–GET UP AH, sang James.

A guitar clicked, like a full stop.

–GET ON UP, someone else sang, no mean voice either.

Then the guitar again.

–GER RUP AH—

Guitar.

–GET ON UP—

–STAY ON THE SCENE, sang James.

–GET ON UP—

James had the good lines.

–LIKE A SEX MACHINE AH—

–GET ON UP—

The lads bounced gently on the bunks.

–YOU GOT TO HAVE THE FEELING—

SURE AS YOU’RE BORN AH—

GET IT TOGETHER—

RIGHT ON—

RIGHT ON—

GET UP AH, sang James.

–GET ON UP—

Then there was a piano break and at the end of it James went:—HUH. It was the best Huh they’d ever heard. Then the piano got going again.

–GER RUP AH—

–GET ON UP—

The guitar clicked away.

And the bass was busy too, padding along. You could actually make it out; notes. This worried Derek a bit. He’d chosen the bass because he’d thought there was nothing to it. There was something to this one. It was busier than all the other instruments.

The song went on. The lads bounced and grinned. Deco concentrated.

–Bobby, James Brown called. (Bobby must have been the man who kept singing GET ON UP.)—Bobby, said James.—Shall I take them to the bridge?

–Go ahead, said Bobby.

–Take ’em all to the bridge.

–Take them to the bridge, said Bobby.

–Shall I take them to the bridge? James asked.

–YEAH, the lads in the studio, and Outspan and Derek, answered.

Then the guitar changed course a bit and stayed that way. James shouted and huh-huhhed a while longer and then it faded out.

Jimmy got up and lifted the needle.

A roar arrived from downstairs.

–Turn down tha’ fuckin’ radio!

–It’s the stereo, Jimmy roared at the floor.

–Don’t get snotty with me, son. Just turn it down.

The lads were in stitches laughing, quietly.

–Stupid bollix, said Jimmy.—Wha’ did yis think o’ tha’?

–Brilliant.

–Fuckin’ brilliant.

–Play another one, said Outspan.

–Okay, said Jimmy.—I think yis’ll be playin’ this one.

He put on Night Train for them. It was even more brilliant than Sex Machine.

–We’ll change the words a bit to make it—more Dubliny, yeh know, Jimmy told them.

They were really excited now.

–Fuckin’ deadly, said Derek.—I’m goin’ to get a lend o’ the odds for the bass.

–Good man.

–I’d better get a proper guitar, said Outspan.—An electric.

Jimmy played It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World.

–I’m goin’ to get a really good one, said Outspan.—Really fuckin’ good.

–Let’s go, said Jimmy.

They were off to the Pub.

Deco stood up.

He growled:—ALL ABOARD—

THE NIGHT TRAIN.

On the way down the stairs they met Sharon coming up.

–Howyeh, Gorgeous, said Deco.

–Go an’ shite, said Sharon.

Jimmy spent twenty minutes looking at his ad in Hot Press the next Thursday. He touched the print. (—J. Rabbitte.) He grinned.

Others must have been looking at it too because when he got home from work his mother told him that two young fellas had been looking for him.

–J. Rabbitte they said.

–That’s me alrigh’, said Jimmy.

–Who d’yeh think yeh are with your J.? Your name’s Jimmy.

–It’s for business reasons, ma, said Jimmy.—J. sounds better. Yeh never heard of a millionaire bein’ called Jimmy.

Things were motoring.

James Clifford had said yes. Loads of people called looking for J. Rabbitte over the weekend. Jimmy was interested in two of them: a drummer, Billy Mooney from Raheny, and Dean Fay from Coolock who had a saxophone but admitted that he was only learning how to Make It Talk. There were more callers on Monday. Jimmy liked none of them. He took phone numbers and threw them in the bin.

He judged on one question: influences.

–Who’re your influences?

–U2.

–Simple Minds.

–Led Zeppelin.

–No one really.

They were the most common answers. They failed.

–Jethro Tull an’ Bachman Turner Overdrive.

Jimmy shut the door on that one without bothering to get the phone number. He didn’t even open the door to three of them. A look out his parents’ bedroom window at them was enough.

–Who’re your influences? he’d asked Billy Mooney.

–Your man, Animal from The Muppets.

Dean Fay had said Clarence Clemons and the guy from Madness. He didn’t have the sax long. His uncle had given it to him because he couldn’t play it any more himself because one of his lungs had collapsed.

Jimmy was up in his room on Tuesday night putting clean socks on when Jimmy Sr., the da, came in.

–Come ’ere, you, said Jimmy Sr.—Are you sellin’ drugs or somethin’?

–I AM NOT, said Jimmy.

–Then why are all these cunts knockin’ at the door?

–I’m auditionin’.

–You’re wha’?

–Aud-ish-un-in. We’re formin’ a group.—A band.

–You?

–Yeah.

Jimmy Sr. laughed.

–Dickie fuckin’ Rock.

He started to leave but turned at the door.

–There’s a little fucker on a scooter lookin’ for yeh downstairs.

When Jimmy got down to the door he saw that his da had been right. It was a little fucker and he had a scooter, a wreck of a yoke. He was leaning on it.

–Yeah? said Jimmy.

–God bless you, Brother J. Rabbitte. In answer to your Hot Press query, yes, I have got soul.

–Wha’?

–And I’m not a redneck or a southsider.

–You’re the same age as me fuckin’ da!

–You may speak the truth, Brother Rabbitte, but I’m sixteen years younger than B.B. King. And six years younger than James Brown.

–You’ve heard o’ James Brown—

–I jammed with the man.

–FUCK OFF!

–Leicester Mecca, ’72. Brother James called me on for Superbad. I couldn’t give it my best though because I had a bit of a head cold.

He patted the scooter.

–I’d ridden from Holyhead in the rain. I didn’t have a helmet. I didn’t have anything. Just Gina.

–Who’s she?

–My trumpet. My mentor always advised me to imagine that the mouthpiece was a woman’s nipple. I chose Gina Lollabrigida’s. A fine woman.

He stared at Jimmy. There wasn’t a trace of a grin on him.

–I’m sure you’ve noticed already, Brother Rabbitte, it was wild advice because if it had been Gina Lollabrigida’s nipple I’d have been sucking it, not blowing into it.

Jimmy didn’t know what was going on here. He tried to take control of the interview.

–What’s your name, pal?

–Joseph Fagan, said the man.

He was bald too, now that he’d taken his helmet off.

–Joey The Lips Fagan, he said.

–Eh—Come again?

–Joey The Lips Fagan.

–An’ I’m Jimmy The Bollix Rabbitte.

–I earned my name for my horn playing, Brother Rabbitte. How did you earn yours?

Jimmy pointed a finger at him.

–Don’t get snotty with me, son.

–I get snotty with no man.

–Better bleedin’ not.—An’ are YOU tryin’ to tell me that yeh played with James Brown?

–Among others, Brother.

–Like?

–Have we all night?—Screaming Jay Hawkins, Big Joe Turner, Martha Reeves, Sam Cooke, poor Sam, Sinatra.—Never again. The man is a thug.—Otis Redding, Lord rest his sweet soul, Joe Tex, The Four Tops, Stevie Wonder, Little Stevie then. He was only eleven. A pup.—More?

–Yeah.

–Let’s see.—Wilson Pickett, Jackie Wilson, Sam an’ Dave, Eddie Floyd, Booker T. and the MGs of course, Joe Tex.

–Yeh said him already.

–Twice. Em—an unusual one, Jimi Hendrix. Although, to be honest with you, I don’t think poor Jimi knew I was there.—Bobby Bland, Isaac Hayes, Al Green.

–You’ve been fuckin’ busy.

–You speak the truth, Brother Rabbitte. And there’s more. Blood, Sweat and Tears. The Tremeloes. I know, I know, I have repented.—Peter Tosh, George Jones, The Stranglers. Nice enough dudes under the leather. I turned up for The Stones on the wrong day. The day after. They were gone.