The Commitments Read online

  ——I don’t like him much meself, said Outspan.

  —He’s gone so?

  He was gone.

  —Wha’ sort o’stuff will we be doin’? Derek asked.

  —Wha’ sort o’music has sex an’ politics? Jimmy asked.

  —Reggae, said Derek.

  —No, not tha’.

  —It does.

  —Yeah, but we won’t be doin’ it. We’ll leave the reggae to the skinheads an’ the spacers.

  —Wha’ then?

  —Soul.

  —Soul?

  —Soul?

  —Soul. Dublin soul.

  Outspan laughed. Dublin soul sounded great.

  —Another thing, said Jimmy. —Yis aren’t And And And annymore.

  This was a relief.

  —What are we Jimmy?

  —The Commitments.

  Outspan laughed again.

  —That’s a rapid name, said Derek.

  —Good, old fashioned THE, said Jimmy.

  —Dublin soul, said Outspan.

  He laughed again.

  —Fuckin’ deadly.

  * * *

  The day after the formation of The Commitments Jimmy sent an ad into the Hot Press classifieds:

  —Have you got Soul? If yes, The World’s Hardest Working Band is looking for you. Contact J. Rabbitte, 118, Chestnut Ave., Dublin 21. Rednecks and southsiders need not apply.

  * * *

  There was a young guy who worked in the same shop as Jimmy. Declan Cuffe was his name. He seemed like a right prick, although Jimmy didn’t know him that well. Jimmy had heard him singing at the last year’s Christmas Do. Jimmy had just been out puking but he still remembered it, Declan Cuffe’s voice, a real deep growl that scraped against the throat and tongue on its way out. Jimmy would have loved a voice like it.

  Jimmy was going to see if he could recruit Declan Cuffe. He took his tray and went over to where he was sitting.

  —Sorry, eh——Declan, said Jimmy. ——Is there annyone sittin’ here?

  Declan Cuffe leaned over the table and studied the chair.

  Then he said:—It doesn’t look like it.

  Normally Jimmy would have upended the slop on the tray over him (or at least would have wanted to) but this was business.

  He sat down.

  —What’s the soup like? he asked.

  —Cuntish.

  —As usual, wha’.

  There wasn’t an answer. Jimmy tried a different angle.

  —What’s the curry like?

  —Cuntish.

  Jimmy changed tactics.

  —I’d say yeh did Honours English in school, did yeh?

  Declan Cuffe stared across at Jimmy while he sent his cigarette to the side of his mouth.

  —You startin’ somethin’? he said.

  The women from the Information Desk at the table beside them started talking louder.

  —Ah, cop on, said Jimmy. —I was only messin’.

  He shoved the bowl away and slid the plate nearer to him.

  —You were righ’ abou’ the soup.

  He searched the chicken curry.

  —Tell us an’annyway. Are yeh in a group these days?

  —Am I wha’?

  —In a group.

  —Doin’ wha’?

  —Singin’.

  —Me! Singin’? Fuck off, will yeh.

  —I heard yeh singin’, said Jimmy. —You were fuckin’ great.

  —When did you hear me singin’?

  —Christmas.

  —Did I sing? At the dinner dance?

  —Yeah.

  —Fuck, said Declan Cuffe. —No one told me.

  —You were deadly.

  —I was fuckin’ locked, said Declan Cuffe. —Rum an’ blacks, yeh know.

  Jimmy nodded. —I was locked meself.

  —I must of had abou’ twenty o’ them. Your woman, Frances, from the Toys, yeh know her? She was all over me. ——Dirty bitch. She’s fuckin’ married. ——I sang then?

  —Yeah. It was great.

  —I was fuckin’ locked.

  —D’yeh want to be in a group?

  —Singin’?

  —Yeah.

  —Are yeh serious?

  —Yeah.

  ——Okay. ——Serious now?

  —Yeah.

  —Okay.

  * * *

  The next night Jimmy brought Declan Cuffe (by now he was Deco) home from work with him. Deco had a big fry cooked by Jimmy, five slices of bread, two cups of tea, and he fell in love with Sharon, Jimmy’s sister, when she came in from work.

  —What age is Sharon? Deco asked Jimmy.

  They were up in Jimmy’s bedroom. Deco was lying on the bottom bunk.

  —You’re wastin’ your time.

  —What age is she?

  —Twenty, said Jimmy. —But you’re wastin’ your time.

  —I wonder would she fancy goin’ out with a pop star.

  The door opened. It was the rest of the group, Outspan and Derek. They smiled when they got in and saw Deco on the bunk. Jimmy had told them about him.

  —That’s Deco, said Jimmy.

  —Howyeh, said Outspan.

  —Howyeh, said Deco.

  —Pleased to meet yeh, Deco, said Derek.

  —Yeah,——righ’, said Deco.

  Deco got up and let Outspan and Derek sit beside him on the bunk.

  —How did Ray take the news? Jimmy asked.

  —Not too bad, said Derek.

  —The cunt, said Jimmy.

  —He wasn’t too happy with the eh, And And And situation either. Or so he said.

  —Yeah. So he said, said Jimmy. —Me arse.

  —He’s goin’ solo.

  —He doesn’t have much of a fuckin’ choice.

  They laughed. Deco too.

  —Righ’ lads, said Jimmy. —Business.

  He had his notebook out.

  —We have the guitar, bass, vocals, righ’? We need drums, sax, trumpet, keyboards. I threw an ad into Hot Press. Yis owe me forty-five pence, each.

  —Ah, here!

  —I’ll take American Express. ——Now. D’yis remember your man, Jimmy Clifford?

  —Tha’ fuckin’ drip!

  —That’s him, said Jimmy. —D’yis——

  —He was JAMES Clifford.

  —Wha’?

  —James. He was never Jimmy. What’s your name? James Clifford, sir.

  —Righ’, said Jimmy. —James Clifford then. He——

  —Tha’ bollix ratted on us, d’yis remember? said Derek. —When I stuck the compass up Tracie Quirk’s hole. ——They had me da up. Me ma——

  —Derek—

  —Wha’?

  —Fuck up——Annyway, said Jimmy,—his ma used to make him do piano lessons, remember. He was deadly at it. I met him on the DART there yesterday——

  —No way, Jimmy, said Outspan.

  —No, hang on, listen. He told me he got fucked ou’ o’ the folk mass choir. ——D’yis know why? For playin’ The Chicken Song on the organ. In the fuckin’ church.

  —Jaysis!

  They laughed. This didn’t sound like the James Clifford they’d known and hated.

  —Just before the mass, Jimmy continued. —There were oul’ ones an’ oul’ fellas walkin’ up the middle, yeh know. An’ he starts playin’ The fuckin’ Chicken Song.

  —He sounds okay, said Deco.

  No one disagreed with Deco.

  —I’ll go round to his gaff an’ ask him tomorrow, will I?

  Outspan and Derek looked at each other.

  —Okay, said Outspan.

  —So long as he doesn’t start rattin’ on us again, said Derek. —When we’re all gettin’ our hole.

  —He’ll be gettin’ his too sure, said Outspan.

  —Oh, yeah, said Derek. —That’s righ’.

  —Does he still wear tha’ jumper with the sheep on it?

  —They weren’t sheep, said Derek. —They were deers.

  —They wer
e fuckin’ sheep, said Outspan.

  —They weren’t. ——I should know. I drew a moustache on one o’ them.

  —Is he workin’? Outspan asked.

  —He’s a student, said Jimmy.

  —Oh, fuck.

  —He’ll be grand, said Jimmy. —He’ll have plenty o’ time to rehearse. ——Hang on.

  Jimmy put a record on the deck. He’d brought the deck and the speakers up from the front room. He turned to them again.

  —D’yis know James Brown, do yis? he asked.

  —Was he in our class too? Outspan asked.

  They laughed.

  —The singer, said Jimmy. —Blackie. He’s deadly. ——Did yis see The Blues Brothers?

  Outspan and Derek had seen it. Deco hadn’t.

  —I seen the Furey Brothers, said Deco.

  —Fuck off, said Jimmy. —D’yis remember the big woman singer in the coffee place? (They did.) —Tha’ was Aretha Franklin. D’yis remember the blind guy in the music shop? (—Yeah.) Tha’ was Ray Charles. D’yis remember the preacher in the church? (—No.) —Well, th’ was James ——No? (—No.) —In the red cloak? ——The black fella? (—No.) —Yeh have to. ——Derek?

  —I don’t remember tha’ bit.

  ——Well, tha’ was James Brown, said Jimmy. —Hang on ———Rocky IV. Livin’ in America, remember? Tha’ was him.

  —Tha’ header!

  —Yeah.

  —Tha’ was a shite film, said Derek.

  —He was good but, said Jimmy.

  —Ah, yeah.

  —Annyway, listen to this. It’s called Get Up, I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine.

  —Hold on there, said Derek. —We can’t do tha’. Me ma would fuckin’ kill me.

  —What’re yeh on abou’? said Outspan.

  —I Feel Like a fuckin’ Sex Machine, Derek explained. —She’d break me fuckin’ head if I got up an’ sang tha’.

  —You won’t be singin’ it, son, said Deco. —I will. An’, personally speakin’, I don’t give a fuck wha’ MY ma thinks. ——Let’s hear it, Jimmy.

  —We won’t be doin’ this one, Derek, said Jimmy. —I just want yis to hear it, yeh know, just to get an idea, to get the feel o’ the thing. ——It’s called funk.

  —Funk off, said Deco.

  Outspan hit him.

  Jimmy let the needle down and sat on the back of his legs between the speakers.

  —I’m ready to get up and do my thang, said James Brown.

  A chorus of men from the same part of the world as James went: —YEAH.

  —I want to, James continued, —to get into it, you know. (—YEAH, said the lads in the studio with him.) —Like a, like a sex machine, man (—YEAH YEAH, GO AHEAD.) —movin’, doin’ it, you know. (—YEAH.) —Can I count it all? (—YEAH YEAH YEAH, went the lads.) —One Two Three Four.

  Then the horns started, the same note repeated (—DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH) seven times and then James Brown began to sing. He sang like he spoke, a great voice that he seemed to be holding back, hanging onto because it was dangerous. The lads (in Jimmy’s bedroom) smiled at each other. This was it.

  —GET UP AH, sang James.

  A guitar clicked, like a full stop.

  —GET ON UP, someone else sang, no mean voice either.

  Then the guitar again.

  —GER RUP AH——

  Guitar.

  —GET ON UP——

  —STAY ON THE SCENE, sang James.

  —GET ON UP——

  James had the good lines.

  —LIKE A SEX MACHINE AH——

  —GET ON UP——

  The lads bounced gently on the bunks.

  —YOU GOT TO HAVE THE FEELING——

  SURE AS YOU’RE BORN AH——

  GET IT TOGETHER——

  RIGHT ON—

  RIGHT ON——

  GET UP AH, sang James.

  —GET ON UP——

  Then there was a piano break and at the end of it James went: —HUH. It was the best Huh they’d ever heard. Then the piano got going again.

  —GER RUP AH——

  —GET ON UP——

  The guitar clicked away.

  And the bass was busy too, padding along. You could actually make it out; notes. This worried Derek a bit. He’d chosen the bass because he’d thought there was nothing to it. There was something to this one. It was busier than all the other instruments.

  The song went on. The lads bounced and grinned. Deco concentrated.

  —Bobby, James Brown called. (Bobby must have been the man who kept singing GET ON UP.) —Bobby, said James. —Shall I take them to the bridge?

  —Go ahead, said Bobby.

  —Take ’em all to the bridge.

  —Take them to the bridge, said Bobby.

  —Shall I take them to the bridge? James asked.

  —YEAH, the lads in the studio, and Outspan and Derek, answered.

  Then the guitar changed course a bit and stayed that way. James shouted and huh-huhhed a while longer and then it faded out.

  Jimmy got up and lifted the needle.

  A roar arrived from downstairs.

  —Turn down tha’ fuckin’ radio!

  —It’s the stereo, Jimmy roared at the floor.

  —Don’t get snotty with me, son. Just turn it down.

  The lads were in stitches laughing, quietly.

  —Stupid bollix, said Jimmy. —Wha’ did yis think o’ tha’?

  —Brilliant.

  —Fuckin’ brilliant.

  —Play another one, said Outspan.

  —Okay, said Jimmy. —I think yis’ll be playin’ this one.

  He put on Night Train for them. It was even more brilliant than Sex Machine.

  —We’ll change the words a bit to make it —more Dubliny, yeh know, Jimmy told them.

  They were really excited now.

  —Fuckin’ deadly, said Derek. —I’m goin’ to get a lend o’ the odds for the bass.

  —Good man.

  —I’d better get a proper guitar, said Outspan. —An electric.

  Jimmy played It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World.

  —I’m goin’ to get a really good one, said Outspan. —Really fuckin’ good.

  —Let’s go, said Jimmy.

  They were off to the Pub.

  Deco stood up.

  He growled: —ALL ABOARD——

  THE NIGHT TRAIN.

  On the way down the stairs they met Sharon coming up.

  —Howyeh, Gorgeous, said Deco.

  —Go an’ shite, said Sharon.

  * * *

  Jimmy spent twenty minutes looking at his ad in Hot Press the next Thursday. He touched the print. (—J. Rabbitte.) He grinned.

  Others must have been looking at it too because when he got home from work his mother told him that two young fellas had been looking for him.

  —J. Rabbitte they said.

  —That’s me alrigh’, said Jimmy.

  —Who d’yeh think yeh are with your J.? Your name’s Jimmy.

  —It’s for business reasons, ma, said Jimmy. —J. sounds better. Yeh never heard of a millionaire bein’ called Jimmy.

  * * *

  Things were motoring.

  James Clifford had said yes. Loads of people called looking for J. Rabbitte over the weekend. Jimmy was interested in two of them: a drummer, Billy Mooney from Raheny, and Dean Fay from Coolock who had a saxophone but admitted that he was only learning how to Make It Talk. There were more callers on Monday. Jimmy liked none of them. He took phone numbers and threw them in the bin.

  He judged on one question: influences.

  —Who’re your influences?

  —U2.

  —Simple Minds.

  —Led Zeppelin.

  —No one really.

  They were the most common answers. They failed.

  —Jethro Tull an’ Bachman Turner Overdrive.

  Jimmy shut the door on that one without bothering to get the phone number. He didn’t even open t
he door to three of them. A look out his parents’ bedroom window at them was enough.

  —Who’re your influences? he’d asked Billy Mooney.

  —Your man, Animal from The Muppets.

  Dean Fay had said Clarence Clemons and the guy from Madness. He didn’t have the sax long. His uncle had given it to him because he couldn’t play it any more himself because one of his lungs had collapsed.

  Jimmy was up in his room on Tuesday night putting clean socks on when Jimmy Sr., the da, came in.

  —Come ’ere, you, said Jimmy Sr. —Are you sellin’ drugs or somethin’?

  —I AM NOT, said Jimmy.

  —Then why are all these cunts knockin’ at the door?

  —I’m auditionin’.

  —You’re wha’?

  —Aud-ish-un-in. We’re formin’ a group. ——A band.

  —You?

  —Yeah.

  Jimmy Sr. laughed.

  —Dickie fuckin’ Rock.

  He started to leave but turned at the door.

  —There’s a little fucker on a scooter lookin’ for yeh downstairs.

  When Jimmy got down to the door he saw that his da had been right. It was a little fucker and he had a scooter, a wreck of a yoke. He was leaning on it.

  —Yeah? said Jimmy.

  —God bless you, Brother J. Rabbitte. In answer to your Hot Press query, yes, I have got soul.

  —Wha’?

  —And I’m not a redneck or a southsider.

  —You’re the same age as me fuckin’ da!

  —You may speak the truth, Brother Rabbitte, but I’m sixteen years younger than B.B. King. And six years younger than James Brown.

  —You’ve heard o’ James Brown—

  —I jammed with the man.

  —FUCK OFF!

  —Leicester Mecca, ’72. Brother James called me on for Superbad. I couldn’t give it my best though because I had a bit of a head cold.

  He patted the scooter.

  —I’d ridden from Holyhead in the rain. I didn’t have a helmet. I didn’t have anything. Just Gina.

  —Who’s she?

  —My trumpet. My mentor always advised me to imagine that the mouthpiece was a woman’s nipple. I chose Gina Lollabrigida’s. A fine woman.

  He stared at Jimmy. There wasn’t a trace of a grin on him.

  —I’m sure you’ve noticed already, Brother Rabbitte, it was wild advice because if it had been Gina Lollabrigida’s nipple I’d have been sucking it, not blowing into it.

  Jimmy didn’t know what was going on here. He tried to take control of the interview.

  —What’s your name, pal?

  —Joseph Fagan, said the man.

  He was bald too, now that he’d taken his helmet off.