comfortable.
—That's the kind of thing yis'll be playin', said Jimmy. —Alright?
—I fuckin' like the bit about the shotgun, said Kenny.
Kerri the Yank got ready to object but, before she got to words, King Robert started singing.
—OHHH—
HAVE YOU – SEE–EE–EEN THAT VIGIL— ANTEE—MA–AN.
And that was it. The nine people in Jimmy's kitchen were all together.
—So, said Kerri. —Who are we?
—The Deportees, said Jimmy.
—Fuckin' ace, boy, said Kenny.
9 Dust Bowl Refugees
It was cold and damp. And it was cheap.
—I'll take it, said Jimmy.
In fact, it was free. An old hairdresser's, Colette's Unisex, it had been stripped of everything except the sink brackets, a lot of sockets, a couple of posters and the mould behind them.
It was perfect.
His sister Linda had found it for him. She worked in an estate agent's. Craig, her boss and boyfriend, had said that Jimmy could use it until some daw took it off his hands.
—He must be a good lad, this Craig fella, said Jimmy.
—He's a prick, said Linda.
—Why are you with him then?
—Ah, he's nice.
So, just like that, they had their rehearsal space and, just like that, they were rehearsing. They were stampeding along behind King Robert – WE–ELL, THEY CALL ME A DUST BOWL REFUGEE–EE–EE – while the rain hammered the roof. It was different this time, not like The Commitments.
—Why are you doing it? Aoife asked him.
It was three in the morning. Aoife was feeding Smokey and she'd nudged Jimmy awake, for a chat. It was three weeks after she'd come home from the Rotunda.
—I'm not sure, to be honest with yeh, said Jimmy.
He sat up in the bed.
—But, I'll tell yeh. It's different this time. I've a feeling about this one.
—Good, said Aoife.
—WEH–ELL, I AM GOING WHERE THE WATER TASTES LIKE WINE. These people were musicians already. They were grown-up; even Young Dan had years of living and music behind him. They knew how to listen. They could climb aboard a tune. AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY. Yeah, sure, there were egos in the room. Kerri had arrived with seven guitars – LORD LORD – and King Robert wasn't happy with Woody Guthrie's diction.
—He is uneducated.
—Fair enough, Your Majesty. But just sing AIN'T, will yeh. AM NOT doesn't sound right.
Gilbert had already missed one rehearsal. Leo was the gentlest, nicest drummer Jimmy had ever met, so he'd probably explode soon. And Kenny was a danger to himself and the community; he was running a snooker cue up and down the neck of his guitar while he kneeled in front of his amp. But it was fine. He knew why he was doing it and they respected that. And Jimmy liked it. There was a tamed wildness in the room that was producing good noise.
He hadn't worried about playing Woody Guthrie in his raw state to them. He put on 'Blowing Down That Dusty Old Road', a version of an old blues song that Guthrie recorded in 1944, and he knew they'd get it; they'd hop on the possibilities and make the song theirs. WE–ELL, YOUR TWO–EURO SHOES HURT MY FEET. A folk song could be huge. Jimmy told them that and they knew what he was talking about. AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY.
The Hot Press ad delivered his bass player. Another woman, a Dubliner.
—Northside or southside? said Jimmy.
—Ah, grow up, would yeh.
Her name was Mary.
—I used to be called Vera Vagina, she said. —I was in the Screaming Liverflukes. We played the Dandelion Market. U2 supported us. Remember?
—Yeah, Jimmy lied. —And look at the fuckers now, wha'.
She shrugged.
—Yeah, well.
An old punk, with two kids and a husband in the bank, her hair was still purple and standing up.
—Just when the rest of me is beginning to sit down.
She was great and here she was, walking the strings, loving the sound, loving the company. It was already a full sound, just their third time together. No shoving for the front, no real showing off. Agnes sang into every second line —YE–ES, I'M LOOKING FOR
—That's the kind of thing yis'll be playin', said Jimmy. —Alright?
—I fuckin' like the bit about the shotgun, said Kenny.
Kerri the Yank got ready to object but, before she got to words, King Robert started singing.
—OHHH—
HAVE YOU – SEE–EE–EEN THAT VIGIL— ANTEE—MA–AN.
And that was it. The nine people in Jimmy's kitchen were all together.
—So, said Kerri. —Who are we?
—The Deportees, said Jimmy.
—Fuckin' ace, boy, said Kenny.
9 Dust Bowl Refugees
It was cold and damp. And it was cheap.
—I'll take it, said Jimmy.
In fact, it was free. An old hairdresser's, Colette's Unisex, it had been stripped of everything except the sink brackets, a lot of sockets, a couple of posters and the mould behind them.
It was perfect.
His sister Linda had found it for him. She worked in an estate agent's. Craig, her boss and boyfriend, had said that Jimmy could use it until some daw took it off his hands.
—He must be a good lad, this Craig fella, said Jimmy.
—He's a prick, said Linda.
—Why are you with him then?
—Ah, he's nice.
So, just like that, they had their rehearsal space and, just like that, they were rehearsing. They were stampeding along behind King Robert – WE–ELL, THEY CALL ME A DUST BOWL REFUGEE–EE–EE – while the rain hammered the roof. It was different this time, not like The Commitments.
—Why are you doing it? Aoife asked him.
It was three in the morning. Aoife was feeding Smokey and she'd nudged Jimmy awake, for a chat. It was three weeks after she'd come home from the Rotunda.
—I'm not sure, to be honest with yeh, said Jimmy.
He sat up in the bed.
—But, I'll tell yeh. It's different this time. I've a feeling about this one.
—Good, said Aoife.
—WEH–ELL, I AM GOING WHERE THE WATER TASTES LIKE WINE. These people were musicians already. They were grown-up; even Young Dan had years of living and music behind him. They knew how to listen. They could climb aboard a tune. AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY. Yeah, sure, there were egos in the room. Kerri had arrived with seven guitars – LORD LORD – and King Robert wasn't happy with Woody Guthrie's diction.
—He is uneducated.
—Fair enough, Your Majesty. But just sing AIN'T, will yeh. AM NOT doesn't sound right.
Gilbert had already missed one rehearsal. Leo was the gentlest, nicest drummer Jimmy had ever met, so he'd probably explode soon. And Kenny was a danger to himself and the community; he was running a snooker cue up and down the neck of his guitar while he kneeled in front of his amp. But it was fine. He knew why he was doing it and they respected that. And Jimmy liked it. There was a tamed wildness in the room that was producing good noise.
He hadn't worried about playing Woody Guthrie in his raw state to them. He put on 'Blowing Down That Dusty Old Road', a version of an old blues song that Guthrie recorded in 1944, and he knew they'd get it; they'd hop on the possibilities and make the song theirs. WE–ELL, YOUR TWO–EURO SHOES HURT MY FEET. A folk song could be huge. Jimmy told them that and they knew what he was talking about. AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY.
The Hot Press ad delivered his bass player. Another woman, a Dubliner.
—Northside or southside? said Jimmy.
—Ah, grow up, would yeh.
Her name was Mary.
—I used to be called Vera Vagina, she said. —I was in the Screaming Liverflukes. We played the Dandelion Market. U2 supported us. Remember?
—Yeah, Jimmy lied. —And look at the fuckers now, wha'.
She shrugged.
—Yeah, well.
An old punk, with two kids and a husband in the bank, her hair was still purple and standing up.
—Just when the rest of me is beginning to sit down.
She was great and here she was, walking the strings, loving the sound, loving the company. It was already a full sound, just their third time together. No shoving for the front, no real showing off. Agnes sang into every second line —YE–ES, I'M LOOKING FOR
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