— 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.
— 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?