The Barrytown Trilogy 01 The Commitments by Roddy Doyle

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But Jaysis, at least they called a blow job a blow job an’ look at all the units they shifted? –The wha’? –Records. They drank. —Rock an’ roll is all abou’ ridin’. That’s wha’ rock an’ roll means. Did yis know tha’? )—Yeah, that’s wha’ the blackies in America used to call it. So the time has come to put the ridin’ back into rock an’ roll. Tongues, gooters, boxes, the works. The market’s huge. –Wha’ abou’ this politics? —Not songs abou’ Fianna fuckin’ Fail or annythin’ like tha’. Real politics.

Or so he said. –Yeah. —Me arse. –He’s goin’ solo. –He doesn’t have much of a fuckin’ choice. They laughed. Deco too. —Business. He had his notebook out. –We have the guitar, bass, vocals, righ’? We need drums, sax, trumpet, keyboards. I threw an ad into Hot Press. Yis owe me forty-five pence, each. –Ah, here! —Now. D’yis remember your man, Jimmy Clifford? –Tha’ fuckin’ drip! —D’yis— –He was JAMES Clifford. –Wha’? –James. He was never Jimmy. What’s your name? James Clifford, sir. —James Clifford then.

He thought he’d knee-capped 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.