness, more cool mint, creamy prunes, black licorice, and a horde of day-old Icy Hot patches.

The blend divulges. Dark chocolate, espresso, nuts, creamy, caramel, and black pepper. This could be a million cigars. But at $13, I’ll take 5. The slight difference at this early stage is there is a subtle refinement in play that I don’t remember being present in the original Murcielago…or most other AJ blends when they begin. An instant hint of something complex may be lurking like Charlie and Leona Schink who left America this day for a month in Switzerland and Morocco. After that, the world. As long as I’ve known my dear friend, he claims to live on a stipend of social security and his winnings from the Botswana National Lottery. I wish them both a fond farewell and safe journeys.

Creaminess takes over. A summery chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles. The peppery start relinquishes its grip on my nads. My nads curtsy.

Dutch band, Trace, was a support act for a Curved Air tour. A three-piece prog band. The keys player did a Rick Wakeman (Yes) with a dozen electric keyboards, with the setup on wheels so he could flit across the stage. One night, the bass player’s axes were stolen and not discovered until the next show. We were at dinner when this discovery was made and had no idea. My roadies allowed him to use my ‘68 Fender Precision. The guy did a lot of tweaking to my bass to make it play the way he liked. It was handed back to me without being returned to its original status. I was enraged. Didn’t speak to him again. These guys were arrogant to the nines. Unfriendly and above it all. During soundcheck, Stewart Copeland and I liked to jam on a riff that I played in jazz fusion funk style. Curved Air hated it. Trace hated it. A few soundchecks later, I walked in to see the Trace clumsily jamming on the same riff. They saw me. They stopped. Their faces were red with embarrassment. Musicians.

Strength wastes no time. Medium/full reaches optimal output in the first inch. The second half may be a nuclear wasteland. My colostomy bag is filled with Dramamine and saltpeter in case I need a transfusion.

Inch two begins and I am gifted a very nice level of complexity and delicate richness. The blend’s depth ain’t wearing short pants. I am. I look down. No pants. I look around. No one is watching. Wait. The Nanny cam. Without letting go of the cigar or the keyboard, I don my work pants made of corduroy and I hear screeching sounds. I manage to hold the cigar but drop the keyboard. I will be using hand signals and odd consonants to finish the review.

During my music years, I never told anyone I was a structural engineer. I thought it might demean my own artistry. Too many J’s.

By the mid-60’s, the folk scene was wearing thin. I was caught between two genres. I was a bluegrass banjo picker. But also a bass player that loved rock n roll. So, I played both. Most players took their nod from Americana folk music even if not outwardly acknowledging it. I doubt that most musicians today have any clue of their roots. The good ones do. Stomp your cloven hoof twice if you agree.

I don’t remember the original Murcielago being this creamy. Send me photos of your failed Botox if you agree.

A slow progress. I sip coffee from my flagon with the dragon. I can’t find my vessel with the pestle. Get it? Got it. Good.

We did The Today Show. Still helmed by Jane Pauley and Bryant Gumbel. She was nice. He was scary. Billy Mumy (Lost in Space) joined Butch at the dais. We went out to breakfast after. I liked Billy. I secretly handed him my business card as we said our goodbyes. I believe he tossed it within my two-foot field of vision. I probably mentioned Stewart Copeland a few dozen times too many. Damn cocaine.

I’m enjoying the shit out of this big Bat. The blend is designed to get the most effectiveness from retrohaling. I’d give it a shot but my sinuses are toast. Get it out of your system while you’re young. It doesn’t bring on that much extra pleasure in contrast to never being able to breathe again. If only someone warned me.

A capo (pronounced: kay-po) is a device used on the neck of guitars to act as a bridge so that musical keys can be changed without a guitarist needing to play anything other than basic first position chords. In the 60’s, my rich friends pronounced it keh-PO…with the accent on PO. They made it sound French when in actuality the word comes from the ancient Greek lexicon and loosely translated as ‘Hipster Application Denied.’ Arguments always ensued.

Chocolate is at the helm with creaminess juxtaposing a slight second. Nutty, peppery, earthy, with a perfect balance. Either the strength has mellowed, or my colostomy bag accidentally emptied on my scrotum lazily lounging near my feet.

The burn on this and previous sticks were just barely OK. None required touch-ups but they could have done a better job.

1967. My high school rock band played gigs for Love Ins around town. We did a special version of Van Morrison’s ‘Gloria.’ I bought the very first Fuzz Box by Vox. Cost me $15. ($1.23 million in 2025 dollars). We would play a freak out of sonic feedback during the middle of the song. I did a two-minute thing that brought the Hippies to an orgasmic frenzy. The sad thing about this time is that there were no quality ways to casually record anything. It’s not like today where everyone in the audience is watching their iPhones instead of the live concert. But then I might not want to see or hear my auditory version of scrambled eggs.

The first half is done. I get a whiff of floral scents. I look down. I look around. I stare at my docile wrinkled pouch of gonadian sacraments. Must be the cigar.

The cigar finagles a supine position in the ashtray. I look shocked. I stare down….well, you get it. I brush of the burnished exterior that is covered in Pompeian ash. A whimpering sound is made. I stare. I look…(I’ve milked this enough).

One night, the Trace roadie, who was a total drunken buffoon, insisted on sitting with the sound guy in the balcony. He spilled his bottle of whisky on the mixing board, frying it. The show was postponed for two hours while our roadies skittled back to London to get another. Thankfully, we were in the Hamlet of Yonkers which is known for its hot dogs and mob beatings. This was the last straw and the incompetent idiot was fired. He later became the president of Lichtenstein.

Not a sip of water was imbibed in an hour. Yikes. I’ve been won over by this blend. I’ve also been won over by the State of Wisconsin’s feral fight for independence from the Canadian mindset of J’ai cette tasse qu’il a utilisée hier. Look it up.

I outfitted my brand new 1969 Chevy Impala with a multitude of bass speakers, light bars, and roach clips. My buddy and I would sit in the parking lot of Bob’s Big Boy and blast it with CCR. I once tried a tape of Richard Nixon’s speech on why we are winning the war in Vietnam. I spent a week in ICU.

I have a boner this big. What a great cigar. Slightly atypical of AJ as the smoothness is breaching the public’s understanding of how a ferret mates wearing goggles. The balance of sweet v. savory is spot on. The body is full while the strength lingers at an easy going medium/full without a lick of nicotine.

I like this silkier version of the Murceilago. It is the silver-tongued companion to its brethren. The second half is where the sweet spot lay…laid…lies. Damn.

Without further ado, I shift your attention to my rating.

RATING: 94

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Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS

Tags: cigar reviews, cigar reviews by the katman, cigars, cigars daily, espinosa cigars, Espinosa Daily Edition Murcielago Echo-Hale Toro | Cigar Reviews by the Katman, katman, murcielago, phil