S1999 E1 • Luke

In a frank and revealing new documentary, Dublin filmmaker Sinead O'Brien explores the different facets of Luke Kelly. Here she talks to Paul Byrne about the man, the music and the mayhem. For many people, Luke Kelly was the quintessential Dubliner. And I mean that in both senses of the word. Having risen to fame if not exactly fortune in the early '60s alongside Ronnie Drew, Barney McKenna, Ciaran Burke and later John Sheehan, with his flaming red hair and a voice that could knock down a skyscraper, Luke Kelly epitomised what The Dubliners were all about. His passion for folk music, and his dogged determination to use music as a changing force (in a decade rampant with government policies that desperately needed changing), made Luke a hero not only to the woolly jumper brigade but also to political protestors the world over. Just how politically motivated Luke Kelly became in those early years is one of the many facets to the late great singer that Dublin filmmaker Sinead O'Brien was determined to highlight in her documentary, simply entitled Luke. "Luke Kelly was someone I was aware of growing up in the same way that I was aware of Phil Lynott and Rory Gallagher," offers O'Brien. "He was one of those iconic figures in Irish music that I only really knew through the odd hit they'd had here and there. I was always aware of the fact that he had lived life pretty hard, and that he had died young, but that was about all I really knew. So to go and search out his past, his childhood growing up in the slums of Dublin, his formative years, listening to rock'n'roll, to rhythm'n'blues, and then finally hearing The Old Triangle and turning to folk music, that was a fascinating story to follow." Besides talking to fellow Dubliners, Sinead spoke with both those who knew him well – including Phil Coulter, the Kelly family and Luke's latter-day girlfriend, Madeline Seiler – as well as those who clearly wish they had known him (such as Shane MacGowan and Bono). Through their interviews, you get the distinct impression that Luke mania just might be ripe for a revival. "The Dubliners had definitely reached their sell-by date long before Luke passed away in January 1984," offers Sinead. "And I think all of the group would agree with that. So there was a long period of time, starting quite a few years before Luke's death and quite a few after, that The Dubliners were very unhip. But I think that's changed now. I think there's a whole new generation out there who feel The Dubliners were something very special in Irish music." Indeed, looking beyond the ferocious beards and the beer, The Dubliners reveal themselves to be a band with not only a strong sense of Irish history but also of world affairs, thanks largely to Luke. Of course, they also had a strong sense of living life to the power of Guinness, and whatever you're having yourself. Given their reputation for enjoying life very much to its fullest in the '60s and '70s, were there any stories that Sinead found unfit for human consumption and therefore had to leave out of her documentary? "Oh, absolutely," she laughs. "There were stories – and I'm sure people are aware of at least a few – which would make your head spin, mainly with laughter. It wasn't so much a case of not being able to verify them; it was more to do with the idea of not embarrassing those involved. That, and the fact that we could have been sued left, right and centre if we had used them." Unsurprisingly, O'Brien's documentary is at its most joyous and enjoyable during the band's golden years in the late '60s. The banning in Ireland of Seven Drunken Nights as it raced up the charts – both here and abroad – placed the band alongside acts such as The Rolling Stones, much to Kelly's delight and numerous DJs consternation. And The Dubliners' early attempts to film promos for their assaults on the world's hit parades have to be seen to be believed. Pretty much all the footage from those early, highly crazed years come across now like an episode of The Monkees crossed with Planet of the Apes. There's an awful lot of playacting, and there's an awful lot of hair. "They certainly knew how to have a good time," smiles O'Brien. "When the good times rolled in, they just went ahead and had as much fun as humanly possible. But there was also something wonderfully naïve about them, as seen in the documentary when they end up in a trendy London club with The Beatles and The Stones. The lads just thought all these guys on psychedelic substances were basically off their rockers." Less joyous of course were Luke's final years. Having suffered a brain tumour, it wasn't long before Kelly grew disillusioned with playing, and increasingly frustrated by his own ill-health. In the four years leading up to his death, he rarely ventured beyond the home he shared with his girlfriend, Madeline Seiler. "Luke basically turned his back on his past at that stage," offers O'Brien. "On his music, on his friends, on the band. He had tried branching out into other areas earlier on, other outlets for his talents, but he felt trapped by the success of The Dubliners in a way. The old songs were what people wanted to hear him sing, and he wanted so much more than that. He released a wonderful version of The Kinks' Thank You For The Days, but it flopped. Eventually, Luke just didn't want to try anymore." "I think people will be surprised at just how complex and challenging a man Luke Kelly was," finishes O'Brien. "He had a passion that he applied to just about every aspect of his life, and it's a passion that comes across even in his conversations. I don't think we'll ever really see anyone quite like him again, and I just hope I've done him some sort of justice with this documentary."

Première diffusion : 1 novembre 1999