Review: The Specials at Logan Campbell Centre

Coventry's rudest were straight into the hits from the get go. Photo / Supplied

It was a few bars into Too Much, Too Young when the upstairs balcony started bouncing. Oh, good times.

Okay, I'll admit I'd arrived with a few doubts about this one. We've had our share of cash-in reunion tours down this way, bands trading on fond memories and goodwill to sleepwalk their way through a ragbag of familiar melodies like wrinkled Stars in Your Eyes contenders.

A few years ago, the group's toaster Neville Staples toured with his own tribute act and did enough damage in one night to almost put me off ska for life, but in true 2-tone fashion the difference this time round was black and white. No mucking about, Coventry's rudest were straight into the hits from the get go and we'd skanked through Do The Dog, (Dawning of a) New Era and perennial favourite Gangsters before the sell-out crowd had had a chance to clock on to what was happening.

That really is Terry Hall up there, possibly the most singular frontman of the wider punk anti-movement, spitting out his po-faced sarcasm and banalities - "Anybody got any requests? We don't do requests."

And that really is the Specials, one of those mythologised bands you've danced to more times than you'll ever remember, but never thought you'd see. Sure, the most special Special, songwriting founder Jerry Dammers, wasn't there, but, and with all due respect, he's the keyboard player. We made do. And holy hell it was loud - at times punishingly so.

Concrete Jungle had many clutching their ears as they danced. Which may be why Blank Expression stood out for me - the vocal interplay and sparser arrangement gave the spikey groove room to breathe without the full-spectrum assault of brass and bass.

Hall aside, if the Specials had a star it was drummer John Bradbury who kept it tight and ferocious. He clearly keeps himself in good nick, owns some nice sunglasses, and never let the pace flag. So every beat was present and correct while bassist Sir Horace Gentleman peeled off the riffs and somehow came off like John Cleese's lost brother.

As for the songs, we heard the entire debut album interspersed with highlights from More Specials and personal favourite, Friday Night, Saturday Morning. You name it, they played it, with the set proper closed by Ghost Town, their bitter ode to Thatcherism.

This tour is ostensibly a 30th anniversary for band and fans alike, so everyone knew their parts and in the case of Nite Klub the audience managed to pre-empt the track's bitter pay-off lines before Hall had a chance to sing them. He almost smiled. When he said it had been a privilege to play for us, I almost believed him.

But there was one gripe amid the love - the support "act" and self-aggrandising selecta, DJ Felix. Now, I've got no problem with his musical taste, but I've heard more tuneful MCing in my shower. Mate, shut it ... if Junior Murvin had wanted rubbish vocals, he'd have recorded them himself. That feels much better thanks. Then before we knew it we all were crooning away, Auld Lang Syne-style, to Enjoy Yourself ... It's Later Than You Think, before smiling all the way home. Special indeed.