Luke Kelly - his life a ballad of a simple man

The last occasion on which I spent a considerable time with Luke Kelly was. on a titter night at Tolka Park about a year ago - together we watched that marvellous Leinster Cup final between St. Patrick's Athletic and Drogheda United.
I cannot put a date on our first meeting - but it was so long ago that you could get a fine counter-lunch for three shillings and six pence in O'Donoghues in Merrion Row.
It was then anything but a singing pub. I frequented it because I was involved with the Department of Education around the corner - Luke used to come to meet Ronnie Drew who had a flat nearby.
In that far-off era ballad singers were people you saw at fairs or football matches - Luke had a vague romantic notion that some day he might become a professional singer- but I doubt if he or I believed it.
A few years later came the flood of what is loosely termed folk music, probably precipitated by the Civil Rights movement in the U.S.A.
It would be less than accurate to say that Luke caught the tide: it was rather that the tide caught him.
There was a feeling of inevitability about his coalescing with Ronnie and Barney McKenna and Ciaran Bourke: what they had in common was a passion for music - fame and fortune hardly bothered them.
The fame and fortune came - the integrity never wavered. The Dubliners survived fashion's quirks because they were so utterly honest: they were not only admired - they were respected.
Luke was a rare Irishman in that he was utterly devoid of prejudice - at a time when tribal emotions were running wild, he never lost his stance as a member of the world's brotherhood.

He may have thought of himself as an international socialist - I prefer to think of him as a Christian, one who in the words of The Ancient Mariner “loved all things both great and small.”
My favourite song of his deep treasury was “Scorn Not His Simplicity,” Phil Coulter's tribute to his own mentally handicapped son.
Luke's songs began in his heart - those men who sing spontaneously composed hymns at Spanish religious processions would have recognised him as a brother.
And if he was in any tradition, it was that of Joe Hill and Vachel Lindsay and their fellow wandering minstrels who sang about man's dignity in the worst years of American capitalism.
Luke was a son of Dublin's dockland - a finer breed you couldn't meet. Fame never affected him - indeed I suspect that 'he never realised how famous he was.
He was - in the true sense of the term - a simple man.
That night at Tolka Park we embraced when the final whistle blew - and shed a few tears.
Luke is an immortal - the world is the better for his presence.

CON HOULIHAN