The Commitments
Roddy Doyle
Language: English
Pages: 165
ISBN: 0679721746
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This funky, rude, unpretentious first novel traces the short, funny, and furious career of a group of working-class Irish kids who form a band, The Commitments. Their mission: to bring soul to Dublin!
positions. Jimmy stood at the side of the stage. He had a mike in one hand and the curtain cord in the other. He nodded to them. They looked at themselves and each other and stood, ready, very serious. This was it. Even if there were only thirty-three in the hall. James Brown had played to less. Joey The Lips said so. —Ladies an’ gentlemen, Jimmy said to the mike. There was a cheer, a big one too, from the other side of the curtain. —Will yeh please put your workin’ class hands together for
your heroes. The Saviours o’ Soul, The Hardest Workin’ Band in the World, ——Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes ——The Commitments. He dropped the mike and pulled the cord. The curtain stayed shut. —Wrong rope, son, said the caretaker. —Yeh fuckin’ sap, said Imelda. The caretaker got the curtain open. There was another cheer. (Jimmy dashed down to the mixing desk. —Get away from tha’, youse.) The house lights were still on. The crowd wasn’t even two deep in some places. The caretaker went to turn off the
was threatening him. —Move! Joey The Lips roared. Deco hopped to it. —Listen, Bernie. ——Sorry, righ’. ——Really. —Yeah. ——Well, said Bernie. —Wha’ Bernie’s tryin’ to say, said Imelda,—is tha’ you’re a stupid bollix. Mickah was singing from behind the crowd. —WHY ARE WE — WAI — TIN’ —— —Okay, said Deco into the mike. —Thanks a lot. Tha’ one was dedicated to the lads in jail. Mountjoy an’ tha’, who’re in for drugs——like——because it must be like a chain gang for them. ——We hope they get
other record. —We’ve squashed them all in, said Jimmy. —Yeah. ——An’ yis still take up half the fuckin’ pub. ——Look. The piano. ——Yeh’d usually get abou’ twenty into tha’ corner. —Yeh would in your bollix, said Mickah. —Fuckin’ leprechauns maybe. ——Or test-tube babies. —Mickah. —Wha’? —The drums. —Okay. —Anyway, said the head barman when Mickah was a safe distance away,—this is the last time yis’ll be playin’ here. Nothin’ personal now but we can’t afford the space. We usually do groups
with just three in them. He thought of something else. —Another thing. ——There’s no way we’re givin’ yis three pints each. We couldn’t. ——One’ll have to do. —Ah, fuck tha’! said Jimmy. —There’s millions of yis, said the head barman. ——You can have the three though. Just make it look like you’re payin’ me. Jimmy looked around him. —Okay. ——Done. There was a good crowd. Thirty would have been a great crowd in this place. The room was packed solid. The ones standing up had to hold their