Roddy Doyle: The Commitments

— I don’t remember tha’ bit.

— Well, tha’ was James Brown, said Jimmy. — Hang on ——Rocky IV. Livin’ in America, remember? Tha’ was him.

— Tha’ header!

— Yeah.

— Tha’ was a shite film, said Derek.

— He was good but, said Jimmy.

— Ah, yeah.

— Annyway, listen to this. It’s called Get Up, I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine.

— Hold on there, said Derek. — We can’t do tha’. Me ma would fuckin’ kill me.

— What’re yeh on abou’? said Outspan.

— I Feel Like a fuckin’ Sex Machine, Derek explained. — She’d break me fuckin’ head if I got up an’ sang tha’.

— You won’t be singin’ it, son, said Deco. — I will. An’, personally speakin’, I don’t give a fuck wha’ MY ma thinks. — Let’s hear it, Jimmy.

— We won’t be doin’ this one, Derek, said Jimmy. — I just want yis to hear it, yeh know, just to get an idea, to get the feel o’ the thing. — It’s called funk.

— Funk off, said Deco.

Outspan hit him.

Jimmy let the needle down and sat on the back of his legs between the speakers.

— I’m ready to get up and do my thang, said James Brown.

A chorus of men from the same part of the world as James went: —YEAH.

— I want to, James continued, — to get into it, you know. (—YEAH, said the lads in the studio with him.) — Like a, like a sex machine, man (—YEAH YEAH, GO AHEAD.) — movin’, doin’ it, you know. (—YEAH.) — Can I count it all? (—YEAH YEAH YEAH, went the lads.) — One Two Three Four.

Then the horns started, the same note repeated (—DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH) seven times and then James Brown began to sing. He sang like he spoke, a great voice that he seemed to be holding back, hanging onto because it was dangerous. The lads (in Jimmy’s bedroom) smiled at each other. This was it.

— GET UP AH, sang James.

A guitar clicked, like a full stop.

— GET ON UP, someone else sang, no mean voice either.

Then the guitar again.

— GER RUP AH—

Guitar.

— GET ON UP—

— STAY ON THE SCENE, sang James.

— GET ON UP—

James had the good lines.

— LIKE A SEX MACHINE AH—

— GET ON UP—

The lads bounced gently on the bunks.

— YOU GOT TO HAVE THE FEELING—

SURE AS YOU’RE BORN AH—

GET IT TOGETHER—

RIGHT ON—

RIGHT ON—

GET UP AH, sang James.

— GET ON UP—

Then there was a piano break and at the end of it James went: —HUH. It was the best Huh they’d ever heard. Then the piano got going again.

— GER RUP AH—

— GET ON UP—

The guitar clicked away.

And the bass was busy too, padding along. You could actually make it out; notes. This worried Derek a bit. He’d chosen the bass because he’d thought there was nothing to it. There was something to this one. It was busier than all the other instruments.

The song went on. The lads bounced and grinned. Deco concentrated.

— Bobby, James Brown called. (Bobby must have been the man who kept singing GET ON UP.) — Bobby, said James. — Shall I take them to the bridge?

— Go ahead, said Bobby.

— Take ’em all to the bridge.

— Take them to the bridge, said Bobby.

— Shall I take them to the bridge? James asked.

— YEAH, the lads in the studio, and Outspan and Derek, answered.

Then the guitar changed course a bit and stayed that way. James shouted and huh-huhhed a while longer and then it faded out.

Jimmy got up and lifted the needle.

A roar arrived from downstairs.

— Turn down tha’ fuckin’ radio!

— It’s the stereo, Jimmy roared at the floor.

— Don’t get snotty with me, son. Just turn it down.

The lads were in stitches laughing, quietly.

— Stupid bollix, said Jimmy. — Wha’ did yis think o’ tha’?

— Brilliant.

— Fuckin’ brilliant.

— Play another one, said Outspan.

— Okay, said Jimmy. — I think yis’ll be playin’ this one.

He put on Night Train for them. It was even more brilliant than Sex Machine.

— We’ll change the words a bit to make it — more Dubliny, yeh know, Jimmy told them.

They were really excited now.

— Fuckin’ deadly, said Derek. — I’m goin’ to get a lend o’ the odds for the bass.

— Good man.

— I’d better get a proper guitar, said Outspan. — An electric.

Jimmy played It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World.

— I’m goin’ to get a really good one, said Outspan. — Really fuckin’ good.

— Let’s go, said Jimmy.

They were off to the Pub.

Deco stood up.

He growled: —ALL ABOARD—

THE NIGHT TRAIN.

On the way down the stairs they met Sharon coming up.

— Howyeh, Gorgeous, said Deco.

— Go an’ shite, said Sharon.

* * *

Jimmy spent twenty minutes looking at his ad in Hot Press the next Thursday. He touched the print. (—J. Rabbitte.) He grinned.

Others must have been looking at it too because when he got home from work his mother told him that two young fellas had been looking for him.

— J. Rabbitte they said.

— 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—