Wrapper: Ecuadorian Habano
Binder: Ecuadorian Habano
Filler: Dominican
Size: 7 x 48 Churchill
Strength: Medium
Price: $26.00
Date Released: 2024
Quantity Released: 20,000 cigars
Factory: Kelner Cigars, S.A.S., Santiago de los Caballeros, Dominican Republic.

My cigars received 6 months of naked humidor time.

BACKGROUND:
From Blend Bar:
“This limited production of 20,000 cigars has been developed with four Dominican filler tobaccos, complemented by an Ecuadorian Habano binder and wrapper. All six tobaccos have been deeply aged for at least three years in their bales and the finished cigars have been aged for one year in Kelner’s aging room before being released. This medium-bodied cigar offers a harmonious, flavorful, and creamy flavor profile with subtle hints of cocoa in the finish. The aging process and carefully curated combination of tobaccos has helped to create a cigar that boasts a velvety and indulgent finish, perfect for the refined cigar connoisseur. Available in four vitolas: Toro, Corona, Robusto, and Churchill.”

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Who doesn’t like a Kelner blend? Raise your twisted marmotian paw. Blends that come from those big brains and talent usually hit the ten ring. Recently, I reviewed the Jopito Gallo Indio and was disappointed. A rare occurrence. Is $26 a ridiculous price for a good cigar? Damn straight. My humidors are full of cigars that mete out justice at half that. If this is not a good cigar, my wallet will weep for thee. Like all reviewers, we spend a small fortune on new cigars. I am not fond of this practice. You?

This is a very ordinary looking cigar. Little oil. Veiny. And light in the loafers. How does it smell? Let’s see. Hay, barnyard, cedar, milk chocolate, and baking spices. Not much excitement so keep on walkin’.

PerfecPunch 2.0 works perfectly. Dr. Rod gave me a pre-release model. I am not allowed to show photos, but it is beautiful. Let me describe it: It is exactly 17.9” long, 3.6” wide, and 2.4” tall. A perfect tuber. I just gave away its new name. There are 15 punches of all sizes. It has a quad lighter in the middle. There are snakeskin coverlets. And at the far end, an orifice that emits foam and lather with rotating heads. The cost? $39.99…but wait, there’s more. If you are one of the first 32,000 to buy this device, Kurthy will throw in three steak knives, one slotted spoon, a dozen see through Depends, and enough KishkaPops to make a rabbi stutter.

The cold draw is milk chocolate, caramel, cinnamon, lemon, and smoky oak.

First puffs release a deadly toxin called Systosis-phenyloptic-dermo-mishegosxine. Fortunately, those chosen to survive the levying of tariffs and the watchful eye of the IRS, have been given antitoxins called Alembic-noro-dorphin chips that are planted directly into the optic nerve to disperse waves of physical implants for the use of lying to your wife when she stares at the credit card bills.

I wrote the previous paragraph to see if a crazed manifesto was in me just in case I can no longer afford cigars in 2026 and will find solace in madness.

In actuality, first puffs are lemon cookies.

It took only 5 minutes to burn through the first inch. Oh no, Davidoff strikes again.

So far, the cigar tastes like an Oliva Connecticut Second. There ain’t nothing happening. $26.

Inch number two sees cinnamon, creaminess, slightest of depth, and a fervent wish I didn’t drop $130 on a fiver worth every bit of $17.50.

Inch three begins and I’m wondering where the meat is. It’s all tartness and hay. This is not a good $26 cigar. This is not a good cigar. I should be getting all types of signals from the blender. Instead, it is morse code for I’ve been had.

I’m going to stick with it. But if this blend doesn’t kick in soon, I’m done. I’ve had the cigars simmering for half a year. If their DNA had plans for me, they’d be showing off with dots and dashes. I’m getting snickers.

My Humidimeter reads 65%. I’m flailing at seeing if it’s my fault. If it is, I can self-correct with the rest of my fiver. If its Davidoff…

I’m barely into the second half and I am pissed off. What a dud. I only smoked one prior to this and it was only three months into its humi time in my cave. Naturally, I figured the cigar needed extended rest. I gave the blend a chance to sing. Instead, it gargled its own balls.

You can Purchase Blend Domincano directly from the Blend Bar. But only by the box.

RATING: 77

And now for something completely different:

I answered the Melody Maker advert looking for a bassist. Right above that ad was the same phone number and they were looking for roadies. I told the guy on the phone that I would be happy to be a roadie. He laughed and said, “Why don’t you concentrate on the bass guitar audition and then possibly be considered for the road crew gig.” No band name or individuals were mentioned in the ad. I didn’t care. I had £10 quid left to my name and I was desperate for work in a foreign land.

I spent nearly half my dough getting to St. John’s Wood. A ritzy area. It was a house, not a studio. Must be a fancy house. It was a block away from Abbey Road Studios.

I knocked and a courteous man ushered me in. I was led down the stairs to the basement where a professional rehearsal studio was set up. I could hear the band playing despite the sound proofing. And then the sight of the lounge nearly made me choke. Sitting on chairs and couches were at least 15 bassists. The only sound was whispers and guys pointing at strangers, “Jesus, look who’s here. Oh lord, I don’t have a chance.” The names I heard meant nothing. But I was scared shitless.

I turned around, spirted myself out the front door, and was halfway down the long walkway when I heard a voice, “Hey douchebag! Where are you going?” I turned around and a tall lanky guy repeated the question. I told him I don’t do cattle calls. He laughed. He approached and took my arm and led me back through the front door. Copeland took me back to the lounge, sat me down, made me a cup of tea, and handed me a paper plate with two cookies.

I sat there for 90 minutes. But after just 20 minutes, I realized that the band was having the bass players play the same chord charts for every guy auditioning. I sat there holding my bass case near and worked out the riffs in my head that I would play. I had it down by the time they called my name. Whilst I sat there, there was a continual changing of the number of guys auditioning. I counted. 27 bassists had come and gone. Some were allowed 10 minutes, but most got only 5. And some just gave up before given a chance to show their stuff.

Finally, it was my turn. There was a guitarist, Mick Jaques. There was a keyboard player, Darryl Way. And a drummer, Stewart Copeland. I was asked about myself and I told them they had never heard of the folks I played with. I found later that this had earned me points. Most bragged. I cowered.

I was plugged in and ready to play the tunes I had listened to for the last hour and a half. Darryl declared, “I’m tired of playing the same stuff. Why don’t you give us something.”

Holy shit. I could barely swallow. The shift in the plan caused my knees to buckle. Just that morning in preparation for the audition, I had worked on a jazz fusion riff akin to something I had heard on a Billy Cobham album. I said, “How about something more ambitious?” It was manic, fast paced, and above their pay grade. Copeland’s eyes got as big as saucers as he dove into the frenzy. Everyone else joined in. But only Stewart got what I was doing.

We played for 10 minutes. Afterwards, there seemed to be a lightness in the room. They seemed pleased. I was told that their favorite bassists would be invited back for a final audition the following Sunday. I thanked them and left.

As soon as I returned to my bedsitter (a bedroom with a sink) in West London, I got a call on the pay phone. It was Darryl Way. He told me that he enjoyed playing with me. And then he said the thing no bassist wants to hear: “You play a lot of notes. Too many notes.” I replied, “I had 10 minutes to show you 10 years of playing.” I could hear him nod. And he said, “Right.” He invited me for Sunday’s last jab.

5 minutes later, the pay phone rang again. It was Copeland who mimicked Darryl’s call; minus the accusation that I played too many notes.

I continued to go to auditions for the next three days. And then Sunday happened. I was dying. I was broke.

I walked into the basement rehearsal studio, and I was the first bassist there. I gulped. The threesome greeted me with handshakes and back slaps. I was told that I’d be the only bassist that afternoon and I had the gig if I wanted it. They laughed as they pointed at my inability to close my open maw.

We were called Stark Naked and the Car Thieves. And as a new member, I was immediately put on the payroll. The next day, I went down to their management office where I signed paperwork and received a packet of cash. £350 British pounds ($875). That’s over $5,000 in 2025 dollars. I nearly shat myself. I was living with friends and gave notice. I moved into my own flat nearby. When I wasn’t rehearsing with the band, I still hung out there. To my chagrin, the other musicians who were my friends were jealous as they continued their struggle to find work. My joy created deep seated resentment. This was a first for me. I was 24.

A couple weeks later, we auditioned for singers and found an American named Butch Hatcher. He had the look and the voice. Clearly, my betters were going for an all-around American sound.

Was I a better bassist than all those that auditioned? No. It was all about my style of playing. Everyone that auditioned played like Chris Squire of the band Yes. Very technical players but not much feeling. I studied jazz and jazz fusion for years. This solidly American style had not hit the shores of Britania yet and would take several more years before it really disseminated. Was this pure luck? Possibly. But if you do the work, put in the hours, put yourself in a position for opportunity…good things might happen.

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