A JOB WITH HHH–HONEST PAY. Young Dan's horn went YES YES, NO at the end of each vocal line; his da's accordion was a swooping, laughing whinge. —AND I AIN'T GOING TO BE TREATED THIS WAY.
After he'd locked up the Unisex and said the goodbyes, Jimmy went to his da's local.
Paddy Ward was his da's idea. He was a traveller who'd married into a settled family.
—But he forgets now and again, said Jimmy's da. — He wanders a bit. But he's sound.
They watched now as Paddy Ward walked in, solid and slow, a big, impressive man with hair that took managing and a jacket that hadn't been cheap.
Jimmy's da spoke first.
—How's it goin', Paddy?
—Not so bad, Jim.
—This is my young fella.
—Don't I know him.
—I hear you can sing, said Jimmy.
The man said nothing.
—D'you want to be in a group?
And the man spoke.
—I was sixty my last birthday, sonny. You took your fuckin' time.
And he sang.
'Nothing Compares 2 U'. All of it.
And Jimmy died again.
10 Smells Like Teen Spirit
—Have you anything against blacks? said Jimmy.
—What about Hello first, Jimmy?
—Hello, Mickah. Do you have anything against blacks?
—No, said Mickah Wallace.
—Grand, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want a job?
Mickah Wallace was a family man these days. He had three kids he adored, and he was also very fond of the two women who'd had them for him. They lived near each other.
—Saves on the petrol, said Mickah when he met up with Jimmy, for the first time in years. He was on the Ballygowan. He didn't drink or smoke these days.
—I don't even say Fuck any more, said Mickah.
—So, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want the job?
—I have a job, said Mickah. —I've two fuckin' jobs.
—D'you want another one?
There'd been no more phone calls since the night Smokey was born but the first gig was coming up and Jimmy didn't want to leave anything to chance or Nazis. He wanted Mickah on his side.
—What kind o' job? said Mickah.
—Well, said Jimmy. —The usual.
—Ah Jaysis, Jimmy; I don't know. Those days are kind of over, yeh know.
Mickah worked on one of the new green wheelie-bin trucks.
—Yeh should see the stuff they put in them, he told Jimmy. —How d'yeh recycle a dead dog, for Jaysis sake?
And he delivered for Celtic Tandoori, the local takeaway. Fat Gandhi, the owner – real name, Eric Murphy – gave Mickah three nights a week.
—We go to the same church, said Mickah. —He's sound.
Mickah was a born-again Christian.
—It's been the makin' of me, m'n. I owe it all to the Lord.
Jimmy told him about The Deportees, and about the late-night/early-morning phone caller.
—What would the Lord do about it, Mickah? said Jimmy.
—Hammer the shite out of him, said Mickah.
—So, you'll take the job?
—Okay.
—THE NEW SHER–IFF WROTE ME A LET–TER. They were really hopping now, playing the walls off the Unisex. COME UP AND SEE ME – DEAD OR ALIVE. They were ready.
That was Paddy Ward singing. King Robert had been very reluctant to hand over the space behind the mike, but he was listening now, and watching Paddy's mouth —I DON'T LIKEYOU- RRRR HARD ROCK HO–TEL. Paddy put his hand on King Robert's shoulder, the King stepped in and they brought the song home together.— DEAD OR ALIVE – IT'S A HARD RO-OO-OAD.
Kenny had objected to Paddy when he'd turned up a few nights before.
—Is he what I think he is? said Kenny.
Jimmy was ready.
—He's a traveller, yeah. Have you a problem, Ken?
—Eh—
—Cos we'll be sorry to lose you.
—No, no, fuck no. It's just, it's unusual though. A, a traveller, like. In a band.
—Look around you, Kenny, said Jimmy. —It's an unusual band. That's the whole fuckin' idea. Are you with us?
—God, yeah. Yeah. Thanks.
Jimmy watched Kenny now. He was lashing away there, in some kind of heaven. Kerri played rhythm; Kenny was free to roam. And he did – he went further on that guitar than any traveller ever did in a Hiace.
They had eight Guthrie songs now, and some more to
After he'd locked up the Unisex and said the goodbyes, Jimmy went to his da's local.
Paddy Ward was his da's idea. He was a traveller who'd married into a settled family.
—But he forgets now and again, said Jimmy's da. — He wanders a bit. But he's sound.
They watched now as Paddy Ward walked in, solid and slow, a big, impressive man with hair that took managing and a jacket that hadn't been cheap.
Jimmy's da spoke first.
—How's it goin', Paddy?
—Not so bad, Jim.
—This is my young fella.
—Don't I know him.
—I hear you can sing, said Jimmy.
The man said nothing.
—D'you want to be in a group?
And the man spoke.
—I was sixty my last birthday, sonny. You took your fuckin' time.
And he sang.
'Nothing Compares 2 U'. All of it.
And Jimmy died again.
10 Smells Like Teen Spirit
—Have you anything against blacks? said Jimmy.
—What about Hello first, Jimmy?
—Hello, Mickah. Do you have anything against blacks?
—No, said Mickah Wallace.
—Grand, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want a job?
Mickah Wallace was a family man these days. He had three kids he adored, and he was also very fond of the two women who'd had them for him. They lived near each other.
—Saves on the petrol, said Mickah when he met up with Jimmy, for the first time in years. He was on the Ballygowan. He didn't drink or smoke these days.
—I don't even say Fuck any more, said Mickah.
—So, said Jimmy. —D'yeh want the job?
—I have a job, said Mickah. —I've two fuckin' jobs.
—D'you want another one?
There'd been no more phone calls since the night Smokey was born but the first gig was coming up and Jimmy didn't want to leave anything to chance or Nazis. He wanted Mickah on his side.
—What kind o' job? said Mickah.
—Well, said Jimmy. —The usual.
—Ah Jaysis, Jimmy; I don't know. Those days are kind of over, yeh know.
Mickah worked on one of the new green wheelie-bin trucks.
—Yeh should see the stuff they put in them, he told Jimmy. —How d'yeh recycle a dead dog, for Jaysis sake?
And he delivered for Celtic Tandoori, the local takeaway. Fat Gandhi, the owner – real name, Eric Murphy – gave Mickah three nights a week.
—We go to the same church, said Mickah. —He's sound.
Mickah was a born-again Christian.
—It's been the makin' of me, m'n. I owe it all to the Lord.
Jimmy told him about The Deportees, and about the late-night/early-morning phone caller.
—What would the Lord do about it, Mickah? said Jimmy.
—Hammer the shite out of him, said Mickah.
—So, you'll take the job?
—Okay.
—THE NEW SHER–IFF WROTE ME A LET–TER. They were really hopping now, playing the walls off the Unisex. COME UP AND SEE ME – DEAD OR ALIVE. They were ready.
That was Paddy Ward singing. King Robert had been very reluctant to hand over the space behind the mike, but he was listening now, and watching Paddy's mouth —I DON'T LIKEYOU- RRRR HARD ROCK HO–TEL. Paddy put his hand on King Robert's shoulder, the King stepped in and they brought the song home together.— DEAD OR ALIVE – IT'S A HARD RO-OO-OAD.
Kenny had objected to Paddy when he'd turned up a few nights before.
—Is he what I think he is? said Kenny.
Jimmy was ready.
—He's a traveller, yeah. Have you a problem, Ken?
—Eh—
—Cos we'll be sorry to lose you.
—No, no, fuck no. It's just, it's unusual though. A, a traveller, like. In a band.
—Look around you, Kenny, said Jimmy. —It's an unusual band. That's the whole fuckin' idea. Are you with us?
—God, yeah. Yeah. Thanks.
Jimmy watched Kenny now. He was lashing away there, in some kind of heaven. Kerri played rhythm; Kenny was free to roam. And he did – he went further on that guitar than any traveller ever did in a Hiace.
They had eight Guthrie songs now, and some more to
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