RIP Terry Hall (1957-2022).

The Specials were part of my youth, and I saw them several times, including that magical first time with Madness and Dexys and The Selecter all on one bill in 1979.

I first met Terry about 15 years later when he was promoting his underappreciated solo album from which this song is taken in the mid-Nineties.

And again, another 15 years later, when The Specials reunited and played a gig at the 100 Club – an intimate affair that recaptured the thrill of those early shows.

In a fashionable West End hotel of the type they would never have chosen to stay in, the first six band members were brought in to talk to me in pairs. Finally, Terry came in, alone, and sat down with that familiar hangdog expression.

“How’re you doing?” I inquired genially. He looked up with those big soulful eyes, looked down at the ground and furrowed his brow. An eternity passed. He.looked up again and I smiled encouragingly. He nodded thoughtfully, stared at the ground for another age, then opened his mouth to speak.

One word came out, so softly that I barely caught it as he murmered: “Better.”

He talked for ages about finally finding a doctor who prescribed the right medication for his lifelong depression; about watching his beloved Man Utd with his mates and turning down invitations to sit in an executive box (“I don’t want to watch my team sat next to some cunt like Mick Hucknall”) and how much he was looking forward to the reunion gig.

RIP Terry Hall.