We've just returned from The Specials, and I have to say, there ain't no party like a 30-to-50-year-olds' party. They want their money's worth for the baby-sitter (but can afford to get properly boozed), they aren't embarrassed to wear the current tour t-shirt, and they know every blessed word to every song, plus - they get mad at people who push in (pushers-in make me want to slit their ankles with a swiss army knife). We've been to some amazing gigs this year with equally good crowds but none equalled tonight's; they sang, they clapped, they roared, and if they were anything like the little man beside us, they sweated up a storm (while yelling "Rude Boy!" - dude was awesome). The band themselves - all of the originals, minus Jerry - were in impeccable form; they sounded incredible, had the energy of kids a quarter of their ages, and were just massively good fun. They played four of the five songs we most wanted to hear, Too Much, Too Young and Enjoy Yourself back-to-back which was brilliant (and why I have the husky voice I wish I always had; I don't even think there's a name for the key I was "singing" in), and if we weren't living in a tiny apartment and hadn't had noise complaints in our tenancy history, we certainly would have heeded Terry's call for a house to host the after-party. But considering the median age of the crowd, I'm pretty sure he found one (and one where the landperson is also the host).
On our way out at the end, a happy guy a bit younger than us in a plaid shirt stopped me to high-five me, and said I looked like I was having the time of my life, and then told Vincent he looked like he was enjoying himself even more. He was right. I've come home with piss on my shoes instead of lipstick on my shirt, but it doesn't matter a bit (and, to be honest, if Vincent had been wearing lipstick, my face would be too). The Specials are The Best.