Roddy Doyle - The Commitments

— Fuck off a minute. — Soul is the rhythm o’ the people, Jimmy said again. — The Labour Party doesn’t have soul. Fianna fuckin’ Fail doesn’t have soul. The Workers’ Party ain’t got soul. The Irish people — no. — The Dublin people — fuck the rest o’ them. — The people o’ Dublin, our people, remember need soul. We’ve got soul.

— Fuckin’ righ’ we have.

— The Commitments, lads. We’ve got it. — Soul. God told the Reverend Ed—

— Ah, fuck off.

* * *

They loved Jimmy’s lectures. His policy announcements were good too.

— What’re they? Derek asked after Jimmy had made one of these announcements.

— Monkey suits, said Jimmy.

— No way, Rabbitte.

— Yes way.

— No fuckin’ way, Jim. No way.

— I had one o’ them for me mot’s debs, said Billy. — It was fuckin’ thick. The sleeves were too long, the trunzers were too fuckin’ short, there was a stupid fuckin’ stripe down —

— I puked on mine at our debs, remember? said Outspan.

— Some of it got on mine too, Derek reminded him.

— Oh, for fuck sake! said Dean. — I’m after rememberin’. —I forgot to bring mine back. It’s under me bed.

— When was your debs? Bernie asked him.

— Two years ago, said Dean.

They started laughing.

— Yeh must owe them hundreds, said Outspan.

— I’d better leave it there so.

— Jimmy, said James. — Are yeh seriously expectin’ us to deck ourselves out in monkey suits?

— Yeah. — Why not?

— Yeh can go an’ shite, said Billy.

— Well said.

— Yis have to look good, said Jimmy. — Neat — Dignified.

— What’s fuckin’ dignified abou’ dressin’ up like a jaysis penguin? Outspan asked.

— I’d be scarleh, said Derek.

Deco said nothing. He liked the idea.

— Brothers, Sisters, said Joey The Lips. — We know that soul is sex. And soul is revolution, yes? So now soul is — Dignity.

— I don’t understand tha’, said Dean.

— Soul is lifting yourself up, soul is dusting yourself off, soul is —

— What’s he fuckin’ on abou’?

— Just this, Brother. — Soul is dignity. — Dignity, soul. Dignity is respect. — Self respect. — Dignity is pride. Dignity, confidence. Dignity, assertion. (Joey The Lips’ upstretched index finger moved in time to his argument. They were glued to it.) — Dignity, integrity. Dignity, elegance. — Dignity, style.

The finger stopped.

— Brothers and Sisters. — Dignity, dress. — Dress suits.

— Dignity fuck dignity off dignity Joey.

— Dignity slippers, dignity cardigan.

— Ah, leave Joey alone, said Natalie.

Joey The Lips laughed with them.

Then Jimmy handed out photocopies of a picture of Marvin Gaye, in a monkey suit. That silenced them for a while.

— He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? said Imelda.

— Yeah, said Natalie.

Joey The Lips looked up from his copy.

— He’s up there watching, Brothers.

— Now, said Jimmy when they all had one. — What’s wrong with tha’?

— Nothin’.

— He looks grand, doesn’t he?

— Yeah.

— We’ll get good ones. Fitted. — Okay?

Outspan looked up.

— Okay.

* * *

One of the best was the night Jimmy gave them their stage names.

— What’s wrong with our ordin’y names? Dean wanted to know.

— Nothin’, Dean, said Jimmy. — Nothin’ at all.

— Well then?

— Look, said Jimmy. — Take Joey. He’s Joey Fagan, righ’? —Plain, ordin’ry Joey Fagan. An ordin’ry little bollix.

— That’s me, Brother, said Joey The Lips. — I’m the Jesus of Ordinary.

— But when Joey goes on-stage he’s Joey The Lips Fagan.

— So?

— He’s not ordin’y up there. He’s special. — He needs a new name.

— Soul is dignity, Joey The Lips reminded them.

— What’s dignified abou’ a stupid name like The fuckin’ Lips?

— I bleed, said Joey The Lips.

— Sorry, Joey. Nothin’ personal.

Joey The Lips smiled.

— It’s part o’ the image, said Jimmy. — Like James Brown is the Godfather of Soul.

— He’s still just James Brown though.

— Sometimes he’s James Mr Please Please Please Brown.

— Is he? said Outspan. — Sounds thick though, doesn’t it?

— Ours won’t, said Jimmy.

He took out his notebook.

— I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ abou’ it.

— Oh fuck!

— Listen. — Okay, we already have Joey The Lips Fagan, righ’. Now — James, you’ll be James The Soul Surgeon Clifford.

There were cheers and a short burst of clapping.

— Is tha’ okay? Jimmy asked.

— I like it, said James.

He liked it alright. He was delighted.

— The Soul Surgeon performs transplants on the old piano, he said.

— That’s it, said Jimmy. — That’s the type o’ thing. Everyone in the group becomes a personality.

— Go on, Jimmy.

They were getting excited.

— Derek.

— Yes, Jimmy?

— You’re Derek The Meatman Scully.

They laughed.

— Wha’ the fuck’s tha’ abou’? Derek asked.

He was disappointed.

— Are you fuckin’ slaggin’ me?

— You’re a butcher, said Jimmy.

— I know I’m a fuckin’ butcher.

— Yeh play the bass like a butcher, said Jimmy.

— Fuckin’ thanks!

— It’s a compliment, it’s a compliment. — Yeh wield the axe, — know wha’t I mean?

— I’ll wield your bollix if yeh don’t think of a better name.

— Hang on. — You’ll like this. — Over in America, righ’, d’yeh know wha’ meat is?

— The same as it is here.

—’cept there’s more of it.

— No, listen, said Jimmy. — Meat is slang for your langer.

There were cheers and screams.

— That’s fuckin’ disgustin’, said Natalie.

— Hang on a minute, said Derek. — Is Meatman the American way o’ sayin’ Langerman?

— Yeah.

— Why not call him Langerman then?

— Or Dickhead, said Deco.

— Fuck off, you, said Derek.

He wasn’t happy at all.

— Listen, he said.

This wasn’t going to be easy, especially with the girls there.

— There’s nothin’ special abou’ my langer.

— YEEOOW, DEREK!

— Gerrup, Derek, yeh boy yeh!

— A bit of quiet please, Brothers, said Joey The Lips.

— It’s the image, said Jimmy. — Annyway, nobody’ll know wha’ the name stands for till we break it in the States.

— It’s a good name, said Joey The Lips. — Every band needs its Meatman.

— I don’t know, said Derek. — Me ma would kill me if she knew I was called after me gooter.

— She won’t know.

— I’ll tell her, said Outspan.

— Fuck off.

— Righ’, said Jimmy. — Next — Deco.

— Can I be Meatman too, Jimmy?

— No, said Jimmy. — You’re Declan Blanketman Cuffe.

— That’s a rapid name, said Outspan.

— Politics an’ sex, said Jimmy. — Wha’ d’yeh think, Deco?

— Yeah, said Deco.

— Billy.

— Howyeh.

— Billy The Animal Mooney.

— Ah deadly! Animal. — Thanks, Jimmy.

— No sweat. — Okay, Dean next. — Dean.

Dean sat up.

— You’re Dean Good Times Fay.

Cheers.

— That’s grand, said Dean.

— Wha’ abou’ us? said Imelda.

— Hang on, said Jimmy. — Outspan, we can’t call yeh Outspan.

— Why not?

— It’s racialist.

— WHA’!

— It’s racialist. — South African oranges.

— That’s fuckin’ crazy, Jimmy, said Billy.

— It’s me jaysis name, said Outspan.

— Not your real name.