The Barrytown Trilogy (3 page)

—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.

—Who?

—Three young ones.

—Young ones. ——Rapid!

—Are they foxy ladies, Jimmy? Joey The Lips asked.

They all stared at him.

—Fuckin’ sure they are, said Jimmy.

—Who are they? said Outspan.

—Remember Tracie Quirk?

—She’s fuckin’ married!

—Not her, said Jimmy. —Her sister.

—Wha’ one? Derek asked.

—Imelda.

—Wha’ one’s she? Hang on ———Oh Jaysis, HER! Fuckin’ great.

—Which one is it? said Outspan.

—You know her, said Derek. —Yeh fuckin’ do. Small, with lovely tits. Yeh know. Black hair, long. Over her eyes.

—Her!

—She’s fuckin’ gorgeous, said Derek. —Wha’ age is she?

—Eighteen.

—She lives beside you, James.

—So I believe, said James.

—Is she anny good at the oul’ singin’?

—I haven’t a clue, said Jimmy.

—Who’re the others? Deco asked.

—Two of her mates.

—That’s very good management, Brother, said Joey The Lips. —Will they be dressed in black?

—Yeah ———I ——I think so.

—Good good.

* * *

The time flew in.

Those Commitments still learning their instruments improved. The ones ready were patient. There was no group rehearsing. Jimmy wouldn’t allow it. They all had to be ready first.

Derek’s fingers were raw. He liked to wallop the strings. That was the way, Jimmy said. Derek found out that you could get away with concentrating on one string. You made up for the lack of variety by thumping the string more often and by taking your hand off the neck and putting it back a lot to make it look like you were involved in complicated work. He carried his bass low, Stranglers style, nearly down at his knees. He didn’t have to bend his arms.

Outspan improved too. There’d be no guitar solos, Jimmy
said, and that suited Outspan. Jimmy gave him Motown compilations to listen to. Chord changes were scarce. It was just a matter of making yourself loose enough to follow the rhythm.

Outspan was very embarrassed up in his bedroom trying to strum along to the Motown time. But once he stopped looking at himself in the mirror he loosened up. He chugged along with the records, especially The Supremes. Under the energy it was simple.

Then he started using the mirror again. He was thrilled. His plectrum hand danced. Sometimes it was a blur. The hand looked great. The arm hardly budged. The wrist was in charge. He held his guitar high against his chest.

He saved money when he could. He wasn’t working but on Saturday mornings he went from door to door in Barrytown selling the frozen chickens that his cousin always managed to rob from H. Williams on Friday nights. That gave him at least a tenner a week to put away. As well as that, he gave the man next door, Mr Hurley, a hand with his video business. This involved keeping about two hundred tapes under his bed and driving around the estate with Mr Hurley for a few hours a couple of times a week, handing out the tapes while Mr Hurley took in the money. Then, out of the blue, his ma gave him most of the month’s mickey money. He cried.

He had £145 now. That got him a third-hand electric guitar (the make long forgotten) and a bad amp and cabinet. After that they couldn’t get him away from the mirror.

Deco’s mother worried about him. He’d be eating his breakfast and then he’d yell something like Good God Y’Awl or Take It To The Bridge Now. Deco was on a strict soul diet: James Brown, Otis Redding, Smokey Robinson and Marvin Gaye. James for the growls, Otis for the moans, Smokey for the whines and Marvin for the whole lot put together, Jimmy said.

Deco sang, shouted, growled, moaned, whined along to the tapes Jimmy had given him. He bollixed his throat every night. It felt like it was being cut from the inside by the time
he got to the end of Tracks of My Tears. He liked I Heard It through the Grapevine because the women singing I HEARD IT THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE NOT MUCH LONGER WOULD YOU BE MY BABY gave him a short chance to wet the stinging in his throat. Copying Marvin Gaye meant making his throat sore and then rubbing it in.