The Body and Soul stage, when he found it, was like something from
Lord of the Rings
. It was in among the trees, in a hollow, a tiny natural amphitheatre.
The Bastards of Lir were waiting there.
—Ned.
—Jimmy.
Five men, four ponytails. Three leather waistcoats.
—You’re being looked after?
—We expected a tent, said Ned.
—This is your venue, Ned.
—It’s an afterthought.
—It fuckin’ isn’t, said Jimmy.
He wasn’t taking this.
—Some of the best gigs happen here, said Jimmy.—Look at it.
Now that he was down in the hollow, it was great, and a bit magic. The place would fill.
—The whole festival is built around Body and Soul, said Jimmy.
Ned wasn’t looking at him.
—What if it was raining? he said.
—It isn’t rainin,’ said Jimmy.—How many times have you played the Picnic before?
Ned didn’t answer.
—Do you think they actually wanted you? said Jimmy.
He got to an answer before Ned could.
—Yes, they fuckin’ did, said Jimmy.—And they wanted you
here
. In Body and Soul. That was the ask.
He was saving the day, lying through his arse, and impressing himself again.
—Okay, said Ned.—I hear you.
—Read the email I sent you, said Jimmy.—You knew what you were gettin’.
The tin whistle player spat on the ground.
—You’ll be brilliant, said Jimmy.
He looked at his watch. The stage manager was waving at them. —You’re on, said Jimmy.
The hollow was filling. There were no bald patches. Ned looked a bit happier.
The fiddle player sawed the strings with his bow.
—Whooo, said Ned, into the mic.—He’s raring to go. No introductions, you know who we are. Here’s one you might recognise.
Jimmy got off the stage.
—ON TARA’S HILL THERE STANDS A MAN —
For fuck sake.
—IN THE MISTY EARLY MORNING —
Jimmy climbed out of the hollow. He had to get away.
—HE LOOKS ACROSS HIS SACRED LANDS —
In the fuckin’ mist – fair play to him.
—HE’S THE LAST OF IRELAND’S HIGH KINGS —
Jimmy didn’t look back but he knew the hollow was a mass of diddley-eye-Provos, clapping and whooping.
—Toilet paper.
It was Aoife. Mahalia and Brian were behind her.
—Howyeh, love.
—Toilet paper.
He got the bag from his back and pulled out the roll.
—You’re lookin’ lovely, by the way.
It was true, but she grabbed the roll and Jimmy watched her go.
—HE HOLDS HIS SWORD UP TO THE SKIES —
—Wha’ d’yeh think of tha’ shite? he asked Brian.
—Class, said Brian.
—AND CALLS TO HIS LOYAL CLAN —
And here came the last of the High Kings, Outspan Foster, on his purple Celtic plastic fuckin’ armchair. Les and Des parked him on the lip of the hollow.
—LET BLOOD FLOW RED FROM SAXON VEINS —
—Now we’re fuckin’ talkin’.
—AND ENRICH THIS SACRED LAND —
It was
Riverdance
for Nazis and the hollow was full of them.
—Here, Les, said Jimmy.—This is Mahalia. And Brian.
—Hi.
—This is your Uncle Les, said Jimmy.
He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like a bollix. He was getting at Les.
Les shook hands with both of the kids.
—Great to meet you.
—I’ve to go, said Jimmy.—Tell your mam I’ll see her at the Cosby.
—What’s the Cosby? said Mahalia.
—A tent, said Jimmy.—Where Marvin’s playin’.
—We’ll follow you there, said Les.
—Grand.
—These guys are great.
Jimmy escaped. He felt like a cunt, abandoning the kids, his brother, his dying buddy and his wife. But he was working. He was genuinely working.
He texted Ned as he went.
Superb
. Ned would find it when he came offstage.
He was out of Body and Soul, running, back through Artists and Crew, into the vastness of backstage. He found the Bulgarians stuffing their faces at a table covered in sandwiches held down by little plastic swords.
—Everything okay?
—For – sure, said Marvin
—Nervous?
—Fock – narvus, said Marvin.
Then he whispered.
—Shittin’.
—You’ll be great.
The other two, Docksy and Mush, seemed calm enough. He could see they had a plan. They stood at a platter till it was empty, then moved on to the next one. They were hoovering up the food for twenty bands.
The Halfbreds’ daughter stood beside Marvin.
—Hi.
—Yes, said Marvin.
—I saw you, like, on YouTube.
—What – is – Oo-toob?
Marvin was overdoing it but Jimmy left him at it. He was safe enough there with the Halfbred daughter. The possibility of Barry and Connie joining the family scared him a bit – already – but she seemed like a nice, normal kid and she’d keep Marv occupied till they went onstage – Jimmy looked at his watch – in ten minutes.
The Halfbred daughter laughed. Marvin’s English was improving all the time. She was a lovely-looking kid. Just like her ma.
Now Jimmy saw a guy he knew he had to stop from getting to Moanin’ At Midnight. He moved, to get between the lads and Nathan Early. Jimmy had been in a room once – at a music e-zine Christmas do, a few years back – when he’d had to listen to Early list all the gigs he’d reviewed but had never attended. The man was a slug.
—Howyeh, Nathan.
Early hadn’t a clue who was talking to him.
—Hey.
—Enjoyin’ yourself?
—Well, said Early.—It’s work, you know.
—You have to actually listen to the bands, do yeh? said Jimmy.
—That’s rough.
Early looked at Jimmy, then past him.
—They’re not available, said Jimmy.
—They?
—Moanin’ At Midnight, said Jimmy.—They’ve no English.
Early nodded at Marvin with the young one, and Jimmy wanted to kill him.
—He seems to be managing okay, said Early.
—Sorry, Nathan.
—Have a heart, man. I just want a sense of how they feel about being in Ireland.
—Make it up, said Jimmy.
Early looked at him properly.
—Who are you?
—Jimmy Rabbitte, he said.
—Gotcha, said Early.—You work for Noeleen.
It was quiet in the Cosby tent.
—That’s righ’, said Jimmy.
He realised now, there’d been no music coming from there for a good while. Marvin and the lads were on next.
—And she thinks you’re a cunt as well, he said.
He turned and went across to Marvin.
—You’re on.
—What?
—You play music now, the Halfbreds’ daughter told him.
—For sure.
Early homed in on the daughter.
—When did you two meet?
—Like, a minute ago.
—You’re into him, yeah?
The daughter looked at Early.
—Fuck off, like.
She followed Jimmy and Marvin and the other two lads. One of them – Jimmy thought it was Docksy – leaned over, puked, and kept going.
—Alrigh’?
—Alright.
There were steps to climb, more security to get past. Jimmy felt like puking himself. He could tell before he saw: the tent was packed.
—Fuck –, said Marvin, quietly.
—You alrigh’, Marv?
—Yep.
The puker puked again.
—Irish – meat – bad – meat, he said.
That got them giggling.
Jimmy put his arm on Marvin’s shoulder.
—I’m proud of you.
—Thanks.
Marvin didn’t try to escape.
—It’ll be brilliant.
—Yeah.
They were well back, but Jimmy went a few steps nearer the stage. The place was heaving. The crowd stretched to well outside the tent, as far as he could see. He got the phone out, texted Aoife.
R u in?
He didn’t know the capacity of the tent but there were more in it than there should have been. He was sure of that. The stage
people, the men and women in the know, clicked into action. It was the time. Someone held back the black drape and Marvin and his pals walked through, and on, and the place went mad.
The band moved like everything they had to do was rehearsed and timed. The guitar and bass were up and on, the drummer had his sticks ready before he sat. He hit the snare as his arse hit the seat.
It was noise. A big cloud of the stuff – screech and thump. Then words came out – Marvin’s mouth was right up to the mic – and they were playing the blues. How was it possible? How was his eighteen-year-old son able to sing like Howlin’ Wolf? Fuckin’ better than Howlin’ Wolf.
—OH OHH TELL ME BAB-EH —
It was ‘Smokestack Lightnin” and it was perfect. Marvin’s howl at the end of each verse was spot on. Only a man who’d actually heard a wolf, who’d stood and faced one in a forest clearing in Bulgaria, could have made that howl. Marvin howled and women screamed.
For fuck sake.
The phone buzzed in Jimmy’s hand. It was Aoife.
On wheelchair access platform. Cant believe it
.
Jimmy couldn’t see her. He was well to the side and he wasn’t going to move any nearer to the stage. The lads got into the second song while the crowd was still roaring its approval of the first one. Again, it came out of the noise and it became ‘Mannish Boy’.
—EVERYTHING —
EVERYTHING —
Marvin pronounced the Gs. He was still a Bulgarian, aping the black man’s English.
—EVERYTHING GO’NE TO BE ALRIGHT THIS MORNING —
Jimmy could feel the bass in his chest, pushing him back. It was rougher than Muddy Waters, and way better. The crowd was spelling MAN with Marvin and there wasn’t a dyslectic in the house.
—M —
—A —
—N —
Marvin didn’t move from the mic. He stood at a slight angle. The bass roamed the stage. He never looked at the audience.
They fell back into the noise and feedback, let the cheers and
roars roll across them. Then, again, the song took form – a chord, a beat.
Everyone knew it.
—I WANT HER ARMS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
The tent was moving.
—I WANT HER LEGS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
Were there a thousand in the tent? Two thousand? More? And a lot more outside. They were all going to hell, singing as they went.
—I PROWL THE STREETS —
I’M GOING TO HELL —
I LICK HER FEET —
A woman on top of her boyfriend’s shoulders offered up her own feet.
—I WANT HER NOW —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
WON’T SAVE MY SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
DON’T HAVE A SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
It couldn’t get louder – the crowd was the band.
DON’T WANT MY SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
I’LL GET MY HOLE —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
Jimmy left. He wanted to get around to the front of the tent. He wanted to move. His son was singing a song that Jimmy had written. He didn’t know how he felt. Robbed and elated.
He texted Noeleen.
Theyre irish
.
He’d waited all his life for something like this.
He sent her another one.
Hes my son
.
He needed the walk, to detach himself. He wasn’t onstage. Marvin was.
He was out of the backstage area now, walking back over to the Cosby.
He got the phone out.
Theyre playing our song. Love you. X
. He sent it to young Jimmy.
He was outside now, in the crowd, one of the audience. His son was in there, being screamed at, and Jimmy had nothing to
do with it. He could grin. He was the very proud father. That was all.
—Your working day over, Jim? said Les.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—That’s me.
—Best gigs of the weekend, I think.
—Thanks, Les.
—Seriously.
—Thanks.
—You always liked your music.
—Yeah.
—I think that’s great.
—Thanks.
He was numb, a bit. Happily numb. Aoife was off wandering with the kids. She was leaving him alone. He was here now, with these men, because of her. They were back under their tree, sitting around Outspan’s purple chair.
—How are we for readies? he asked Outspan.
—Laughin’, said Outspan.
—How are yeh for gas?
—Loads left.
—Grand.
He’d texted Marvin.
You don’t have to pretend. X
. Young Jimmy had texted him back.
Great gig
. Ned had texted as well.
Thanks, a chara
.
—What about you, Les? said Jimmy.
—What about me?
—What do you do?
Les looked amused.
—I’m a plumber, he said.—I thought you knew.
—I did, said Jimmy.
But he didn’t – he sort of did. He remembered it now. Les had always been a plumber. Did they have plumbers in the British Army? He could have texted his da.
Was Les in the British Army?
But he was sick of texting.
—I just wondered if you still were, said Jimmy.
—Yep, said Les.
—Jesus, men, said Des.—It feels like a long day already.
—Think of it as two days, said Les.
Jimmy liked that.
—That’s a good idea, he said.
—And the second one’s just starting, said Les.
—I like your style, Les.
—I want to see Dexys Midnight Runners, said Outspan.
—Good idea.
They were up and running again. This time Jimmy got to carry Outspan.
It was a good show, but a bit weird. Kevin Rowland and another chap, a singer, strode around the stage. There was a good-looking woman too, about half Rowland’s age. It was like a musical for oul’ lads.
—What did yeh think of tha’? Jimmy asked Outspan.
—Shite.
—I’m with yeh, said Jimmy.—How’re yeh feelin’?
—There’s a few more gigs in me, said Outspan.—What’s next?
They were back across to the Crawdaddy, via the jacks, for the last ten minutes of Patti Smith.
—What did yeh think o’ tha’?
—Brilliant.
—Fuckin’ brilliant.
—Fuckin’ amazin’.
—Would yeh give her one?
—Oh yeah.
—Food, gents?
—Bring it fuckin’ on.
Jimmy was back in the night before; that was how he felt. Almost. But he was still rattled. His phone was hopping in his pocket. He was sick of the thing. He could hardly look at the screen.