The DVD slips into the loading tray, and I watch in hope rather than expectation. I’ve been told Tony Palmer’s The Wigan Casino is the greatest ever depiction of a northern soul all-nighter, and I want to see it for myself. The film is a window into the underground scene that emerged in the 1970s, powered by soul records that had flopped years earlier. But I’m not interested in the music or the dancing – it’s the crowd I’ve got an eye on.
I spot what I’m after. A young man, glistening under the spotlight as he spins balletically in a yellow vest. Then another person catches my eye with his perfectly picked-out afro. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, so I rewind to check, and yes, it’s true. A few minutes later, two girls clamber on to a coach, and one waves goodbye down the camera lens. Another boy squeezes through the crush at the front door. These young people are there for the same reason as everyone else: hard-to-find soul music that’s perfectly crafted for dancing. But all of them stand out. They’re different from the majority of the 1,200 dancers crammed into Wigan Casino. They’re Black and British.
