Swanky jazz notes entice the audience into a snug auditorium within the Young Vic theatre. Once inside, we are invited to sit at tables or on benches either side of a traverse stage, where we are left to chat, sip our drinks and admire the art-deco furnishings of the room.

The space unmistakably evokes a speakeasy bar, straight out of America’s Prohibition era. However, despite the chilled, smoky atmosphere oozing through these cosy quarters, a dimly lit body lies face down in the middle of the stage, preventing us from becoming too comfortable in our surroundings.

It’s 1932 in Harlem. Our narrator, Sal (Darren Charles), begins his story where it ends. He is the survivor of a jazz dance double act. His ‘better half’, Mo (Ivan Blackstock), is lying at his feet with a bullet through his head. Before we can dwell on the outcome of these events, however, Sal rewinds the plot back to the beginning through a beautiful technique that becomes a prominent feature of the production, in which the performers reverse their sequence backwards in time to the sound of a tape rewinding.

Sal begins his narrative again, in a time where he and Mo were street dancers in Jackson, Mississippi. He whisks us through their journey up country and even further up the social ranks, till we reach our present setting: a nightclub in New York City’s Harlem – the DejaBlues. Here, through a fusion of 1920s lindy hopping laced through with contemporary hip-hop moves, we learn that despite having obtained stardom and success, a conflict has risen between the duo. The simple soul, Mo, whose only passions in life are music and dance, performs each night simply for the love of it. Sal, however, sees success equating to material riches and is lured into signing away his creative independence to a rich, white producer, Mr Deville.

Whilst the basic premise of the plot is nothing original, the method through which the story is told, particularly the blurred boundaries between the artists and their art, is stunning. Twice Blackstock uses the human body as a metaphor for music and dance. First, in a haunting dance routine where he, as Mo, plays his body with a bow as if it were a cello. This theme is later repeated when Constance (Robia Milliner Brown) – who is more a personification of dance than a human character – is taken away from Mo, stripped of her elegant dress and thrust into skimpy leather underwear and cheap gold bling by Mr Deville. Constance, the once passionate spirit and soul of dance itself, has been prostituted as a money making commodity. Mo is left clutching onto her dress and everything it resembles about an older time where dances were danced with authenticity.

The storyline is not without historical context. Whilst many of the 1920s and 30s jazz clubs showcased black talent, the venues were predominantly owned and run by rich, white Americans, who were often happy to exploit their artists. However, while this context is touched upon in A Harlem Dream, particularly when Sal questions the manager of the DejaBlues on why he cannot enter through the front door and mingle with the guests after the performance, the history does not become a political focal point for the production. Instead, these issues are lightly alluded to through character names like Mr Deville and the comic portrayal of the DejaBlues manager as a headless doorman wearing white gloves to resemble his race.

The play was only 50 minutes in length, and certain aspects of the plot seemed to be tap-danced over as a result. A longer narrative could have provided us with a more intricate story line and more opportunities to invest in the characters. Still, the intimacy of the setting fully immersed us into the Harlem nightclub scene, and perhaps it’s no bad thing that the tableau of Charleston steps, jives and break dancing moves left us wanting more.

A Harlem Dream played at the Young Vic. For more information, see the Young Vic website.