‘Was this the best you could do, Collins?’ said Aesop, flapping his arms against the cold as Jimmy leaned in to pay the taximan.
‘They’re fuckin’ brilliant. I seen them a couple of times at home.’
‘We just left the bleedin’ bog behind us, and now that we’re all the way over here in the middle of London, you drag me out to see a poxy trad band?’
‘What happened to your new-found love for Irish culture, Aesop?’
‘Fuck sake. Baby steps, Jimmy, y’know?’
‘Anyway, it’s not exactly trad. It’s more of …’
‘It’s not exactly Marilyn Manson either, is it?’
‘Ah, Marilyn Manson me hole.’
‘Shiggy doesn’t want to see a trad band.’
‘Is okay, Aesop,’ said Shiggy. ‘I love Irish trad.’
‘What? Since when?’
‘Live music, Aesop. Any live music is cool.’
‘Fuck sake. Is Clapton or something not playing anywhere?’
‘If you wanted in on the voting, Aesop, you shouldn’t have gotten shitfaced at breakfast, should you?’
‘I had to!’
‘Well there you go. That’s what happens.’
‘Why are we here so early?’
‘They do food. I haven’t eaten all day.’
‘They better not be shite.’
‘They’re not shite. And stop whinging. They’ll have beer inside for you.’
‘I’m not drinking tonight.’
‘Really?’
‘After last night? No bleedin’ way. Sure, my body is a temple.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Jimmy, walking off towards the venue. ‘The fuckin’ Temple of Doom.’
The place hadn’t really gotten going yet. All the house lights were on and staff were still moving between the few punters who’d turned up early for a feed. Aesop and Shiggy found a spot with a high table near a window off the main concert space, which would hold about three or four hundred punters, and Jimmy went to the bar to order the food and some drinks.
‘Two Carlsberg, a Coke and three steaks please,’ he said.
‘No problem mate,’ said the barman, getting to work. ‘How do you want the steaks?’
‘Eh … ah, well-done is grand.’
There was a guy standing next to him and they nodded to each other.
‘Howya. Have you seen the lads before?’ said Jimmy, flicking his head in to the stage area.
‘Kíla? A few times, yeah,’ said the other bloke, smiling. He was Irish.
He took out his wallet to pay for his drinks. Then he looked up again, with a small frown.
‘Are you … Jimmy Collins?’
Christ. Here we fuckin’ go again, thought Jimmy. He wouldn’t have bothered his bollocks saying anything if he’d thought this was going to happen.
‘Yeah. Howsit goin’?’
‘Grand. Colm Ó’Snodaigh,’ he said, putting out his hand.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Jimmy, shaking it.
‘And you.’
‘So … are you living in London?’
The barman would be back in a minute. He could put up with it till then if he had to.
‘Nah. Just over for the gig.’
‘Oh right. Jaysis, you must like them, so.’
‘Ah, they can be a shower of pricks a lot of the time, but you get used to it,’ said Colm with a grin.
Jimmy blinked at him.
Colm laughed.
‘I’m in the band, Jimmy.’
‘Wha … oh fuck, I’m sorry. Ó’Snodaigh, of course. Jesus, I forgot. I didn’t recognise you with the beard.’
‘Don’t worry about it, man.’
‘I haven’t see yiz play since Croke Park that time.’
‘Were you at the game?’
‘Nah. Me mate’s from Cork. He dragged us all down the pub to watch it.’
‘Cork? God. And how was he after the game?’
‘Did they not win?’
‘Kilkenny did by three points.’
‘Well, I don’t remember the game, but I’ve a fair idea of what he was like if they didn’t win. A fuckin’ bull probably. But, c’mere, playing to eighty thousand people. Jaysis. What was that like?’
‘Mental.’
‘I’d say, yeah.’
‘Your own band is going great guns, though. Fair play.’
‘Thanks, yeah.’
‘What are yiz up to now?’
‘Eh, well we’ll be touring Ireland in a few weeks. Then the UK. Then probably over to the States. The lads are over there, look.’
Colm looked over.
‘That’s brilliant, Jesus. Great stuff. Are you still writing in Irish?’
‘Ah, not really. “Caillte” just happened. It might happen again, but … y’know …’
‘Yeah. That one was a good one though, Jimmy. Made a lot of people take notice. Lovely tune.’
‘Thanks. So … what time are yiz on tonight?’
Colm checked his watch.
‘Won’t be for a few hours yet. There’s a local lad on first and then we’ll go on about half nine.’
‘Well, I’m looking forward to it anyway. I saw you during “Tóg Go Bog É”, in the Olympia I think it was. Jaysis, you had the roof shaking, I swear.’
‘Cheers Jimmy. Listen, I might talk to you later, right? Need to get these back to the lads.’
‘Yeah, seeya. Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
Jimmy paid the barman and walked back to Aesop and Shiggy.
‘Who’s yer man?’ said Aesop.
‘Colm. He’s in the band.’
‘Right. And did he say … what’s that?’
‘Coke.’
‘Coke?’
‘You said you weren’t drinking.’
‘I’m not drinking. I’m having a few pints though, Jesus.’
‘Well drink your Coke and you can get a round in when you’re done.’
‘Where’s the steaks?’
‘Fuck sake, he doesn’t keep them up his jumper, Aesop. They’ll be out when they’re cooked.’
‘Did you get mine rare?’
‘Yeah.’
An hour later the lads were mostly finished their dinner. Aesop was still pushing pieces of steak around his plate and scowling at Jimmy every now and again. The place was starting to fill up a bit and a buzz was kicking in around the venue. There were a lot of Irish people around, and hearing all the different accents made Jimmy laugh. He looked over at Aesop.
‘Are you nearly done with your dinner? We should head in and grab a good spot.’
Aesop sighed and looked back down at his plate.
‘Jimmy, didn’t I tell you …’
‘Heya Jimmy.’
They all looked around. Colm from Kíla was standing there.
‘Oh, hiya Colm. Eh, Colm, this is Aesop and this is Shiggy. Lads, this is Colm Ó’Snodaigh. Plays the flute and a few other things with Kíla.’
They all shook hands with each other and then Colm turned back to Jimmy.
‘Listen Jimmy, I have …’
‘Colm,’ said Aesop. ‘Does this look rare to you?’
He had his fork with a piece of steak held out in front of Colm’s face. Colm looked at it.
‘Eh … no, Aesop. I wouldn’t say so.’
‘Now. See, Jimmy? I bleedin’ told you, didn’t I? I’m fuckin’ losing fillings over here.’
‘Jesus. Will you ever get back in your box, Aesop? Sorry Colm …’
‘Eh … no bother Jimmy. Listen, I was just wondering … we were back there and I mentioned to the lads that you were here tonight. Would you be interested in getting up to sing “Caillte” during the gig?’
Jimmy wasn’t expecting that.
‘Ah Jaysis, Colm … I don’t know. Kíla plays all these big arrangements and all, already worked out. I wouldn’t want you to have to try and ad-lib something at your own gig.’
‘It’s no problem, Jimmy. Rossa and myself are already after putting something together back there. It’ll be nice and loose. Just a jam with the rest of the band, but me and Rossa will keep it together for you to sing over. Eoin plays this lovely slow air on the pipes called “The Moon on my Back”, right? And then as it’s finishing up, he’ll start the melody to “Caillte” and you walk up and take the mike. No intro or anything. What do you reckon? The place will go spare.’
‘Aw man … it’s very nice of you to offer, but … I don’t know. Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely Jimmy. Listen, no pressure at all, right? We just thought it’d be cool.’
‘Well …’
‘Listen, if you’re not up for it then no problem. But would you mind if we did it anyway? Rónán loves the song.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Jesus, no problem. Does he know the lyrics?’
‘He thinks he knows most of them, yeah. Could you write them out anyway?’
‘Of course. The Irish ones, right? Here, I’ll get some paper off the barman and scribble them down for you.’
‘Grand. And listen, I’ll give you a nod during the gig, right? If you want to sing, just give me a wink and I’ll let Rónán know that you’re going to do it yourself.’
‘Yeah. Right. Jaysis, it’s very nice of you Colm …’
‘Ah stop. The crowd will lose their minds, sure.’
‘Right. Eh … well, hang on a minute and I’ll get a pen and stuff …’
Jimmy went back up to the bar to get something to write on.
Aesop tapped Colm on the arm.
‘Colm?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I don’t s’pose you’ll be playing any Metallica tonight, will you?’
‘Of course we will Aesop. Sure, isn’t the last half of the gig mostly stuff from “Master of Puppets”.’
‘You’re only telling me lies now, aren’t you Colm?’
‘I am.’
‘You’re some bollocks.’
*
By the time the lights came up later for the main attraction, the lads had a cool table up near the front and to the side. There was some movement in the wings and Jimmy sat forward. He was looking forward to this. He’d been a bit pissed the last time he saw them live, but he remembered the vibe in the place.
‘Hey Jimmy,’ said Aesop. ‘How come they only want you up there later?’
‘What?’
‘I’m the pretty one. I could’ve played one of the bodhráns or something. Done a battle of the bodhráns thing with one of them. Y’know … the two of us, seeing who was the best.’
Jimmy looked over at him.
‘Have you ever seen their bodhrán player play?’
‘No.’
‘Well if I were you I’d sit there and shut me hole and be thankful I’m not up there with him.’
‘What? Are you saying he’s better than me?’
‘Aesop …’
‘Jimmy, I’m the best drummer in the country. Isn’t that what the paper said last week?’
‘Yeah. I’m sure they meant rock drummer. It doesn’t mean you’re the ultimate bodhrán fighting champion.’
‘Fuck off. I am.’
‘Okay then. You are.’
They didn’t say anything for a minute.
‘Do you not think I am?’
‘Aesop, let’s just say it’s not your main instrument, okay?’
‘Me bollix.’
‘Right. Well have a look at this bloke then, and see what you think. Hey Shiggy, you’re very quiet there are you okay?’
Shiggy just nodded. Almost as soon as he’d seen the stage, he’d just sat back and sipped on his pint. He’d spotted an instrument up there that he hadn’t seen in a very long time.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes Jimmy. No plobrem. Excited.’
‘Good stuff. You’ll like them, watch.’
‘Diddely-diddely-dee,’ said Aesop, sighing and looking down at his pint. ‘Fucking marvellous way to spend a Saturday evening.’
The band came out to roars and cheers and took up their spots. There were seven of them, all dressed casually. No leather pants or wraparound shades or strutting about the place. It wasn’t a Grove gig. The singer wasn’t even wearing shoes for fuck sake, and it didn’t look like he’d spent the afternoon around at Vidal Sassoon’s either. The stage was covered in instruments. Tons of them. Jimmy didn’t even know what half of them were called. Typical trad. Bloody talented bastards, this lot.
Aesop leaned forward to take the piss out of them.
‘Hey Jimmy, do y’know what? I betcha …’
Then he saw the fiddle player who’d just walked on. A gorgeous tall blonde with a magic dimply smile. Up went one eyebrow. He closed his mouth and leaned back again with his arms folded. He was here now, wasn’t he? Sure, he might as well give it a chance.
‘Yeah, what?’ said Jimmy.
‘Eh … nothing. Shut up a minute.’
‘Shut up? I wasn’t the one …’
‘Jimmy, please!’
‘Fuck sake …’
They turned to the stage again as the band started into their first piece.
Almost immediately, Jimmy was enthralled. Yeah, he’d seen them before, but he’d just been one of crowd then. He was really listening to them this time, watching them. And not just enjoying the music. He was taking it apart, following the swells and peaks not with his ears but with that other part of him that he’d almost forgotten he had. By the second or third song he was barely even in the room with everyone else. Kíla songs were huge and lush one minute, haunting and lingering the next. Playful or thunderous. Sometimes playful and thunderous in the same song. It was nothing like rock music. When they were in full flight, it was like seven people keeping seven footballs in the air by passing them around between them.
As the gig went on and Jimmy shifted his attention around the various performances of the people on the stage, he found himself getting faintly embarrassed. Here was this band, virtuoso musicians painting canvas after vivid canvas in sound and sending them soaring through the air out to the rapt audience; no pretension, no posturing, no fucking about … each one supplying their own colour and texture so that each picture would emerge whole and perfect.
‘Fuck sake,’ said Aesop at one stage, shaking his head as another tune reached a shaking, shrieking summit before disappearing into the roars of the delighted audience.
‘What?’ said Jimmy.
‘How is this trad, you lying bastard? Some of this stuff is heavy as fuck! Maiden weren’t that loud in The Point. Me ears! What was that one called again?’
‘“Glanfaidh Mé”. Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t just trad?’
‘Jesus. It sounds like trad being locked in a barrel and thrown down a hill. How come I never heard this stuff before?’
‘You wouldn’t come with me and Norman the last time. Remember? You said you’d rather be run over. Anyway, do you like it?’
‘Yeah, it’s deadly. I mean, it’s not like jazz or anything, but … eh … it’s kind of … y’know?’
Jimmy nodded. It had the same kind of interaction between the different instruments, but without that straight-edged structure. No one was trying to fill any corners, because there weren’t any. The music was rolling and organic and if one performer took a lead, the new focus seemed to grow out of what was happening already instead of suddenly appearing in the piece like a stuck-out elbow. Everyone in the place was part of the gig and the stage seemed to extend out into them, past the fetch of the lights and back to all the walls.
‘And Rónán?’
‘Rónán?’
‘On the bodhrán.’
‘Eh … yeah. Right. I want to talk to him about that. Can we go backstage afterwards?’
‘I’ll say it to Colm.’
‘Did you see the little skinny yoke he’s using as a tipper? And the way he holds it? There’s something going on there, man. I need a word with him before we leave. Can’t have that shite going on and me not knowing how it’s done, the fucker.’
‘So you’re not the best bodhrán player in the country any more?’
Aesop shook his head. He looked up at the stage, where the guy was rounding off a solo percussion bit, and bit at his knuckles and frowned for a minute as he watched. Then he turned around to Jimmy again.
‘Still the prettiest, though.’
The piper’s drones started to wail on their own, a low desolate voice, before his fingers started to pick out another slow air. The lads hushed up with everyone else and watched. It was beautiful and eerie. Outside was the city of London, all lights and bustle and energy, but in here it was dark and close. They could have been hunched over the fire in Norman’s cottage in Cork, a moonlit bog at their door.
Jimmy got a tap on the arm from Aesop. He looked around and Aesop pointed up to the stage. Colm was standing back in the shadows, but he was looking down at their table and giving Jimmy big eyes. Did he want to sing ‘Caillte’?
Jesus. He’d been so wrapped up in the gig that he’d forgotten completely about this. He didn’t know what to do. This was like no gig he’d ever sang at before. A session down the pub was one thing, but he wasn’t prepared for this. It wasn’t a different league, it was a different game. It wasn’t about haircuts and standing with your legs apart and throwing big sultry eyes at the chicks in the front row. It was about the song. That was the only reason you were there. Not to play or sing it … to channel it.
Jimmy closed his eyes and thanked Christ he’d written ‘Caillte’. He very suddenly and very badly wanted to get onto that stage and grab some of the vibe that was floating around up there. It wasn’t like what he got with The Grove. This gig was a completely different animal. It wasn’t his scene but he wanted a sup, just to see. He’d been feeling funny ever since the gig had started. Something had been nagging at him. Tugging his sleeve. He didn’t know what it was, but he might find out up there. He swallowed. Okay Jimmy. No leather pants. No Strat or Les Paul. No effects pedals. No mates in the audience. No posing. No Dónal or Sparky. No rehearsal. No intro. No soundcheck. No fucking idea what key they’re going to play it in, even.
Just the song.
He gave Colm a wave and got a nod in return. He was on.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and drank the last couple of inches of Aesop’s Coke to wet his throat.
‘Ugh,’ he said, pushing the glass away. ‘There’s vodka in that, you bollocks.’
‘I didn’t ask you to drink it, did I?’
‘Bastard.’
‘Go on, look. Colm’s waving at you.’
The piper was after easing out of his own tune and the main melody of ‘Caillte’ was now recognisable. To the lads, at least, because they knew it was coming. The punters probably just thought it was part of the air he’d be playing anyway. Then the piper looked up from his hands and over at Jimmy, giving him a small nod. Jimmy took a big breath and stood up, walking over to the right side of the stage. A couple of people in the crowd looked over but they still didn’t know what was going on. A few heads had seemed to recognise him earlier, but himself and Aesop had pretty much kept their own heads down all night. Now he could have just been one of the crew fixing something.
But when he stepped up onto the stage and walked over to the mike in the middle, everyone twigged. That was Jimmy Collins up there, and it was ‘Caillte’ they were suddenly hearing out of the pipes. A huge clamor of roaring and clapping started up, everyone turning to their neighbour and pointing. Jimmy gave a little smile and adjusted the angle of the mike to his mouth. This wasn’t the time or place to be acting the Jagger, stomping around and sopping up the love like a needy, greedy fucker. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets and his eyes closed until they hushed up again.
As soon as they did, Jimmy heard the sound filling out. The bass was in now. A couple of guitars. Rónán was clicking gently around the rim of the bodhrán. Jesus. They’d put this together in a few minutes backstage? The piper had put down his uilleann pipes and now the low whistle was blowing across the stage. The released version of the song was about four minutes long, and they’d nearly played that long already just as an intro. It was gorgeous. Jimmy found his way in and started singing, opening his eyes briefly to take it in. Four hundred upturned faces were like moons out in the blackness. He closed his eyes again and just let it come. Rónán knew the harmonies and sung them softly with him, adding a few of his own. Long bowed notes that seemed to go on forever were coming out of the fiddle. Somebody was playing a beautiful countermelody on a bouzouki or some fucking thing. Christ, they were good. It was like he was guesting on their song. It was still ‘Caillte’, but it was different. The version Alice might have heard down her rabbit hole. Jimmy had never been so immersed in sound. He was blown away.
At the end he just stood back from the mike and waited until the others brought the song down. The crowd bellowed and cheered but Jimmy just nodded and gave a little smile and a wave. He’d done fuck all, really. It was all them.
Rónán leaned into his ear.
‘Seeya later Jimmy, right?’
‘Yeah. Thanks man.’
Rónán nodded and stepped to the mike.
‘Jimmy Collins from The Grove,’ he said, clapping over to Jimmy who waved again on his way off the stage. The crowd yelled louder.
Then Jimmy was back in his seat, getting clapped on the back from Shiggy and having a pint thrust towards him by Aesop.
‘Great!’ said Shiggy. ‘Wow. So great Jimmy …’
‘Man,’ said Aesop, laughing. ‘You looked stoned off your tits up there.’
‘I was. How did it sound, but?’
‘Sounded deadly.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, it was fuckin’ great.’
‘Cheers.’
The band were already barreling away into their next tune. A couple of people at tables next to them were catching Jimmy’s eye and saying well done and stuff, but for the most part he was just leaning back in his chair and trying not to notice his heart banging the shite out of his chest. That had been amazing. What they’d done to his song … how the fuck would he ever be able to sing it again with The Grove. His version sounded like it was in the nip.
He barely registered what was going on for the rest of the gig, except just to sit there and listen. Another guy, a Japanese guy, got up later on and played with them for a few songs. Shiggy was riveted to the stage for that part. Then they played some more and then it was over. Lights up, the crowd finishing their drinks and making their way out into the London night and staff cleaning the place down. Colm came out and brought the lads backstage. It was mad back there, the band and a load of other people just mixing and having a laugh. Jimmy shook about a hundred hands and talked with loads of people, but he was still high from singing and wasn’t taking much in. Shiggy was talking with the Japanese guy who’d played earlier and Aesop hadn’t wasted any time in collaring Rónán. Jimmy walked past at one stage and heard them arguing. Rónán was beating out a rhythm on a conga drum and Aesop was trying to follow him on the bodhrán.
‘That’s not what you played a minute ago,’ Aesop was saying, frowning at Rónán’s hands.
‘It is! That’s twice now I’ve played it.’
‘It fuckin’ is not Rónán. It’s a slip jig, sure.’
‘It was a slip jig the last bleedin’ time I played it as well.’
‘It wasn’t! Look, play “Double Knuckle Shuffle” again. Here, take the bodhrán. What are you doing with your left hand again? I don’t remember.’
‘Christ. That’s four times now. If I play it on your dopey head will you remember?’
‘I was drinking for Ireland last night, Rónán, piss off. You’re lucky I’m here at all. Only for Jimmy nagging me I’d be home in bed.’
‘Jesus, I must remember to thank him. Okay, now are you watching? It’s in four-four …’
Later on in the taxi back to the hotel, Jimmy sat in the back with Aesop, just staring out the window.
‘What’s up?’ said Aesop.
‘Hmm?’
‘What’s with the big cheesy grin on you?’
‘Have I? Oh, nothing. Just … eh, nothing.’
But it was something. Jimmy’s eyes were flying back and forth, following the scenes outside, but inside he was still. Aesop wouldn’t get how happy he was right now. No one would. He leaned back against the seat and listened, relieved and excited.
His head was filled with music. At long fucking last.
*
Later on, unable to sleep with the torrents of ideas now filling him, he called Susan. He got her voicemail.
‘Hey Susan. Sorry, I know it’s late. Look, I just wanted to say hello. I’m still in London, but we’re heading back at lunchtime tomorrow. I could meet you for breakfast or coffee if you have time? The flight is at one-thirty, but call me any time in the morning, or even tonight if you get this? I’d love to see you, if it’s okay. Right, eh … I’ll go so. Hope you’re okay. Seeya …’
He put down the phone and stripped to his jocks. He thought he heard his phone ringing when he was brushing his teeth, but when he went back into the room and looked at it lying on his bed, it showed nothing. He went back into the bathroom and finished up. She’d be asleep. Or she didn’t answer when she saw his name flash up on the screen of her phone. Again he heard the ringing. He was on his way back to the bed when he realised that the noise was just in his head, writhing around with jigs and reels and huge Celtic-inspired Lizzy and Big Country and Frames riffs.