Those of us who learned to taste German Riesling Trockens in the nineties and early noughties realised we should view them with fear and loathing. They were lean, harsh, acrid entities of pain and severity. I utterly hated them and vowed I would never say a good word about them.
Clearly just to irritate me, the Germans learned that this style was utterly horrid, and they developed it into something a bit more acceptable to palates other than the totally warped ones of the German populace themselves. They made them a touch richer, a shade fatter and with that all important property, charm.