5. Havoc in Heaven

© Robbie O’Connell 2011 Slievenamon Music (BMI)

I first became aware of Frank Harte’s singing in the 1960s when he was a frequent guest on Ireland’s RTE television’s folk music programs. With his distinctive brash voice and his trove of Dublin street songs, he stood out from the many guitar playing balladeers who were omnipresent at the time. His unique style of singing, and his obvious love for the songs, made an indelible impression on me. Over the years, Frank became a folk institution with his numerous classic albums and his huge collection of songs that he generously shared with any singer who was interested.

Although we had a lot of friends in common, I never met Frank until the early 1980s, when I helped promote a house concert outside Boston at the home of Frank and Pat McQueeney, two of Harte’s biggest fans. They had all his albums and they were thrilled to have him staying with them. Pat was an amazing cook and they were treating him like a king in their beautiful house in the leafy suburbs. The concert was a success and I was chatting away with Harte afterwards when, out of the blue, he said, “I’m going home with you.” 

 I said, “Jesus, Frank you can’t do that. The McQueeneys will be devastated. They’re lovely people. What’s the problem?”

  “Ah, Jaysus, they’re very American” was all he said. 

I was worried that the McQueeneys would think I was stealing their celebrity guest. I did everything to talk him out of it, including offering to pick him up the following morning. But nothing would change his mind. So he ended up coming home with me and we stayed up singing and chatting until the wee hours.

The next morning, I was asleep in bed when I felt something thumping the mattress. I woke up to see Harte, like an apparition, standing over me, kicking the bed and  shouting, “Get up O’Connell you lazy lump. Get up before the day is gone.” I can honestly say that I never got a greeting like that from any houseguest before—or since—let alone someone I’d only met the night before.

Over the next 23 years, Frank and I became great friends, most frequently in the company of our mutual friend, Mick Moloney. Every July, at the Augusta Heritage Arts Irish week in Elkins, West Virginia, a group of us  would have nightly singing sessions on the verandas and porches of the Victorian mansions that dotted the campus. Sometimes the singing didn’t end ‘til dawn or later. 

A few days after Frank Harte died in 2005 I woke up with a peculiar line in my head. “Oh, there’s havoc in heaven now Harte has arrived.” I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it but over the next few days it grew into a tribute song to Frank in the style of the comic songs he loved. I took great care writing it. It was as if he was looking over my shoulder and each line had to meet with his approval. I tried to capture Frank’s irreverent outlook on life and his mischievous sense of humour. When I sing it these days, I update the political villains from Thatcher and Bush to Putin and Trump. I have no doubt that Frank would approve those changes.

HAVOC IN HEAVEN

© Robbie O’Connell 2011 Slievenamon Music (BMI)

Oh there's havoc in Heaven now Harte has arrived
All the trumpets are still, all the harps thrown aside.
Saint Peter's perplexed, "What the Hell's going on?"
Wherever he turns someone's singing a song.
There's a gang of them out on the porch every night
And they're singing away 'til the first morning light.
With a break for the breakfast they're at it again,
And the session goes on 'til God only knows when.

Luke Kelly is there, singing Dirty Old Town, 
Paddy Tunney sings two, Craigie Hill and Tam Brown.
Harte sits in the center directing the show
With the bold Eddie Butcher and the mighty Joe Holmes,
Bess Cronin and Heaney join in on each chorus,
Then Zozimus gives them the Finding of Moses.
Bert Lloyd sings the shanties, McColl the Scots songs,
And no one complains that they go on too long.

There are playwrights and poets and songwriters too,
As for politicians, there's only a few.
They come from all over, the truth I must tell,
And they're lining them up to be drop-kicked to Hell.
James Joyce's fine tenor is soaring tonight
Though his language is giving some poor souls a fright.
While Beckett and Kavanagh, Wilde, Shaw and Yeats
Are murdering the chorus of Finnegan's Wake.

There's a Tricolor flying above the main gate
And St. Peter is making the crowd outside wait.
When the next song is over, he'll let in a few,
As long as they promise to sing one or two.
All the saints gather round, and they're shouting for more
When Saint Patrick belts out Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore.
"And tell me," says Harte when he meets with Saint Paul 
"Did them old Ephesians ever write back at all?"

Poor Sinatra and Crosby are taking it hard 
All their fans have deserted to listen to Harte.
Now the word has got round, and crowd grows each day
To hear Con Greaney singing the Road to Athea.
Imagine their shock to see Nioclás Tóibin
And John Lennon together sing Dunlavin Green.
Janice Joplin's there smooching with Bobby McGee
And Elvis is helping Frank find the right key.

So if you don't like singing then go down to Hell.
They'll be glad to receive you, they'll treat you right well.
You'll find generals and presidents, bishops and kings
And not one of them has the first clue how to sing. 
They'll hand you a banjo or accordion for free
You can sit there and practice through eternity.
You can beat your bodhrán 'til you wear out the skin
While you're waiting for Thatcher and Bush to check in.

Oh there's havoc in Heaven now Harte has arrived!
All the trumpets are still, all the harps thrown aside.
St. Peter's perplexed, "What the Hell's going on?"
Wherever he turns someone's singing a song.
So here's a good tip for when your turn comes round,
Remember this detail if you're heaven bound:
Though you'll still need to keep an eye out for your sins,
You'll now need to know a few songs to get in.