Billy, said Imelda. —Kill him.
—Ah, for fuck sake! said Jimmy.
—I’m oney messin’, said Imelda. —Don’t kill him, Billy.
—Yeah, said Natalie. —Just give him a hidin’.
—I’ll do tha’ for yis if yeh want, said Mickah.
—Brothers, said Joey The Lips.
His palms were lifted. The Commitments were ready to listen to him.
—Now, Brother Deco might not be the most likeable of the Brothers——
—He’s a prick, Joey.
—He is, Brother Dean. I admit I agree. Brother Deco is a prick. He is a prick. But the voice, Brothers and Sisters. ——His voice is not the voice of a prick. That voice belongs to God.
No one argued with him.
—We need him, Brothers. We need the voice.
—Pity abou’ the rest of him.
—Granted.
—I’ll talk to him tomorrow at work, said Jimmy.
—Tell him I’ll kill him.
* * *
The Commitments got a mention in the Herald.
—The Commitments, said the mention,—played a strong Motown(ish) set. New to the live scene, they were at times ragged but always energetic. Their suits didn’t fit them properly. My companion fell in love with the vocalist, a star surely in the ascendant. I hate him! (—Oh fuck! said Jimmy.) Warts and all, The Commitments are a good time. They might also be important. See them.
* * *
Armed with this and the Northside News article, Jimmy got The Commitments a Wednesday night in another pub, a bigger one, The Miami Vice (until recently The Dark Rosaleen). It was a bit on the southside, but near the DART.
The Commitments went down well again. Deco stuck to the rehearsed lines. Everyone went home happy.
They were given a month’s residency, Wednesdays. They could charge two pounds admission if they could fill the pub the first night.
They filled it.
A certain type of audience was coming to see them. The crowds reminded Jimmy of the ones he’d been part of at the old Blades gigs. They were older and wiser now, grown-up mods. Their clothes were more adventurous but they were still neat and tidy. The women’s hairstyles were more varied. They weren’t really modettes any more.
A good audience, Jimmy decided. The mods and ex-mods knew good music when they heard it. Their dress was strict but they listened to anything good, only, mind you, if the musicians dressed neatly.
The Commitments were neat. Jimmy was happy with the audience. So was Joey The Lips. These were The People.
Another thing Jimmy noticed: they were shouting for Night Train.
—NIGH’ TRAIN, Deco screeched.
OH SWEE’ MOTHER O’ JAYSIS —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
OH SWEE’ MOTHER O’ FUCKIN’ JAYSIS —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
NIGH’ TRAIN ——
COME ON ——
The Commitmentettes lifted their right arms and pulled the whistle cords.
—WHHWOO WOOO ——
—NIGH’
Deco wiped his forehead and opened his neck buttons.
—TRAIN.
—More!
—MORE!
They shouted for more, but that was it. Three times in one night was enough.
—Thank y’awl, said Deco. —We’re The Commitments.——Good nigh’ an’ God bless.
—We should make a few shillin’s next week an’ annyway, wha’, said Mickah.
He was collecting the mikes.
—Brother Jimmy, said Joey The Lips. —I’m worried. ——About Dean.
—Wha’ abou’ Dean?
—He told me he’s been listening to jazz.
—What’s wrong with tha’? Jimmy wanted to know.
—Everything, said Joey The Lips. —Jazz is the antithesis of soul.
—I beg your fuckin’ pardon!
—I’ll go along with Joey there, said Mickah.
—See, said Joey The Lips. —Soul is the people’s music. Ordinary people making music for ordinary people. —Simple music. Any Brother can play it. The Motown sound, it’s simple. Thump-thump-thump-thump. ——That’s straight time. Thump-thump-thump-thump. ——See? Soul is democratic, Jimmy. Anyone with a bin lid can play it. It’s the people’s music.
—Yeh don’t need anny honours in your Inter to play soul, isn’t tha’ wha’ you’re gettin’ at, Joey?
—That’s
—Ah, for fuck sake! said Jimmy.
—I’m oney messin’, said Imelda. —Don’t kill him, Billy.
—Yeah, said Natalie. —Just give him a hidin’.
—I’ll do tha’ for yis if yeh want, said Mickah.
—Brothers, said Joey The Lips.
His palms were lifted. The Commitments were ready to listen to him.
—Now, Brother Deco might not be the most likeable of the Brothers——
—He’s a prick, Joey.
—He is, Brother Dean. I admit I agree. Brother Deco is a prick. He is a prick. But the voice, Brothers and Sisters. ——His voice is not the voice of a prick. That voice belongs to God.
No one argued with him.
—We need him, Brothers. We need the voice.
—Pity abou’ the rest of him.
—Granted.
—I’ll talk to him tomorrow at work, said Jimmy.
—Tell him I’ll kill him.
* * *
The Commitments got a mention in the Herald.
—The Commitments, said the mention,—played a strong Motown(ish) set. New to the live scene, they were at times ragged but always energetic. Their suits didn’t fit them properly. My companion fell in love with the vocalist, a star surely in the ascendant. I hate him! (—Oh fuck! said Jimmy.) Warts and all, The Commitments are a good time. They might also be important. See them.
* * *
Armed with this and the Northside News article, Jimmy got The Commitments a Wednesday night in another pub, a bigger one, The Miami Vice (until recently The Dark Rosaleen). It was a bit on the southside, but near the DART.
The Commitments went down well again. Deco stuck to the rehearsed lines. Everyone went home happy.
They were given a month’s residency, Wednesdays. They could charge two pounds admission if they could fill the pub the first night.
They filled it.
A certain type of audience was coming to see them. The crowds reminded Jimmy of the ones he’d been part of at the old Blades gigs. They were older and wiser now, grown-up mods. Their clothes were more adventurous but they were still neat and tidy. The women’s hairstyles were more varied. They weren’t really modettes any more.
A good audience, Jimmy decided. The mods and ex-mods knew good music when they heard it. Their dress was strict but they listened to anything good, only, mind you, if the musicians dressed neatly.
The Commitments were neat. Jimmy was happy with the audience. So was Joey The Lips. These were The People.
Another thing Jimmy noticed: they were shouting for Night Train.
—NIGH’ TRAIN, Deco screeched.
OH SWEE’ MOTHER O’ JAYSIS —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
OH SWEE’ MOTHER O’ FUCKIN’ JAYSIS —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
NIGH’ TRAIN —
NIGH’ TRAIN ——
COME ON ——
The Commitmentettes lifted their right arms and pulled the whistle cords.
—WHHWOO WOOO ——
—NIGH’
Deco wiped his forehead and opened his neck buttons.
—TRAIN.
—More!
—MORE!
They shouted for more, but that was it. Three times in one night was enough.
—Thank y’awl, said Deco. —We’re The Commitments.——Good nigh’ an’ God bless.
—We should make a few shillin’s next week an’ annyway, wha’, said Mickah.
He was collecting the mikes.
—Brother Jimmy, said Joey The Lips. —I’m worried. ——About Dean.
—Wha’ abou’ Dean?
—He told me he’s been listening to jazz.
—What’s wrong with tha’? Jimmy wanted to know.
—Everything, said Joey The Lips. —Jazz is the antithesis of soul.
—I beg your fuckin’ pardon!
—I’ll go along with Joey there, said Mickah.
—See, said Joey The Lips. —Soul is the people’s music. Ordinary people making music for ordinary people. —Simple music. Any Brother can play it. The Motown sound, it’s simple. Thump-thump-thump-thump. ——That’s straight time. Thump-thump-thump-thump. ——See? Soul is democratic, Jimmy. Anyone with a bin lid can play it. It’s the people’s music.
—Yeh don’t need anny honours in your Inter to play soul, isn’t tha’ wha’ you’re gettin’ at, Joey?
—That’s
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