The Commitments (2 page)

—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.

—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.

——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 were 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.