If the names Jimmy Radcliffe, Tobi Legend and Dean Parrish mean nothing to you, you probably spent the 1970s listening to Genesis or the Sex Pistols. If they do, you must be acquainted with a feted, foetid dancehall in Wigan.
From 1973-81, the Wigan Casino was the epicentre of Northern Soul, an amphetamine-fuelled movement based on the glorification of little-known American soul acts. Mick Martin's play celebrates the sights, sounds and unsavoury fluids of the legendary Wigan all-nighters: "Every kind of sweat. Vinegar sweat, cigarette sweat ... Such a cauldron of sweat you could swim in it."
For Casino regulars, it was all about the details, and Martin (who was there) gets most of these right: the tunes, the preferred brand of talcum powder, the unlikely style icons - one of the girls announces that she intends to get her hair done "just like that Anna Ford".
The story, of four kids from grim northern backgrounds who just want to dance, is a predictable tale of love, loss and heartbreak - but then so were the records. But the dancing is astonishing: a high-octane frenzy of flips and spins executed on a floor so slippery it virtually qualifies as a form of figure skating.
Martin's play became a deserved cult hit when first produced four years ago; director Mark Babych's main innovation here is the introduction of a seven-piece band that, given the scene was all about dancing to rare vinyl, could be seen as slightly beside the point. But there is nothing like a full brass section to bring a show already swelling with emotion to bursting point. If you could take the essence of the evening and bottle it, you'd make a fortune. Or on second thoughts, better not - the smell would be appalling.
· Until June 28. Box office: 01204 520661.
