Authors: Roddy Doyle
It was cold and damp. And it was cheap.
—I'll take it, said Jimmy.
In fact, it was free. An old hairdresser's, Colette's Unisex, it had been stripped of everything except the sink brackets, a lot of sockets, a couple of posters and the mould behind them.
It was perfect.
His sister Linda had found it for him. She worked in an estate agent's. Craig, her boss and boyfriend, had said that Jimmy could use it until some daw took it off his hands.
—He must be a good lad, this Craig fella, said Jimmy.
—He's a prick, said Linda.
—Why are you with him then?
—Ah, he's nice.
So, just like that, they had their rehearsal space and, just like that, they were rehearsing. They were stampeding along behind King Robert – WE–ELL, THEY CALL ME A DUST BOWL REFUGEE–EE–EE – while the rain hammered the roof. It was different this time, not like The Commitments.
—Why are you doing it? Aoife asked him.
It was three in the morning. Aoife was feeding Smokey and she'd nudged Jimmy awake, for a chat. It was three weeks after she'd come home from the Rotunda.
—I'm not sure, to be honest with yeh, said Jimmy.
He sat up in the bed.
—But, I'll tell yeh. It's different this time. I've a feeling about this one.
—Good, said Aoife.
—WEH–ELL, I AM GOING WHERE THE WATER TASTES LIKE WINE. These people were musicians already. They were grown-up; even Young Dan had years of living and music behind him. They knew how to listen. They could climb aboard a tune. AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY. Yeah, sure, there were egos in the room. Kerri had arrived with seven guitars – LORD LORD – and King Robert wasn't happy with Woody Guthrie's diction.
—He is uneducated.
—Fair enough, Your Majesty. But just sing AIN'T, will yeh. AM NOT doesn't sound right.
Gilbert had already missed one rehearsal. Leo was the gentlest, nicest drummer Jimmy had ever met, so he'd probably explode soon. And Kenny was a danger to himself and the community; he was running a snooker cue up and down the neck of his guitar while he kneeled in front of his amp. But it was fine. He knew why he was doing it and they respected that. And Jimmy liked it. There was a tamed wildness in the room that was producing good noise.
He hadn't worried about playing Woody Guthrie in his raw state to them. He put on 'Blowing Down That Dusty Old Road', a version of an old blues song that Guthrie recorded in 1944, and he knew they'd get it; they'd hop on the possibilities and make the song theirs. WE–ELL, YOUR TWO–EURO SHOES HURT MY FEET. A folk song could be huge. Jimmy told them that and they knew what he was talking about. AND I
AIN'T
GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY.
The
Hot Press
ad delivered his bass player. Another woman, a Dubliner.
—Northside or southside? said Jimmy.
—Ah, grow up, would yeh.
Her name was Mary.
—I used to be called Vera Vagina, she said. —I was in the Screaming Liverflukes. We played the Dandelion Market. U2 supported us. Remember?
—Yeah, Jimmy lied. —And look at the fuckers now, wha'.
She shrugged.
—Yeah, well.
An old punk, with two kids and a husband in the bank, her hair was still purple and standing up.
—Just when the rest of me is beginning to sit down.
She was great and here she was, walking the strings, loving the sound, loving the company. It was already a full sound, just their third time together. No shoving for the front, no real showing off. Agnes sang into every second line —YE–ES, I'M LOOKING FOR A JOB WITH HHH–HONEST PAY. Young Dan's horn went YES YES, NO at the end of each vocal line; his da's accordion was a swooping, laughing whinge. —AND I
AIN'T
GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY.
After he'd locked up the Unisex and said the goodbyes, Jimmy went to his da's local.
Paddy Ward was his da's idea. He was a traveller who'd married into a settled family.
—But he forgets now and again, said Jimmy's da. — He wanders a bit. But he's sound.
They watched now as Paddy Ward walked in, solid and slow, a big, impressive man with hair that took managing and a jacket that hadn't been cheap.
Jimmy's da spoke first.
—How's it goin', Paddy?
—Not so bad, Jim.
—This is my young fella.
—Don't I know him.
—I hear you can sing, said Jimmy.
The man said nothing.
—D'you want to be in a group?
And the man spoke.
—I was sixty my last birthday, sonny. You took your fuckin' time.
And he sang.
'Nothing Compares 2 U'. All of it.
And Jimmy died again.
—Have you anything against blacks? said Jimmy.
—What about Hello first, Jimmy?
—Hello, Mickah. Do you have anything against blacks?
—No, said Mickah Wallace.
—Grand, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want a job?
Mickah Wallace was a family man these days. He had three kids he adored, and he was also very fond of the two women who'd had them for him. They lived near each other.
—Saves on the petrol, said Mickah when he met up with Jimmy, for the first time in years. He was on the Ballygowan. He didn't drink or smoke these days.
—I don't even say Fuck any more, said Mickah.
—So, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want the job?
—I have a job, said Mickah. —I've two fuckin' jobs.
—D'you want another one?
There'd been no more phone calls since the night Smokey was born but the first gig was coming up and Jimmy didn't want to leave anything to chance or Nazis. He wanted Mickah on his side.
—What kind o' job? said Mickah.
—Well, said Jimmy. —The usual.
—Ah Jaysis, Jimmy; I don't know. Those days are kind of over, yeh know.
Mickah worked on one of the new green wheelie-bin trucks.
—Yeh should see the stuff they put in them, he told Jimmy. —How d'yeh recycle a dead dog, for Jaysis sake?
And he delivered for Celtic Tandoori, the local takeaway. Fat Gandhi, the owner – real name, Eric Murphy – gave Mickah three nights a week.
—We go to the same church, said Mickah. —He's sound.
Mickah was a born-again Christian.
—It's been the makin' of me, m'n. I owe it all to the Lord.
Jimmy told him about The Deportees, and about the late-night/early-morning phone caller.
—What would the Lord do about it, Mickah? said Jimmy.
—Hammer the shite out of him, said Mickah.
—So, you'll take the job?
—Okay.
—THE NEW SHER–IFF WROTE ME A LET–TER. They were really hopping now, playing the walls off the Unisex. COME UP AND SEE ME – DEAD OR ALIVE. They were ready.
That was Paddy Ward singing. King Robert had been very reluctant to hand over the space behind the mike, but he was listening now, and watching Paddy's mouth —I DON'T LIKEYOU-
RRRR
HARD ROCK HO–TEL. Paddy put his hand on King Robert's shoulder, the King stepped in and they brought the song home together.— DEAD OR ALIVE – IT'S A HARD RO-OO-OAD.
Kenny had objected to Paddy when he'd turned up a few nights before.
—Is he what I think he is? said Kenny.
Jimmy was ready.
—He's a traveller, yeah. Have you a problem, Ken?
—Eh—
—Cos we'll be sorry to lose you.
—No, no, fuck no. It's just, it's unusual though. A, a traveller, like. In a band.
—Look around you, Kenny, said Jimmy. —It's an unusual band. That's the whole fuckin' idea. Are you with us?
—God, yeah. Yeah. Thanks.
Jimmy watched Kenny now. He was lashing away there, in some kind of heaven. Kerri played rhythm; Kenny was free to roam. And he did – he went further on that guitar than any traveller ever did in a Hiace.
They had eight Guthrie songs now, and some more to make up the gigful. 'Get Up Stand Up' – Gilbert's choice; 'Life During Wartime' – Kerri's choice; 'Inner City Blues' – King Robert's. It was beautiful, pared down to djembe and voice. —MAKE ME
WANT TO
HOLL–ERRR.
—Want to, King Robert explained, —not Wanna. Mister Marvin Gaye was a genius but his diction, I am sorry to say, was very bad.
'Hotel California' was Dan's; 'La Vida Loca,' Young Dan's, and a good one from Agnes.
—I'M – SEEENG–ING IN THE RAIN – I'M SEEENG–ING IN THE RAI–NNN – IT'S A WON–DERFUL FEEE–LEENG – I'M HAHHH—
—Fuckin' nice one, said Kenny.
He was a bit in love with Agnes. His own choice was 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'.
—You're jestin', said Jimmy.
—Why not? said Kenny.
Jimmy looked around the room.
—Who'll sing it?
Before they had time to mutter, Paddy Ward stepped forward.
—I'm the man for that job.
And, sixty last birthday, Paddy grabbed the mike. He knew the words; they suddenly made sense. Mary's bass went with Paddy, and Boris caught up and kept them company. Kenny hit the two famous notes – DEH–DUHHH – and disappeared behind his hair so he could cry in peace. Inside an hour, they had it broken. 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' was theirs, a brand new thing, and Kurt Cobain was an Irish traveller.
They sat on the floor, gasping and sweating, laughing a bit, and Jimmy made the announcement.
—You're playing on Wednesday.
—Will that be football or tunes? said Paddy.
They laughed, but they were leaning out for more.
—Tunes, said Jimmy.
—Please, where?
—It's an unusual one, said Jimmy. —But it'll be great for exposure.
—Where?
—Well, said Jimmy. —You know the Liffey?
It was a fuckin' disaster.
They played on a raft below the new pedestrian bridge, the warm-up act for a sponsored swim that didn't happen. The thing was cancelled because of reports of rats pissing in the water at Lucan.
—Weil's Disease, the organiser, the husband of one of Jimmy's cousins, told Jimmy on the mobile. —It's transmitted by rats' urine. Anaemia, sore eyes, nose bleeds, jaundice. And that's just for starters.
Jimmy was standing on the bridge, trying to hold onto a rope. There was an inflatable bottle of Heineken on the other end of the rope, a giant green yoke, that kept bashing into the raft. Leo's high-hat had already gone into the water. And the wind was making waves that Jimmy had never seen on the river before.
—Rats' piss? he said. —Jesus, man, if you took the piss out of the Liffey there'd be nothin' left.
—I know where you're comin' from, said the cousin's husband. —But we can't take the risk.
—So you're at home and we're fuckin' here.
—I'm at work.
—Whatever.
—Sorry, Jim, but the medical advice is to stay out of the water.
—Ah, go drink a glass of it, yeh fuckin' bollix.
Jimmy pocketed the mobile and concentrated on the rope. The Heineken bottle was charging at the raft again. Mickah was at the south side of the bridge, guarding the gear; they'd caught a couple of young fellas trying to toss Kerri's spare guitars into the river. Jimmy looked at the raft. It was up against the quay wall, in under the boardwalk, being lifted and dropped by those waves. Paddy was on his knees, searching for grip. Leo was lying across his drums; he'd given up playing. Agnes was trying to grab the boardwalk rail and climb. The gig was well and truly over, although King Robert wouldn't admit it yet – WE–ELL, THEY CALL ME A DUST BOWL REFUGEE–EE – and Jimmy was in trouble.
He helped them all and their instruments over the quay wall, back onto solid land.
—Well done. Yis were great.
But he got nothing back for his efforts, just wet-eyed glares and angry words diluted by seasickness.
—I do not like these kind of concerts, said Dan the elder as he wiped his eyes.
—Sorry, Dan, said Jimmy.
—Yes, said Dan. —Me too.
The two Dans held each other up as they walked away. King Robert was gone before Jimmy had a chance to say anything to him. Paddy was falling into the back of a taxi. And Kerri slapped Jimmy.
—With her guitar strap, Jimmy told Aoife later, in the bed. —Across the back of me legs.
—Show, said Aoife.
—There's nothing to see, really, said Jimmy.
—Show me anyway, said Aoife. —Ouch.
Smokey had just bitten her nipple.
—Brian, Brian, Brian, said Aoife.
—Just like his da, said Jimmy.
—Jesus, I knew you'd say that, said Aoife. —So, what'll you do?
—Don't know, bitch, said Jimmy. —What d'you think?
—Phone them all, apologise, and ask for another chance.
—No way, said Jimmy.
But he did. He stayed at home from work the next day, sick, and tried to contact all of them. It was easier said than done. Some had no phones, and Leo and Gilbert weren't living where they should have been. And, seeing as he was at home, Aoife went into town – her first adventure since Smokey'd been born – and she left Jimmy to look after the kids.
—That'll teach you to mitch, she said, the wagon, as she took the car keys from his pocket.
—Spuddies! said Mahalia. —Now!
They listened, all of them – Mary, Kerri, Paddy, the Dans, Agnes. They were all ready to give it another go.
—Under a fuckin' roof, though, boy, said Kenny.
And Jimmy was getting excited again. Later on, after dark, he went out and tracked down Gilbert. The African guy who answered the door to his old flat stared at Jimmy for a long time, then sent him on to another flat, in a house of flats off the North Circular.
—When will be the next concert? asked Gilbert.
—Don't know yet, said Jimmy.
—Before Friday? said Gilbert.
—Wouldn't think so, said Jimmy. —Why?
—I am being deported, said Gilbert.
—No, said Aoife when Jimmy asked her if Gilbert could stay with them for a while.
—He's nice, said Jimmy.
—No.
—You'll like him.
—No.
—His family was wiped out in the civil war, said Jimmy.
—There's no civil war in Nigeria. You should be ashamed of yourself, Jimmy Rabbitte.
—Okay, okay, said Jimmy. —I'll tell him.
He got out of the bed.
—Jesus, Jimmy. Can it not wait till the morning?
—Not really, said Jimmy. —He's up in the attic.