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A few weeks before Christmas—the time of year when all public spaces are required by law to play Mariah Carey on an endless loop—this writer was pushing a trolley idly around a London supermarket. I was over by the fresh veg when the distinctive, Hammond-driven intro of the Specials' "Ghost Town" was piped through. Heads nodded. Some shoppers started to sing along.

Weeks later, I heard that Specials front-man Terry Hall had died, of pancreatic cancer. Memories came flooding back. One was of that moment in the supermarket, which encapsulated what made The Specials special: Their music was joyous and positive—and also ironic, Hall's deadpan delivery contrasting lyrics about far-from-happy places and events. A popular choice at parties, "Ghost Town" deals with Britain's urban decay circa 1981. It's political, but it transcended small-minded politics even then—so much so that the song reached Number 1 in Britain and stayed there for three weeks. That combination of seriousness and fun would mark Hall's music throughout his career.

During their short original incarnation, with Hall at the fore, the band had a large impact on music. Founded as the Automatics by Jerry Dammers, a well-known member of the Coventry punk scene, the Specials opened for the Clash in 1978, on the latter band's "On Parole" tour. They renamed themselves the Specials and set up their own label, 2 Tone; that phrase came to define a whole genre of music. A rare early multiracial band, the Specials absorbed influences from Britain, the US, and Jamaica.

When "Gangsters," the band's debut single, was released, I just knew. The Specials, alongside label mates Madness and the Selecter, were a shot of adrenalin into the UK music scene. Make that three shots. Despite conflicts that led to band breakups, this new scene shared a sense of camaraderie, in stark contrast to their punk predecessors. When Hall died, Dave Wakeling of the Beat (known in America as the English Beat) said Hall had always been "a gent" to the members of that band.

The Specials had an organic connection with the audience, which was much more mixed than punk audiences were. When they played live, the band and the audience almost merged. Hall was the calm in the eye of a storm, cool and focused in his two-piece suit and Fred Perry shirt, surrounded by frantic chaos.

In 1979, they released their eponymous debut album, produced by Elvis Costello. For a generation slightly too young for early punk, the album was a musical awakening. For the generation that had experienced the mid-'70s punk scene, it was a re-awakening. Hall's singing was distinctive, conveying with wit the alienation of British youth. On "Too Much Too Young," a live version of which reached #1 on the UK charts, Hall sings the killer line, "Now you're married with a kid / When you could be having fun with me."

The second album, More Specials, from 1980, saw them working to extend their sound, incorporating Muzak and lounge and giving Hall more scope to utilize his unique vocals. The result included moments of genius such as "Stereotype," in which Hall drolly recounts a very English humdrum life to a pseudo-Mexican beat. When I was a teenager, it intrigued and puzzled me. Now that I'm an aging bloke, it intrigues and entrances me.

Just at their moment of success, Hall, Neville Staple, and Lynval Golding left the Specials to form Fun Boy Three. FB3 had a more stripped-down sound, replacing ska with tribal percussion. The new band had a slicker, less earnest look. The glossy mags loved them, especially Hall's "suedehead" hairstyle. I copied it. Looks great till it rains.

FB3's first two singles showed they could make feel-good music, linking up with Bananarama on "It Ain't What You Do," and serious music, such as "The Lunatics (Have Taken Over the Asylum)." The debut album, though, is patchy. It was their second album, Waiting, from 1983, that clicked. It's vastly underrated; to me, it's a classic. It romps along with horns and strings on brilliant pop songs such as "Our Lips Are Sealed" (also a hit for the Go-Go's, who had provided background vocals on More Specials). Hall's humanity shines through, that wry lyricism contrasting even the most serious subjects. "The More I See (The Less I Believe)" expresses frustration about the horrors of Northern Ireland then closes with the line, "Does anybody know any jokes?"

Perhaps the ultimate example of this blend of seriousness and humor is "Well Fancy That!," which, to jaunty piano accompaniment, recalls childhood sexual abuse during a school trip to France, an experience that led to an emotional breakdown. It's shocking, a masterclass on how to express emotion without overemoting.

Again, at the pinnacle of achievement, Hall broke up the band. After FB3, Hall became one of those musicians whose music slips under the general public's radar. He was no longer the voice of a generation, but he was wonderful nonetheless.

His next band, The Colourfield, released two albums. Virgins and Philistines, from 1985, is an underrated gem, including the singles "Thinking of You" and "Castles in the Air." Its sound is late-'60s easy-listening love song with sub-Latin percussion. You want to slip on a rollneck sweater and try out a few bossa moves. His 1994 solo album, Home, is even more neglected. It's an elegant set of pop songs.

In 2008, Hall reformed the Specials, minus Dammers. Just over a decade later, following many lineup changes and the death of drummer John Bradbury, just three years ago, their album Encore debuted at No.1 on the UK charts. It was Hall's first #1 album ever.

For 43 years, Hall's music has never stopped giving me joy. It never will. He died much too young, so let's remember what he sang: "Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think / Enjoy yourself, while you're still in the pink."