Roddy Doyle: The Commitments

Deco wouldn’t get out of the girls’ way. He stood his ground at the front, leering at his audience.

Billy shouted: —Get ou’ o’ the fuckin’ way.

— Stay cool, said Deco.

He handed the mike to Imelda. She stung his ear with it.

And they were off. Against The Commitments’ best ever, tightest thumping back-beat, the girls bleated Stoned Love. They swayed, clapped their hands, stopped. And before the crowd could start screaming, they started again. Jimmy had to climb up onto the stage to gently shove the small boys and girls back off.

Deco came back on and Knock on Wood began. It ended early when he knocked over the horn section’s mike and half the horn section gave him an almighty kick up the hole.

Deco wasn’t going to be able to sing again for a good few minutes so Jimmy drew the curtain. James and Billy looked at Deco kneeling on the floor, bent forward.

— Tha’ took him to the bridge, said Billy.

— Quite, said James.

— He was lookin’ for it, Dean was explaining to Jimmy.

— Could yeh not have waited till he stopped singin’? said Jimmy. — Or at least till he got to the end o’ the sentence.

Outspan laughed.

The first gig was over.

Mickah’s head appeared from under the curtain.

— Hey, Jimmy, he said. — There’s a sap here from — Hang on.

Mickah was gone. And back.

— The Northside News. — He wants a word.

When Jimmy drew the curtain back they all saw the sap from Northside News. He was tall, young, with tinted glasses.

— Great gig, said the sap from the Northside News. — Who’s in charge?

— I’m the singer, Deco told him.

— For the time being, said Jimmy.

— Well said, Jimmy, said Outspan.

— Pack the gear, lads, said Jimmy. — Keep the suits on but. — For the snaps. — Joey, come on.

Jimmy jumped off the stage. He shook the sap’s hand.

They introduced themselves.

— An’ this is Joey The Lips Fagan, said Jimmy.

— Hi.

— Good evening, Brother.

— Will we be in next Friday’s one? Mickah asked the sap.

— Give Billy a hand with his kit, will yeh, Mickah.

Mickah grabbed Jimmy’s fringe.

— Say please.

— Please, Mickah.

Mickah grinned.

— Certainly. — No problem.

— Our security man, Jimmy explained.

— The price of fame, said Joey The Lips.

— Right, said the sap.

He had a notebook.

— When were you formed?

— Some months back, said Joey The Lips.

— How did the band come about?

Jimmy spoke. — Well, I put an —

— Destiny, said Joey The Lips. — It was destined to happen.

Jimmy liked the sound of that so he let Joey The Lips keep talking.

— My man, said Joey The Lips. — We are a band with a mission.

— A mission?

— You hear good and you hear right.

The sap looked to Jimmy but Jimmy said nothing.

— What kind of mission d’you mean?

— An important mission, Brother.

Jimmy leaned over to Joey The Lips and whispered: —Don’t mention God.

Joey The Lips smiled.

— We are bringing Soul to Dublin, Brother, he said.

— We are bringing the music, the Soul, back to the people. — The proletariat. — That’s p,r,o,l,e,t,a,r,i,a,t.

— Thanks a lot.

Jimmy spoke. — We’re against racial and sexual discrimination an’ heroin, isn’t tha’ righ’, Joey?

— That is right, said Joey The Lips.

— We ain’t gonna play Sun City, said Jimmy.

— Tell the people, Joey The Lips told the sap, — to put on their soul shoes because The Commitments are coming and there’s going to be dancing in the streets.

— This’ll make good copy, said the sap.

— And there’ll be barricades in the streets too, said Joey The Lips. — Now you’ve got great copy.

— Wow, said the sap. — Nice one. — When’s your next gig?

— My friend, said Joey The Lips. — We are the Guerrillas of Soul. We do not announce our gigs. We hit, and then we sink back into the night.

Jimmy tapped the sap’s shoulder.

— I think there’s a U in Guerrillas.

— Oh yeah. — Thanks a lot.

— Do yeh want to take a few photographs?

— Yeah, right.

— Joey, make sure their ties are all on straigh’, will yeh?

— I obey.

Joey The Lips sat on a chair. The Commitments kneeled and stood around him. Bernie sat on his knee. Imelda lay in front of him, leaning on an elbow, chin in her hand, hair in her eyes. Natalie did the same, in the opposite direction. Jimmy, Mickah, the caretaker and Mrs Foster stood at the sides, like football managers and magic-sponge men. That way they all fitted.

* * *

There was nothing for a few weeks.

The Commitments rehearsed.

Jimmy did the round of the music pubs in town. One of them only did heavy metal groups. The manager explained to Jimmy that the heavy metal crowd was older and very well behaved, and drank like fish.

A barman in another one told Jimmy that the manager only booked groups that modelled themselves on Echo and The Bunnymen because they were always reviewed and the reviews usually included praise for the manager and his pioneering work.

On the fourth night Jimmy found a pub that would take The Commitments for one night, a Thursday, no fee, but three free pints each. The head barman was a big Motown fan and he and the Northside News headline (Soul Soldiers of Destiny) convinced the owner.

Jimmy couldn’t figure out how it got the name The Regency Rooms. There was only one room, about ten times bigger than his bedroom. The walls were stained and bare. The floor was stained and bare. The stools and chairs showed their guts. The stage was a foot-high plywood platform.

— They won’t all fit, said Mickah.

— I know tha’, said Jimmy. — Billy will, an’ the girls an’ Outspan an’ Derek. Put the piano over there at the jacks door, righ’, an’ Joey an’ Dean can go over there an’ Deco in the middle. An’ the mixer on the table there.

— Good thinkin’.

When the head barman came in to work he went for Jimmy.

— You didn’t tell us it was a fuckin’ orchestra we were bookin’, he screamed.

— I thought yeh’d know, said Jimmy. — Yeh said yeh were a Motown fan.

— The wife has The Supremes’ Greatest Hits. — It’s the same size as any other record.

— We’ve squashed them all in, said Jimmy.

— Yeah. — An’ yis still take up half the fuckin’ pub. — Look. The piano. — Yeh’d usually get abou’ twenty into tha’ corner.

— Yeh would in your bollix, said Mickah. — Fuckin’ leprechauns maybe. — Or test-tube babies.

— Mickah.

— Wha’?

— The drums.

— Okay.

— Anyway, said the head barman when Mickah was a safe distance away, — this is the last time yis’ll be playin’ here. Nothin’ personal now but we can’t afford the space. We usually do groups with just three in them.

He thought of something else.

— Another thing. — There’s no way we’re givin’ yis three pints each. We couldn’t. — One’ll have to do.

— Ah, fuck tha’! said Jimmy.

— There’s millions of yis, said the head barman. — You can have the three though. Just make it look like you’re payin’ me.

Jimmy looked around him.

— Okay. — Done.

There was a good crowd. Thirty would have been a great crowd in this place. The room was packed solid. The ones standing up had to hold their glasses up above their shoulders.

— An older bunch this time, Jimmy pointed out. — This’ll be a better concert — gig. More adult orientated. Know wha’ I mean?

The Commitments stood around the platform waiting for the go ahead from the head barman.