Specials

Unbelievable: in 2009, the Specials. That must be what everyone was thinking. Because when you arrive at the Birmingham Academy for the fourth date of the UK mini-tour celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of their first, historic album, you realize what real, feverish anticipation feels like. It's a typically grey Midlands Sunday when the miracle takes shape; the Specials, who are pretty much playing at home here, since Coventry is a 20-minute drive from the Academy, already played here the night before. And those who were there for both nights reach for phrases like "pure class" and "cool as fuck".

Inside the venue, spacious but stiflingly warm, it feels like being dropped straight into Shane Meadows's "This is England": skinheads of every age and background in Fred Perry/Ben Sherman, regulation jeans, braces and Doctor Martens, working their way through several tons of beer, while the sound system pumps out mega-hits of the first ska wave (Hot Rod All Stars, Tony Scott, Symarip, of course). After all, as amply documented on YouTube, this was always the Specials' audience: working class in origin, anti-racist, consciously political, but with a strong sense of style. It's moving to spot a good number of original '69 skins, from when the movement hadn't yet been infected by National Front propaganda, which later cast such a shadow of prejudice over shaved heads. Tonight is a reunion for them too.

After a pointless half hour from an anonymous local band, a childlike little tune - which only after 20 seconds you realize is "Enjoy Yourself" - triggers a huge collective sing-along that instantly puts you at ease. You try to picture how it will actually feel, and when the lights come back on you first see litres of beer flying to a decent height, and then the Specials, in 2009. Unbelievable.

Well, not quite everyone: founding member Jerry Dammers and the legendary trombone of Rico Rodriguez preferred to decline their bandmates' invitation (though they did play together a few nights earlier in London), and that's infinitely more than a shame.

That said, let's move on to who actually showed up. The first to make himself known is Neville Staple, who will dance and ham it up for an hour and a half, followed by his usual foil on stage, guitarist Lynval Golding, the group's other Jamaican member. Then there's Roddy Radiation on the other guitar, in great shape in his punk get-up despite a missing tooth or two, and Sir Horace Gentlemen on bass, a man who has even written a book on ska and currently teaches Art History to underprivileged kids in Warwickshire. Rounding out the line-up is old lion Bradbury on drums, a horn section that isn't worth even half a Rico, and a young guy who plays the keyboards well but is taking a big risk trying to mimic Jerry's moves.

Right, but where is He? Twenty-one-year-old frontman on the first album, the Rude Boy par excellence, instant icon of a generation: where is Terry Hall? There he is, a splendid, motionless figure in a gangster suit that wouldn't have looked out of place even in the golden days. Cynical in his attitude and impassive in that punchable face of his. Go on, Terry.

They kick off with nothing less than "Do The Dog", a sort of band manifesto dedicated to teds, mods, skinheads and any other brotherhood that ever fought it out on the hot streets of 1970s England; they carry on with "Dawning Of A New Era", jump straight into the legendary "Gangsters" and revel in the perfect one-two of "Monkey Man" and "Blank Expression", just like all those years ago. It's clear from the start that this reunion is about the Specials' original line-up, the one from '79-'81, the one behind the first two albums, leaving aside all the later "radio friendly" output. Thank goodness for that.

Terry pauses to strip off a layer, perhaps picturing for himself just how it must feel down there in the crowd: there's no air left in the venue, and Neville says the next song suits the moment perfectly - it's called "Too Hot". The carefree mood gives way to a more reflective side of the Specials, or maybe they too are feeling this hellish heat (never experienced anything like it before, I swear!); the fact is, there's less dancing and more singing along to "It Doesn't Make It Alright", "A Message To You", "Rudy" and "Do Nothing", but there's no escaping it. Every single song by this band is a hit, every time it's a blow straight to the heart.

"Happy?" asks His Laconic Highness Terry Hall. Of course we are, we would have been even if you'd shown up mumbling around a piece of chewing gum and only moving your lips when you felt like it, just like you used to do on Top Of The Pops; we still are now, even knowing how much money has to do with an event like this, after you declared you had no money troubles and were only doing it "to buy yourself some sweets". But if revolutions can't be put on trial, reunions certainly can't either. The crowd knows every word of every song ("Little Bitch", "Nite Klub") and dances non-stop to timeless music, played, if anything, with even more class than in the past; and the lyrics (phone taps, rich little girls, urban jungles) seem almost prophetically written for our own times. Happy? To death, Terry.

The standout performance is the masterpiece "Ghost Town," which speaks of Coventry and its second ruin, following the infamous Nazi raid of '40, this time due to unemployment hitting a peak in the city, right as our heroes became one of its most popular bands. Sure, only two albums to their name, we've already seen, danced and sweated enough. Not so: the Academy, an absolute furnace by now, erupts into apotheosis with "Too Much Too Young," the Pioneers classic Longshot Kick de Bucket, and the most requested track at the entrance, just like in the venue's restrooms. It's called "Skinhead Moonstomp," and it's played so-so, but no matter: 40 years on from the Symarip original, there's clearly someone in tears. "Enjoy Yourself" closes things out, circularly and triumphantly, then: nothing but applause.

I saw fathers holding their children's hands, I saw a (truly) old couple of skins kissing passionately, I felt love in that room. If only the world were like this, even for just one day... then I look down at my shoes and the closing line of "Friday Night" comes to mind: "Wish I had lipstick on my shirt, instead of piss stains on my shoes," and I fear none of this will change a thing. Except ourselves.

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