As one pop’s least likely stars Terry Hall spent four decades inspiring, delighting and perplexing his audience. In 2014 he opened up to MOJO about The Specials, mental illness and his need to question everything.
Portrait: Josh Cheuse
“I’VE JUST STARTED GETTING INTO OUTDOOR pursuits,” says Terry Hall, referring to his discreetly water resistant trousers and sturdy fell-walking boots (a silk scarf and a black safari jacket complete his outfit). “One of my kids said, ‘Is this your new image? Serial killers go to camping shops, you look like a fucking psychopath!’”
Sat in a soft-lit BBC recording studio in London’s Great Portland Street, he sips coffee from a cardboard cup, and exudes conspiratorial mirth. Mordant humour has always been his wont; this afternoon in February, he’s just recorded the last of four programmes for Radio 6Music, in which he paired reggae pop favourites The Liquidator and Monkey Spanner with Bobbie Gentry’s haunting Ode To Billy Joe and Peggy Lee’s classic of resignation, Is That All There Is?
He’s a tall man with a large head and a characterful, saturnine face that wouldn’t be out of place in an Ealing comedy or a Victorian mugshot. If it looks lived in, he has lived a life. Fronting wildly combustible ska-boom legends The Specials would have been enough for most; seemingly indifferent to career advice, he split the group at the zenith of their success, when the epochal Ghost Town was Number 1 as the inner city riots of 1981 raged. He remained a chart fixture making barbed leftfield pop with The Fun Boy Three; his next band, the spiky MOR-influenced Colourfield were less successful. Don’t ask Hall about 1990’s group project Terry, Blair And Anouchka, though; he can’t remember it at all, he says.
The following decades would see two solo albums and collaborations with the likes of Tricky, Damon Albarn and Dave Stewart, though at times his apparent reluctance to use his voice – an emotive instrument able to infuse any song with melancholy and hurt – has been a mystery. That he always seemed burdened can be explained by the fact that he contended with mental illness for most of his life. A change of medication since the mid-noughties, he says, had a dramatic effect: since then, there’s been the hugely successful reunion of The Specials, who tour this October, and his re-energised interest in DJing. Post-Radio 6, he’s now playing a series of club nights at north London venue the House Of Wolf.
Music still touches him, he says, mentioning Daniel Johnston as a singer he relates to. “He may be the last artist I’ve seen who struck me so hard,” he says. “I went with some people, and when he was doing True Love Will Find You In The End, we all looked at each other and honestly, we were all in tears at the same time. That’s when music seriously touches you.“
Accepting another cup of coffee – he no longer drinks booze or smokes – he prepares to look back over his 35 years in music with frankness, sporadic eye contact when something of significance is mentioned, and well-timed comic pauses. “I’m dead lucky,” he observes, “because I honestly don’t give a shit what people think.”
How’s the new DJing career?
It’s good fun. Doing this show is just like going through your records and thinking, Shit, I haven’t heard this for years! It’s songs that I like, that remind me of a period in my life… it’s how I communicate, really, through records, ’cos I find it easier than talking. When I’ve made records it’s for the same reason, to tell the people around you how you feel, because you find it hard to tell them. On this show we played Peggy Lee, Is That All There Is?, last. An unbelievable, fantastic record. When I’ve come to the end of something that song always comes into my head. The end of what? I dunno. Whatever ends. What ends? Everything ends. Bobbie Gentry’s Ode To Billy Joe too, that always reminds me of when I was eight. I was really disturbed by it; it was like there is depth here – you can tell stories too.
What were you like as a kid?
Being a manic depressive, in Coventry? I went in and out of being a loner and not a loner, knocking about with older kids, and it was total boredom and getting into trouble. At school, we had coppers on the gate to make sure we didn’t get out. Your life was mapped out – everyone worked in car factories. The idea of actually breaking away from that was just sort of impossible. You had to dumb down, a lot, to get on. I first got put on valium when I was like, 13.
You mum was ill and on meds too.
She was. It’s definitely a family thing, always has been. She gave in to her illness and that was fucking horrendous, do you know what I mean? She died a couple of years ago, but she was a total agoraphobic, she never left one room for years and years and years. Just before she died, she said, “You do know that your dad was a traveller?” And I was like, Where did this come from? But then you could sort of understand it, how me dad lived, which was really simply. We didn’t have any running water or a bathroom but there’d always be dead fucking animals hanging up everywhere. He’d skin rabbits all the time. And this is in Coventry.
Did music offer an escape?
Music didn’t ever seem accessible. My dad used to play records by Piaf and Paul Robeson; when I got into Roxy Music and Bowie, it seemed too massive because it was on telly. The first outdoor big gig I went to was Pink Floyd at Knebworth in 1975. Trying to relate to that at 13 was like, impossible. How many people have said, “Until they saw The Clash and the Pistols?” It all changed. In Coventry we all saw the same gig and started to form bands. Me and mates from school did a band called Squad. We didn’t have any songs, we just went on-stage and made it up.
“It was a real shame The Specials didn’t continue. The third album could have been brilliant.”
You preferred New York punk. Why?
I saw Richard Hell and that really blew me away. The first time I thought, I really love that band. They were a lot older – here there was like lots of bands like (mild disdain) Eater, that were, like, kids singing about being on the dole, but then bands like Talking Heads and Patti Smith were talking about something else, they weren’t talking about working in a factory in Burnley. I found that really interesting.
Did punk’s provocative side appeal?
I though that was the idea. I liked the idea of aggravating people. About the only thing I came away from school with, actually, was how you can aggravate teachers. And, more than anything, doing it to suss people out. I remember this gig we did at Nottingham Rock City with The Fun Boy Three, I got there early and brought 30 or 40 American flags and got the crew to put them above the stage. We played the gig and not one of the band questioned it. To me that was really important, ’cos I was questioning why I was doing that, and I did it.
What should they have done?
Questioned it. It’s just me being a bit of a twat really, but you want some reaction. For me there’s always got to be a good reason to do something. That’s been, not a problem with me, but a bit of a problem with me, questioning everything in my life, constantly – my friendships, my relationships, everything, asking, Why am I in this? And why are you in this? Drives you fucking mad… ha! But I’ve always wanted to have a good reason to make a record. The records where I had a real drive and a reason to do them always turn out OK.
In 1979, The Specials had a real drive and a reason to be.
Yeah. It felt valid. That was a time when it was really heavy, in Coventry, it was pretty horrible. There were a lot of racist attacks, very obvious unemployment. It was like-minded kids getting together and trying to address this situation.
Why did it fall apart after only two albums?
We got on OK… but because there were seven members, you’d drift into different little camps and they’d change, all the time. When you started travelling abroad that’s when it became really difficult because you were stuck with each other. Tiny little things like waiting in a hotel reception at 9 o’clock to leave at 9.15 become fucking big issues when it’s 9.20. That’s what killed the band originally – hotel receptions, seriously. Was I a bit of a headache? Not a bit. (pause) Yeah. I could be an idiot, but I dunno… it got to the stage where we couldn’t even travel together.
Could you have seen the group continuing?
I always thought it was a real shame that we couldn’t, because I think the second album is brilliant and the third album could have been really brilliant. It’s always confused me when people describe the band as a ‘ska band’, ’cos you listen to International Jet Set and it’s not ska music, I dunno what music it is. But you’ve got to be together to work, and we couldn’t do it.
Do you think Jerry Dammers has sought to claim the band’s vision as his own?
Jerry’s always come out with, “I did this and this”, and just because I don’t say that shit, it doesn’t mean… it was quite a seven-piece band, do you know what I mean? And then, you look at our first album we’re like a covers band, there was no genius there. Jerry was great at arranging stuff and he is a great songwriter, but it actually did take seven of us, and that’s always been my sort of argument.
You came back incredibly quickly, with The Fun Boy Three.
There was so much bad stuff going on that me, Lynval [Golding] and Neville [Staple] just thought, we’ve got to get away and go into a studio and lighten up a bit, and go against everything we’ve been told that we’ve got to do. We just wanted to hire whatever we needed, and be totally clueless. That first album was really nice because it was like taking a massive Nurofen and clearing your head. A lot of people reference Fun Boy Three stuff as being really important and inventive, and think some of it really was.
The second LP, Waiting, included Well Fancy That!, a shocking account of you being abused by a teacher on a trip to France.
That was the first time, through making a record or writing a song, that I addressed myself, properly on a personal level. The reaction I got from that was really brilliant, because people would communicate with you saying, “I went through a similar sort of thing.” That’s the idea of success, when you talk to somebody who lives in California who drove 60 miles on their scooter to a radio show that you were on just to tell you that. Growing up the way I grew up, you could shout and shout and people didn’t take any notice. But all of a sudden you could say something that you earnestly believed, and people would understand where you were coming from and you weren’t going to be cut down.
Was the teacher ever prosecuted?
No. That’s been, I dunno, I wish that… I couldn’t take any action because that’s when I got put onto valium. I was sort of fucking out, and nothing really happened. It went on, a lot, but it was all under the carpet… I think it was songs like Well Fancy That! that made me think about writing and taking it up as a serious thing rather than always recording or touring.
Again, you split The Fun Boy Three as greater success beckoned.
It was the same deal – just as the band were sort of breaking in America with Our Lips Are Sealed, they were saying, “Well, you’ve toured it for eight dates can we turn that into 80?” And the gang had gone. Once that happens, forget about it. The last gig was in San Francisco. I remember wanting some fresh air so I’d walked up these fire escapes to the roof of the hotel and the door had slammed, so I was stuck there, a million floors up for about six hours, shouting down to people to get me out. To me that was a sign. I didn’t really say I was leaving. It just fell apart.
The acoustic, song-based Colourfield were another departure.
I’ve always felt it was important to try different things. It’s always baffled me when people say, “We’ve got a totally different direction” and you listen to it and they’ve like, added a flute. Limiting yourself to one type of music… it’s so dull. With The Colourfield that’s when I started taking up writing as a serious thing, and listening to other influences, like Bobby Goldsboro, who you’re always told to laugh at, but really the songs are great. I can’t remember how we actually ended it. It was probably not great either.
It was your last concerted effort, band-wise…
I did get sick of groups. The desire to work with other people and try stuff out was all it was, and all it’s ever been.
There follow collaborations with Dave Stewart, Ian Broudie, Damon Albarn…
Our publisher suggested me and Dave get together when I said I wouldn’t mind trying writing with people. He’s had a lot of bad press but y’know, he’s a bloke from Sunderland, really, who did all right. I’ve always liked him, he’s got a good heart. He’s got a lot of famous mates, but I don’t know what you can do about that. People like Harry Dean Stanton and Bob Dylan would ring him up and he’d try and give me the phone, because he knew I was always quite uncomfortable with that. That’s quite funny I think.
“Me and Dave Stewart approached Barry Manilow about a musical. He thought we were taking the piss.”
This was the period of the rumoured Barry Manilow musical.
Me and Dave were trying to come up with ideas for a new sort of musical, and we approached Barry Manilow. We met him, and he had, like, loads of assistants and hairdressers. He was running through this song The Trouble With Lovers, but there was this line about Jackie Onassis that he couldn’t get his head round. He could talk about Mandy or the Copacabana, but Jackie Onassis? Too real. He thought we were taking the piss but we weren’t, we were being quite sincere.
These collaborations tend to be short-lived.
I move on. With Damon, I think we were destined to meet – he’d been really into what I did and then I got into what Blur were doing. You meet because of that and you end up writing a song, or something. Was there meant to be more with Damon? Not really. We did a TV thing with Blur, stuff with Gorillaz, that was probably enough, for that.
You did your last solo album, Laugh, in 1997. Then, a lull.
Yeah, but I’m doing loads of things, I’m just not putting them on record. I get obsessed with stuff. In the late ’90s I was trying to perfect conifer height, I remember that. I planted about 30 conifers, and I wanted them to all grow at the same level. You buy them, and they’re all 18 inches, and you plant them all at the same depth, feed and water them all the same, and some died and some went brown. Why? It really did my head in. I’d lived in Manchester and then I moved back down to the midlands for a couple of years. That’s what the midlands does to you. Plus, having kids kept me really busy.
You next new LP was 2003’s The Hour Of Two Lights with Mushtaq from Fun-Da-Mental.
Just looking at how other musicians work was so brilliant to do, again. This band Romany Rad, who were Polish gypsies who were all seeking asylum here, played on it. It was a period where eastern European was starting to become the scapegoat. The band’d turn up to the studio dragging their guitars, using a plastic spoon as their plectrum. It’s part of their lives, they don’t question whether it’s successful or not. A real, real eye opener. It worked, but to be honest it was just that one record that I wanted to make. We did a trade-off with them – when we’d finished the session they’d start recording their own album. I never heard it – one thing about the gypsy community, and I know this because of my dad, is you think you’re in, you could be pally as much as you want, but you’re not in.
In 2009, The Specials reform. Why?
We set out to celebrate 30 years since we did it. When I saw the Pixies in Brixton in 2004 I went home really happy, thinking what a great group. That’s all I’m thinking about with The Specials. There’s no like, motive, none of that shit, I was just really happy to see everyone. If you play all these songs and people still really love it, and they do, I don’t think there’s any harm in that. There are some people who say you should never reform… well, think what you want, mate. I don’t care. But it’s like, the name of this band is more important than the members.
Why wasn’t Jerry involved?
We did rehearse, but afterwards Jerry didn’t feel comfortable with it. The six of us did. The thing I gathered more than anything was, he wasn’t sure whether he was up to playing again. Fear’s a terrible thing, and one thing about The Specials, some members have that fear, and you think, What are you afraid of?
Who, exactly?
Oh you know… You’ve got this gift to do stuff, it’s not even about making other people happy, you could fulfil something in yourself, trust me, you will get some personal satisfaction from this. But you’re too nervous to do it. I definitely sympathise. But people are people… like that Depeche Mode song, he-he, fuckin’ ’ell… things can be simple, it’s when you question it too much you end up doing nothing.
You’ve also spoken about your mental health.
I’ve had two or three, like, serious incidents in the last 30 years, where I should’ve got help. The last time, about eight years ago, I had no choice, because it totally disabled me. Now I’ve been with the same doctor for eight years and I’ve finally got medication that really does work, and combats the illness. Some people talk about how, if you’re medicated out, it can fuck up your creativity. I agree, but would you rather be creative, or would you rather have these horrible dark thoughts about drilling your head? I’d much rather be mellowed out and not creative (laughs). I also get, “Have you not tried yoga and herbal tea?” Fuck off. Can you just sit there a minute while I just put this chisel in my head? Then I’ll get onto your yoga.
…and you had a cancer scare.
They removed stuff from my tongue and I had to have stitches in my tongue and my mouth. It was quite funny – we went to Australia to do a gig, and I was singing, it was either Friday Night, Saturday Morning, or Ghost Town, and a stitch had got caught in my back teeth just when I was trying to hit this note, so my tongue was like it’d been padlocked. It was ridiculous. I ran off stage and cut my stitches out. The surgeon went mad, but it was the only way I could sing.
Is this the last Specials tour, and will Roddy Radiation or Neville Staple be part of it?
We all decided that we wanna do this tour, ’cos we’ve got some ideas and we wanna play them. Different stuff, I can’t go into it. Whether that rounds the story off for us, maybe. Roddy goes all the time, Neville, we never know, honestly. But I still feel comfortable singing those songs – it’s part of my life, and it doesn’t feel weird at all.
You’ve talked about writing again. Do you think you’ll make another Terry Hall record?
I’m thinking about stuff, yeah. I’ve started some work with a friend in Paris. She was a part of Nouvelle Vague. I quite liked their approach, but I don’t wanna do covers, I wanna do new material. It’s either that or conifers, innit?
Are you who you are because of music?
No. Because of my chemical imbalance, more than music, that’s why I am who I am.
You don’t seem like someone who finds it hard to talk.
I want to talk to people. I want people to know I’m fucking, y’know, nuts. Not in a bad way, but because of the fact that you can deal with it. That was the whole thing about being abused as a kid. That abuse was horrendous, man, it was like, taken away and abducted and locked in fucking wardrobes, and being horribly abused. But I want to share it with people. That’s the only good thing that can come out of it, if you can talk to people and someone thinks, “Fuckin’ ’ell, it’s not just me, maybe I can deal with it.” That’s what you should do, right? Because you might do some good. You might do some good.
This article originally appeared in MOJO 246.
Jerry Dammers: How The ‘Devil’s Chord’ Split The Specials... Read MOJO's interview with the architect of 2 Tone in which he reveals how violence at the Ghost Town sessions finished off the group.
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