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 backbeat, 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 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 nothin’ 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 docs the business.