Nostalgia can be a dangerous commodity, especially when – like this reviewer – you were lucky enough to be an impressionable early teen around the turn of the 1980s. It’s weird really, because now we often think of that decade for the worst of its’ excesses from the dawning of fully-fledged stadium rock to Goths to haircuts as abominable as that ‘frozen waterfall’ one Mike Score from A Flock Of Seagulls used to sport.
Yet, the cusp of that dreaded decade brought so many seismic records from bands as influential and disparate as Joy Division, Dexys Midnight Runners and Wire and – lest we forget – it was the eye of the original 2-Tone/ Ska hurricane and the breakthrough of The Specials, Madness and The Beat.
The latter’s “I Just Can’t Stop It” remains one of this writer’s favourite debut albums. Joyful, sussed, politically motivated, uplifting and capable of spilling a cache of fantastic hit singles such as “Mirror In The Bathroom”, “Hands Off She’s Mine” and “Best Friend” it’s simply one of those records that you can go back to again and again with great satisfaction even this long after the event.
So if he’s honest, it’s that pull of nostalgia that’s been working on your reviewer’s magnetic field and guiding him up to this gig by the re-invented, sort’ve reformed version of THE BEAT tonight. And on paper at least the prognosis is dodgy enough. For starters, the clean-cut charisma of original frontman Dave Wakeling is sorely absent; Andy Cox and David Steele have probably long since retired since Fine Young Cannibals’ multi-selling career fizzled out and presumably poor old Saxa long since hung up his golden horn.
Consequently the only ‘old guard’ remaining are the effervescent Ranking Roger, drummer Everett Moreton and keyboard player Dave Blockhead, who appears to have mutated into 007 villain Ernst Stavro Blofeld in the meantime. As for the replacements, the burly bassist wears camo pants, but efficiently rattles out those depth-charge basslines, the spiky-topped guitarist sports a Nihilists T-shirt and seems to think he’s Giz Butt from The Prodigy although he covers admirably for the twin guitars of Cox and Wakeling and Ranking Roger’s son Matthew takes over his Dad’s backing vocals and toasting (not rapping, please note) bits while Roger commendably substitutes for Dave’s lines.
But, despite the ragbag pedigree of the line-up, as soon as they click into the sunny skank of “Hands Off She’s Mine” it all starts to buck up. Ranking Senior and Junior are already doing those synchronised bunny-hops that they’ve patented, new sax player Chico makes his stylish presence felt and the whole band get right behind the groove. By the time they follow it up with “Rough Rider” and a nicely-poised version of second album “Wh’appen?”s “Walk Away” it’s beginning to sound like an unlikely away victory, very much against the run of play.
Admittedly it helps when you’ve got someone with Ranking Roger’s perennial personality fronting the outfit and he’s soon in his stride tonight, coaching us in the finer points of Jamaican patois (“It’s like the Irish accent”, he says, getting everyone to shout “Wh’appen?” which sounds more like “woppen” in reality) before Ranking Jnr (even more handsome than his illustrious Dad?) leads a St.Patrick’s weekend-friendly chant of ‘Mini-Murphy!’
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So within fifteen minutes they’ve got the majority of the crowd eating out of their hands, but it’s always the maintenance that’s the hardest part and it’s a credit to this reconstituted Beat’s professionalism that they aren’t entirely dwarfed by the weight of their history as the rest of their infectious set unfolds. “Big Shot” and “Too Nice To Talk To” are as edgy and tetchy as ever; “Tears Of A Clown” sounds as box-fresh as when it first charted at the arse end of 1979 and “Ranking Full Stop”s dead stops still catch the mob out mid-skank.
There’s a tentative smattering of new material, too, and miraculously the Ranking Roger/ Neville Staple co-write “Muscle Ska” puts the boot in nicely, while a new lovers’ rock-style tune of Ranking Junior’s dares to adorn the home strait of crowd pleasers with aplomb gloriously intact.
Having said all that, I’d be pushing it shamelessly if I said there weren’t times Wakeling and co aren’t missed, not least when they slow it down a little. “Doors Of Your Heart”, for example, plods along in ungainly fashion; “Save It For Later” is woefully wooden and while you can’t ever accuse Roger’s heart of being in the wrong place, I’ve only one short phrase in retort when considering their cover of The Clash’s “Rock The Casbah”: oh dearie, dearie me.
Still, it’s all washed away by a ratchety-as-hell “Mirror In The Bathroom” and the surging climax of the tremendous “Jackpot” which ensures we all slope off with a perma-smile on our mugs. Inevitably it’s not quite like it used to be (how could it be really?), but as value-for-money nostalgia goes it’s of the superior variety and does little to sully the excellence of the original model. Not a bad result for an inhibition-losing holiday weekend all told.
Just one more thing: how the hell does Ranking Roger survive for over an hour onstage in that boiler suit and still look cool. I dunno. Some people are just born with it, ain’t they?
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