Why beer looks innocent, and whisky doesn’t

Beer strolls in wearing trainers instead of kicking the door down. Could that be part of whisky’s problem?

Alcohol by volume (ABV) has turned into the kind of number people look at twice in whisky, carrying more of the world with it than it once did.

The number sits there awkwardly, shrugging and looking guilty, though most of what it’s carrying didn’t come from the whisky at all.

Drinking has slowed, not in a sackcloth-and-ashes kind of way, but enough for even the least observant pub regular to clock it. Cost has had its say. So have booze taxes. Then there’s the low-level fatigue that settles in when a world keeps feeling inflationary long after the headlines declare the job done.

Add in the sprawl of GLP-1 drugs, flattening appetite and dulling desire across large parts of the population, and the nights begin to thin out. Fewer occasions. Or shorter ones. Less patience for standing at the bar trying to work out what a number on a label is asking of you.

Against that backdrop, it’s worth saying something plainly, without dressing it up. Single malt whisky is often strong. Sometimes very strong.

A numbers game

Many core releases now sit comfortably at 46%. Single casks and cask-strength bottlings drift into the low and high 50s as a matter of course, with the occasional bottle stretching to the mid 60s by volume. For seasoned drinkers, that strength reads as honesty and integrity. For people arriving newer to the category, or arriving carefully, it can feel like whisky clearing its throat a little too loudly.

But I don’t think strength itself is the real sticking point. Whisky has always been concentrated alcohol. That’s part of the deal. What feels different now is how much tolerance people have for speed.

A pint takes its time. Wine does too, lingering politely and rarely raising its voice. Whisky, especially at higher strength, tends to get straight to the point. The alcohol arrives early, before the mood has settled and before the drinker has quite decided how the evening is meant to unfold.

This is usually the moment when the word “burn” gets aired. For those who grew up with whisky, or who have spent enough time worshipping at distillery altars, that initial heat can feel reassuring, like a familiar blessing. For people arriving later, or arriving from other drinks, it can feel like being ushered into a conversation they didn’t quite agree to have.

What often gets overlooked is that the alcohol itself isn’t behaving especially badly.

A quiet pint

A UK pint of beer is 568ml. At 5% ABV, which counts as a fairly ordinary strong pint, that glass contains around 28ml of pure alcohol. A standard dram of whisky is 25ml. Even at 58% ABV, that pour contains roughly 14.5ml of pure alcohol. Stretch it to a generous 35ml dram, and you’re still around 20ml. More often than not, the pint delivers more alcohol overall. It just takes its time about it, without making a scene.

This is where things tend to go wrong, not in the liquid but in what gets left unsaid around it.

A cask-strength whisky doesn’t insist on being taken neat. It doesn’t bristle at a splash of water. It won’t sulk if you add ice. It will even sit quietly in the glass and behave itself if you give it time. None of this is revolutionary, but it’s often treated as insider knowledge, as though explaining it might cheapen the experience rather than open it up.

Younger drinkers feel this most sharply, though they didn’t create the shift. Gen Z drinks less, starts later, and carries fewer inherited ideas about what alcohol is supposed to do for them. They’re comfortable opting out without apology and just as comfortable asking what something is for before committing to it. Presented clumsily, a 60% single malt can look less like a choice and more like a dare.

Money sharpens all of this. When budgets tighten, people don’t necessarily stop buying premium things, but they lose patience with confusion. A bottle has to make sense quickly because mystery wears thin. Macho signalling wears thinner still.

This is where the industry occasionally trips over its own cleverness. Strength gets worn like a badge, with higher numbers doing the shouting and lower ones sounding faintly apologetic. That pecking order belongs to a different time, one with longer nights and fewer consequences waiting the next morning.

A calmer comparison tends to do more work. Beer spreads alcohol out over time. Whisky concentrates it, then allows it to be diluted, slowed, and shaped to taste.

Make no mistake, whisky has always understood scarcity on the supply side. Why? Because patience sits inside the liquid itself. That patience comes from years spent in the dark, doing the slow, stubborn work of becoming what it is.

What the industry is still learning is scarcity on the demand side, where buying moments are fewer, expectations are sharper, and nobody wants to feel as though they’re being dared into anything.

What needs to change? Get your Rosetta Stone ready, whisky people. High ABV needs translating.

When strength is treated like a test, people edge away. When it’s offered as choice, they lean in. That small shift may matter more than the number on the label.

This piece was also published on LinkedIn.