by Roddy Doyle
—AT THE DARK EH — END —
OF THE STREET —
THAT’S —
WHER-RE WE BOTH SHALL MEET
HIDIN’ IN SHA —
DOWS WHERE WE DON’T BELOH-O-ONG —
AN’ LIVIN’ IN DARKNESS —
TO HI — HI — HIDE OUR WRONG —
Deco and Natalie (She wouldn’t look at him): YOU AN’ ME —
AT THE DARK EN — H — HEND OF THE STREET
YOU AN’ ME —
It was beautiful. Jimmy blinked. The Commitments were forgiving Deco. Billy was still in the jacks though. The head barman sent a fourth pint over to Jimmy, and even one for Mickah.
—THEY’RE GONNA
FIND —
US —
Outspan’s rhythm playing was just right here, light and jangly.
—OOH THEY’LL FIND US
Outspan swayed.
—THEY’RE GONNA FIND —
US —
AN’ FUCKIN’ KILL US —
No one laughed. It wasn’t funny. It was true.
—YOU —
YOU —
YOU! —
The crowd oohed.
—YOU AN’ ME —
HONEY — WE’RE AT THE DARK END O’ —
O’
OF THE STREET —
BEHIND THE CHIPPER —
—Yeah, said someone in the crowd.
—YOU SEE GIRL —
WHA’ WE’RE DOIN’S WRONG —
WRONG —
WRONG —
—No!, a woman at the back shouted.
—BUT EVERYTHANG —
EVERYTHANG’LL WORK OU’ FIY — INE —
BUT TILL THEN YOU AN’ME —
AT THE DARK —
THE DARK —
THE PITCH BLACK POXY DARK END OF STREET —
YOU AN’ ——
YOU AN’ ——
YOU AN’ ——
YOU AN’ —
MEEEEeee ——
It was over. The lights went off and on and off and on. Friends came up to congratulate The Commitments.
—You’ve a great voice, a woman told Deco.
—I don’t need you to tell me tha’, said Deco.
Billy came out of the jacks. Before he could be asked if he was alright, he’d made it over to his drums and picked up a stick. He stepped over to Deco and started to hit him on the neck and shoulders with it.
He chanted as he walloped.
—I’m Billy ——The Animal Mooney, d’yeh ——hear me? Billy The ——Animal Mooney an’ we all ——have stage names an’ you know fuckin’ ——well wha’ they are, yeh lousy ——bollix yeh, we’re not your group, we’re —— not your fuckin’ ——group ——
Mickah held his arms down. Deco got out from under him.
—Yeh were lookin’ for tha’, said Jimmy.
—Wha’ did I do now? Deco asked.
—Oh look it! said Bernie. —He’s after burstin’ one of his plukes.
Most of The Commitments laughed.
—Yeh didn’t introduce the group properly, said Jimmy.
I forgot.
—Fuck off!
—I was oney jokin’. Yis have no sense o’ humour, d’yis know tha’?
—An’ you have? Outspan asked.
—Yeah.
—You’ve a big head too, pal.
—You’re just jealous——
—Fuck off.
—All o’ yis.
—Enough, said Joey The Lips.
—Jealous o’ you? ——Huh ——
—Enough.
—Joey’s righ’, said Jimmy. —We’ll meet tomorrow nigh’ an’ have this ou’.
Deco left.
—Watch ou’ for the fans, Derek shouted after him. Mickah let go of Billy.
—He’s ruinin’ everythin’, Jimmy, said Billy. —I’m sorry abou’ tha’, yeh know. But I’m sick of him. It was great an’ then he——He’s a fuckin’ cunt.
—That’s an accurate description, said James.
—I’ll kill him the next time, said Billy. —I will.
——I will now.
—He’s not worth it, said Derek.
—He is, Billy, said Imelda. —Kill him.
—Ah, for fuck sake! said Jimmy.
—I’m oney messin’, said Imelda. —Don’t kill him, Billy.
—Yeah, said Natalie—Just give him a hidin’.
—I’ll do tha’ for yis if yeh want, said Mickah.
—Brothers, said Joey The Lips.
His palms were lifted. The Commitments were ready to listen to him.
—Now, Brother Deco might not be the most likeable of the Brothers——
—He’s a prick, Joey.
—He is, Brother Dean. I admit I agree. Brother Deco is a prick. He is a prick. But the voice, Brothers and Sisters. ——His voice is not the voice of a prick. That voice belongs to God.
No one argued with him.
—We need him, Brothers. We need the voice.
—Pity abou’ the rest of him.
—Granted.
—I’ll talk to him tomorrow at work, said Jimmy.
—Tell him I’ll kill him.
* * *
The Commitments got a mention in the Herald.
—The Commitments, said the mention,—played a strong Motown(ish) set. New to the live scene, they were at times ragged but always energetic. Their suits didn’t fit them properly. My companion fell in love with the vocalist, a star surely in the ascendant. I hate him! (—Oh fuck! said Jimmy.) Warts and all, The Commitments are a good time. They might also be important. See them.
* * *
Armed with this and the Northside News article, Jimmy got The Commitments a Wednesday night in another pub, a bigger one, The Miami Vice (until recently The Dark Rosaleen). It was a bit on the southside, but near the DART.
The Commitments went down well again. Deco stuck to the rehearsed lines. Everyone went home happy.
They were given a month’s residency, Wednesdays. They could charge two pounds admission if they could fill the pub the first night.
They filled it.
A certain type of audience was coming to see them. The crowds reminded Jimmy of the ones he’d been part of at the old Blades gigs. They were older and wiser now, grown-up mods. Their clothes were more adventurous but they were still neat and tidy. The women’s hairstyles were more varied. They weren’t really modettes any more.
A good audience, Jimmy decided. The mods and ex-mods knew good music when they heard it. Their dress was strict but they listened to anything good, only, mind you, if the musicians dressed neatly.
The Commitments were neat. Jimmy was happy with the audience. So was Joey The Lips. These were The People.
Another thing Jimmy noticed: they were shouting for Night Train.
—NIGH’ TRAIN, Deco screeched.
OH SWEE’ MOTHER O’ JAYSIS —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
OH SWEE’ MOTHER O’ FUCKIN’JAYSIS —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
NIGH’ TRAIN ——
COME ON ——
The Commitmentettes lifted their right arms and pulled the whistle cords.
—WHHWOO WOOO —
—NIGH’
Deco wiped his forehead and opened his neck buttons.
—TRAIN.
—More!
—MORE!
They shouted for more, but that was it. Three times in one night was enough.
—Thank y’awl, said Deco. —We’re The Commitments. ——Good nigh’ an’ God bless.
—We should make a few shillin’s next week an’ annyway, wha’, said Mickah.
He was collecting the mikes.
—Brother Jimmy, said Joey The Lips. —I’m worried. ——About Dean.
—Wha’ abou’ Dean?
—He told me he’s been listening to jazz.
—What’s wrong with tha’? Jimmy wanted to know.
&n
bsp; —Everything, said Joey The Lips. —Jazz is the antithesis of soul.
—I beg your fuckin’ pardon!
—I’ll go along with Joey there, said Mickah.
—See, said Joey The Lips. —Soul is the people’s music. Ordinary people making music for ordinary people. ——Simple music. Any Brother can play it.
The Motown sound, it’s simple. Thump-thump-thump-thump. ——That’s straight time. Thump-thump-thump-thump. ——See? Soul is democratic, Jimmy. Anyone with a bin lid can play it. ——It’s the people’s music.
—Yeh don’t need anny honours in your Inter to play soul, isn’t tha’ wha’ you’re gettin’ at, Joey?
—That’s right, Brother Michael.
—Mickah.
—Brother Mickah. That’s right. You don’t need a doctorate to be a doctor of soul.
—Nice one.
—An’ what’s wrong with jazz? Jimmy asked.
—Intellectual music, said Joey The Lips. —It’s anti-people music. It’s abstract.
—It’s cold an’ emotionless, amn’t I righ’? said Mickah.
—You are. ——It’s got no soul. It is sound for the sake of sound. It has no meaning. ——It’s musical wanking, Brother.
—Musical wankin’, said Mickah. —That’s good.
——Here, yeh could play tha’ at the Christmas parties.
——Instead o’ musical chairs.
—What’s Dean been listenin’ to? Jimmy asked.
—Charlie Parker.
—He’s supposed to be good but.
—Good! Joey The Lips gasped. —The man had no right to his black skin.
Joey The Lips was getting worked up. It was some sight. They stood back and enjoyed it.
—They should have burnt it off with a fucking blow lamp.
—Language, Joey!
—Polyrhythms! Polyrhythms! I ask you! That’s not the people’s sound. ——Those polyrhythms went through Brother Parker’s legs and up his ass. ——And who did he play to? I’ll tell you, middle-class white kids with little beards and berets. In jazz clubs. Jazz clubs! They didn’t even clap. They clicked their fingers.
Joey The Lips clicked his fingers.
—Like that. ——I’ll tell you something, Brothers. ——I’ve never told anyone this before.
They waited.
—The biggest regret of my life is that I wasn’t born black.
—Is tha’ righ’, Joey?
—Charlie Parker was born black. A beautiful, shiny, bluey sort of black. ——And he could play. He could play alright. But he abused it, he spat on it. He turned his back on his people so he could entertain hip honky brats and intellectuals. ——Jazz! It’s decadent. ——The Russians were right. They banned it.
Joey The Lips was calmer now. He stopped picking at his sleeve.
—The Bird! he spat. ——And that’s what poor Dean is listening to.
—Sounds bad alrigh’.
—Oh, it’s bad. ——Very bad. Parker, John Coltrane ——Herbie Hancock ——and the biggest motherfucker of them all, Miles Davis.
——Em, why does it worry you, exactly?
—We’re going to lose him.
—Wha’ d’yeh mean?
—Dean is going to become a Jazz Purist.
The words almost made Joey The Lips retch.
—He won’t want to play for the people any more. Dean has soul but he’s going to kill it if he listens to jazz. Jazz is for the mind.
—Wha’ can we do? said Jimmy.
—We can give him a few digs, said Mickah.
—Mickah.
—Wha’?
—The drums.
—Okay.
* * *
Hot Press came to the second gig of the residency, and paid in because Mickah wouldn’t believe him.
—I’m from the Hot Press.
—I’m from the kitchen press, said Mickah. —It’s two quid or fuck off.
Mickah took in one hundred and twenty pounds. It made a great bulge in his shirt pocket. He showed it to James.
—The big time, wha’.
Jimmy studied Dean for tell-tale signs. There weren’t many, but they were there. Dean hunched over the sax now, protecting it. He used to throw it up and out and pull himself back, to let everyone see its shininess. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be sitting on a stool when he was playing. The stool definitely wasn’t soul furniture. Jimmy was upset. He liked Dean.
Deco was his usual self. It was a pity his voice was so good. Jimmy didn’t pay much attention to Billy.
This was a pity. Because Billy left The Commitments, just before the encore.
—On yeh go, Bill, said Jimmy.
—I can’t, said Billy.
—Why not?
—I’ve left.
A long gap, then—Wha’?
—I’ve left. I’m not goin’ back on. ——I’ve left.
—Jaysis! said Jimmy.
When a Man Loves a Woman didn’t need drums.
—James, Jimmy roared. —Fire away.
—Now, said Jimmy. —Tell your Uncle Jimmy all abou’ it.
—I just——
Jimmy could see Billy thinking.
—It’s just ——I hate him, Jimmy. I fuckin’ hate him ——I can’t even sleep at nigh’.
Billy’s face was clenched.
—Why’s tha’?
—I stay awake tryin’ to think o’ better ways to hate him. ——Imaginin’, yeh know, ways to kill him.
Billy looked straight at Jimmy.
—I phoned his house yesterday. Can yeh believe tha’? I never done ann’thin’ like tha’ before. No way. ——His oul’ one —I s’pose it was his oul’ one annyway ——answered. I said nothin’. ——I just listened.
—Yeh’d want to get a grip on yourself, son. You’re talkin’ like a fuckin’ spacer.
—I know, I fuckin’ know. Do yeh not think I know? ——That’s why I’ve left. I never want to have to look at the cunt again. ——Want to get him ou’ o’ me life, know wha’ I mean? ——I made up me mind durin’ I Thank You. The way he was shovin’ his arse into your women at the front. It was fuckin’ disgustin’. ——Annyway I’ve left, so ——I’ve left.
—He’s not worth hatin’.
—He fuckin’ is, yeh know.
Jimmy looked at Billy. He’d left alright. There was no point trying to talk him back in. That made Jimmy angry.
—Annyone can play the drums, Billy. ——So fuck off.
—Ah, Jimmy!
—Go an’ shite.
—I want me drums.
—After the gig.
—It’s my van, remember.
—We’ll hire a van. No, we’ll buy one. A better one than your scabby van.
Jimmy was going over to the platform but he turned back to Billy.
—A light blue one with The Commitments written on the side in dark blue. An’ Billy The Animal Mooney Is A Bollox on the back, righ’.
Billy said nothing.
When a Man Loves a Woman was over. They were going to do Knock on Wood now.
Jimmy got a drum stick and stood behind a snare drum.
The others watched.
—Righ’, said Jimmy. —Are yis righ’?
—BLAM —
—Come on.
—BLAM —
—James, come on.
—BLAM —
By the end of Knock on Wood Jimmy thought he’d proved his point: anyone could play the drums.
It had been a great gig, Hot Press told Jimmy. Dublin needed something like The Commitments, to get U2 out of its system. He’d be doing a review for the next issue. Then he asked for his two pounds back.
* * *
The Commitments didn’t see Billy again. He didn’t live in Barrytown.
Mickah called for Jimmy on Friday. There was a rehearsal in Joey The Lips’ mother’s garage. When they got to the bus stop Mickah spoke.
—Jimmy, have I ever asked yeh for annythin’?
&n
bsp; —Yeah.
Mickah hadn’t banked on that answer.
—When?
—Yeh asked me for a lend o’ me red biro in school. To rule a margin because E.T. said as far as he was concerned your homework wasn’t done till it had a margin.
—Jimmy, said Mickah. —I’m bein’ serious. Now will yeh treat me with a little respect, okay. Now have I ever asked yeh for annythin’?
—No.
—That’s better. ——Well, I’m goin’ to ask yeh for somethin’ now.
—I’ve no money.
—Jimmy, said Mickah. —I’m tryin’ me best. But I’m goin’ to have to hit yeh.
He was leaning into Jimmy.
—Wha’ is it? said Jimmy.
—Let me play the drums.
—I was goin’ ——
—Let me play the drums.
—Fair enough.
* * *
So Mickah was the new drummer. He even had a name for himself.
—Eh, Washin’ton D.C. Wallace.
The Commitments laughed. It was good.
—The D.C. stands for Dead Cool, said Mickah.
—Oh yeah, said Imelda. —That’s very clever, tha’ is.
They were waiting for Dean and James.
Joey The Lips spoke. —We have lost The Animal, Brothers and Sisters. We’ll miss him. But we have a good man in his place, a city of a man. Washington D.C.
Jimmy took over.
—We’ve had our first crisis, righ’, but we’re over it. We’re still The Commitments. An’ we’re reachin’ our audience. Yeh saw tha’ yourselves on Wednesday.
Jimmy let them remember Wednesday for a bit. It had been a good night.
—We’ll dedicate our first album to Billy.
—We will in our holes, said Outspan.
—Ahh ——why not? said Bernie.
—We’d have to pay him.
—Would we?
—Fuck him so.
Joey The Lips went into the house to answer the phone.
Dean arrived while Joey The Lips was gone. He’d had his hair cropped.
—Jaysis, Dean, wha’.
He was wearing his shades.
—Dean, your shirt’s gorgeous.
—Thanks.
Joey The Lips came back.
—Brother James on the telephone, Brothers. He can’t make it. He has a mother of an examination. ——Tomorrow.
Joey The Lips had just seen Dean.
—Is the wattage of the bulb too strong for you, Dean?
Outspan and Derek laughed.
—It’s the flowers on his shirt he’s protectin’ his eyes from, said Deco.
—Leave him alone. It’s lovely.
Jimmy clapped his hands.
