Roddy Doyle: The Commitments

— 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 right, Brother Michael.

— Mickah.

— Brother Mickah. That’s right. You don’t need a doctorate to be a doctor of soul.

— Nice one.

— An’ what’s wrong with jazz? Jimmy asked.

— Intellectual music, said Joey The Lips. — It’s anti-people music. It’s abstract.

— It’s cold an’ emotionless, amn’t I righ’? said Mickah.

— You are. — It’s got no soul. It is sound for the sake of sound. It has no meaning. — It’s musical wanking, Brother.

— Musical wankin’, said Mickah. — That’s good.

— Here, yeh could play tha’ at the Christmas parties.

— Instead o’ musical chairs.

— What’s Dean been listenin’ to? Jimmy asked.

— Charlie Parker.

— He’s supposed to be good but.

— Good! Joey The Lips gasped. — The man had no right to his black skin.

Joey The Lips was getting worked up. It was some sight. They stood back and enjoyed it.

— They should have burnt it off with a fucking blow lamp.

— Language, Joey!

— Polyrhythms! Polyrhythms! I ask you! That’s not the people’s sound. — Those polyrhythms went through Brother Parker’s legs and up his ass. — And who did he play to? I’ll tell you, middle-class white kids with little beards and berets. In jazz clubs. Jazz clubs! They didn’t even clap. They clicked their fingers.

Joey The Lips clicked his fingers.

— Like that. — I’ll tell you something, Brothers. — I’ve never told anyone this before.

They waited.

— The biggest regret of my life is that I wasn’t born black.

— Is tha’ righ’, Joey?

— Charlie Parker was born black. A beautiful, shiny, bluey sort of black. — And he could play. He could play alright. But he abused it, he spat on it. He turned his back on his people so he could entertain hip honky brats and intellectuals. — Jazz! It’s decadent. — The Russians were right. They banned it.

Joey The Lips was calmer now. He stopped picking at his sleeve.

— The Bird! he spat. — And that’s what poor Dean is listening to.

— Sounds bad alrigh’.

— Oh, it’s bad. — Very bad. Parker, John Coltrane — Herbie Hancock — and the biggest motherfucker of them all, Miles Davis.

— Em, why does it worry you, exactly?

— We’re going to lose him.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— Dean is going to become a Jazz Purist.

The words almost made Joey The Lips retch.

— He won’t want to play for the people any more. Dean has soul but he’s going to kill it if he listens to jazz. Jazz is for the mind.

— Wha’ can we do? said Jimmy.

— We can give him a few digs, said Mickah.

— Mickah.

— Wha’?

— The drums.

— Okay.

* * *

Hot Press came to the second gig of the residency, and paid in because Mickah wouldn’t believe him.

— I’m from the Hot Press.

— I’m from the kitchen press, said Mickah. — It’s two quid or fuck off.

Mickah took in one hundred and twenty pounds. It made a great bulge in his shirt pocket. He showed it to James.

— The big time, wha’.

Jimmy studied Dean for tell-tale signs. There weren’t many, but they were there. Dean hunched over the sax now, protecting it. He used to throw it up and out and pull himself back, to let everyone see its shininess. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be sitting on a stool when he was playing. The stool definitely wasn’t soul furniture. Jimmy was upset. He liked Dean.

Deco was his usual self. It was a pity his voice was so good. Jimmy didn’t pay much attention to Billy.

This was a pity. Because Billy left The Commitments, just before the encore.

— On yeh go, Bill, said Jimmy.

— I can’t, said Billy.

— Why not?

— I’ve left.

A long gap, then — Wha’?

— I’ve left. I’m not goin’ back on. — I’ve left.

— Jaysis! said Jimmy.

When a Man Loves a Woman didn’t need drums.

— James, Jimmy roared. — Fire away.

— Now, said Jimmy. — Tell your Uncle Jimmy all abou’ it.

— I just—

Jimmy could see Billy thinking.

— It’s just — I hate him, Jimmy. I fuckin’ hate him — I can’t even sleep at nigh’.

Billy’s face was clenched.

— Why’s tha’?

— I stay awake tryin’ to think o’ better ways to hate him. — Imaginin’, yeh know, ways to kill him.

Billy looked straight at Jimmy.