CC 78: The Blameless Bulls

The name Harry McJackson momentarily fascinated, and I wanted to know all there was to know about the McJackson’s, the genealogy and all that, but moved away from it wisely, and began to scour the CD inlay for a photo of Coral Express; but there was no such thing to please the want in my heart.  Just more bulls.  More rain.  I went to the mind for gratification and was soon enjoying a private nirvana as Coral popped in there again; the thought of her was a comfort and diversion from the scattered pangs that struck from seeing Emer and Paidi together.  Fighting off the pangs bravely now as the wonderful voice of Coral Express swelled up like a hundred crazy birds circling the room, and none of the others could hear them or see them.  It was like she was with me somehow, laughing at my predicament, but also telling me things were going to be okay. 

‘This band, they’re good,’ I said to Francis.

‘Indeed.  The Blameless Bulls.’

‘I think I saw them play here in Dundalk not long ago, but they had a different name.’

‘Really?  Well, they split up last year, but I don’t know what the other ones are doing now.’

‘I met the singer.  Hung out with her for a bit that night.’

‘Seriously?  Lucky bastard.  I didn’t hear anything about it.  But then again, I don’t really go to any shows these days.  I just hang about here most of the time, and wait for the rest of them to arrive when the gigs are over – give me a full report, you know.’

‘I didn’t know she had albums out or anything.  This is a surprise.’

‘Yeah, they weren’t hugely popular or anything, but they were known, for sure.  What was the music they were playing when you saw them?  Same as this?’

‘A bit.  Maybe a bit more folk.  There were only three of them.  But I think this guy Flanagan on the guitar was there too.  If I remember right.’

‘Well, that’s what they were always about.  Rock and folk at the same time.  Like in the 70’s.  Weird stuff.  Good stuff though.  Especially after a few spliffs.’

‘That reminds me,’ Geary jumped in, producing a little plastic bag, dark green with grass, and some Rizla.

‘Good man yourself,’ said Francis.  

 Paidi had heard us talking about the band, and said

‘Everyone should know that song about the pig.  It’s a classic.  I want it played at my funeral.’  

‘I don’t get it,’ said Serena.  ‘Sounds shite to me.  There’s a reason they’re not famous, you know.’

‘Hey, just because they’re not famous doesn’t mean they’re not a good band.  There’s loads of bands I could name right now who never made it, but put out a whole bunch of cool music.’

‘Name them, then.’

‘Too many right now.  Brain’s overloaded.  I’ll get back to ya.’ 

With that, Paidi turned to Emer, and said, ‘You know, you’ll be famous too if Paddy ever dies.’

‘What?  What do you mean?’

‘You’ll be asked to do loads of interviews.  You’ll get on TV.  Look at all those family members of famous people.  They have jobs for life.  Anytime they’re making a documentary about Irish poets or whatever, you’ll be called up to tell the same old stories over and over again.  It might be annoying, but think of the cash.’

‘Shut the fuck up, will ya!’

‘Just saying, you know.’

I wondered about Coral Express, where in the country she was now, which band she was playing with, which song she was breathing life into – maybe she was at her home in Donegal with her husband and they were getting ready to go to the swingers party. 

I placed the CD case down the side of the couch, had a drink, and watched the couples pass a joint around.  That joint would soon come to me, as would a hoisting of anchors vigilant, no doubt.