Opting for the former is the best idea for this unexpectedly revealing, vividly atmospheric, often funny and alarming, docufictional comedy from 1981 about the rise of the baggy-trousered ska-pop national treasures Madness. It takes us from their beginnings in 1976 to their chart breakthrough: gormless, penniless blokes, obsessing about music and roaming north London’s gritty districts of Camden Town, Stoke Newington and Crouch End. (This elicits some droll dialogue: “They’re all the same, these streets” … “That’s why they put signs on them.”)
Our naughty, dodgy heroes play people’s parties, sign on the dole and do mortifying odd jobs, get told off by site foremen and office supervisors, drive to gigs in Arthur Daley vans, almost get into fights with skinheads and have calamitous arguments with the drummer during rehearsals. It could have carried on like that indefinitely, but the arrival of Graham “Suggs” McPherson as singer is the mysterious ingredient around which everything coalesces: his voice miraculously ups the band’s game, apparently curing their worrying propensity for playing flat. His vocals mesh with the reggae thump of the keyboards and sax and the rest of the band’s goofy jogging-on-the-spot stage energy.
