Sunday, 01 November, 2009
If you were 12 in 1979, the Specials were easy peasy lemon squeezy the greatest band on the planet. The sort of band you can't quite imagine not existing before. Of course, style over substance is any easy sell in the pop charts, and you have to assume that the vast majority of the millions of catalogue rude boy clones who cat walked Britain’s high streets over the following few years were fashion victims of the lowest order (check Stereotypes or Do Nothing for the bands response). The difference being that, perfectly packaged as they were, the Specials were substance wrapped in checkerboard. Who else could mention the Irish Republican Army and the Ulster Defence Association in a dance track?
First, they looked great. If you weren't there, Britain was transformed into a mail order version of The Wailin Wailers album cover almost overnight, though it probably didn't know it at the time. Before the birth of the woeful sports casual, the working class dressed up for the weekend and the easily attainable and striking evocation of mid 60's Jamaica was too irresistible for those who founds punks sartorial alienation just that bit too alienating.
Plus, how many record label designs will ever be a iconic as the fictional Walt Jabsco effortlessly cooling on every two tone label? A generation of trend followers spent the next year desperately trying to look as cool as a cartoon and usually ended up as a poor mans Mickey Pearce from Only Fools And Horses, but their hearts were in the right place.
Secondly they sounded great. Musicians aside, and if you're listening to musicianship you're not hearing a band, that contrast between Terry’s pained self conscious proselytizing and the manic party time antics of Lynval and Neville either side have only ever been equalled by Public Enemys Chuck D and Flava Flav. And never bettered.