Beats by Kieran Hurley

Having sold-out its 2012 run, ascendant Scottish playwright/performer Kieran Hurley returns with a bonus 10 outings for his techno-powered coming-of-age story, set against the background of mid-90s rave culture and heavy-handed policing.

It’s still hard to comprehend a sane adult inked-in the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act and its joyless proclamation to penalise “gatherings” listening to music “wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats”. But enact it John Major and Michael Howard did, ushering in an era of insidious lifestyle-based law-making.

We enter to the thud, thump and acidic swirl of The Orb’s free party favourite, ‘Little Fluffy Clouds’, as Hurley (who plays all the parts, mainly into a microphone, sat at a desk) and onstage DJ spin their tale. There’s Johnno McCreadie, a skinny 15-year-old anyteen who likes playing Super Nintendo and soaking himself in Lynx Africa; and the thwarted steelworker-turned-copper, Robert Dunlop. The path for their collision course is laid from the outset.

Aside from Hurley’s characterisation on the page and in performance (his accents flit between borders and colloquialisms in a drumbeat), the strength of Beats lies in its non-hagiographic account of rave. In amongst the euphoria, the Es, the faux-camaraderie, lie the doe-eyed comedowns, the idiotic temporary best friends and the crushing return of reality. His cultural reference are bang on the money, his targets well-chosen, and the monologues blend, spike and support each other. Not a word sounds contrived, and the whole thing bounces along 4/4 time. A pitch-perfect period piece.