Boro: djembe drum and scream.
Agnes Bunuel: vocals.
Kerri Sheppard: vocals and guitars.
—Am I black enough for you, Mister Rabbitte? she asked when Jimmy climbed over the kids and opened the door for her.
—You're grand, said Jimmy. —Come on in.
In actual fact, she was hardly black at all, but she did have dreadlocks. And she was gorgeous.
Dan Stefanescu: accordion.
Young Dan Stefanescu: trumpet.
Leo Ivanov: drums.
Last to arrive was King Robert. Marvin had opened the door and the three kids were staring up at him.
—Hey, Mister, said Marvin.
Don't mention his colour, Marv, said Jimmy to himself; please.
—Who do you follow? said Marvin.
—Follow? said King Robert.
—Support, said Marvin.
—I follow Bray Wanderers, said King Robert.
And the kids fell around laughing.
—Don't mind them, said Jimmy. —Come on in. No problem getting here, no?
—Your directions were adequate, Mister Rabbitte.
It was quiet in the kitchen, just Dan and Young Dan chatting together and Kenny trying to chat to Agnes. And it got even quieter when King Robert walked in after Jimmy. He stared at them all, gave them a long, hard second each. Even Jimmy was sweating. He filled the kettle and introduced everybody. They smiled, and nodded, or didn't smile, and didn't nod. He filled cups and mugs, handed around the coffee and tea. Then he tried an old trick, an ice-breaker he'd used when The Commitments first met. He got out the Jaffa Cakes.
—Soul food, he said.
It didn't really work with this gang, though. The dynamic was different; they were older, foreign, the country was too prosperous, they weren't hungry – something. Kenny from Roscommon was the only one to dive at the plate.
This was no party. Jimmy was all alone there in the kitchen. There was no spark here, no energy at all. They were stiff, nervous, ready to leave. King Robert stood against the wall, well away from all of them. Gilbert was looking at the back door. It wasn't going to happen; Jimmy could feel it. But he pressed on.
—So, he said. —The music.
They looked at him.
—Woody Guthrie, he said.
—Pardon me?
—Listen to this, said Jimmy.
There were eight in the kitchen, not counting himself, but it wasn't the full band. He needed bass, more vocals; he needed age and protection. And belief.
He was working on it.
He played 'Vigilante Man' for them. A Guthrie song, but Woody wasn't singing this one. That was for later. Jimmy played them the Hindu Love Gods – three-quarters of REM backing Warren Zevon. Released in 1990, it was the fifth CD Jimmy had ever bought. 'Vigilante Man' was the last track.
—HAVE YOU SEEN THAT VIGILANTE MAN?
They listened. And Jimmy watched them loosen and fall in love. It was music they wanted to play; he could tell already. It rolled and growled; it was angry and confident, knocking shite out of the enemy. Agnes was tapping her foot. Young Dan was tapping the dishwasher. Kenny was tapping his belt buckle.
—WHY WOULD A VIGILANTE MAN—
King Robert's ear was aimed at the nearest speaker, already taking the words.
—CARRY A SAWED-OFF SHOTGUN IN HIS HAND—
It was over.
—HAVE YOU HEARD HIS NAME ALL OVER THIS LAND.
And Jimmy was pleased with himself. He'd done it again. He had his band. He had the music and the name. He looked at his watch: half seven. His mother would be coming in ten minutes. She was looking after the kids so he could dash in to see Aoife and Smokey. They were coming home from the hospital tomorrow, so he had to go on to his brother Darren's house in Lucan, to get the crib and a few bags of baby-gros and other stuff. And there was nothing left in the fridge for the kids' lunches for school tomorrow, so he'd have to stop at the 24-hour shop on the Malahide Road on the way back. And his da had said something about them going for a pint. And, before all that, he had to help Jimmy Two with his Irish homework and Marvin with his sums.
But Jimmy was a satisfied man. This time the silence was
Agnes Bunuel: vocals.
Kerri Sheppard: vocals and guitars.
—Am I black enough for you, Mister Rabbitte? she asked when Jimmy climbed over the kids and opened the door for her.
—You're grand, said Jimmy. —Come on in.
In actual fact, she was hardly black at all, but she did have dreadlocks. And she was gorgeous.
Dan Stefanescu: accordion.
Young Dan Stefanescu: trumpet.
Leo Ivanov: drums.
Last to arrive was King Robert. Marvin had opened the door and the three kids were staring up at him.
—Hey, Mister, said Marvin.
Don't mention his colour, Marv, said Jimmy to himself; please.
—Who do you follow? said Marvin.
—Follow? said King Robert.
—Support, said Marvin.
—I follow Bray Wanderers, said King Robert.
And the kids fell around laughing.
—Don't mind them, said Jimmy. —Come on in. No problem getting here, no?
—Your directions were adequate, Mister Rabbitte.
It was quiet in the kitchen, just Dan and Young Dan chatting together and Kenny trying to chat to Agnes. And it got even quieter when King Robert walked in after Jimmy. He stared at them all, gave them a long, hard second each. Even Jimmy was sweating. He filled the kettle and introduced everybody. They smiled, and nodded, or didn't smile, and didn't nod. He filled cups and mugs, handed around the coffee and tea. Then he tried an old trick, an ice-breaker he'd used when The Commitments first met. He got out the Jaffa Cakes.
—Soul food, he said.
It didn't really work with this gang, though. The dynamic was different; they were older, foreign, the country was too prosperous, they weren't hungry – something. Kenny from Roscommon was the only one to dive at the plate.
This was no party. Jimmy was all alone there in the kitchen. There was no spark here, no energy at all. They were stiff, nervous, ready to leave. King Robert stood against the wall, well away from all of them. Gilbert was looking at the back door. It wasn't going to happen; Jimmy could feel it. But he pressed on.
—So, he said. —The music.
They looked at him.
—Woody Guthrie, he said.
—Pardon me?
—Listen to this, said Jimmy.
There were eight in the kitchen, not counting himself, but it wasn't the full band. He needed bass, more vocals; he needed age and protection. And belief.
He was working on it.
He played 'Vigilante Man' for them. A Guthrie song, but Woody wasn't singing this one. That was for later. Jimmy played them the Hindu Love Gods – three-quarters of REM backing Warren Zevon. Released in 1990, it was the fifth CD Jimmy had ever bought. 'Vigilante Man' was the last track.
—HAVE YOU SEEN THAT VIGILANTE MAN?
They listened. And Jimmy watched them loosen and fall in love. It was music they wanted to play; he could tell already. It rolled and growled; it was angry and confident, knocking shite out of the enemy. Agnes was tapping her foot. Young Dan was tapping the dishwasher. Kenny was tapping his belt buckle.
—WHY WOULD A VIGILANTE MAN—
King Robert's ear was aimed at the nearest speaker, already taking the words.
—CARRY A SAWED-OFF SHOTGUN IN HIS HAND—
It was over.
—HAVE YOU HEARD HIS NAME ALL OVER THIS LAND.
And Jimmy was pleased with himself. He'd done it again. He had his band. He had the music and the name. He looked at his watch: half seven. His mother would be coming in ten minutes. She was looking after the kids so he could dash in to see Aoife and Smokey. They were coming home from the hospital tomorrow, so he had to go on to his brother Darren's house in Lucan, to get the crib and a few bags of baby-gros and other stuff. And there was nothing left in the fridge for the kids' lunches for school tomorrow, so he'd have to stop at the 24-hour shop on the Malahide Road on the way back. And his da had said something about them going for a pint. And, before all that, he had to help Jimmy Two with his Irish homework and Marvin with his sums.
But Jimmy was a satisfied man. This time the silence was
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