Too Hot

Were The Specials the coolest band of all time?

The other evening, I realized “Too Hot” was stuck on a loop inside my head. This town IS too hot, in every possible sense. Proud Boys parade downtown; the police having been infiltrated years ago, there isn’t even a facade of neutrality, or protection for those who oppose them.

A few days ago, a friend watched a confrontation between people at a homeless encampment and a homeowner nearly turn deadly; the police took 90 minutes to arrive. Around 8 this morning, she heard a dozen shots coming from the direction of the camp.

What's this got to do with a 2-Tone band?

I was 12 or 13 the first time I heard The Specials. Everything—the stark, monochrome imagery, the mix of fierceness and intricacy, the directness of the name—nailed me to the spot. Like the punk LPs I was devouring—I found “The Specials” in my sister’s shelves, near “Another Music In a Different Kitchen” and “In the City”—this band had nothing to lose. But instead of walls of guitars, there were…trombones? What the hell was going on? Like all my favorite artists, it seemed like the band had created a world complete unto themselves. We could take it or leave it.

I trust the songs need no introduction. What sticks with me now is the raw optimism embedded in the music. Even cataloging the bleak violence of Thatcher-era England, there’s never a hint of surrender or collapse. Young black and white men slinging unstoppable, biting, even hilarious tunes, all looking like the coolest time travelers in history? Yes, please. In a Washington, D.C. wilting under a hostile takeover by Reagan and his “values voters,” The Specials seemed—I’m not exaggerating—like superheroes to me.

What would The Specials say today?

That’s easy: That we are the superheroes. That no one else can save us, or do the necessary work of waking up for us. Just as the band helped rescue a young boy lost in a senseless time once before, it feels like a pretty great moment to remember their message to you and me.