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There’s something deeply Philly about Daniel Brennan. Maybe it’s the fact that he used to run a punk label. Maybe it’s that he still says “hoagie.” Or maybe it’s because, even after nearly two decades in New Zealand, he’s slinging cheesesteaks out of his Hawke’s Bay tasting room.

“People in New Zealand joke around and call me Danny,” he laughs. “They know that’s what people in Philly would call me.”

Daniel Brennan—winemaker, founder of Decibel Wines, and self-declared infamous rather than famous—has spent the last 17 years turning a once-unthinkable dream into a sustainable (and increasingly respected) wine career. His path from Fairmount to Hawke’s Bay wasn’t a straight line, and that’s part of what makes his wines—and his story—so compelling.

The Philly Years

Long before Brennan found himself among the gravelly riverbeds of the Gimblett Gravels, he was running a restaurant in Philadelphia and managing bands. He’d worked his way through the service industry, and like many of us, found himself drawn to wine without quite knowing where it might lead. That changed when he enrolled in wine classes at the Wine School of Philadelphia.

“I didn’t realize I actually had a good palate until we started doing blind tastings,” he recalls. “I was getting 10 out of 10, and people were giving me weird looks like, how do you know that?” He didn’t. But his guesses kept landing, and one day he pulled me aside and asked, point-blank, how to become a winemaker.

My answer—”chemistry, man”—was not what he wanted to hear. But he took it seriously. He got an MCAT prep book, started brushing up on basic science, and eventually packed his bags for New Zealand. “I thought it sounded as likely as becoming an astronaut,” he admits. “But I figured, if I’m gonna talk to winemakers, I want to know what they know.”

The Decibel Vision

Brennan arrived in Hawke’s Bay with little more than ambition and a healthy dose of stubbornness. He dug into vineyard work, learned winemaking from the ground up, and launched Decibel Wines in 2009. Today, his lineup includes a broad mix: Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, Malbec, Chenin Blanc, Albariño, and even pét-nats.

“We make 17 wines now,” he says casually, as if that’s not a logistical and creative feat. He’s carved out a niche in New Zealand’s evolving wine scene, working with some of the country’s most respected organic growers, especially at the now-iconic Two Terraces Vineyard.

“It’s become one of the most sought-after vineyards in New Zealand,” Brennan says. “There’s like 15 winemakers elbowing each other for fruit.”

His wines aren’t about mass-market appeal. They’re meant to be expressive, distinct, often a little off-center. His Gamay is hard to find, and his Malbec isn’t the sort of thing you’ll see on every shelf. But when you do find them, they deliver something special.

And when they show up in the States, it’s often because Brennan is here in person.

The 50-State Hustle

Brennan will set you straight if you think the wine world is all barrels and bucolic sunsets. He spends at least a third of his year traveling, pounding pavement across the U.S. to support his distributors. “We sell more wine in Kansas some months than we do in New Zealand,” he says. “And when I show up, sales go up.”

Retailers appreciate the face-to-face connection, and Brennan knows it. “They want to say, ‘Hey, I met that guy. He makes that wine. He’s real.’”

It’s a grind most large brands don’t bother with. But for indie winemakers, it’s essential. And Brennan, ever the realist, leans into it. He borrows cars, crashes with family, and makes it work.

That boots-on-the-ground authenticity bleeds into his wines and his philosophy. “Get the wine to the people,” he says, echoing a mantra that feels more mission than marketing.

Organic Roots and Global Challenges

Brennan’s advocacy for organics isn’t performative—it’s practical. He’s nudged growers toward organic conversion, knowing it’ll hit their yields in the short term but improve resilience in the long term.

“You get thicker skins, more airflow between the berries, better elasticity,” he explains. “With climate change, that stuff matters more than ever.”

And the climate is changing. Brennan’s Hawke’s Bay vineyards are now dealing with more erratic weather, like the cyclone that struck in 2023. “It was supposed to be a once-in-a-century event,” he says. “Now they’re saying it’s once every 50 years.”

Still, he’s optimistic. Innovation in vineyard management—like laser-guided bird control and inter-row plantings—helps. So does a community of winemakers pushing for better farming.

The Pinot Paradox

For years, New Zealand’s identity abroad has been tethered to Sauvignon Blanc. But Brennan’s heart is still with Pinot Noir, particularly from Martinborough.

“That’s what drew me here,” he says. “Back in the early 2000s, you could find these really soulful Pinots—savory, lean, varietally correct.”

He’s noticed, though, that styles have shifted. “Especially in Central Otago. Bigger, riper, more fruit-forward. You can see the influence of tourism, especially from Asia. People come to Queenstown and expect a big, expressive red.”

That pressure doesn’t exist as much in Martinborough or Hawke’s Bay, where the wines retain a more restrained profile. Brennan likens them to old Burgundy. “Still light on their feet,” he says. “Still real.”

Back in Philly

Despite living halfway around the world, Brennan hasn’t lost his Philly roots. In fact, he’s working on a small tasting room in his old neighborhood—Fairmount—above a local pub. “We did a sneak peek recently,” he says. “It’s under construction, but it’ll be a real anchor for us here.”

He also runs an occasional cheesesteak pop-up in New Zealand, called “Danny’s,” featuring imported provolone picante and shaved rump from a local organic butcher. “I don’t make any money on it,” he shrugs. “It’s just for fun.”

It’s a fitting metaphor for Brennan himself: unpretentious, generous, a little obsessive. He’s the kind of winemaker who still geeks out about 4-MMP thiols in Sauvignon Blanc—but also builds raptor nests to control pests and knows exactly how his bread should taste for a proper Philly sandwich.

Full Circle

When Brennan looks back, there’s a clear thread tying it all together. “Wine’s the only thing I can think of that lets us taste time,” he says. “What else lets you feel 10 or 20 years ago—physically? There’s nothing like it.”

He’s right, of course. Wine isn’t just a product; it’s a memory. A place. A person. And in Brennan’s case, it’s also a journey—from a classroom in Philly to a vineyard in Hawke’s Bay, and back again.