The Commitments (3 page)

—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——

—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 the 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.

—Joey The Lips Fagan, he said.

—Eh ——Come again?

—Joey The Lips Fagan.

—An’ I’m Jimmy The Bollix Rabbitte.

—I earned my name for my horn playing, Brother Rabbitte. How did you earn yours?

Jimmy pointed a finger at him.

—Don’t get snotty with me, son.

—I get snotty with no man.

—Better bleedin’ not. ——An’ are YOU tryin’ to tell me that yeh played with James Brown?

—Among others, Brother.

—Like?

—Have we all night? ——Screaming Jay Hawkins, Big Joe Turner, Martha Reeves, Sam Cooke, poor Sam, Sinatra. ——Never again. The man is a thug. ——Otis Redding, Lord rest his sweet soul, Joe Tex, The Four Tops, Stevie Wonder, Little Stevie then. He was only eleven. A pup. ——More?

—Yeah.

—Let’s see. ——Wilson Pickett, Jackie Wilson, Sam an’ Dave, Eddie Floyd, Booker T. and the MGs of course, Joe Tex.

—Yeh said him already.

—Twice. Em ——an unusual one, Jimi Hendrix. Although, to be honest with you, I don’t think poor Jimi knew I was there. ——Bobby Bland, Isaac Hayes, Al Green.

—You’ve been fuckin’ busy.

—You speak the truth, Brother Rabbitte. And there’s more. Blood, Sweat and Tears. The Tremeloes. I know, I know, I have repented. ——Peter Tosh, George Jones, The Stranglers. Nice enough dudes under the leather. I turned up for The Stones on the wrong day. The day after. They were gone.

—Yeh stupid sap, yeh.

—I know. ——Will that do? ——Oh yeah, and The Beatles.

—The Beatles, said Jimmy.

—Money for jam, said Joey The Lips. —ALL YOU
NEED IS LOVE ——DOO DUH DOO DUH DOO.

—Was tha’ you?

—Indeed it was me, Brother. Five pounds, three and sixpence. A fair whack in those days. ——I couldn’t stand Paul, couldn’t take to him. I was up on the roof for Let It Be. But I stayed well back. I’m not a very photogenic Brother. I take a shocking photograph.

By now Jimmy was believing Joey The Lips. A question had to be asked.

—Wha’ do yeh want to join US for?

—I’m tired of the road, said Joey The Lips. —I’ve come home. And my mammy isn’t very well.

Jimmy knew he was being stupid, and cheeky, asking the next question but he asked it anyway.

—Who’re your influences?

—I admit to no influences but God My Lord, said Joey The Lips. —The Lord blows my trumpet.

—Does he? said Jimmy.

—And the walls come tumbling down.

Joey The Lips explained: —I went on the road nine, no ten maybe eleven years ago with a gospel outfit, The Alabama Angels, featuring Sister Julie Bob Mahony. They brought me to God. I repented, I can tell you that for nothing, Brother Rabbitte. I used to be one mother of a sinner. A terrible man. But The Lord’s not a hard man, you know. He doesn’t kick up at the odd drink or a swear word now and again. Even a Sister, if you treat her with proper respect.

Jimmy had nothing to say yet. Joey The Lips carried on.

—The Lord told me to come home. Ed Winchell, a
Baptist reverend on Lenox Avenue in Harlem, told me. But The Lord told him to tell me. He said he was watching something on TV about the feuding Brothers in Northern Ireland and The Lord told the Reverend Ed that the Irish Brothers had no soul, that they needed some soul. And pretty fucking quick! Ed told me to go back to Ireland and blow some soul into the Irish Brothers. The Brothers wouldn’t be shooting the asses off each other if they had soul. So said Ed. I’m not a Baptist myself but I’ve a lot of time for the Reverend Ed.

Jimmy still had nothing to say.

—Am I in? Joey The Lips asked.

—Fuck, yes, said Jimmy. —Fuckin’ sure you’re in. ——Are yeh on the phone?

—Jesus on the mainline, said Joey The Lips,—tell him what you want. 463221.

Jimmy took it down.

—I’ll be in touch with yeh. Definitely. The lads’ll have to see ——to meet yeh.

Joey The Lips threw the leg over his scooter. His helmet was back on.

—All God’s chillun got wings, he said, and he took off out the gate, over the path and down the road.

Jimmy was delighted. He knew now that everything was going to be alright. The Commitments were going to be. They had Joey The Lips Fagan. And that man had enough soul for all of them. He had God too.

*   *   *

The Commitments used the garage of Joey The
Lips’ mother’s house for meeting and rehearsing. The house was a big one on the Howth Road near Killester and the garage was big too.

When they all got there the first time Joey The Lips had it filled with chairs and rugs. They sat back while Joey The Lips counted them for tea-bag purposes.

—Strong tea, Brothers? he asked.

There wasn’t an answer so he threw fifteen bags into the pot.

They were all there, their first time together.

Jimmy Rabbitte; manager.

Outspan Foster; guitar.

Deco Cuffe; vocals.

Derek Scully; bass. (He’d bought one, fourth-hand—he thought it was second—for £60. The amp and cabinet were £40 extra and sounded it. He’d made a deal with his ma. She’d paid for the bass and gear and he had to pay the video rental for the next eighteen months. There were no flies on Derek’s ma.)

James Clifford; piano.

Billy Mooney; drums.

Dean Fay; sax.

And Joey The Lips.

This was the first time they’d seen Joey The Lips, and they weren’t happy. He looked like a da, their da; small, bald, fat, making tea. He was wearing slippers, checked fluffy ones. One thing made him different though. He was wearing a Jesse Jackson campaign T-shirt.

—Is this the entire band here, Brother Jimmy? Joey The Lips asked.

He was handing out mugs.

—This is it, said Jimmy.

—And what have you been listening to? ——You said my man, James Brown, didn’t you?

—Yeah, said Jimmy. —We’ll be doin’ Night Train.

—I like what I hear. ——And?

—Eddie Floyd. Knock On Wood, yeh know.

—Ummm.

—Percy Sledge, said Jimmy.

—When a Man Loves a Woman?

—Yeah.

—Lovely.

—That’s all so far really, said Jimmy.

—A good start, said Joey the Lips. —I have some Jaffa Cakes here, Brothers. Soul food.

When they heard that they started to tolerate him. When he took out his trumpet and played Moon River for them they loved him. Jimmy had been annoying them, going on and on about this genius, but now they knew. They were The Commitments.

When they’d finished congratulating Joey The Lips (—Fair play to yeh, Mr Fagan.

—Yeah, tha’ was deadly.

—The name’s Joey, Brothers.) Jimmy made an announcement.

—I’ve some backin’ vocalists lined up.