There is a game we have been playing. You are in charge. Five bands. One venue. Who would you choose? (Alive or dead, pick the era.) Seemingly easy, it’s surprisingly hard. Everyone can roll off four, but the fifth throws it.
My staging choice fluctuates between Hackney Empire and Hyde Park with guaranteed sunshine. And The Specials are always in the top four bands. And so to Brixton – another venue on the list.
Beyond my 2-tone teens – when we saw The Specials play everywhere from north London’s Sobell Centre to the Lyceum – this has got to be at least my tenth time seeing them since they revived themselves at Bestival in 2008. (In the words of Mr Hall, they were: “Back after 27 years and playing to a field full of fucking prawns.” A commentary on the Under the Sea fancy dress theme.)And they never ever disappoint. There really is “only one Terry Hall” – consistent in his grumpy happiness. Sarcastic, moody, smart and right on the money, he is most animated when commentating on the state of racism in football, mostly about Suarez – the “chavvy c*nt”. John Terry gets away lightly. Another rant about Savile has Hall, flabbergasted at the state of things “while trying to bring up kids in this country”. The angry young man is all grown-up – and still angry.On the flip side, he shows a lot of love/irritation/concern over guitarist and vocalist Lynval Golding’s giddy stage antics, warning him: “Calm down, you’re in your seventies, mate.” (Although he’s not quite that ancient yet.) Golding, taking no notice, invites the young in the audience to: “Watch me. I’m going to teach you to skank… badly.”Turns out they all skank rather well.
The thing is, there are no duff tunes. All are danceable, all deep, bitter and uplifting. And we all know all the words. An auditorium full of many generations, kids jumping up and down with ridiculous enthusiasm, soft-hard men in their sixties giving it their all, tweenagers and late, late middle agers. Party-ing and whooping and giving it the rude boy chant, everyone is slightly hoarse and sweaty on the way home. Nice.
There are technical difficulties with the bass and the absence of Neville Staples – who bowed out of this most recent tour due to health concerns – is felt. But otherwise it was a musical feast. Hall’s staccato delivery of deliciously crafted yet simple lyrics (“I. Go. Out. On. Friday. Night”, “he’s. Just. A. Stereo.Type” and, my favourite, “where. Where. Did. You. Get. Get. That. Blank. Blank. Expression on your face”), along with some lovely horns and elegant strings made it all glorious.
Golding gives a little pause to pay tribute to Amy Winehouse, playing her favourite Specials track, Hey Little Rich Girl.
Building to Ghost town, and flinging production at Message to you Rudy and Nite Klub, Terry generously tells the wildly enthusiastic crowd – nigh on 5,000 Fred Perry tops – that we have “gorgeous voices”. Which is nice. And, after Too Much Too Young, leaves us wanting more. Exhausting. Luckily we don’t have to chant, “Specials! Specials! Specials!” for too long.
Coming back with an achingly good cover of the Dylan classic, Maggie’s Farm (those splendid horns again), they make sure we know it is time to go by ending on You’re Wondering Now.
We enjoy ourselves. It is later than we think.
Words: Susie Innes
Pics (except main): Louisa Innes
