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Coventry's original Rude Boys the Specials--minus mainman Jerry Dammers--have reformed for a UK spring tour that sold out in hours. When they came to the US for the first time 29 years ago, New York Rocker editor Andy Schwartz filed this report on their much-ballyhooed arrival in the Big Apple.--Barney Hoskyns, Editorial Director, Rock's Backpages

If the reaction of the New York rock press is any indication (and it usually isn't), the Specials are going to be Very Big In America. So numerous were the requests for interviews with the group that, on the afternoon of their U.S. debut appearance at Hurrah, Chrysalis Records called a press conference. Such formalities are usually reserved for special occasions like the Rolling Stones' 55th tour of America.

Not much was revealed, but with questions like "Will you continue to play only Jamaican music?" (thank you, Charley Crespo) what could we expect? The group invariably looked to head man Jerry Dammers to give the initial response; he spoke haltingly, through a large gap in his upper plate. (Though with the royalties he'll collect from all the Specials / Two-Tone hits of just the last six months, extensive bridge work is surely within Jerry's grasp.)

Did the band look forward to experiencing any particular aspect of American culture on this tour? "No, not really,' said Dammers. "But I'd like to see Professor Longhair." (Ironically and tragically, Longhair died less than two weeks later.) Many English bands, after their initial success at home, had focused their touring and promotion efforts entirely on the American market; could the Specials see that happening to them? "Anything can happen," came the reply. "The best way to get the music across is on stage." They are prepared for repeated tours of the States.

10,000 copies of Elvis Costello's latest single had been pressed up on the Two-Tone label, but no one seemed to know quite how. ("We've been working hard, on the road.") Yes, they were pleased with Elvis' production of the debut album. It was revealed that (gasp!) Terry Hall still lives with his mum. And so on and on, until group and press became thoroughly bored with each other and it was time for the sound check.

Opening night. Hurrah is so crowded that it looks like kids are actually stacked up against the walls on top of one another. In the crush near the left P.A. column, I can't even raise my arms to take notes. There's an impossibly long wait while "technical difficulties" (the bane of opening nights and WPIX-FM broadcasts--this is both) are sorted out. Many mediocre "new wave" records are played, along with some good reggae and spacey dub sounds. People are screaming for the band, for more room, for air to breathe.

At last, the Specials hit the stage, and their initial attack is impressive, the same way that a platoon of Marines establishing a beachhead on your front lawn would be impressive: uniformed, unstoppable aggression. Save for Rotten-eyed vocalist Terry Hall, the whole band seems to be in constant motion, especially second vocalist Neville Staples, rhythm guitarist Lynval Golding, and Jerry Dammers, bobbing and weaving in place at his organ. The sound is louder and fuller than on record, anchored by a powerful rhythm section, but the arrangements stick close to the recorded versions and the whole show is quite slick and carefully choreographed. Not for these guys the un-tuned guitars and raggedy endings of Punk; I'll bet that after a few gigs, you know just when Staples will take a flying leap into the front rows, maybe even when (like the Ramones) Jerry Dammers will pause to remove his hat and jacket, revealing the attractive undershirt and suspenders beneath. ("Rude Boy," nothing--Dammers is single-handedly reviving the classic "Ed Norton look" for the early ‘80s. Get out those battered felt hats and stained Fruit-Of-The Loom's now!)

There were group complaints about the on-stage sound (out front was fine), and for all their precision and energy the Specials seemed unsure of themselves. To my ears, the set didn't really take off until "Concrete Jungle" (with some great knife-edged guitar by Roddy Radiation). Then they were off, into "Too Hot," "Doesn't Make It Alright," "Stupid Marriage," and a bluebeat instrumental ("Guns of Navarone," perhaps?) featuring famed trombonist Rico and trumpeter Dick Cuthell. "Message To You Rudy," was faster and less fluid than on record; "Nite Klub" kicked off with a nice Ray Charles organ flourish by Dammers. "Gangsters" was the closer that drove everyone crazy, though again it sounded rushed, less mysterious and enticing than on record. There were (too) many encores: "Long Shot Kick The Bucket," "You're Wondering Now," "Madness" (a tip of the pork pie hat to their Two-Tone labelmates), a reprise of "Gangsters." I don't think I've spoken to a soul who wasn't knocked out by the show. Certainly the Specials' return in March (to Irving Plaza, let us pray) will be a triumphant one.

As for me--the stick in the mud, the fly in the ointment--I found much of the music too frantic to dance to (except for pogo'ing, which of course you're not supposed to do) and the attitude contradictory. Jerry Dammers writes songs about the importance of being individual, about standing up for yourself whether your hair is long or short, whether your trousers are flared or skin-tight. The funny thing is that none of these guys whould be caught dead in long hair or bell-bottoms, and that they present a pre-packaged "hip" image inextricably linked to their music. This was only their first American gig, but already the crowd was sprinkled with little wind-up "rude boy" dolls in funny hats, natty suits, and wrap-around shades!

But unlike '77s' now discarded model, Punk, the cult of Rude Boy doesn't lead us down a path of youthful rebellion and (maybe, no matter how half-baked) new ideas. Instead, it's just another stylistic dead-end, marked by half-hearted calls for help from the hapless kid ("Do The Dog") taking out his pent-up aggressions on The Girl ("Little Bitch") Is this really a music for the '80s? Or do the mellifluous tones of Rico's trombone merely sound a retreat from Punk's challenge? Pass the Gang of Four, please. You can dance to them, you know.

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