Smash hit

The reunion may have seemed sudden even to their staunchest fans, but Golding, who has spent the past decade bringing up his children in Seattle with his Native American wife, began the process six years ago when he contacted Hall and founder member Jerry Dammers — the one original member absent from this reunion.

A tortuous period of trans­atlantic communication ensued, punctuated by occasional clandestine meetings. “At one point, Jerry told us to meet him at the British Museum, but we had to stay in a back room because he was so paranoid about us being seen together,” Golding recalls.

In the end, Dammers failed to see eye to eye with the others about the reunion. Hall says the sticking point was the band’s desire to tour, and Dammers’ preference for playing just a few football stadiums, but it seems that plenty of old tensions rose to the surface. Do they miss him? “No, no, no!” Panter howls. Golding and Bradbury both agree they don’t miss him at all. Finally, Byers admits there is an element of regret. “I miss his craziness. Jerry used to... not dictate, but he had a plan.” He laughs: “And none of us knew what the hell it was!”

Hall has most to say on the subject: “I think it’s really sad that he’s not with us. And the longer it goes on without him, the harder it is for me to find the reason why. It’s pretty basic — do you wanna play or not? And he doesn’t seem to want to. But he can walk back in any time he wants.”

Hall arrives to be interviewed last of the band, barely an hour before stage time, but looks calm and characteristically weary. Is he enjoying it more this time? He strokes his chin and ponders. “I’m more in control,” he replies after a long pause. “That’s good.” He looks up. “Do you know what I mean?” Six years ago, Hall was diagnosed as suffering from bipolar disorder, though his perpetually glum demeanour had been a running joke for decades. “I know,” he nods. “I always found myself incredibly cheery on stage.” He chuckles momentarily. “Others didn’t.”

By the time Hall received the diagnosis, he was on the point of collapse. “It got so acute that it ended up with total physical and mental breakdown. I couldn’t walk and talk, couldn’t do anything for a really long time.” It took four years to find the right medication, “just to function during the day, and sleep”. The results have been spectacular, he says. “For two years, I’ve been really good — no weirdness, no darkness — and that’s great. I can operate now.”

And has standing on that stage again brought him catharsis?

“Very much so,” he nods enthusiastically. “It’s been a massive healing process for the band.

And I think that’s the biggest thing for me: to be able to be with mates again, people I grew up with.

It’s like we had this big family rift and we all fell out at our uncle’s wedding or something. But now we’re putting that right, and that’s good for all of us. I think a few bands have greatness, and I think we had it.” He looks up. “And I think we’ve still got it.”

The Specials begin a British tour on November 1; www.thespecials.com

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