The Guts (8 page)

—It is, said Des.—I try to get over every six weeks or so.

—Does she speak English?

—I speak German.

—Do yeh?

—I do, yeah. I lived there for a long time.

—Back to google, yeah?

—Okay.

—So anyway, said Jimmy.—We both googled the Irregulars and we got stuff about Irish history. No surprise there, that shite’s never far away. And grammar. Verbs and shite.

—Yep.

—Nothin’ about the band.

—Nope.

—We’ll sort that, said Jimmy.—That’s what we’ll do. Get it up near the top of the list.

He hadn’t a clue how that was done, but he’d find out – himself and Aoife would.

—You mentioned kids.

—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Yeah. I forgot. I got carried away. Yeah,
so – kids. Teenagers, like. Like my own lads. They love the old stuff.

—Really?

—Oh yeah, said Jimmy.—Absolutely. And it’s not just mine. All kids. Boys especially. So —

The coffee had arrived. They both drank it black.

—Our job, said Jimmy,—will be to push the Irregulars, the band like, up the charts. I mean, we get a Wikipedia page up and maybe a website, if the other lads are interested. Have yeh spoken to them yet?

—Not yet, said Des.—I wanted to hear a bit more first. To make it a bit more – less vague. And to meet you as well. And, well.

He picked up his cup.

—I haven’t spoken to any of them in years, he said.

—I don’t remember, said Jimmy.—Did yis break up, yeh know, dramatically?

—Not really, no.

—Good, said Jimmy.—That’s probably good. My crowd but. The Commitments. Fuckin’ hell.

—No, said Des.—Only, there’s been no contact. So it would be a bit awkward, I suppose. But if I know a bit more, it’ll make it easier.

He smiled.

—That’s the theory.

—Grand, said Jimmy.—That makes sense. So. We build your presence there. Website, Wiki. Info, discography.

—It was only the one single.

—Doesn’t matter, Des. It’s still a discography. And here’s the real trick. Links.

—Gotcha.

—Links. Wiki to the website. Website to Wiki. Wiki to us.

—celticpunk.

—Exactly.

Jimmy was giving Des Aoife’s research. She’d done most of the early homework while he was at work selling cars.

—Where they’ll find the single and the B-side for sale, upload or download.

—Great.

—Like iTunes, said Jimmy.—But boutique. More personal. Welcomin’. Not just buy or fuck off. There’ll be pictures, info, a where are they now. A nice obituary for Necko.

Des nodded.

Jimmy rested for a bit. He was loving it, too much. He didn’t want to get carried away. Or make Des greedy.

—And, he said.—But this might be a bit tricky. Given the fact that Necko’s no longer with us.

—What? said Des.

Perfect.

—Reunion gigs, said Jimmy.

—Jesus, said Des.—I don’t know. I haven’t played in years.

Jimmy said nothing.

—And Necko, said Des.

Jimmy nodded.

—How would we manage it? said Des.

—Well, said Jimmy.—It’s tricky.

—Tasteless?

That was a surprise.

—No, said Jimmy.—Well, I don’t think so. There were four of yis. Is there a widow?

—There’s, I suppose you’d call her an ex-widow.

—Grand.

—They had two kids.

—Grand.

—We ask her? said Des.

—I don’t think yeh need to ask, said Jimmy.—Ask for permission. I don’t think that’d be an issue.

He didn’t know; he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t a clue.

—But it’d be nice to let her know, he said.—It’d be good. Get her to come along. What age are the kids?

—I’m not sure, said Des.

—Doesn’t matter, said Jimmy.—It’d be emotional. And I don’t mean that cynically now. I mean really. But then —

Des nodded.

—I know, he said.—Necko was the singer.

—There yeh go, said Jimmy.

Des shrugged. He was handing the problem over to Jimmy.

—Other bands manage it, said Jimmy.

—Yeah, said Des.

—Queen, said Jimmy.

—We weren’t fuckin’ Queen, said Des.

They both laughed.

—But you know what I mean, said Jimmy.—They have your
man, Paul Rodgers, instead of Freddie and no one complains or wants their money back because it’s not Freddie. Or that’s what I’m assumin’. Because I wouldn’t be caught dead – sorry, didn’t mean to be insensitive.

—No, no.

—I fuckin’ hate Queen, said Jimmy.—Before and after Freddie. A glorified cabaret band. A bunch of fuckin’ chancers. And I’m guessin’ that you, as drummer of the Irregulars, agree with me.

—No, said Des.—I thought they were brilliant.

There’d never been an Irregulars reunion gig. The bassist wasn’t dead but he was a born-again Christian.

—That’s fuckin’ worse.

He’d turned his back on the evils of rock ’n’ roll.

—Fuckin’ eejit.

Three-quarters of a band was a legitimate reunion, but half a band wasn’t.

—Half the Who are dead, said Des.

—And the other half should just get on with their fuckin’ lives, said Jimmy.

—You’re probably right, said Des.

—So. Des. No reunion?

—No.

But the meeting with Des had been the start. When Jimmy had said –

—We’ll look after you, Des.

– he’d wanted to whoop, because he’d believed every word. He’d found something great for himself – himself and Aoife had. They’d spent a night coming up with the proper name for shiterock. A cousin of Aoife’s had a website that sold all sorts of Irish tack to the Yanks and Germans – bits of sod, teatowels, tins of stew —

—The Corrs’ pubic hair.

—Ah Jimmy – stop!

Anyway, he – the cousin – told Aoife that the key word was Celtic.

—But we won’t be sellin’ stew.

—It’s just the word, Aoife explained.—Typed into the search engine.

—Google.

—Yes, she said.—And Yahoo. All of them.

—But all we’ll get is people lookin’ for stew and Aran jumpers.

—Not if we – or they – put another word beside it, Aoife told him.—Celtic draws the business to us. And some other word —

—Punk, said Jimmy.

—Celtic punk, said Aoife.—That might be perfect.

—Celtic for the numbers, said Jimmy.—And punk for the attitude.

—www.celticpunk.com.

They’d grinned, they’d laughed. They’d leaned into each other and kissed.

But someone had got there before them. There was already a celticpunk.com.

—Fuck it.

—Ah well.

It looked like a fan site for people with tattoos who liked their diddley-eye music a bit mad.

—It’s not even punk, said Jimmy.

He pointed at the photo on the homepage.

—That’s a fuckin’ banjo.

—Look, said Aoife.

She changed the c to k and that did the trick.

—What about gettin’ rid of the k in punk.

—What d’you mean?

He typed it out. Kelticpunc.com.

—Too clever, said Aoife.

—Clever?

—Okay, said Aoife.—Stupid.

They were kelticpunk.com. The joy of it. The freedom. Tracking down old bands. Looking after them. And Jimmy had looked after them well. They’d seen a bit of life, the ones he’d found and adopted. They knew what a bit of extra cash meant, and what gratitude was. Some of them were still bastards, unchanged by the years, just wrecked. But even they were good crack. Jimmy and Aoife reared their kids and managed dead bands across the kitchen table and once every month or so they left the kids with the newest babysitter and went to one of their own reunion gigs, in Whelan’s or somewhere else that made sense to people their age. And there was always something – good or bad, but always good – to bring home later.

—I said brown bread! Fuck!

They watched Barry Brown fling the tray across the dressing room. The room was about as wide as the tray, so the clatter
arrived while he was still swinging his arm and the tray came back off the wall and hit the side of his head.

Barry was lead singer with the Halfbreds. His drummer, a fifty-year-old girl called Connie Cunte, looked at the mess on the wall.

—It is brown bread, she said.

She was married to Barry.

—Stop being so fucking vain, Barry, she said.—Put your glasses on, dude.

They had two boys in Gonzaga and a girl in Alex, they’d told Jimmy and Aoife. The fees were killing them.

—What the fuck is Alex? Jimmy whispered to Aoife.

—A school.

—I thought they were after sendin’ their young one off to Egypt or somethin’.

—It’s Alexandra College.

—Mad pair o’ cunts.

They’d been mad back then, before kids and fees – before Aoife – famous for it and not a lot else. And somehow they’d brought their madness with them into their current lives. Insanity cuddled up to respectability, in their clothes and on their faces, in everything about them.

—Mad as shite, said Aoife.

Jimmy loved the way she said that.

They watched Connie Cunte eat a brown bread sandwich straight off the wall, no hands. She was licking the paint.

—It’s not the right brown bread, said her loving husband, Barry.

—Barry, said Jimmy.—Fuck off.

—Hey!

Barry pointed at Jimmy.

—Who’s going out there tonight?

He pointed at the wrong door.

—I don’t know, said Jimmy.

He felt Aoife’s hand on his knee.

—I fucking am! Barry yelled.

They heard Connie swallow and laugh.

—So, Barry yelled, and took a breath.—No sandwiches, no show! Read the fucking rider!

Barry worked in the Department of Finance. He often had the Minister’s ear.

—Will you go out there and tell the fucking crowd? he yelled.

—I will, yeah, said Jimmy.—No problem. There’s only about
ten out there anyway. So I’ll tell each of them individually. In fact —

He waited till Connie had turned from the wall and was listening properly.

—You not showin’ up, said Jimmy,—is probably a much better night out than you actually goin’ onstage.

—Fuck off!

—No problem, said Jimmy.

Barry and Connie huddled again. It was what they did. They huddled, then roared at each other.

—No!

—Go on!

—No! Okay, okay – fuck!

Aoife squeezed Jimmy’s knee as Barry turned to them.

—I misunderstood, he said.

—I know, said Jimmy.—It’s not a problem.

Jimmy put his hand out, and Barry took it.

—Is the Heineken okay? Jimmy asked him.—The cans are the right shape, are they?

—Fuck off.

—Grand.

Jimmy hadn’t been accurate when he’d told Barry that there were only ten in the audience. There were twelve. But that figure grew to thirteen when the drummer left the band halfway through their crowd pleaser, ‘Your Happiness Makes Me Puke,’ but hung around for the rest of the gig so she could drive Barry home.

—I’m the designated driver, you stupid cunt!

It was a great night.

One of many.

Aoife did the sums – the accounts – one night. (Jimmy ran away from money and adding. Aoife did all that.) She looked across at Jimmy. This wasn’t too long ago, although it felt like decades.

—D’you know what? she’d said.

—What?

—It’s paying the mortgage.

—What is?

—shiterock.

—Go ’way.

—It is.

—That’s brilliant, isn’t it?

—It’s fantastic.

They’d laughed; it just burst out.

It got better. It became their business, his job.

His company.

Their company.

He’d jacked in his old job. He’d hated it, especially after he’d decided to leave; the last few weeks had been hell. But if he hadn’t resigned back then, he’d more than likely – almost definitely – have been out of a job eighteen months later when people stopped buying cars.

kelticpunk was suddenly their living. It was great, but frightening. There were great months and slow months, but the mortgage was always the same, hanging there, always more than they could afford. And the kids still ate the same amount. Actually, more. The first September had nearly creased them, with new school books and uniforms and black shoes, and the extra money for this and that. Football gear, a camogie stick, a deposit for a trip to Wales.

—Who in the name of Jesus’d want to go to Wales?

—Everyone else is going, said young Jimmy.

—Okay, okay.

And two ukuleles.

—Two?

—They’re cheap, said Mahalia.

—Two but? said Jimmy.—And don’t raise your eyes to the ceilin’, May. Please.

—One for school, said Mahalia.

—For school?

—Yeah, said Mahalia.—Music.

—Thanks for the clarification.

He’d gone too far; he could see that on her face.

—Sorry. Go on.

—And the other one for home, she’d said.

—What? said Jimmy.—Do they make yeh leave the one for school in school?

—No, she’d said.—But music – double class, like – is the same day as camogie and I can’t carry it all, like, the camogie gear and the ukulele and the ukulele would probably break, like, or get stolen.

So two ukuleles. Forty-four quid instead of twenty-two. It wasn’t much but it was real. And it was coming up to Christmas.
Jimmy was getting Marvin a guitar and amp; he’d been in town with Marvin, and Marvin had stopped at the window of Music Maker, just down from the International, and stared at the electric guitars.

—Why not just get him an acoustic one? said Aoife.

—Cos he’ll turn into a singer-songwriter, said Jimmy.—No fuckin’ way.

Sales had gone up the year before, in October, November and December. But they’d sold nothing – almost literally – in the first two months of the new year. And this was before the recession, the crunch, the collapse – whatever the fuck they were calling it.

So they’d sold it. Most of it, seventy-five per cent. To Noeleen. They’d held onto a quarter – Noeleen’s suggestion. And they’d got rid of the mortgage. They owned their own house, and everything was easier. They didn’t know how much it was worth just before the crunch and they decided not to find out just after it.