At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I just can’t even begin to encapsulate how sad I was to learn, last night, of the passing of Terry Hall of The Specials. Another hero of mine taken. I’ve started multiple posts about where I was when I first heard The Specials (at a summer camp in Maine, of all places) and what effect their first record had on me, but it’s all just the usual jumble of sepia-toned paeans to distant youth. I have multiple anecdotes of playing crucial songs by The Specials at pivotal points in my life, and the joy that it tirelessly provided. I remember an acrimonious fight about to break out, in college, between two good friends of mine (about a girl) that was swiftly diffused by simply dropping the needle on a Specials song (“Guns of Navarone”), instantly snuffing out the stand-off and transforming the room into a hopping froth of beer-spilling bonhomie.
There was no one like The Specials. Sure, there were other great ska bands, but The Specials were something different. And despite what I’ve always considered a strange vocal (and physiognomical) resemblance to Robert Smith of The Cure, Terry Hall was an entirely unique character.
Terry made countless great records with The Specials, Fun Boy Three, The Colourfield and as a solo artist, and they’re all worth tracking down, but if you don’t own and know the first eponymous LP by The Specials, you’re living a life dimmed by a paucity of joy.
Go get it and pour one out for the rudeboy.
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