Raveheart by Graeme Armstrong review: 'prophetic'
Pitting the free spirits of the Scottish Rave Resistance movement against the dastardly forces of the far-right New Greatest Britishest Party, Graeme Armstrong’s second novel is funny, lively and ripe for TV adaptation, writes Fiona Shepherd
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There was a time when to get high and boogie was considered, depending on your socio-cultural perspective, either an act of both innocent escapism and political resistance or a sign of the impending collapse of society as we know it, spurred by the great unwashed daring to have a good time. In fact, there have been several such times: Prohibition, the Summer of Love and indeed the Second Summer of Love, to where Raveheart can trace its DNA (and its MDMA).
The politics of envy is alive and well and royally ridiculed in Graeme Armstrong’s blunt force follow-up to his award-winning debut, The Young Team. Raveheart is set in the present day but built on the “ecstasy frenzy” of Noughties Scotland, a time of “pure creative energy fae nuhin, wae nae ambition ae makin a penny oot it.”
Let this Airdrie native and Granta Best of Young British Novelist transport you to The Time Capsule, Lanarkshire leisure and entertainment complex and unlikely ground zero for the Scottish Rave Resistance movement, there to meet its reluctant thirtysomething leader William “Turbo” Patterson - recently redundant Timey DJ and the man who would be Raveheart - and his recalcitrant troops.
Ranged against them are the dastardly forces of the buffoon political class, headed by desiccated Prime Minster Reginald der Zaster and populist toff Tobias Duckworth MP, the right dishonorable power behind the throne, who is emboldened to pursue the far-right agenda of the New Greatest Britishest Party. This comically ridiculous/uncomfortably familiar administration, dubbed the Ochre regime after their diarrhoea-adjacent party colour, recruit a youth wing of brainwashed boy scouts (girls need not apply, or even leave their home economics lesson) nicknamed the Black Collars and bring back hanging for society’s worst offenders: the ravers. With the war on drugs roundly re-ignited, the scene is (eventually) set for an almighty square go.
As bathetic as this satirical dystopian set-up might seem, we have been here before. Armstrong is too young to have been directly impacted by the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act of 1994 which sought to outlaw gatherings of ten or more people soundtracked by “a succession of repetitive beats” (legalese for raves and free parties) but his Noughties “baby raver” generation sat on the shoulders of their predecessors and he pays tribute to their service, demanding respect for a scene which remains a massive cultural movement but is routinely overlooked.
Just try overlooking this shower of shell-suited agitators and the wider gathering of the clubbing clans. Armstrong offers a particular provincial perspective, with his obvious affection for (and firsthand experience of) the Airdrie/Coatbridge scene characterised by hard, fast techno overlaid with chipmunk vocals. Turbo and his Techno Pirates crew are unlikely activists but they find common cause with the elite Edinburgh underground scene, led by Murray “Minted” Powers, and Fife’s Scottish Hardcore Coven of masked feminist militants.
These amped-up characters are introduced with heroic stage directions and, like the build and drop in a techno tune, the plot is off to the races, borrowing gleefully from various action genres. An Apocalypse Now mission in the Borders to find a rogue operative unleashes a whole world of psychoactive shenanigans, a series of rave resistance parties, each larger than the last, lead to a Harry Potter-meets-James Bond showdown at Glamis Castle with the forces coming together Star Wars-style to fight for the right to party, and all to Armstrong’s suggested soundtrack of bangers, which runs to a whopping 300 tracks.
It’s a lot and it’s long but once you are attuned to the Lanarkshire vernacular, the dialogue is crisp, lively and very funny and the various capers are vividly drawn (just right for TV, one suspects). Armstrong marshals his catalogue of characters, real life clubbing cameos, witty drug education announcements, sensational headlines and diverse romps with the precision of a DJ who knows it could all go off at any moment, all the way to Raveheart’s unexpected epilogue. No spoilers but it’s positively prophetic.
Raveheart by Graeme Armstrong, Fourth Estate, £16.99
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