Early homed in on the daughter.
— When did you two meet?
— Like, a minute ago.
— You’re into him, yeah?
The daughter looked at Early.
— Fuck off, like.
She followed Jimmy and Marvin and the other two lads. One of them — Jimmy thought it was Docksy — leaned over, puked, and kept going.
— Alrigh’?
— Alright.
There were steps to climb, more security to get past. Jimmy felt like puking himself. He could tell before he saw: the tent was packed.
— Fuck —, said Marvin, quietly.
— You alrigh’, Marv?
— Yep.
The puker puked again.
— Irish — meat — bad — meat, he said.
That got them giggling.
Jimmy put his arm on Marvin’s shoulder.
— I’m proud of you.
— Thanks.
Marvin didn’t try to escape.
— It’ll be brilliant.
— Yeah.
They were well back, but Jimmy went a few steps nearer the stage. The place was heaving. The crowd stretched to well outside the tent, as far as he could see. He got the phone out, texted Aoife. R u in?
He didn’t know the capacity of the tent but there were more in it than there should have been. He was sure of that. The stage people, the men and women in the know, clicked into action. It was the time. Someone held back the black drape and Marvin and his pals walked through, and on, and the place went mad.
The band moved like everything they had to do was rehearsed and timed. The guitar and bass were up and on, the drummer had his sticks ready before he sat. He hit the snare as his arse hit the seat.
It was noise. A big cloud of the stuff — screech and thump. Then words came out — Marvin’s mouth was right up to the mic — and they were playing the blues. How was it possible? How was his eighteen-year-old son able to sing like Howlin’ Wolf? Fuckin’ better than Howlin’ Wolf.
— OH OHH TELL ME BAB-EH —
It was ‘Smokestack Lightnin” and it was perfect. Marvin’s howl at the end of each verse was spot on. Only a man who’d actually heard a wolf, who’d stood and faced one in a forest clearing in Bulgaria, could have made that howl. Marvin howled and women screamed.
For fuck sake.
The phone buzzed in Jimmy’s hand. It was Aoife. On wheelchair access platform. Cant believe it.
Jimmy couldn’t see her. He was well to the side and he wasn’t going to move any nearer to the stage. The lads got into the second song while the crowd was still roaring its approval of the first one. Again, it came out of the noise and it became ‘Mannish Boy’.
— EVERYTHING —
EVERYTHING —
Marvin pronounced the Gs. He was still a Bulgarian, aping the black man’s English.
— EVERYTHING GO’NE TO BE ALRIGHT THIS MORNING —
Jimmy could feel the bass in his chest, pushing him back. It was rougher than Muddy Waters, and way better. The crowd was spelling MAN with Marvin and there wasn’t a dyslectic in the house.
— M —
— A —
— N —
Marvin didn’t move from the mic. He stood at a slight angle. The bass roamed the stage. He never looked at the audience.
They fell back into the noise and feedback, let the cheers and roars roll across them. Then, again, the song took form — a chord, a beat.
Everyone knew it.
— I WANT HER ARMS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
The tent was moving.
— I WANT HER LEGS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
Were there a thousand in the tent? Two thousand? More? And a lot more outside. They were all going to hell, singing as they went.
— I PROWL THE STREETS —
I’M GOING TO HELL —
I LICK HER FEET —
A woman on top of her boyfriend’s shoulders offered up her own feet.
— I WANT HER NOW —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
WON’T SAVE MY SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
DON’T HAVE A SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
It couldn’t get louder — the crowd was the band.
DON’T WANT MY SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
I’LL GET MY HOLE —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
Jimmy left. He wanted to get around to the front of the tent. He wanted to move. His son was singing a song that Jimmy had written. He didn’t know how he felt. Robbed and elated.
He texted Noeleen. Theyre irish.
He’d waited all his life for something like this.
He sent her another one. Hes my son.
He needed the walk, to detach himself. He wasn’t onstage. Marvin was.
He was out of the backstage area now, walking back over to the Cosby.
He got the phone out. Theyre playing our song. Love you. X. He sent it to young Jimmy.
He was outside now, in the crowd, one of the audience. His son was in there, being screamed at, and Jimmy had nothing to do with it. He could grin. He was the very proud father. That was all.
— Your working day over, Jim? said Les.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — That’s me.
— Best gigs of the weekend, I think.
— Thanks, Les.
— Seriously.
— Thanks.
— You always liked your music.
— Yeah.
— I think that’s great.
— Thanks.
He was numb, a bit. Happily numb. Aoife was off wandering with the kids. She was leaving him alone. He was here now, with these men, because of her. They were back under their tree, sitting around Outspan’s purple chair.
— How are we for readies? he asked Outspan.
— Laughin’, said Outspan.
— How are yeh for gas?
— Loads left.
— Grand.
He’d texted Marvin. You don’t have to pretend. X. Young Jimmy had texted him back. Great gig. Ned had texted as well. Thanks, a chara.
— What about you, Les? said Jimmy.
— What about me?
— What do you do?
Les looked amused.
— I’m a plumber, he said. — I thought you knew.
— I did, said Jimmy.
But he didn’t — he sort of did. He remembered it now. Les had always been a plumber. Did they have plumbers in the British Army? He could have texted his da. Was Les in the British Army? But he was sick of texting.
— I just wondered if you still were, said Jimmy.
— Yep, said Les.
— Jesus, men, said Des. — It feels like a long day already.
— Think of it as two days, said Les.
Jimmy liked that.
— That’s a good idea, he said.
— And the second one’s just starting, said Les.
— I like your style, Les.
— I want to see Dexys Midnight Runners, said Outspan.
— Good idea.
They were up and running again. This time Jimmy got to carry Outspan.
It was a good show, but a bit weird. Kevin Rowland and another chap, a singer, strode around the stage. There was a good-looking woman too, about half Rowland’s age. It was like a musical for oul’ lads.
— What did yeh think of tha’? Jimmy asked Outspan.
— Shite.
— I’m with yeh, said Jimmy. — How’re yeh feelin’?
— There’s a few more gigs in me, said Outspan. — What’s next?
They were back across to the Crawdaddy, via the jacks, for the last ten minutes of Patti Smith.
— What did yeh think o’ tha’?
— Brilliant.
— Fuckin’ brilliant.
— Fuckin’ amazin’.
— Would yeh give her one?
— Oh yeah.
— Food, gents?
— Bring it fuckin’ on.