For Jim Dandy

The photo says it all.

For anyone needing further convincing that barbequing is more than "charring dead animal flesh over the fire-pit," I offer the following column from the Sonny Drysdale Archives. Of a May, this year vintage. Ah, Springtime of 2008. Courtesy of the good people from 'ARTscape' magazine and reprinted here without their permission or knowledge.

... The first weekend of May marks the opening of trout season. I'll be missing it. I come from a long line of fishermen. Fishing is in my blood. It's encoded in my DNA. But it's not for me. As Steven Wright once noted, "There's a fine line between fishing and standing on a dock looking like an idiot."

I don't golf either.

Therefore, I barbeque.

As one of those warm-weather manly pursuits of dubious merit, outdoor grilling is more in my line. All three of the above-mentioned activities are what get men throught the long Canadian winter. The dream of spring and summer is what keeps us going. Whether it's time spent holding a putter, a rod & reel or a pair of tongs, all involve huge blocks of time and the consumption of alcohol. I suppose I could say the same thing about chasing skirt on a Richmond Row patio as well. But quite frankly, I'm just as happy with a chilled can of Ol' Milwaukee in my hand and a good steak on the old grill.

Not that I take the Art of BBQ to the same fanatical extremes as some men. However, I am a bit of a purist about some things. No propane-fuelled portable kitchen ranges for me. I'm a simple man. Just some charcoal and one of those big orb-shaped Weber grills is all I need.

And music.

Because due to the slow-burning nature of charcoal, my kind of barbeque is an all-afternoon Event. If I'm going to be standing around the backyard for hours on end, it is essential to have just the right music to pass the time while declining the opportunity to help garden because I'm wearing oven-mits. As a wise man once observed, "There's a fine line between barbequing and standing on a deck looking like an idiot."

And that's why I prefer grilling to fishing or golf. There's no need for music when golfing. You have the camaraderie of your friends and jokes memorized from 'Playboys' Ribald Bathroom Companion of Golf Humour.' And of course, no self-respecting angler would even consider bringing along a boom-box to the river. It would scare away the fish.

But it wouldn't be a backyard barbeque without music. No more than it would be without beer or wine. It's just not done.

And it can't be just any music. Shame on the grill-master who lazily tunes in FM-96 or 'The Hawk.' During early autumn, the ball game is permissable but only during the World Series. Same for the fall finale of the Stanely Cup playoffs.

As for the actual music. I only have three rules. Rule # 1 - It must be somewhat outdoorsy and warm and breezy. Hence lots of Jonathan Richman and Antonio Carlos Jobin and 'Pet Sounds.' Rule #2 - no Jimmy Buffet is allowed. Sorry, but this ain't no Margaritaville, this ain't no disco, this ain't no foolin' around.

And Rule #3 - Obey all rules.

Because even though an authentic barbeque is a connection to our most primal condition - it's all about burning a dead animal to ensure our survival after all - all that death & noble spirit business aside, a barbeque is essentially about Life.

So out of respect for those who have barbequed before me and all those who will char meat long after I'm gone, I like to crank the music up to a level that my neighbours too will remember after the coals turn white and then to ash and dust.

It is important to let them know what they are in for from the moment you plug in the portable stereo. At one time, 'Tom Jones Greatest Hits,' kicking things off with 'It's Not Unusual,' was my first choice for the traditional Lighting of the Coals.

But as I get older, I find myself going even further back in my musical memory and settle on something from less than a decade earlier than the first pair of panties tossed Tom-ways.

'Nuggets' is a compilation of original garage and '60s punk put out by Rhino Records in 1986. As I carefully arrange my coals into a pyramid, while liberally soaking them in BBQ-lighter fluid, I drown out the potential sound of fire-trucks with 'Dirty Water,' by The Standells, followed closely by 'Psychotic Reaction' by Count Five, the Easybeats' 'Friday on my Mind,' and 'Let's Talk About Girls,' by the Chocolate Watchband.

All of this was recorded over four decades ago but it'll still get your lawn-chair a'rockin.' For this is the Eternal music of Youth.

By the time the coals get their first layer of ash and a second dousing of combustibles and the flames rise again, is right about the time we get to the ninth song - and the real reason why I play this particular CD in the first place. 'Pleasant Valley Sunday,' by The Monkees.

I ask you, on a nice sunny day, with just a hint of a breeze, are there any more welcome lyrics to be heard than those penned by Gerry Goffin and Carole King: "Just another Pleasant Valley Sunday/Charcoal burning everywhere."

From Mike Nesmith's opening Beatlesque guitar riff to Mickey Dolenz' angsty vocals (thank God they didn't give this one to Davey to sing,) it just doesn't get much better than this. I'm even willing to overlook the typically-60s counter-culture put-downs of middle-aged middle-class bourgois home-owners whose major crimes apparently are that they are proud of their roses being in bloom and the fact that they have a TV-set in every room of one of those "Rows of houses that look all the same/And no one seems to care."

Being middle-aged and belonging to the lower rungs of middle-class, I now find such social commentary amusing. And so it's with pride that I crank the song up for the rest of my neighbourhood. I consider it my duty to do so.

So I also like to share with them my favorite cover version of the Standell's 'Dirty Water.' It was recorded in the 1980s by a London punk band called 'The Inmates.' All Londoners - and especially those band-wagon jumpers who have recently discovered we have a river running all through town, should swell with pride at hearing how the Inmates have slightly changed the lyrics so that they are now singing about "the banks of the River Thames," and then proudly proclaim, "LONDON, your my home!"

True, they're really singing about London, Engalund - but who cares?