Book Review: Makers & Shakers

In the Spring 2012 issue of  Southern Cultures journal, Sean S. McKeithan published a 38-page article titled “Every Ounce Man’s Whiskey.” In this important piece, McKeithan explores the didactic way American whiskey has historically been presented: as a drink that reflects and reinforces very specific identities. On one hand, it’s portrayed as the refined choice of the genteel Southern white gentleman; on the other, it’s marketed as the drink of rugged, roughneck white masculinity. Though these two images differ in class and tone, they share one undeniable commonality — both revolve around the white male. McKeithan argues, rightly, that if a consumer does not fall into one of those two archetypes, they will likely struggle to find any meaningful representation in whiskey marketing. While white men have dominated the image of American whiskey, the actual history of American spirits is far more diverse, shaped by many who do not appear in traditional branding, lore, or legend.

That reality is central to Troy Hughes’ latest book, Makers & Shakers: A Hidden History of Black Americans in Booze, published in September 2025 by The History Press. Hughes, based in Washington, D.C., uses his second book on the subject of alcohol to spotlight the overlooked contributions of Black Americans in the beverage industry, both in recent years and in more distant history. While the names of figures like Sean “Diddy” Combs may be familiar to readers, most of the people Hughes writes about have remained largely unknown to the public — and that’s precisely the point. The book seeks to correct the historical record, to pull these names out of the margins and into the center of the conversation.

The book spans 160 pages and is structured for accessibility. Chapters are short and divided into even smaller subsections, making it easy to read in short bursts. A reader doesn’t need to block out an hour of uninterrupted time — ten minutes is enough to read a full section from start to finish. Rather than following a chronological timeline, the book is arranged thematically. Some chapters focus on specific types of alcohol, others on distinct moments in history. This structure offers a unique reading experience: one moment you’re learning fascinating bar trivia, and the next you’re confronting deeply emotional, and often infuriating, truths. These heavier chapters are interspersed among lighter ones, which creates a kind of emotional whiplash. The result is a reading journey that feels at times like an emotional roller coaster — moments of amusement and levity suddenly giving way to stories of injustice and systemic racism. In terms of structure, some readers might wish the more intense, emotionally charged chapters had been grouped together toward the end for a more cohesive arc, but the unpredictable order does reflect the complicated, messy reality of American history.

Hughes provides a wide-ranging account of Black contributions to all corners of the alcohol industry. In wine, he uncovers the story of J. June Lewis, a Virginia man who appears to be the first Black American to own a winery, Woburn Winery, launched in 1940. The narrative continues with the 1954 federal addition of “Subpart S—Special Wine” to 26 CFR Section 240, which allowed the legal creation of what came to be known as “bum wine” — cheap, fortified, flavored wines with high alcohol content. The same provision also allowed for Ripple, a carbonated wine, which became popular within Black communities and were often portrayed in racist media portrayals, such as on the 1970s sitcom Sanford and Son.

In beer, Hughes tells the story of John Randolph Smith’s attempt to launch Colony House in 1955, widely considered the first documented effort by a Black American to own a brewery. Though it appears the beer may have never made it to market, it was a landmark moment. The Sunshine Brewing Company, purchased in 1969 in Reading, Pennsylvania, is believed to be the first successful Black-owned brewery to actually produce and sell beer. Hughes discusses the obstacles these pioneers faced, including public resistance and boycotts from white consumers afraid that Black-owned businesses would employ only Black workers.

The book also touches on the world of mixology, highlighting the contributions of early Black bartenders like Cato Alexander, John Dabney, and Tom Bullock — trailblazers whose influence is still felt by bartenders today. One of the most impactful stories Hughes covers is that of Nathan “Nearest” Green, the enslaved man who taught a young Jack Daniel how to distill whiskey. After gaining his freedom, Green stayed on and effectively served as Jack Daniel’s first master distiller. Despite the ongoing employment of Green’s descendants at the distillery today, the story of his essential role was buried for decades. Hughes also explores another dark side of the Jack Daniel’s legacy, including a disturbing episode involving Daniel’s nephew Lem Motlow.

In 1924, during Prohibition, Motlow shot and killed a Pullman conductor, Clarence Pullis, after being asked for a ticket on a train ride home from court. A Black porter named Ed Wallis testified that he attempted to restrain Motlow, who was drunk and belligerent. But Motlow claimed that Wallis instigated the conflict, alleging that Wallis assaulted him after Motlow used a racial slur — an altercation during which the gun accidentally discharged. Motlow’s defense leaned heavily on racist rhetoric. In court, witnesses described Wallis using dehumanizing language, calling him a “human ourang-outang,” and one of Motlow’s defenders proclaimed that “the whites controlled civilization for 4,000 years and now the negro wants to share it.” Unsurprisingly, the jury sided with Motlow. This is a story that the Jack Daniel’s brand understandably avoids, though it produced Lem Motlow’s Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey from 1939 to 1992.

Hughes also provides a nuanced look at the Temperance Movement and its often-overlooked intersections with Black communities. While largely viewed as a white, Protestant movement, Black temperance societies were common — driven by a belief that abstaining from alcohol could help uplift the race and counter white stereotypes. Frederick Douglass spoke candidly about how slaveholders used alcohol to keep enslaved people subdued, depriving them of the clarity needed for rebellion or escape. These views were reinforced by widespread fears among white society that Black people could not control themselves under the influence of alcohol, with white politicians and media using this stereotype as justification for exclusion and oppression. At the same time, certain liquor brands leaned into these narratives, marketing directly to Black consumers with imagery designed to provoke racist anxieties — such as labels featuring white women in revealing clothing.

One of the more unexpected but compelling parts of the book covers the rise of Cognac among Black Americans. This connection began with Black soldiers in World War II, who developed a taste for French brandy while stationed overseas. When U.S. military officials asked the French to enforce Jim Crow laws for Black troops, France refused, instead welcoming them warmly — deepening the soldiers’ appreciation for French culture. This affinity carried into postwar America and eventually found its way into hip-hop culture. Artists like Sean “Diddy” Combs brought vodka and tequila  into the mainstream of Black music, but Hughes notes the challenges that followed. Combs’ ventures with Cîroc vodka and DeLeón tequila reached impressive heights but ultimately ended in conflict with Diageo, the parent company. Combs alleged that Diageo had neglected his brands and written them off as mere “Black brands,” underscoring the persistent racial barriers in the spirits industry.

The book concludes on a cautiously optimistic note. In 2012, Jackie Summers became the first Black American to receive a Distilled Spirits Plant (DSP) permit from the TTB, marking a significant milestone. More recently, efforts like the Black Bourbon Society and the Black-Owned Spirits Symposium (BOSS) have been launched to support Black entrepreneurs in the industry. BOSS, a six-month invite-only incubator, connects Black-owned brands with the resources and mentorship needed to succeed in a competitive marketplace. Hughes himself is a graduate of the program. In 2021, through his company Reboot Beverages, he revived Mt. Pleasant Club Whiskey, a pre-Prohibition brand based in Washington, D.C., sourcing whiskey locally and bringing historical legacy back into public memory.

Makers and Shakers is not just a book about alcohol — it’s a reckoning with the racial and cultural history that has shaped the American spirits industry. It’s filled with intriguing trivia, powerful stories, and sobering truths. Alcohol has been used as a weapon against Black communities, and even today, Black entrepreneurs continue to face hurdles that their white counterparts do not. Yet, Hughes also offers a glimpse of what’s possible when those barriers begin to fall. Through initiatives like BOSS, we may well be witnessing the beginning of a new chapter in American spirits — one that embraces diversity, inclusion, and the full breadth of the American story.

Whether you approach this book as a member of the Black community, as someone working in the alcohol industry, or simply as a curious student of American history, Makers & Shakers offers an essential and overdue perspective that’s both enlightening and empowering.

A- / $25

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