The Barrytown Trilogy (4 page)

He kept going though. He was getting better. It was getting easier. He could feel his throat stretching. It was staying wet longer. He was getting air from further down. He put on Otis Redding and sang My Girl with him when he needed a rest. He finished every session with James Brown. Then he’d lie on the bed till the snot stopped running. He couldn’t close his eyes because he’d spin. Deco was taking this thing very seriously.

All his rehearsing was done standing up in front of the wardrobe mirror. He was to look at himself singing, Jimmy said. He was to pretend he had a microphone. At first he jumped around but it was too knackering and it frightened his mother. Jimmy showed him a short video of James Brown doing Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag. He couldn’t copy James’ one-footed shuffle on the bedroom carpet so he practised on the lino in the kitchen when everyone had gone to bed.

He saw the way James Brown dropped to his knees. He didn’t hitch his trousers and kneel. He dropped. Deco tried it. He growled SOMETIMES I FEEL SO GOOD I WANNA JUMP BACK AND KISS MYSELF, aimed his knees at the floor and followed them there.

He didn’t get up again for a while. He thought he’d kneecapped himself. Jimmy told him that James Brown’s trousers were often soaked in blood when he came off-stage. Deco was fucked if his would be.

There was nothing you could teach James Clifford about playing the piano. Jimmy had him listening to Little Richard. He got James to thump the keys with his elbows, fists, heels. James was a third-year medical student so he was able to tell Jimmy the exact, right word for whatever part of his body he was hitting the piano with. He was even able to explain the
damage he was doing to himself. He drew the line at the forehead. Jimmy couldn’t persuade him to give the piano the odd smack with his forehead. There was too much at stake there. Besides, he wore glasses.

Joey The Lips helped Dean Fay.

—My man, that reed there is a nice lady’s nipple.

For days Dean blushed when he wet the reed and let his lips close on it.

—Make it a particular lady, someone real.

Dean chose a young one from across the road. She was in the same class as his brother, third year, and she was always coming over to borrow his books or scab his homework. It didn’t work though. Dean couldn’t go through with it. She was too real. So the saxophone reed became one of Madonna’s nipples and Dean’s playing began to get somewhere.

Joey The Lips was a terrific teacher, very patient. He had to be. Even Joey The Lips’ mother, who was completely deaf, could sense Dean’s playing from the other side of the house.

After three weeks he could go three notes without stopping and he could hold the short notes. Long ones went all over the place. Joey The Lips played alongside him, like a driving instructor. He only shouted once and that was really a cry of fright and pain caused by Dean backing into him while Joey The Lips still had his trumpet in his mouth.

Billy Mooney blammed away at his drums. His father was dead and his brothers were much younger than him so there was no one in the house to tell him to shut the fuck up.

Jimmy told him not to bother too much with cymbals and to use the butts of the sticks as well as the tips. What he was after was a steady, uncomplicated beat: —a thumping back-beat, Jimmy called it. That suited Billy. He’d have been happy with a bin lid and a hammer. And that was what he used when he played along to Dancing in the Streets. Not a bin lid exactly; a tin tray, with a racehorse on it. The horse was worn off after two days.

The three backing vocalists, The Commitmentettes, listened to The Supremes, Martha and the Vandellas, The Ronettes,
The Crystals and The Shangri-las. The Commitmentettes were Imelda Quirk and her friends Natalie Murphy and Bernie McLoughlin.

—How yis move, yeh know ———is more important than how yis sing, Jimmy told them.

—You’re a dirty bastard, you are.

Imelda, Natalie and Bernie could sing though. They’d been in the folk mass choir when they were in school but that, they knew now, hadn’t really been singing. Jimmy said that real music was sex. They called him a dirty bastard but they were starting to agree with him. And there wasn’t much sex in Morning Has Broken or The Lord Is My Shepherd.

Now they were singing along to Stop in the Name of Love and Walking in the Rain and they were enjoying it.

Joined together their voices sounded good, they thought. Jimmy taped them. They were scarlet. They sounded terrible.

—Yis’re usin’ your noses instead of your mouths, said Jimmy.

—Fuck off slaggin’, said Imelda.

—Yis are, I’m tellin’ yeh. An’ yis shouldn’t be usin’ your ordin’y accents either. It’s Walking in the Rain, not Walkin’ In De Rayen.

—Snobby!

They taped themselves and listened. They got better, clearer, sweeter. Natalie could roar and squeal too. They took down the words and sang by themselves without the records. They only did this though when one of them had a free house.

They moved together, looking down, making sure their feet were going the right way. Soon they didn’t have to look down. They wiggled their arses at the dressing-table mirror and burst out laughing. But they kept doing it.

* * *

Jimmy got them all together regularly, about twice a week, and made them report. There, always in Joey The Lips’ mother’s garage, he’d give them a talk. They all enjoyed Jimmy’s lectures. So did Jimmy.

They weren’t really lectures; more workshops.

—Soul is a double-edged sword, lads, he told them once.

Joey The Lips nodded.

—One edge is escapism.

—What’s tha’?

—Fun. ——Gettin’ away from it all. Lettin’ yourself go. ——Know wha’ I mean?

—Gerrup!

Jimmy continued: —An’ what’s the best type of escapism, Imelda?

—I know wha’ you’re goin’ to say.

—I’d’ve said that a bracing walk along the sea front was a very acceptable form of escapism, said James Clifford.

They laughed.

—Followed by? Jimmy asked.

—Depends which way you were havin’ your bracing walk.

—Why?

—Well, if you were goin’ in the Dollymount direction you could go all the way and have a ride in the dunes. ———That’s wha’ you’re on abou’, isn’t it? ——As usual.

—That’s righ’, said Jimmy. —Soul is a good time.

  —There’s nothin’ good abou’ gettin’ sand on your knob, said Outspan.

They laughed.

—The rhythm o’ soul is the rhythm o’ ridin’, said Jimmy. —The rhythm o’ ridin’ is the rhythm o’ soul.

—You’re a dirty-minded bastard, said Natalie.

—There’s more to life than gettin’ your hole, Jimmy, said Derek.

—Here here.

—Listen. There’s nothing dirty abou’ it, Nat’lie, said Jimmy. —As a matter o’fact it’s very clean an’ healthy.

—What’s healthy abou’ gettin’ sand on your knob?

—You just like talkin’ dirty, said Natalie.

—Nat’lie ——— Nat’lie ———Nat’lie, said Jimmy. —It depresses me to hear a modern young one talkin’ like tha’.

—Dirty talk is dirty talk, said Natalie.

—Here here, said Billy Mooney. —Thank God.

—Soul is sex, Jimmy summarized.

—Well done, Jimmy, said Deco.

—Imelda, said Jimmy. —You’re a woman o’ the world.

—Don’t answer him, ’melda, said Bernie.

Jimmy went on. —You’ve had sexual intercert, haven’t yeh?

—Good Jaysis! Rabbitte!

—O’ course she has, a good-lookin’ girl like tha’.

—Don’t answer him.

But Imelda wanted to answer.

—Well, yeah ——I have, yeah. ——So wha’?

There were cheers and blushes.

—Was it one o’ them multiple ones, ’melda? Outspan asked. —I seen a yoke abou’ them on Channel 4. They sounded deadly.

Derek looked at Imelda.

—Are yeh serious?

He was disappointed in Imelda.

Deco tapped Imelda’s shoulder.

—We could make beautiful music, Honey.

—I’d bite your bollix off yeh if yeh went near me, yeh spotty fuck, yeh.

There were cheers.

Imelda ducked her shoulder away from Deco’s fingers.

—I might enjoy tha’, said Deco.

—I’d make ear-rings ou’ o’ them, said Imelda.

—You’re as bad as they are, ’melda, said Bernie.

—Ah, fuck off, Bernie, will yeh.

—I thought we said slaggin’ complexions was barred, said Jimmy. —Apologise.

—There’s no need.

—There is.

———Sorry.

—That’s okay.

—Spotty.

—Ah here!

Deco grabbed Imelda’s shoulders. Bernie was up quick and grabbed his ears.

—Get your hands off o’ her, YOU.

—As a glasses wearer, said James, —I’d advise you to carry ou’ Bernie’s instructions. Yeh might need glasses yourself some day and a workin’ set of ears will come in handy.

—That’s a doctor gave yeh tha’ advice, remember.

Deco took the advice. Bernie gave him his ears back. Imelda blew him a kiss and gave him the fingers.

—Annyway, Imelda, said Jimmy. —Did yeh enjoy it?

—It was alrigh’, said Imelda.

More cheers and blushes.

—This lady is the queen of soul, said Joey The Lips.

—Wha’ ’re you the queen of? Imelda said back.

—Then you agree with us, Jimmy asked Imelda.

—It’s oney music, said Imelda.

—No way, ’melda. Soul isn’t only music. Soul——

—That’s alrigh’ for the blackies, Jimmy. —They’ve got bigger gooters than us.

—Speak for yourself, pal.

—Go on, Jimmy. ——At least we know tha’ Imelda does the business.

—Fuck off, you, said Imelda, but she grinned.

Everyone grinned.

—Yeh said somethin’ about a double-edged sword, said James.

—I s’pose the other side is sex too, said Derek.

—Arse bandit country if it’s the other side, said Outspan.

—I’m goin’ home if it is, said Dean.

—Brothers, Sisters, said Joey The Lips. —Let Brother Jimmy speak. Tell us about the other side of the sword, Jimmy.

They were quiet.

—The first side is sex, righ’, said Jimmy. —An’ the second one is ————REVOLUTION!

Cheers and clenched fists.

Jimmy went on.

—Soul is the politics o’ the people.

—Yeeoow!

—Righ’ on, Jimmy.

—Our people. ——Soul is the rhythm o’ sex. It’s the rhythm o’ the factory too. The workin’ man’s rhythm. Sex an’ factory.

—Not the factory I’m in, said Natalie. —There isn’t much rhythm in guttin’ fish.

She was pleased with the laughter.

—Musical mackerel, wha’.

———Harmonious herring.

—Johnny Ray, said Dean, and then he roared: —JOHNNY RAY!

—Okay —Take it easy, said Jimmy.

—Cuntish cod, said Deco.

———Politics. ——Party politics, said Jimmy, —means nothin’ to the workin’ people. Nothin’. ——Fuck all. Soul is the politics o’ the people.

—Start talkin’ abou’ ridin’ again, Jimmy. You’re gettin’ borin’.

—Politics ——ridin’, said Jimmy. —It’s the same thing.

—Brother Jimmy speaks the truth, said Joey The Lips.

—He speaks through his hole.

—Soul is dynamic. (—So are you.) —It can’t be caught. It can’t be chained. They could chain the nigger slaves but they couldn’t chain their soul.

—Their souls didn’t pick the fuckin’ cotton though. Did they now?

—Good thinkin’.

—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.