Books like The Commitments

I was going to attempt to write this review in the working class Dublin slang that Roddy Doyle’s colourful characters use, but, ya know, Jaysis, I’d come o’ looking like a fuckin’ eejit.I’m one of the few people on the planet who’s never seen the Alan Parker movie, and when I was in London last fall, I noticed there was even a long-running stage version of it. But I guess through cultural osmosis I knew what the book was about: the making (and abrupt unmaking) of a north Dublin soul band. It’s riotously fun, filled with piss and vinegar and great snatches of music, and boy do these characters know how to talk. (No wonder it was adapted for actors to perform.) Slagging each other over a few pints, joking about everything, is a sport – it’s the way they communicate.I say “characters,” but there’s not a lot of depth to them. (A day after finishing this I devoured the second in the Barrytown Trilogy, \ The Snapper\ , and among other things it shows that Doyle can write complex, nuanced characters.) In fact, for half the book I had to keep going back to the page that listed the band members’ names and what instrument they played:Jimmy Rabbite; manager.Outspan Foster; guitar.Deco Cuffe; vocals.Derek Scully; bass. James Clifford; piano.Billy Mooney; drums.Dean Fay; sax.And Joey The Lips.Later they’re joined by three women – the Commitmentettes. And here’s what happens: they rehearse; Jimmy books them first one gig then another; they perform them both; another character (Mickah the bouncer) joins them; they get a nice write-up in a local paper; one player gets interested in jazz; the vocalist (whom everyone hates) gets a big ego; and all the men are attracted to Imelda, one of the backup singers. So: not much plot. There's a rich sense of social milieu, but mostly this book is about people interacting, bouncing off each other. Here’s a little exchange between the drummer and the vocalist: – An’ here, you, George Michael. If yeh ever call me a fuckin’ eejit again you’ll go home with a drumstick up your hole. The one yeh don’t sing ou’ of. He started to pick up the drum. – The one yeh talk ou’ of.Touché! And it’s not all salty dialogue. Here’s a little bit of exposition during the band’s first performance:The ones not from Barrytown studied Mickah [the bouncer]. He wasn’t what they’d expected; some huge animal, a skinhead or a muttonhead, possibly both. This Mickah was small and wiry, very mobile. Even when he was standing still he was moving.“Even when he was standing still he was moving”: that’s fine writing. Other gems are sprinkled throughout, showing you that Doyle is a novelist, not just a playwright or screenwriter. And he's an artist. Fair play tha’.