— Not yet, said Des. — I wanted to hear a bit more first. To make it a bit more — less vague. And to meet you as well. And, well.
He picked up his cup.
— I haven’t spoken to any of them in years, he said.
— I don’t remember, said Jimmy. — Did yis break up, yeh know, dramatically?
— Not really, no.
— Good, said Jimmy. — That’s probably good. My crowd but. The Commitments. Fuckin’ hell.
— No, said Des. — Only, there’s been no contact. So it would be a bit awkward, I suppose. But if I know a bit more, it’ll make it easier.
He smiled.
— That’s the theory.
— Grand, said Jimmy. — That makes sense. So. We build your presence there. Website, Wiki. Info, discography.
— It was only the one single.
— Doesn’t matter, Des. It’s still a discography. And here’s the real trick. Links.
— Gotcha.
— Links. Wiki to the website. Website to Wiki. Wiki to us.
— celticpunk.
— Exactly.
Jimmy was giving Des Aoife’s research. She’d done most of the early homework while he was at work selling cars.
— Where they’ll find the single and the B-side for sale, upload or download.
— Great.
— Like iTunes, said Jimmy. — But boutique. More personal. Welcomin’. Not just buy or fuck off. There’ll be pictures, info, a where are they now. A nice obituary for Necko.
Des nodded.
Jimmy rested for a bit. He was loving it, too much. He didn’t want to get carried away. Or make Des greedy.
— And, he said. — But this might be a bit tricky. Given the fact that Necko’s no longer with us.
— What? said Des.
Perfect.
— Reunion gigs, said Jimmy.
— Jesus, said Des. — I don’t know. I haven’t played in years.
Jimmy said nothing.
— And Necko, said Des.
Jimmy nodded.
— How would we manage it? said Des.
— Well, said Jimmy. — It’s tricky.
— Tasteless?
That was a surprise.
— No, said Jimmy. — Well, I don’t think so. There were four of yis. Is there a widow?
— There’s, I suppose you’d call her an ex-widow.
— Grand.
— They had two kids.
— Grand.
— We ask her? said Des.
— I don’t think yeh need to ask, said Jimmy. — Ask for permission. I don’t think that’d be an issue.
He didn’t know; he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t a clue.
— But it’d be nice to let her know, he said. — It’d be good. Get her to come along. What age are the kids?
— I’m not sure, said Des.
— Doesn’t matter, said Jimmy. — It’d be emotional. And I don’t mean that cynically now. I mean really. But then —
Des nodded.
— I know, he said. — Necko was the singer.
— There yeh go, said Jimmy.
Des shrugged. He was handing the problem over to Jimmy.
— Other bands manage it, said Jimmy.
— Yeah, said Des.
— Queen, said Jimmy.
— We weren’t fuckin’ Queen, said Des.
They both laughed.
— But you know what I mean, said Jimmy. — They have your man, Paul Rodgers, instead of Freddie and no one complains or wants their money back because it’s not Freddie. Or that’s what I’m assumin’. Because I wouldn’t be caught dead — sorry, didn’t mean to be insensitive.
— No, no.
— I fuckin’ hate Queen, said Jimmy. — Before and after Freddie. A glorified cabaret band. A bunch of fuckin’ chancers. And I’m guessin’ that you, as drummer of the Irregulars, agree with me.
— No, said Des. — I thought they were brilliant.
There’d never been an Irregulars reunion gig. The bassist wasn’t dead but he was a born-again Christian.
— That’s fuckin’ worse.
He’d turned his back on the evils of rock ’n’ roll.
— Fuckin’ eejit.
Three-quarters of a band was a legitimate reunion, but half a band wasn’t.
— Half the Who are dead, said Des.
— And the other half should just get on with their fuckin’ lives, said Jimmy.
— You’re probably right, said Des.
— So. Des. No reunion?
— No.
But the meeting with Des had been the start. When Jimmy had said –
— We’ll look after you, Des.
— he’d wanted to whoop, because he’d believed every word. He’d found something great for himself — himself and Aoife had. They’d spent a night coming up with the proper name for shiterock. A cousin of Aoife’s had a website that sold all sorts of Irish tack to the Yanks and Germans — bits of sod, teatowels, tins of stew —
— The Corrs’ pubic hair.
— Ah Jimmy — stop!
Anyway, he — the cousin — told Aoife that the key word was Celtic.
— But we won’t be sellin’ stew.
— It’s just the word, Aoife explained. — Typed into the search engine.
— Google.
— Yes, she said. — And Yahoo. All of them.
— But all we’ll get is people lookin’ for stew and Aran jumpers.
— Not if we — or they — put another word beside it, Aoife told him. — Celtic draws the business to us. And some other word —
— Punk, said Jimmy.
— Celtic punk, said Aoife. — That might be perfect.
— Celtic for the numbers, said Jimmy. — And punk for the attitude.
— www.celticpunk.com.
They’d grinned, they’d laughed. They’d leaned into each other and kissed.
But someone had got there before them. There was already a celticpunk.com.
— Fuck it.
— Ah well.
It looked like a fan site for people with tattoos who liked their diddley-eye music a bit mad.
— It’s not even punk, said Jimmy.
He pointed at the photo on the homepage.
— That’s a fuckin’ banjo.
— Look, said Aoife.
She changed the c to k and that did the trick.
— What about gettin’ rid of the k in punk.
— What d’you mean?
He typed it out. Kelticpunc.com.
— Too clever, said Aoife.
— Clever?
— Okay, said Aoife. — Stupid.
They were kelticpunk.com. The joy of it. The freedom. Tracking down old bands. Looking after them. And Jimmy had looked after them well. They’d seen a bit of life, the ones he’d found and adopted. They knew what a bit of extra cash meant, and what gratitude was. Some of them were still bastards, unchanged by the years, just wrecked. But even they were good crack. Jimmy and Aoife reared their kids and managed dead bands across the kitchen table and once every month or so they left the kids with the newest babysitter and went to one of their own reunion gigs, in Whelan’s or somewhere else that made sense to people their age. And there was always something — good or bad, but always good — to bring home later.
— I said brown bread! Fuck!
They watched Barry Brown fling the tray across the dressing room. The room was about as wide as the tray, so the clatter arrived while he was still swinging his arm and the tray came back off the wall and hit the side of his head.
Barry was lead singer with the Halfbreds. His drummer, a fifty-year-old girl called Connie Cunte, looked at the mess on the wall.
— It is brown bread, she said.
She was married to Barry.
— Stop being so fucking vain, Barry, she said. — Put your glasses on, dude.
They had two boys in Gonzaga and a girl in Alex, they’d told Jimmy and Aoife. The fees were killing them.