Leeds

THE PLACE was wet with anticipation. The first Fun Boy Three gig. All day long I'd been hoping someone would come up to me and say "Have you seen this band before?" To which I could reply "No, which one's Jerry Dammers?"

I assumed a position on the balcony, observing the crushed populace of the front rows and hearing excited shrieks from the massed throats of very young females greeting the end of each interval record. Periodically there were bayings of "Terry, Terry" and, once, an assembly singalong to 'Ghost Town'.

Into the darkness the women instrumentalists emerge. Following a brief pre-recorded vocal snatch of 'Faith, Hope And Charity' they strike up a backing. On run Lynval, Neville and Terry. Big cheers, bright lights.

The atmosphere reminded me of a Jam or Duran Duran gig, events where the fanatical adulation and size of the venue could often occlude any possibility of communication or warmth between audience and performer. Not so with the Fun Boy Three. Neville and Terry are void of the assumed kind of pop 'charisma' and the practised adoption of 'star quality'.

Their testing of the audience is on a strictly humane level, full of humour and good spirit, never patronising or conceited. After the second song, 'Pressure Of Life', a girl at the front yells at Neville “get your willie out”. The recipient, momentarily aghast, allows Terry to assert: "I handle the willie department”.

There is no lack of energy. this is the FB3 in a relaxed confident and in-control state. The very decision to appear live at all is indicative of the trio coming to terms with the spectre of the Specials and believing in their own potential and ability to face an audience, far from hostile but still, in sections, regarding them as 'ex-Specials’.

“Nice to be back on the rock and roll circuit again," observes Terry. Nowadays he's able to smile at these sentiments in the knowledge that he, Lynval and Neville can step out of that numbing routine whenever they choose.

Musically it was a feast. Apart from providing a neat twist on traditional pop notions of sex roles, the FB3’s contribution is vast and vital (there's sometimes an eerie deja vu feeling hearing Annie Whitehead’s rasping trombone – all very Rico). Atmospherics are ably grafted to rhythm, the skankier things are blended with the smoother glide of, for example (“for those of you who like Roxy Music”), 'Our Lips Are Sealed'.

People fainted continually, there was a steady stream of inert young things being carried exitwards. The walls dripped with condensation.

Not bad for a first gig. In fact, a wonderful evening.