Rocktails In Memorium: Neil Peart

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Modern-day Warrior

2 parts (1 oz) Canadian Rye Whiskey [Crown Royal]
1 part (1/2 oz) Canadian Maple Liqueur
1 part (1/2 oz) lime juice
2 parts (1 oz) Ramazzotti

Combine in a shaker, shake with ice. Strain over an ice filled rocks glass. Garnish with Rush vinyl album of your choice.


RIP Neil Peart (1/7/2020)

Oof, the world lost a legend this past weekend. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the man was part octopus. His skill on the kit was unmatched, not to mention his wonderful, fantasmical lyric writing. Literally the beating heart of one the most powerful power trios ever to take the stage, he deserves a proper send-off. So my friend Jeff (of Luddite Stereo) and I decided on a little collabo tribute – he writes the words, I make the drink. Of course it had to be 2:1:1:2 ratio, of course it had to use some Canadian spirits, and of course it had to be named after a Rush lyric.

The whiskey and maple liqueur give a nice warm sweetness, which is cut by the bitter Ramazzotti and zesty lime. The spiciness of the rye also contributes to the overall balance. This drink is also an entry into this month’s @homebarwards instagram challenge, which is all about impractical garnishes. And of course I had to choose the first Rush album on which Peart appeared. I can attest that this drink goes wonderfully with any and all Rush songs. Now on to Jeff’s words.

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Virtuosic yet compact, Neil Peart’s drum kit work put the pro in prog-rock — his fills were both meta-human and effortless, his solos exacted with a Terminator’s laser-cut precision yet bursting with humanity. Rush’s best-known 1970’s hits were tightly coiled into economic song structures that seldom afforded Peart enough leg room to stretch, but the trio’s live shows would soon become a playground for his legendary extended solos.

With 1981’s Moving Pictures, Peart’s impressive technique finally served as a bedrock (“YYZ”) for Rush’s studio work, and he became the band’s primary lyricist, pushing the gentle Canadians on the path toward sci-fi Godhead. Good luck finding a white North-American male between the ages of thirty and sixty who, intoxicated, hasn’t maniacally air-drummed out “Tom Sawyer’s” 11-second Herculean fill. Double-barreled tom rolls, blistering 32nd note triplets, and a fluctuating time signature — it’s a marvel of tasteful indulgence. Celebrate what is reserved for quiet defense.

Rush -“Tom Sawyer

-Jeff Goodwin

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