The Specials – The Specials

I never learnt the art of resting. That phrase gets thrown around a lot. ‘The art of …’ followed by any old shite. But resting is most certainly an art. A lost one at that. It’s a symptom of a society that equates productivity to value. And depending on your outlook I’m either a victim or the problem. I’m meant to be taking a break from writing to travel for a month, but one week in I’m coming out of semi-retirement. In fairness I’ve apparently decided to travel during the European monsoon season. I’m also experiencing the inevitable loneliness of solo travelling. Munich has a few less opportunities for belly button shots than Krakow. The travel fatigue is starting to set in. All the churches, parks, galleries, rivers and museums have blended into one. They’ve acquiesced into a mental fog. When the Hofbraühaus looks like a harvester, I know I need to hibernate. But as resting is impossible for me, I’ve decided to write a tedious iPhone notes blog post to kill the time.

The Specials are Coventry’s own 2 Tone, Ska revival Wu-Tang Clan. Perhaps I’ve gravitated to them for that very reason. They’re so British that it’s dulled any homesickness I was developing (sorry chuckle sisters). I’m far from a patriot. I think it’s quite difficult nowadays with hindsight to find reasons to be British and proud. But The Specials are a rare exception. I’m almost tempted to get a two World Wars and one World Cup tattoo here in Munich. ‘A Message to you Rudy’ is British canon at this point. It has so many covers it could make a nuns getup look saucy. But this is the version of the song that always comes to mind, my patient zero. There’s a hereditary quality to this too. I feel a strange connection to younger versions of my parents that were enjoying The Specials despite only knowing those versions through photographs. It’s a phantom bond to a memory that I’ve invented, but it’s as if we are existing in parallel when I hear The Specials, like I’m remembering a second-hand feeling. But perhaps that’s an accurate way to frame The Specials. They’re a terminus. A touch point for all that came before and all that has occurred since. Terry Hall’s vocals clearly influenced the early Blur albums. Listen to ‘Stupid Marriage’ and tell me it couldn’t be on ‘Modern Life is Rubbish’ or ‘Parklife’. The wailing guitars littered throughout the album are the precursor to that early Oasis guitar sound (most prominent on ‘Doesn’t Make it Alright’). ‘(Dawning of A) New Era’ has a 2000s Arctic Monkeys-esque breakdown. I guess the entire album is the prelude to ‘Whatever  People Say I Am’. It’s the Coventry edition, a safari of the city’s underbelly. At the same time, I hear the influence of the Rolling Stones. To my mind Mick Jagger is the earliest example of singing like you’ve been to the dentist. The guitar work also resembles Keith Richards’. The riff on ‘Little Bitch’ could be the ‘Brown Sugar’ riff for the hard of hearing.

Terry Hall sounds like he sings at karaoke night in O’Neils, which is exactly why he plays the strings of my soul slowhand. He’s a man of the Earth, grounded and genuine. Sometimes the untrained singers are the truest. His deadpan voice enhances ‘Doesn’t Make it Alright’ capturing the exhausting state of his world, whilst providing a hint of hope and aspiration. Whilst Terry is the Left Eye of The Specials, there are three vocalists which gives the band some sonic diversity and unexpected yet exciting interplays. Terry shares the vocal spotlight with Lynval Golding on ‘Too Hot’ which as a concept sounds like a Caribbean fuelled recipe for embarrassment, akin to Steven Seagal’s ‘Strut’ (brace yourself for that stroke of a song). Yet the result is almost tasteful, with Lynval’s barking baritone complimenting Terry’s squeaky attempts at patois. This track also has the dopest lyric on the album – ‘choose your burial site’. It’s a shame I’ll never have an opportunity in my pampered life to use it. The guitar and trombone solos are always worth a moment of silence. And they’re bolstered by the ever present bass which leaps along like a randy Jack Russel. ‘Blank Expression’ has my favourite guitar work purely for the unexpected bluesy turn. Couple all of this with the endlessly danceable ska rhythms and the album is equipped for any mood.

I was mildly surprised that the album is fifty percent covers (who would be genuinely shocked by something so banal). I do admire The Specials’ thematically water-tight selection process though because I wouldn’t have guessed, ignorant as I am. There was a time where artists weren’t expected to pump out originals like Kardashians. It was acceptable to play covers as long as you played it with soul. Obviously some covers don’t escape the shadow of the original (Bastille’s ‘No Scrubs’ cover has all the suaveness of an anal prolapse). But look at Johnny Cash (‘Hurt’), Nirvana (‘MTV Unplugged’) and Isaac Hayes (his career). Songs are just words and arrangements. The Specials let their own experiences and outlooks inhabit the tracks, creating something different and worthy of existence, not just lazy album filler.

The album shows its age in more ways than one with the feminist anthems. Lyrically, ‘Little Bitch’ has kept like milk on a rooftop in Nairobi. But it’s easy to forget how young the band were considering their sharp lyrical focus. I would have lacked the maturity to muster a wince at these songs when I was twenty. Despite this, the albums humour still wrinkles my smile lines. ‘Stupid Marriage’ is framed as a patois court session which goes begging for a President Wensleydale feature. ‘Monkey Man’ knows how ridiculous it is and still finds time to shred in amongst the parody. I’ll never look at a bouncer again without smirking. I’ll have to be less precious about my teeth in future. ‘Too Much Too Young’ is a preemptive reply to the Jeremy Kyle show, switching between a tutting slap on the wrist for young parents and these scathing but admittedly hilarious hypnotic downward spirals (‘Ain’t you heard ‘bout the starving millions, ain’t you heard ‘bout contraception … leave a generation gap, try wearing a cap’).

But ultimately, ‘The Specials’ is a tragicomedy. It presents the wickedness of our world through humour, laughing so it doesn’t cry. The album cover sees The Specials looking up to the listener with dark, piercing gazes, almost goading you to descend into the black and white colour gradient of their partisan world. But ironically, the members also blend into one another. Even in their prejudiced world, people aren’t so different. Black and white form a pattern. Coupled with the comical sound, it’s reminiscent of a silent era comedy film. But there’s a dark and brooding undertone, a fourth-wall-breaking turn to the camera as if to say “what are you laughing at”. The final echo as you drift on a 2 tone cloud up and out of this skewed Norman Wise sketch is the sound of judgement – ‘You’re wondering how you will pay for the way you did behave’. And once you stop dancing, you’re left looking inwards, pondering your cameo scene in the comedy.