One of the phenomena of our time is the wine conference. Now, for those who don’t hang on every drip from the bottle, the idea of a wine conference seems, well, a bit silly. After all, what more can you say after “a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou?” The answer is: a lot. Edward Fitzgerald’s admirable concision is absent however. Wine conferences inspire a wealth of wine jabber.

The past two weeks saw me in back-to-back wine conferences, one in the Central Otago area of New Zealand (about which area I reported last week) and most recently in the cool-climate Mornington Peninsula of Australia, about an hour’s drive south of Melbourne. Both conferences were consecrated – that’s the only word for it – to pinot noir.

Wine conferences attract particular sorts: winemakers, of course; retailers, wholesalers and importers; and not least, impassioned consumers. What attracts these die-hard wine drinkers? In a word, passion. And no wine inspires this more than pinot noir.

Sure, there are other, occasional, wine conferences centered on other grape varieties. Chardonnay, syrah, cabernet sauvignon, and even viognier have had their moment in the spotlight. But no other wine sees such relentless attention, such scrutiny, as pinot noir. Oregon has its International Pinot Noir Celebration every year in late July. It’s the granddaddy of these pinot fests, with nearly two decade’s worth of annual events to its credit. Inspired by Oregon’s example, now New Zealand has its own Pinot Noir Celebration; California has its World of Pinot Noir; and Australia – which is not known for pinot noir greatness – has its Mornington Peninsula Pinot Noir Celebration.

Just what goes on in these high-ticket (anywhere from $600 to $1,200 a person depending on the venue) wine romps? Tasting and talking. And then yet more tasting and talking.

Invariably, they are come-ons for the wine region hosting the event. Here in Mornington Peninsula an entire morning was spent tasting the local pinot noirs, followed by participants being bussed off to various local wineries that hosted lunch. Every such event I’ve attended follows this same promotional formula.

But the real attraction is what can only be called geek-speak. You’ve seen the movie “Sideways,” where the repellent wine geek Miles holds forth on the minutiae of pinot noir? That’s nothing compared to the pathology of real pinotphiliacs.

For example, in an afternoon session at the Mornington Peninsula Pinot Noir Celebration, 150 attendees were rapt – rapt I tell you – by a nearly forensic investigation called the “Influence of Clones and Terroir.”

One local winery (Stonier Wines) offered a side-by-side comparison of two pinot noirs where the winemaker and the clone or strain are the same, but the terroir (vineyard plot) are different, based on soils and exposures. Heavier soils such as clay can create darker, fruitier pinot noir than, say, gravel or sandy soil. Exposure – how much sunlight the vines receive based on how early or late they capture the morning sun – can significantly affect ripeness. (One wine was lighter and more floral, while the other was denser and richer, as well as darker.)

Another local winery (Willow Creek) offered a different twist: the same winemaking and terroir, but a different clone. This business of clones is always much discussed whenever pinot noir is the topic.

Every grape variety has different strains, each creating wines of greater or lesser fruitiness, degrees of color, and, above all, particular taste characteristics. Because pinot noir is more genetically unstable than many other grapes, it creates more mutations. When these mutations are identified, isolated, and asexually reproduced (my grandmother did the same by stealing a leaf stem from a friend’s African violet and rooting it in a glass of water), it’s called a clone.

Starting in the 1970s, France has methodically cataloged its vast heritage of grape varieties, patiently identifying distinct strains, looking for the grape version of a few good men.

Nowhere was this effort more extensive than with pinot noir in Burgundy. Starting in the late 1980s, the French government then commercialized these pinot noir clones, offering them to the world’s grape-growers under the unromantic designations of clone 113, 114, 115, 667, and 777, among others. They became known collectively as the Dijon clones, after the Burgundian town where the research team was based. Today, everybody’s got the Dijon clones, in addition to whatever existing clones were already present in their respective nations.

Do these clones make a difference? Boy, do they ever. Even a novice, after just 15 minutes of training, can tell the difference between, say, Dijon clone 115 (intense red and black raspberry in scent and taste, as well as deep, blackish color) and clone 5, which is more commonly called the Pommard clone (scents of cherry, leather and gaminess, along with dark color).

Willow Creek winery offered a comparison of clone 115 with a local Australian clone called MV6 (which stands for Mother Vine), a strain that has no American equivalent. The difference was dramatic, with 115 offering strikingly dark color and rich, intense, pure berry flavors while MV6 was lighter in every sense, but with lovely floral notes. The winemaker said he would blend the two for the finished wine.

California winemaker Merry Edwards of Merry Edwards Wines (she was recently named winemaker of the year by the San Francisco Chronicle) schlepped two samples offering different terroir and winemaking, but using the same clone (115).

As if this wasn’t headache-making enough, winemaker Tony Rynders of Oregon’s Domaine Serene proffered clone 777 made identically, but on two distinct soil types. And, yes, they were discernibly different.

Not satiated yet? You could attend tastings comparing pinot noirs from different countries. Or pinot noirs made in different fashions, e.g., short macerations, higher or lower fermentation temperatures, filtered vs. unfiltered and so forth. And did I mention oak barrels? Never mind. That’s serious geek-speak indeed.

Why pay all this money and lavish all this attention on what is, after all, just a pleasing drink? Fair question. The answer is surprisingly simple: fine wine is a compelling beauty. As with paintings, you can move along, gazing briefly and enjoying its effect without probing further. Or you can delve deeper, losing yourself in brushstrokes and scholarship. Fine wine admits just such investigation, no wine more so than pinot noir.

Don’t laugh. Someday you may find yourself at one of these convocations of the impassioned. And you find yourself nodding in agreement when someone insists that clone 115 is just too potent for real pinot noir subtlety. That’s when you know you’re far gone indeed – but oh so happily.