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A cocktail on show at Summerhill Pyramid Winery in Kelowna, BC, on September 22, 2014.Jeff Bassett

Things have always been done a little differently at Summerhill Pyramid Winery in Kelowna, B.C. It was the province's first certified organic winery, and it is very likely the only one in the world to boast a four-storey pyramid housing sparkling brut. And now that Summerhill has become the first B.C. winery allowed to serve cocktails, it seems only natural, albeit unusual, that bartenders are vibrating liquor in Tibetan singing bowls and smoking syrups in sacred huts on the summer solstice. These feel-good libations are pioneering spirits in what you might call a New Age cocktail movement.

"One is in harmony, the other is out of harmony," says bartender Gerry Jobe, as he serves two Unified Field cocktails mixed with vodka, Cipes brut and lavender-sage-blossom-kombucha syrup. Although they look identical, one was stirred with an ordinary spoon; the other was vibrated in a Tibetan singing bowl. With a straight face, he explains how the bowl's sonic waves – which ring and pulsate when struck with a mallet and rubbed around the rim – stimulate the brain's slower alpha and theta frequencies, inducing deep meditation and emotional healing.

Singing bowls, or bells, have been used in Buddhist temples for centuries. But they're not usually filled with liquid, let alone liquor. This peculiar cocktail application is shaken with a twist of New Age eccentricity extrapolated from theories by Masaru Emoto, the bestselling Japanese author (widely derided by mainstream scientists) and like-minded alternative-medical practitioners (Hans Jenny, Emilie Conrad, etc.). If human consciousness can affect the molecular structure of water, as Emoto's Messages from Water postulates, why wouldn't cymatic vibration and positive affirmation bring better balance to a gin-and-tonic?

Jobe isn't the only believer. Out here on the experimental fringes of the wacky West Coast, spiritually energized drinks are sliding across bar tops with increasing, ahem, frequency. At Seven Stones Winery in the Similkameen Valley, proprietor George Hanson is outfitting his underground caves with a state-of-the-art Bose sound system that will blast classical music at his barrelled wines to help them age. (In Tuscany and South Africa, there are vineyards that use sound vibrations, playing Mozart and baroque music in the fields 24 hours a day to improve grape growth and ripening.) The Keefer Bar, a dark, apothecary-influenced cocktail joint in Vancouver's Chinatown, uses acoustic tuning forks to create its award-winning elixirs. Similar to singing bowls, tuning forks are used in alternative medicine to harness vibrations. When applied to certain points on the skin, much like acupuncture needles, they are said to balance the frequencies between mind and body.

Head bartender Dani Tatarin shakes two bourbon sours with absinthe, bitters and ice. She taps a metal tuning fork (in the pitch of C523.3 hertz) on her knee and presses the flat stem against one of the chilled cocktail shakers. "It's just another tool, an element in the background, that we use to create positive energy and make people enjoy drinks on a different level," Tatarin explains.

I have to admit, the tuned cocktail is frothier than the regular one and the absinthe tastes slightly more prominent.

David Wolowidnyk, bar manager at Vancouver's comparatively conservative West Restaurant, also keeps a tuning fork in his personal bar kit.

"I've done some experiments with Dani at the Keefer and we were able to tell a difference," he soberly explains. "I wouldn't want to jump on the bandwagon until some experiments are done in a lab. But I think there is potentially some validity to it."

Back at Summerhill, ritual and ceremony is deeply rooted in the vineyard's biodynamic soil. As we tour the lush fields, where we spy a praying mantis (natural aphid control) and nibble on mini tangerine marigolds, Jobe explains the edible organics in his field-to-bottle cocktails reflect the spirit of the land. He uses cattail mallow as a natural thickener in Forager's Tonic and elderflowers in Santa Fortuna. He's now working on a Caesar made with heirloom tomatoes, mustard seed and pickles fermented in the winery's pyramid-shaped cellar, where he'll also be aging premixed cocktails this fall (a New Age twist on barrel aging).

In the vineyard's kekuli, a domed replica of an indigenous sacred earth house, he smoked chokecherry syrup over dehydrated vines during the summer-solstice drum circle. "People raked their hands over it, as I held it over the fire. One gentleman did some reiki on it. Someone else played a didgeridoo over top."

Back in the winery bistro, Jobe combines the syrup with pinot gris, lemon and bourbon. Lithia's Rhythm, as he calls the cocktail, has a lively tartness and a light smoky finish. But I can't say I taste the flavour of the solstice.

"It's innately irrational," offers Summerhill CEO Ezra Cipes. "And that's okay. It's okay to tell stories and enjoy myths. That's the spirit Gerry captures in these drinks."

Next, we focus our attention (and power of intention) on the two Unified Fields. Perhaps it's the residual flavour imparted by the metal singing bowl. Maybe it's the oils from the lavender-sprig garnish affecting my palate. Or it could be that I'm just a sucker for the power of suggestion. But to me, the vibrated potion really does taste sweeter and smoother than the other.

"I'm sorry to be the cynic, but maybe Gerry didn't mix them exactly the same way," Cipes interjects.

We invite three more people to take the vibrational challenge. They didn't see Jobes ring the bowl and have no idea which flute contains what elixir, yet the verdict is unanimous. The vibrated cocktail is more rounded and agreeable.

"Praise the Lord!" Jobes jokes. "This cocktail tasting is in harmony."

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