The King is dead! When a friend rang to tell me that Con Greaney of Rooska had sung his last song, a pang of pain and regret filled my heart at the loss of this mighty man, the undisputed sovereign of the ballad kingdom, just short of his 90th year. It seems extraordinary that it was little more than 10 years ago that this singing colossus first burst forth from the hidden Ireland, in the fastness of West Limerick, to share his songs and individual traditional style with the outside world.
While Con was well known locally, it was solely through the efforts and conviction of his dear friend and mentor Gabriel Fitzmaurice of Moyvane, who recognised his singular talent, that he was brought to the attention of a wider world via a cassette tape, followed by numerous radio, TV and stage performances. From that time until his last illnes, Con chalked up a lot of mileage and sang a lot of songs, bringing untold pleasure to thousands of people up and down our land.
It was always a joy to be in Con's company. His twinkling, mischievous eyes, his infectious smile, his hearty laugh, his invariable good humour as well as his great singing gift were better than a tonic. I remember, a couple of years ago, visiting him one night in his home. There were only the two of us in the house, but we swapped songs for a couple of hours, celebrating an unaccompanied singing tradition as old as time itself. Artists can sometimes be temperamental and egotistical but there was none of that in Con. He was patient, generous and encouraging to other singers, with never a hint of envy or jealousy.
When he was not singing he puffed contentedly on his pipe, as good a listener as he was a performer. His repertoire of songs was vast and when one realises that he learned most of his songs listening to other singers, in the days before tape recorders were heard of, it brings home to one the tremendous feat of memory this required. He liked to tell of how he learned "The Rose of Newtownsandes" from Jack Faulkner at Puck Fair after hearing it sung three times.
At Christmas, when I called to see him in his new house in Carickerry, he regaled me with stories of olden times. As a young boy of 13 or 14 he was selling turf by the bag in Newcastle West. He told me that he was in Dromcollogher with his horse rail of turf on the morning after the tragic fire in 1926 and recalls seeing the pall of smoke still rising from the charred cinema remains.
Con's style was unique. The pride and gusto of his performance was always a joy. His breath control, even up to the last, was an example for any budding traditional singer. A born entertainer, he derived genuine pleasure from being among his own, especially on a night (or morning) in one of the hostelries in and around Carrickerry or Newcastle West, where he was so much appreciated and loved, and where he will be sorely missed.
Our sympathy goes to his children and extended family. The huge turnout at the obsequies on a beautiful Sunday in June, the impromptu concert at the graveside, Gabriel Fitzmaurice's moving eulogy, the music of Donie Nolan and friends, the sung tributes, the reluctance to leave Con's last resting place - all bore eloquent witness to the love and affection which Con engendered throughout his long life.
Ni bheid a leithΘid ar∅s ann. Ce≤l na nAingeal go gcloise is go gcanaidh sΘ.
G.McM.