The Commitments Read online

  Roddy Doyle’s

  THE COMMITMENTS

  “Roddy Doyle is a 29-year-old who has succeeded in writing a first novel … that is not possessed by angst or self-consciousness. The Commitments is not The Roddy Doyle story and it’s not a book about how awful it is growing up in Dublin in the Eighties. What it is is … the best first novel in an age.”

  —The Face

  “Even if you have never gigged, soundchecked, fedback, jammed, broken strings, drumsticks, amplifiers, or fallen off a stage, this is a very funny book. The Commitments is an Irish version of The Blues Brothers. The dialogue is authentic and brilliantly funny … fresh and anarchic.”

  —The Literary Review

  “Doyle’s startling debut merges Motown with Barrytown and brings Rare Groove to Raheny and beyond. The Commitments is as fast and funny a novel as you’ll come across in these days of literary designer chic … As Mickah Wallace might put it—‘Deadly.’ ”

  —New Musical Express

  FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, JULY 1989

  Copyright © 1987 by Roddy Doyle

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Ireland by King Farouk Publishing, Dublin, in 1987 and in Great Britain by William Heinemann Ltd. in 1988.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Doyle, Roddy, 1958–

  The commitments / Roddy Doyle.

  p. cm.—(Vintage contemporaries)

  eISBN: 978-0-307-83308-2

  I. Title.

  PR6054.095C66 1989 88-82388

  823′.914—dc 19

  Thanks to Mick Boland, John Condon, Enda Farrelly, Darren Gallagher, Louise Hamilton, Caroline Jones, Lorraine Jones, Kenneth Keegan, Kevin McDonald, Brian McGinn, Jimmy Murray and Michael Sherlock.

  This book is a work of fiction and the characters and events all came out of the author’s own head. Any resemblance to real events, places, or people, living or dead or both, is purely coincidental.

  This page constitutes an extension of this copyright page.

  v3.1

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

  TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER

  —Honour thy parents, Brothers and Sisters.

  They were hip to the groove too once

  you know. Parents are soul.

  Joey The Lips Fagan

  Acknowledgments

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

  ABKCO Music, Inc.: Excerpts from the lyrics to “Chain Gang,” written by Sam Cooke. Copyright © 1960, renewed 1988 by ABKCO Music, Inc. Excerpts from the lyrics to “Good News,” written by Sam Cooke. Copyright © 1964 by ABKCO Music, Inc.

  Almo Publications: Excerpts from the lyrics to “Knock on Wood,” lyrics and music by Eddie Floyd and Steve Cropper. Copyright © 1966, 1973 by East/Memphis Music Corp. Copyright assigned to Irving Music, Inc. (BMI), 1982. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Rights outside the U.S. controlled by Cotillion Music, Inc. Used by permission of Almo Publications and Cotillion Music, Inc.

  Jobete Music Co., Inc.: Excerpts from the lyrics to “Reach Out I’ll Be There” by Brian Holland, Lamont Dozier, and Edward Holland Jr. Published by Stone Agate Music. Copyright © August 1966; Excerpts from the lyrics to “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted” by James Dean, Paul Riser, and William Weatherspoon. Published by Stone Agate Music. Copyright © March 1966.

  Screen Gems–EMI Music, Inc.: Excerpts from the lyrics to “Walking in the Rain” by B. Mann, C. Weil, and P. Spector. Copyright © 1964 by Screen Gems–EMI Music, Inc. Excerpts from the lyrics to “At the Dark End of the Street” by Dan Penn and Chips Moman. Copyright © 1967, 1977 by Screen Gems–EMI Music, Inc.

  Silverman, Shulman and Slotnick, P.C.: Excerpts from the lyrics to “Night Train” by Jimmy Forrest, Oscar Washington, and Lewis C. Simpkins. Copyright 1952, © 1980 by Frederick Music Company. Used with the permission of Frederick Music Company.

  Tickson Music: Excerpts from the lyrics to “I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better” by Gene Clarke. Copyright © 1964 by Tickson Music. All rights reserved.

  Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.: Excerpts from the lyrics to “Get Up (I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine)” by James Brown, Bobby Byrd and Ronald Lenhoff. Copyright © 1970, 1973 by Dynatone Publishing Co., administered by Unichappell Music, Inc. Excerpts from the lyrics to “Super Bad Super Slick” by James Brown. Copyright © 1975 by Dynatone Publishing Co., administered by Unichappell Music, Inc. Excerpts from the lyrics to “Out of Sight” by James Brown. Copyright © 1969 by Dynatone Publishing Co., administered by Unichappell Music, Inc. Excerpts from the lyrics to “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World” by James Brown and Betty Newsome. Copyright © 1966 by Dynatone Publishing Co. and Clamike Records Music. All rights on behalf of Dynatone Publishing Co. administered by Unichappell Music, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  First Page

  About the Author

  —SOMETIMES I FEEL SO NICE —

  GOOD GOD ———

  I JUMP BACK ——

  I WANNA KISS MYSELF ———!

  I GOT —

  SOU — OU — OUL —

  AN’ I’M SUPERBAD ———

  James Brown, Superbad

  —We’ll ask Jimmy, said Outspan. —Jimmy’ll know.

  Jimmy Rabbitte knew his music. He knew his stuff alright. You’d never see Jimmy coming home from town without a new album or a 12-inch or at least a 7-inch single. Jimmy ate Melody Maker and the NME every week and Hot Press every two weeks. He listened to Dave Fanning and John Peel. He even read his sisters’ Jackie when there was no one looking. So Jimmy knew his stuff.

  The last time Outspan had flicked through Jimmy’s records he’d seen names like Microdisney, Eddie and the Hot Rods, Otis Redding, The Screaming Blue Messiahs, Scraping Foetus off the Wheel (—Foetus, said Outspan. —That’s the little young fella inside the woman, isn’t it?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.

  —Aah, that’s fuckin’ horrible, tha’ is.); groups Outspan had never heard of, never mind heard. Jimmy even had albums by Frank Sinatra and The Monkees.

  So when Outspan and Derek decided, while Ray was out in the jacks, that their group needed a new direction they both thought of Jimmy. Jimmy knew what was what. Jimmy knew what was new, what was new but wouldn’t be for long and what was going to be new. Jimmy had Relax before anyone had heard of Frankie Goes to Hollywood and he’d started slagging them months before anyone realized that they were no good. Jimmy knew his music.

  Outspan, Derek and Ray’s group, And And And, was three days old; Ray on the Casio and his little sister’s glockenspiel, Outspan on his brother’s acoustic guitar, Derek on nothing yet but the bass guitar as soon as he’d the money saved.

  —Will we tell Ray? Derek asked.

  —Abou’ Jimmy? Outspan asked back.

  —Yeah.

  ——Better not. Yet annyway.

  Outspan was trying to work his thumb in under a sticker, This Guitar Kills Fascists, his brother, an awful hippy, had put on it.

  —There’s the flush, he said. —He’s comin’ back. We’ll see Jimmy later.

  They were in Derek’s bedroom.

  Ray came back in.

  —I was thinkin’ there, he said. —I think maybe we should have an exclamation mark, yeh know, after the second And in the name.

  —Wha’?

  —It’d be And And exclamation mark, righ’, And. It’d look deadl
y on the posters.

  Outspan said nothing while he imagined it.

  —What’s an explanation mark? said Derek.

  —Yeh know, said Ray.

  He drew a big one in the air.

  —Oh yeah, said Derek. —An’ where d’yeh want to put it again?

  —And And,

  He drew another one.

  —And.

  —Is it not supposed to go at the end?

  —It should go up his arse, said Outspan, picking away at the sticker.

  * * *

  Jimmy was already there when Outspan and Derek got to the Pub.

  —How’s it goin’, said Jimmy.

  —Howyeh, Jim, said Outspan.

  —Howayeh, said Derek.

  They got stools and formed a little semicircle at the bar.

  —Been ridin’ annythin’ since I seen yis last? Jimmy asked them.

  —No way, said Outspan. —We’ve been much too busy for tha’ sort o’ thing. Isn’t tha’ righ’?

  —Yeah, that’s righ’, said Derek.

  —Puttin’ the finishin’ touches to your album? said Jimmy.

  —Puttin’ the finishin’ touches to our name, said Outspan.

  —Wha’ are yis now?

  —And And exclamation mark, righ’? ——And, said Derek.

  Jimmy grinned a sneer.

  —Fuck, fuck, exclamation mark, me. I bet I know who thought o’ tha’.

  —There’ll be a little face on the dot, righ’, Outspan explained.

  —An’ yeh know the line on the top of it? That’s the dot’s fringe.

  —Black an’ whi’e or colour?

  —Don’t know.

  —It’s been done before, Jimmy was happy to tell them. —Ska. Madness, The Specials. Little black an’ whi’e men. ——I told yis, he hasn’t a clue.

  ——Yeah, said Outspan.

  —He owns the synth though, said Derek.

  —Does he call tha’ fuckin’ yoke a synth? said Jimmy.

  —Annyway, no one uses them annymore. It’s back to basics.

  —Just as well, said Outspan. —Cos we’ve fuck all else.

  —Wha’ tracks are yis doin’? Jimmy asked.

  —Tha’ one, Masters and Servants.

  —Depeche Mode?

  —Yeah.

  Outspan was embarrassed. He didn’t know why. He didn’t mind the song. But Jimmy had a face on him.

  —It’s good, tha’, said Derek. —The words are good, yeh know ——good.

  —It’s just fuckin’ art school stuff, said Jimmy.

  That was the killer argument, Outspan knew, although he didn’t know what it meant.

  Derek did.

  —Hang on, Jimmy, he said. —That’s not fair now. The Beatles went to art school.

  —That’s different.

  —Me hole it is, said Derek. —An’ Roxy Music went to art school an’ you have all their albums, so yeh can fuck off with yourself.

  Jimmy was fighting back a redner.

  —I didn’t mean it like tha’, he said. —It’s not the fact tha’ they went to fuckin’ art school that’s wrong with them. It’s —(Jimmy was struggling.) —more to do with —(Now he had something.) ——the way their stuff, their songs like, are aimed at gits like themselves. Wankers with funny haircuts. An’ rich das. ——An’ fuck all else to do all day ’cept prickin’ around with synths.

  —Tha’ sounds like me arse, said Outspan. —But I’m sure you’re righ’.

  —Wha’ else d’yis do?

  —Nothin’ yet really, said Derek. —Ray wants to do tha’ one, Louise. It’s easy.

  —Human League?

  —Yeah.

  Jimmy pushed his eyebrows up and whistled.

  They agreed with him.

  Jimmy spoke. —Why exactly ——d’yis want to be in a group?

  —Wha’ d’yeh mean? Outspan asked.

  He approved of Jimmy’s question though. It was getting to what was bothering him, and probably Derek too.

  —Why are yis doin’ it, buyin’ the gear, rehearsin’? Why did yis form the group?

  —Well ——

  —Money?

  —No, said Outspan. —I mean, it’d be nice. But I’m not in it for the money.

  —I amn’t either, said Derek.

  —The chicks?

  —Jaysis, Jimmy!

  —The brassers, yeh know wha’ I mean. The gee. Is tha’ why?

  ——No, said Derek.

  —The odd ride now an’ again would be alrigh’ though wouldn’t it? said Outspan.

  —Ah yeah, said Derek. —But wha’ Jimmy’s askin’ is is tha’ the reason we got the group together. To get our hole.

  —No way, said Outspan.

  —Why then? said Jimmy.

  He’d an answer ready for them.

  —It’s hard to say, said Outspan.

  That’s what Jimmy had wanted to hear. He jumped in.

  —Yis want to be different, isn’t tha’ it? Yis want to do somethin’ with yourselves, isn’t tha’ it?

  —Sort of, said Outspan.

  —Yis don’t want to end up like (he nodded his head back) —these tossers here. Amn’t I righ’?

  Jimmy was getting passionate now. The lads enjoyed watching him.

  —Yis want to get up there an’ shout I’m Outspan fuckin’ Foster.

  He looked at Derek.

  —An’ I’m Derek fuckin’ Scully, an’ I’m not a tosser. Isn’t tha’ righ’? That’s why yis’re doin’ it. Amn’t I righ’?

  —I s’pose yeh are, said Outspan.

  —Fuckin’ sure I am.

  —With the odd ride thrown in, said Derek.

  They laughed.

  Then Jimmy was back on his track again.

  —So if yis want to be different what’re yis doin’ doin’ bad versions of other people’s poxy songs?

  That was it. He was right, bang on the nail. They were very impressed. So was Jimmy.

  —Wha’ should we be doin’ then? Outspan asked.

  —It’s not the other people’s songs so much, said Jimmy. —It’s which ones yis do.

  —What’s tha’ mean?

  —Yeh don’t choose the songs cos they’re easy. Because fuckin’ Ray can play them with two fingers.

  —Wha’ then? Derek asked.

  Jimmy ignored him.

  —All tha’ mushy shite abou’ love an’ fields an’ meetin’ mots in supermarkets an’ McDonald’s is gone, ou’ the fuckin’ window. It’s dishonest, said Jimmy. —It’s bourgeois.

  —Fuckin’ hell!

  —Tha’ shite’s ou’. Thank Jaysis.

  —What’s in then? Outspan asked him.

  —I’ll tell yeh, said Jimmy. —Sex an’ politics.

  —WHA’?

  —Real sex. Not mushy I’ll hold your hand till the end o’ time stuff. ——Ridin’. Fuckin’. D’yeh know wha’ I mean?

  —I think so.

  —Yeh couldn’t say Fuckin’ in a song, said Derek.

  —Where does the fuckin’ politics come into it? Outspan asked.

  —Yeh’d never get away with it.

  —Real politics, said Jimmy.

  —Not in Ireland annyway, said Derek. —Maybe England. But they’d never let us on Top o’ the Pops.

  —Who the fuck wants to be on Top o’ the Pops? said Jimmy.

  Jimmy always got genuinely angry whenever Top of the Pops was mentioned although he never missed it.

  —I never heard anyone say it on The Tube either, said Derek.

  —I did, said Outspan. —Your man from what’s their name said it tha’ time the mike hit him on the head.

  Derek seemed happier.

  Jimmy continued. He went back to sex.

  —Believe me, he said. —Holdin’ hands is ou’. Lookin’ at the moon, tha’ sort o’ shite. It’s the real thing now.

  He looked at Derek.

  —Even in Ireland. ——Look, Frankie Goes To me arse were shite, righ’?

  They nodded.
r />   —But Jaysis, at least they called a blow job a blow job an’ look at all the units they shifted?

  —The wha’?

  —Records.

  They drank.

  Then Jimmy spoke. —Rock an’ roll is all abou’ ridin’. That’s wha’ rock an’ roll means. Did yis know tha’? (They didn’t.) —Yeah, that’s wha’ the blackies in America used to call it. So the time has come to put the ridin’ back into rock an’ roll. Tongues, gooters, boxes, the works. The market’s huge.

  —Wha’ abou’ this politics?

  —Yeah, politics. ——Not songs abou’ Fianna fuckin’ Fail or annythin’ like tha’. Real politics. (They weren’t with him.) —Where are yis from? (He answered the question himself.) —Dublin. (He asked another one.) —Wha’ part o’ Dublin? Barrytown. Wha’ class are yis? Workin’ class. Are yis proud of it? Yeah, yis are. (Then a practical question.) —Who buys the most records? The workin’ class. Are yis with me? (Not really.) —Your music should be abou’ where you’re from an’ the sort o’ people yeh come from. ——Say it once, say it loud, I’m black an’ I’m proud.

  They looked at him.

  —James Brown. Did yis know——never mind. He sang tha’. ——An’ he made a fuckin’ bomb.

  They were stunned by what came next.

  —The Irish are the niggers of Europe, lads.

  They nearly gasped: it was so true.

  —An’ Dubliners are the niggers of Ireland. The culchies have fuckin’ everythin’. An’ the northside Dubliners are the niggers o’ Dublin. ——Say it loud, I’m black an’ I’m proud.

  He grinned. He’d impressed himself again.

  He’d won them. They couldn’t say anything.

  —Yis don’t want to be called And And exclamation mark And, do yis? Jimmy asked.

  —No way, said Outspan.

  —Will yeh manage us, Jimmy? said Derek.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy. —I will.

  They all smiled.

  —Am I in charge? Jimmy asked them.

  —Yeah.

  —Righ’ then, said Jimmy. —Ray isn’t in the group annymore.

  This was a shock.

  —Why not?

  —Well, first we don’t need a synth. An’ second, I don’t like the cunt.

  They laughed.

  —I never have liked him. I fuckin’ hate him to be honest with yis.