Tag: 201015

In the spotlight

Young indie rockers make big stage debut

As live music resumes at Concord’s downtown Bank of New Hampshire Stage, a direction that started with the summer In The Park series continues: the showcasing of regional talent. Social distancing requirements now limit capacity, creating a sweet spot for acts like Grenon, a quartet of indie rockers who are more than excited for their upcoming show on Oct. 17.

The band is led by namesake Kacie Grenon, a 17-year-old singer-songwriter who began performing as a preteen. Grenon, on lead vocals and rhythm guitar, exudes an artistic maturity well beyond her age. “Imaginary Friends,” a song she wrote about social anxiety, has garnered over 53,000 Spotify streams since its spring release, along with a Top 10 Indie Rock Café pick and press notice in SoCal’s venerable L.A. Weekly.

It’s been a challenging time for the music business. As the band prepared to roll out a new video for “Imaginary Friends” in early May and hit the road to support it, Covid-19 shut the world down. Online Grenon Pity Party shows became the norm.

Though working through the pandemic via Facebook Live and other platforms was a breeze, it didn’t substitute for the real thing, Grenon said in a recent interview with bandmates Nick Turgeon and Zach Stone.

“We all grew up in the generation raised with technology, so it wasn’t a hard switch for us,” she said. “Although it’s super fun and we love doing them, playing online doesn’t really capture everything that we love. And we’re just so excited to actually be doing another live show.”

Grenon began writing “Imaginary Friends” as she completed internet-based high school. The feelings it describes — stuck at home while the world goes on outside — were very real.

“I didn’t really hang out with a lot of people,” she said. “So I was pretty lonely.”

With the pandemic, the song’s sentiments found a larger audience among Quarantine Nation, she said.

“Everyone’s pretty lonely. So I think that might be why people are resonating with it right now. But it’s just really cool to see a song that I wrote in my bedroom when I was feeling pretty low be pretty huge for us at this point,” she said.

Recognition from the virtual world for the new single surprised and delighted Grenon and her bandmates.

“We were supposed to go on a radio tour right after it dropped but we obviously could not get outside of the state,” she said. “It is pretty organic that a lot of people are seeing ‘Imaginary Friends.’ I give a lot of credit to our managers for helping us out so much.”

Bassist R.J. Wood, who joined Grenon in July, will play his second show with the band when they appear in Concord. Although enlisting a new member during a pandemic might appear difficult, Grenon said it was ideal.

“This gave us the perfect time to really practice with him without any pressing deadlines, like, ‘Oh we have a tour that we have to go on in like a week, can you learn all these songs?’” she said. “We’re super excited to finally have him show off for everyone.”

As for the band’s future plans, “just like everyone else in the industry right now we’re kind of waiting to be able to travel and tour,” Grenon said, noting that they’ll debut a follow-up to “Imaginary Friends” at Concord, Part 2 of their mental hell[th] EP.

Then, with all members now high school graduates, the entire band plans to share an apartment — hopefully one with thick walls. No word yet on when TikTok videos of at-home antics will begin appearing — “It’s such a weird app,” Grenon said — as they’re relatively new to the social media tool.

“We’re moving in so we can stay together and make a lot of cool behind-the-scenes stuff,” Grenon said. “We’re just trying to find ways to be creative and safe, and keep moving.”

Grenon
When: Saturday, Oct. 17, 8 p.m.
Where: Bank of New Hampshire Stage, 16 S. Main St., Concord
Tickets: $20 at banknhstage.com

Featured photo: Grenon. Courtesy photo.

The Music Roundup 20/10/10

Local music news & events

• Laugh time: A regional standup showcase offers headliner Alex Giampapa with feature comic Dan Hall. The evening is hosted by Chad Blodgett, a New Hampshire native who’s built a following at area nightclubs, and at events like the Portland, Maine, Comedy Festival; he’s the 2018 Vermont Snowplow Comedy champion. The show is presented by Tiny Hands Productions, Thursday, Oct. 15, 7 p.m., Hatbox Theatre, 270 Loudon Road, Concord, tickets $22 at hatboxnh.com (18+).

• Outdoor music: A downtown parking lot hosts The Ghost of Paul Revere. The Maine roots trio released their third studio album, Good At Losing Everything, in late August. They were poised to stage their annual Ghostland festival last month; instead, the four-show event was streamed. Their music is lyrically insightful, blending folk, bluegrass, rock and alternative. Friday, Oct. 16, 8:30 p.m., Service CU at Pop Up NH, Bridge Street Parking Lot, Portsmouth. Reserved tables start at $70, portsmouthnhtickets.com.

• Weekend wrap: Enjoy upbeat, familiar tunes from Another Shot Acoustic at a venue that began offering live music as soon as it was allowed and has continued on multiple days in the ensuing months. The husband and wife duo of Chris and Donna Colella plays classic rock, country and chart hits spanning decades. They are a popular attraction throughout New England. Sunday, Oct. 18, 4:30 p.m., Stumble Inn, 20 Rockingham Road, Londonderry. See facebook.com/TheStumbleInnNH.

• Silver screen: A career-spanning 2017 Stevie Nicks show captured on film, 24 Karat Gold: The Concert arrives at a time when the next superstar tour seems a distant dream. It includes songs from Nicks’ solo albums, like “Edge of Seventeen” and her duet with the late Tom Petty, “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around,” along with Fleetwood Mac favorites. Wednesday, Oct. 21, 7 p.m., Chunky’s Cinema Pub, 707 Huse Road, Manchester. Tickets are $12.99 at chunkys.com.

The 40-Year-Old Version (R)

The 40-Year-Old Version (R)

A nearly 40-year-old playwright feels stuck in her career and is facing life turmoil in The 40-Year-Old Version, a delightful comedy on Netflix.

Radha (Radha Blank, who also wrote and directed this movie) won a playwrights’ “30 under 30” award — but that was more than a decade ago. Now she’s pushing 40 and still struggling to “make it,” paying the bills by teaching a play-writing class to teens. She begs her best friend and agent Archie (Peter Kim) to get her most recent play, Harlem Ave., a shot at being produced by someone who will pay serious money. He gets her an invitation to a party to meet with J. Whitman (Reed Birney), a producer with cash but with a history of preferring stories that are what Radha calls “poverty porn.”

While Archie struggles to foster a Whitman/Radha partnership after their initial bumpy meeting — things take a turn when Whitman suggests Radha write his planned Harriet Tubman musical — a creatively wrung-out Radha considers returning to her teenage writing roots: hip-hop. She finds D (Oswin Benjamin) to make the beats to go with her lyrics and records a track, hoping to build the project into a mix tape. She might be hesitant, a bit rusty, but Radha clearly gets something from working on rhymes that she isn’t getting from her other work. D sees something special in her work and invites her to join in at an open-mic night. He also, a-hem, sees something special in her and while Radha clearly feels their age difference (he’s 26), she is also drawn to this quiet artist.

We see Radha blossom with rap; it seems to give her a way to express her frustrations and feelings that she can’t do in her other jobs. But she struggles with the urge to “stay in my lane” as she explains at one point. There is money and opportunity in letting J. Whitman and the white director he picks essentially gentrify her Black-characters-focused play about Harlem. But the rawer, more honest stories she tells in her lyrics are not a path to career stability — or even a clear path to career fulfillment, as we see Radha doubt herself even with this medium she enjoys.

And through all of this, we see her avoid calls from her brother who is cleaning out their mother’s apartment. Herself an artist, Radha’s mother recently died and clearly Radha is still figuring out how to handle this.

This movie is deeply charming. Without reminding me of any specific film, it gave me serious mid-1990s indie movie vibes. Like some of those movies, this one has occasional rough edges — but not many, and the overall tight focus of the story and understanding of its central character makes up for any flaws. The 40-Year-Old Version, with its scenes of walking and talking and its central character filled with relatable frustration and weary humor, is lovely. This movie is full of nice detail-moments that help build the real world of who Radha is and what it means to her to be almost 40.

The way we see Radha — presented as someone who is smart and talented but also grieving and struggling — work through this life rut is really engaging. Radha Blank, the real-life actress, is a magnetic person who can convey a lot with just her face (a few times she looks directly at the camera and the moments are not just nice comic beats but also create a real kinship with the viewer). She makes Radha, the character, feel like a fully formed real person, which makes her difficulties and her moments of happiness hit harder. A-

Rated R for pervasive language, sexual content, some drug use and brief nudity, according to the MPA on filmratings.com. Written and directed by Radha Blank, The 40-Year-Old Version is two hours and four minutes long and distributed on Netflix.

Want, by Lynn Steger Strong

Want, by Lynn Steger Strong (Henry Holt & Co., 209 pages)

Books, says the protagonist in Lynn Steger Strong’s novel Want, offer “quiet, secret temporary safety,” which is the best argument for reading one, or 10, this month. Whether you’ll want to read this one is dependent on your capacity for patience. It’s a slow burn of a story, the word “plodding” comes to mind more than once, but it’s a thoughtful meditation on American excesses and desires.

Elizabeth is, in many ways, a thoroughly modern Lizzie. A child of affluence in the 1980s, she has arrived at age 34 with a Ph.D., a husband, two children (girls, 2 and 4) and a teaching job she cares about intermittently. But she is unable to enjoy any of this because of debt that has driven the couple to bankruptcy and troubled relationships with her parents and former best friend.

The debt began with $30,000 owed to a hospital for a C-section, then grew to include emergency dental work, household expenses and $100,000 in student loans. “My body almost single-handedly bankrupted us,” Elizabeth muses. That could be one reason that she punishes it, getting up before dawn every morning for double-digit runs on icy streets in Manhattan.

Strangely, it is 2017 but Elizabeth somehow dwells in a world that is unmolested by the Trump presidency or anything political. (There’s that “quiet, secret temporary safety” perhaps.)

But otherwise, the book is, in many ways, a rumination on American culture, although it’s unclear what part of it, if any, the author seeks to indict. Elizabeth and her husband were “eighties babies, born of plenty, cloistered by our whiteness and the place we were raised in … we were both brought up to think that if we checked off certain boxes we’d be fine.”

After the Great Recession, they floundered psychologically: “We had principles or something, made up almost wholly out of things we knew we didn’t want to be or have a part in more than in any concrete plans for what we’d be instead. … We were galvanized in this way, smug and stupid. It felt athletic and exciting, this misguided, blind self-righteousness.” She wanted a life that revolved around books; he, despite the $100,000 in student loans, decides he prefers working with his hands, and so leaves finance to build custom furniture.

Elizabeth moves numbly through her days, leaving work early occasionally to wander through a museum or read in a coffee shop. She occasionally checks Twitter and Facebook, largely to stalk her former best friend, Sasha, who has vanished from her life, for reasons that are slowly unspooled. When her husband, the primary caregiver of their daughters, is away, she speaks of “watching” her children, as if she is a detached babysitter.

Meanwhile there are the sundry indignities of wheeling through a moneyed world with $72 in their checking account. One day, for example, the girls had a birthday party to attend, so Elizabeth wraps two books her daughters don’t like (plus “a toy they haven’t played with much”) in printer paper she has the children decorate. The gift is stapled shut because they are out of tape. (The 4-year-old, of course, announces as soon as they arrive, “My mom didn’t have time to get a gift so she made us wrap up our own toys.”)

Equally important to the story is Elizabeth’s fraught relationship with her mother, “the only person in the world who can say my name and make it mean.” Elizabeth has all sorts of psychological scars from her childhood, yet her parents — both attorneys — are blind to their inadvertent cruelties and genuinely don’t comprehend why their relationship is broken.

In one searing scene the parents insist that Elizabeth watch a video of her cavorting happily with family members as a child and demand that she explain why she is so angry with them. “Is this the childhood that made you do such awful things to us?” her father demands.

We are meant, of course, to side with Elizabeth, who gathers her children and leaves. But this is a novel of nuance, and Elizabeth is not always entirely likeable herself; her ennui is infectious. Maybe the parents had a point. They have wants, too, after all.

At the birthday party, Elizabeth listens as the other moms talk about the health spas where they go for self-care; she is not resentful, but her desire, and her inability to have these things, is palpable. But there are people who want the things she has; for example, the wife of her husband’s associate who has been trying for two years to have a child. “I see her want in the way her eyes dip closer to her nose; I smell it, desperate and sour, on her breath and her lips,” Elizabeth observes.

We all have currency of some kind, but not all currency involves money. For some it’s family, for others health. This is a rich, mineable theme. Want nibbles around the edges of what it could be but ultimately suffers from the narrator’s own lethargy and an ending of dubious resolution.
B

BOOK NOTES
When I was a kid, the next best thing to Halloween was checking out books about Halloween at the school library. There couldn’t have been that many, but there were always histories of holidays, and sometimes I would score a book on costumes or holiday parties that would have Halloween chapters. October is a long month, even longer when you’re in third or fourth grade; reading about Halloween helped me hang on until the 31st finally arrived.
Then I grew up, and … nothing.
I can’t remember reading anything about Halloween in ages. This seems strange, given that I own two dozen Christmas-themed books. So I set out to find some Halloween books for adults — and by that I mean books specifically about the celebration of Halloween and its assorted characters, not just books that are spooky. For that, all you need is Stephen King.
There aren’t a lot. Even though adults have effectively taken over Halloween, most Halloween books are for kids. But here are a few witchy titles I found for grown-ups:
Ghostland, An American History in Haunted Places, by Colin Dickey (Penguin, 336 pages)
The History and Haunting of Salem by Rebecca Pittman (Wonderland Productions, 647 pages)
For people who loved the film Halloween, there’s a book about the making of it: Taking Shape, Developing Halloween from Script to Screen, by Dustin McNeill and Travis Mullins (Harker Press, 378 pages).
Roald Dahl compiled an anthology of ghost stories — who knew? Roald Dahl’s Book of Ghost Stories (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 235 pages.)
This book makes me tired just reading about it, but for the creative cooks among us: Tricky Treats, Halloween Delights for Appetizers, Snacks, Dinner and Dessert, by Vincent Amiel (Skyhorse, 96 pages).
More promising: The Spell Book for New Witches, Essential Spells to Change Your Life by Ambrosia Hawthorn (Rockridge Press, 244 pages). Don’t laugh; she’s the editor of Witchology magazine and says she has been a practicing witch for 15 years.
For the thirsty: WitchCraft Cocktails: 70 Seasonal Drinks Infused with Magic and Ritual by Julia Halina Hadas (Adams Media, 224 pages).
Finally, for those of you who are obsessed with Walt Disney, there is Vault of Walt 9: Halloween Edition by Jim Korkis (Theme Park Press, 256 pages), released this month. This is not a joke. Theme Park Press exclusively publishes books about Disney parks, and Korkis found enough anecdotes about Walt Disney, the man and his theme park to fill a paperback book. (Even more incredible, he’s written 28 other books, all about Disney, including Vault of Walt, Christmas Edition.)
And of course there are plenty of Halloween coloring books for adults, something I would normally grumble about, but 2020 being what it is … sure, bring out the orange and black crayons.

Album Reviews 20/10/15

Yellow Days, A Day in a Yellow Beat (RCA Records)

If you believe the hype bubbling up around this second album from Yellow Days, a.k.a. George van den Broek, he’s successfully bending ’70s radio-funk into a form of “upbeat existential millennial crisis music.” What that translates to in the real world of real things is a patchwork of listenable-enough blue/jazz/funk sampling that draws from the Moby playbook. The 2.5-minute “Intro” is a bit tired: an old TV interview with Ray Charles (in which he bemoans the lack of artistic freedom granted to those poor downtrodden souls who’ve scored record contracts) pattering over a decent-enough imitation of 1980s jazz-pop chill, complete with dated synths, faux-xylophone and assorted other piffle. “Be Free” is more of a traditional tune (or extended ringtone, take your pick), one dripping with Carter-era authenticity, and from there you’re off to the escapist races with the rest of the songs, lounging in a silky hammock of occasionally skit-decorated Soul Train vibe. All of it’s pretty catchy, if that counts. B+

Spice Girls, Forever (Virgin Records)

Unless the holidays are canceled — and who would blame us — we’ve arrived at that time of the year when nearly all the new releases are reissues, box sets, bootlegs, laughably expensive multimedia DVD/CD packages (“Only 10,000 in existence!”), and, of course, first-ever vinyl releases, like this one. No, this isn’t the album with their monster hit “Wannabe” on it (that was from their 1996 debut album, Spice); Forever was their final studio album, and “only” reached No. 39 in the U.S. Not surprising, given that they were down to four singers by then (Ginger Spice, a.k.a. Geri Halliwell, left for a solo career and to write children’s books). OK, no, that wasn’t the unsurprising thing about this album’s failure to do much in the U.S.; it was the phoned-in quality of the songs. Like most of this stuff, “Let Love Lead the Way” (granted, a filler track if ever there was one) was at best a bad example of massage-spa background patter; “Get Down With Me” couldn’t decide whether it wanted to nick TLC or Missy Elliott, and so on. Frankly, the only thing that didn’t outright suck was the girl-power ballad “Goodbye,” which actually did fit as a final righteous statement. C-

Retro Playlist

If you haven’t yet cracked in half over this endless quarantine, one might guess that you may have discovered meditation and/or yoga. Those things do help soothe the soul, believe it or not, despite the fact that so many people suggest them.

I should know, if you’ll pardon. I became a certified Kripalu yoga instructor 15 years ago, after spending a month at the practice’s ashram, which resembles a suburban grade school more than it does any sort of ancient spiritual retreat. Regardless, this led to my becoming co-owner of the now-defunct Manchester Yoga Center, which was located over what was then the India Palace (now Royal India) restaurant on South Willow Street in Manchvegas. Strategic partnering, you see.

Music, of course, is a big part of the yoga experience. When you’re trying to rid your body and brain of toxins, it helps to play music that’s cleansing. Just to get this part out of the way, everyone automatically thinks of Irish multi-tracking weirdo Enya when they think of “yoga music,” and yeah, it is awesome stuff. I usually have her “Best Of” LP playing in the car around the holidays.

But honestly, Deva Premal is as good as Enya, if in a different way. I used to play her 1998 Essence album a lot in my yoga classes. Her voice is truly a marvel. Her last couple of albums kind of sucked, but that’s only proof that perfection simply isn’t attainable on this plane.

As for my personal go-to “yoga records” — which, it should be said, means “New Age Music,” of a sort — one constant has always been Anugama’s Shamanic Dream, which works as yoga-class ambiance and meditative trance-inducement. It’s a crazy-long tune made of one simple, gentle, super-cool tabla/synth pattern over which a faraway voice chants “So be it.” Really immersive stuff.

My most guilty New Age pleasure, though, is the 1996 Christopher Franke album The Celestine Prophecy. The story goes that Franke, of the early ambient band Tangerine Dream, was inspired to pay homage to James Redfield’s 1993 novel of the same name. Though a bit mixed, the results do include a tune titled “The Mission of Father Sanchez,” a song that is, to this day, the prettiest, most spiritually empowering thing I’ve ever heard. The ultimate wedding march. I can’t make it to the final fade without being overwhelmed with joy and blubbering like a baby. It gets me every single time. If The Lion King soundtrack makes your lower lip twitch, this tune might just knock you flat.

(Please don’t ever use it on me at a party. I do have a certain amount of Grinch cred to maintain.)

PLAYLIST

A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• Hey, everyone, guess what happens on Oct. 16? Yep, that’s right, all the new albums get released, because it is a Friday! Let’s start the festivities with this hipster dude over here, Kevin Morby, a Texas native who moved to Brooklyn because he thought it would be awesome, and he’d live this totally neat-o Singin’ in the Rain life, or something like that, I honestly don’t know what this stupid Wikipedia article is even trying to say. But whatever, he was in a band called The Babies with Cassie Ramone of the Vivian Girls, and — look at that, I’ve lost ya, haven’t I. Come back, man, I agree with you, seriously, like, who cares about bands who sacrificed nice suburban lives just to rack up 85 YouTube listens or whatnot, and so I will end the boring history lesson and go have a listen to whatever single is on tap from Morby’s upcoming new album Sundowner! I don’t know anything about this guy, but I swear on a stack of Silver Surfer No. 4 comic books that if this is melodically good but there’s really horrible singing, like every other “indie” band that doesn’t have a full band roster I’ve heard this year, I’ll — why, I’ll, well, let’s just say that you don’t want to know! OK, here’s the stupid single, “Campfire.” It’s a cross between The Cardinals and Bob Dylan, and it’s been done literally one trillion times before.

• Right, here we go, with British glam-rockers The Struts, who are releasing their third album, Strange Days! Will it be as terrible as The Darkness, or will it be technically awesome, like the old British glam rock band Sweet used to be? By the way, only ninnies call Sweet “The Sweet.” Their name is just plain “Sweet.” Why did people call them “The Sweet,” like, was there a misprint in the August 1979 issue of Hit Parader or something? I don’t care, at least this band definitely does have “The” in its name, and for that I thank them. Oh, let’s just go, the first single is the title track, and the “feat” person is none other than the guy from Take That, Robbie Williams! Wait, this isn’t glam, it’s soccer-mom music for the Ellen DeGeneres show. Come on, guys, at least do some cowbell, hah? Nope, no cowbell, no glam, just music for daydreaming about receiving a tender back massage from Bradley Cooper while dropping the kids off for a “play date,” or whatever soccer moms do, I have no idea. Barf, no glam, just over-processed piano-pop, let’s just move along here.

• Ha ha, look at the funny skinny soy-boy, who calls himself “The Wonky Angle,” on the YouTube, ranking Autechre’s albums from best to worst and gettin’ him some Likes! Is there really a difference from one album to another, when a band plays awesome glitchy IDM? Nope. The new album is called Sign, and there’s no advance, but — wait a second, why is the album cover a complete ripoff of Orbital’s Wonky, or at least the promo version? Whatever, I’ll take it, this will be awesome, don’t mind me.

• We’ll end the week with Don’t Know How But They Found Me, a band led by two of the sad emo clowns from Panic! At The Disco. The title track from their new album, Razzmataz, is — wait, is this Smirnov commercial real? Like, you can drill a hole on top of a watermelon and stick a vodka bottle upside down in the hole, attach a spigot, and you get drinkies? Uh-oh, yikes, I’m out of room, no time to talk about whatever this emo song is about.

October’s cocktail dilemma – Drinks with John Fladd

Argument – There comes a time when a rational adult needs to set aside emotion and accept Reality.

Counter-Argument – What has Reality ever done for me?

OK, it’s October.

October, in a year that has been circling the flush-line since March and promises to circle even faster around the bowl before we give up on 2020 entirely and hope for something better next year. Summer is gone and we have to brace ourselves for a grim fall and a winter of — I don’t know — discontent?

That’s one way to look at it.

Another is to adopt, as P.G. Wodehouse put it, a campaign of stout denial. You know what I’m talking about — grown men wearing shorts, sandals and Santa hats in December. Women who wear white after Labor Day and meet your gaze with steely determination.

Whichever camp you fall into, you could probably use a drink.

Case No. 1 – “I Grudgingly Accept That Summer Is Over and Will Adopt a Serious, Adult Demeanor”

The cocktail for you:

Black Tie Cocktail
2 oz. dark rum, such as Myers
½ oz. triple sec
¼ oz. orgeat
½ teaspoon blackstrap molasses
½ oz. fresh squeezed lime juice
1 teaspoon simple syrup

Put all ingredients into a cocktail shaker with five or six ice cubes. Shake until you can feel the ice splintering (see below). Pour without straining into a rocks glass.

The Black Tie is a deceptive cocktail. On its surface it is dignified, sober (in an emotional sense) and entirely appropriate for the season.

On tasting it, though, you will be surprised. It has complex, playful flavors that come in stages — the molasses and lime play off each other unexpectedly well. It is a bit subversive.

Case No. 2 – “Fall Foliage Is Just Another Way of Describing Tiki Trees”

The cocktail for you :

Rum Runner
1½ oz. navy rum like Lamb’s or Pussers, or dark rum like Myers
½ oz. crème de mûre, or blackberry liqueur, or blackberry brandy (the kind you find sometimes in little single-portion bottles in the sale bin at the liquor store)
1 oz. crème de banana
1 oz. fresh squeezed lime juice
2 oz. pineapple juice
½ oz. grenadine (pomegranate syrup)

Again, put everything in a cocktail shaker with five or six ice cubes, then shake brutally, until you feel the ice shatter. Pour into a tall glass. Garnish – Several weeks ago I described the Jungle Bird as too serious a drink to garnish with frou-frou paper umbrellas or fruit. This drink is a defiant rebellion against the changing of the seasons. It calls for a minimum of two cocktail umbrellas, and as much fruit as you want to cram into it.

Just as the Black Tie is deceptively playful, this drink is deceptively sophisticated. The key ingredient here is the blackberry brandy, which insists on shining through all the other goofy ingredients.

A word on cocktail shakers
When you first start making serious, grown-up cocktails you will probably buy a cocktail shaker with a strainer built into its spout. “This looks easier,” you will say to yourself. You might even congratulate yourself on keeping your common touch and not buying into cocktail snobbery.
Eventually, you’ll start getting impatient with how long it takes to pour your entire drink into your glass through the built-in strainer. You will probably have to re-shake and re-strain your drink several times to get all of it out of the shaker.
The solution is what is called a Boston Shaker. It consists of one large steel canister, and a smaller one. It is what most professional bartenders use. You put your ingredients into the larger canister, turn the little one upside-down, wedge it firmly over the ingredients in the larger one, then shake.
It seems like it should leak. It doesn’t. It seems like it would be hard to strain drinks with. It isn’t. The drinks end up colder, somehow. As you shake, you can feel the ice cracking and splintering — which is profoundly satisfying — and you can pour your drink quickly and efficiently into your waiting glass, and shortly thereafter, into you.

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