From that first stolen sip of my father’s Schlitz at a family crawfish boil, beer has been a constant in my life — a frothy river running through decades, cities, heartbreaks and celebrations. I’ve chased beer across continents and dive bars, in every style and setting, from a divine dubbel brewed by monks in a Belgian abbey to the occasional late-night can of gas-station lager that tasted like aluminum and questionable decisions.
Beer has always been more than a drink. It’s a reward. A ritual. A refuge. But even I can admit: Beer has a problem.
In 2023, beer consumption in the United States fell to its lowest level in decades. The industry faces both demographic issues (there are fewer young drinkers) and image ones (beer’s stubborn reputation as a carb-heavy relic for dads and dullards). People with remote jobs aren’t going for drinks after work, and taproom traffic hasn’t bounced back to pre-Covid levels. Hard seltzers and canned cocktails are cutting into beer’s share of a faltering market. And the drinking rate among Americans is at its lowest rate since the 1930s.
For a time, the proliferation of small-batch craft beers helped elevate the beer industry into one that was less about keggers and more about connoisseurship. But even that trend is reversing: According to the Brewers Association, craft beer sales fell 4 percent last year. For the first time in two decades, more breweries closed than opened.
But I’d argue the future of beer is still craft beer and that the pint glass is half full, not empty. It just needs something worth raising again.
There are a few simple steps the craft beer industry can take to immediately address its downturn. For starters, it must abandon the I.P.A. arms race. Craft beer’s obsession with hops has gone too far, as what started as a rebellion against bland lagers has spiraled into a bitter, boozy blur. Double I.P.A.s. Triple I.P.A.s. Hazy. Juicy. Dank. West Coast. New England. Most taste like pine resin with a splash of grapefruit pith, and not in a good way.
Craft breweries also cranked up the alcohol: 10 percent to 12 percent alcohol by volume is common now, more than double a standard beer. Dogfish Head’s 120 Minute I.P.A. hits 18 percent — a sweet, heavy nightcap. But beer isn’t bourbon. You don’t swirl it in a snifter and reflect on your childhood. You drink a few, with friends, and it’s supposed to refresh, not knock you out. Brewers chasing complexity are losing the people who just want something cold, crisp and repeatable. I love a good I.P.A., but bring back the pilsner, the amber, the pale ale, or reinvent the lager, as many have.
Craft beers also need smarter labels. The industry built its identity on personality, with quirky mascots, puns and inside jokes as logos. It was fun — until it became clutter and noise. My beer aisle now looks like a vertical Comic Con merch table.
Today’s overwhelmed consumer doesn’t have time to decode a beer called Sour Me Unicorn Farts (a glittered sour from DuClaw), Purple Monkey Dishwasher (a chocolate peanut butter porter from Evil Genius), or Hopportunity Knocks (a perfumed, piney I.P.A. from Caldera Brewing Company). They want to know: What does it taste like? Will I like it? Design matters, yes, but clarity matters more. Make labels that tell drinkers what’s inside, not just what’s funny at 2 a.m. in the brew house.
And while you’re fixing the labels, ditch the tallboys and four-packs. At some point, craft brewers decided bigger was better: specifically, 16-ounce cans, often sold in four-packs. While single tallboys still sell well in convenience stores, in the craft world, the 16-ounce four-pack offered the illusion of value. Breweries leaned on the logic that a bigger boozier can equals a better deal, but four tallboys give you 64 ounces, less than a traditional six-pack of 12-ounce cans (72 ounces).
You’re paying more for less beer, and often, more alcohol — and the cans don’t even fit the cozies. By the time you’re halfway through a tallboy double I.P.A., it’s warm, flat, and tasting more like obligation than fun. So bring back the 12-ounce can. It’s better for pacing, better for flavor and better for trying a few different beers in one sitting. That’s good for drinkers, and smarter for the industry.
The truth is, the craft beer boom got ahead of itself — bloated on branding, locked in an arms race of hops, and distracted by its own cleverness. Breweries expanded too fast and chased trends too hard, trying to be everything but beer.
But beer isn’t broken. It’s just drifted from what made it matter. In ancient Mesopotamia, the birthplace of civilization, beer was central to daily life, and it’s endured this long for a reason. From barley and hops come balance, mild enough to keep the night civil, strong enough to make conversation flow. It’s the drink of moderation, laughter and second rounds.
The world could use a little more of that right now.
Mark Robichaux is a journalist, the author of “Cable Cowboy: John Malone and the Rise of the Modern Cable-TV Business” and a former reporter for the Wall Street Journal.
Source images by Minha Hwang, Eratel, retouchman and duncan1890/Getty Images.
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