Theatre - Breathtaking portrayal of a Svengali's fall. By Michael Portillo Telstar: the Joe Meek story New Ambassadors, London WC2

I confess that it did happen. I was only nine at the time, and I take the view that things which occur early on in a man's life should be overlooked, or at least forgiven. Also, millions of people did the same. In 1962, we splashed out six shillings and eightpence to buy "Telstar", a single by the Tornados. It went to number one and stayed there for weeks, and became the first British record ever to top the American charts.

We bought it because it sounded electronic, like nothing we had heard before. I blame Harold Wilson, too (my hero then), who around that time fired us up with talk of the white heat of technology. The title referred to a communications satellite. It was a brave new world, bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, and "Telstar" symbolised it all. God help us. You never heard such a trite dirge.

It comes as no surprise to me to learn that Joe Meek, the composer of "Telstar", was tone deaf. But everything else in Nick Moran and James Hicks's play about his life makes your jaw drop. Having checked it out on the web, I discover that Moran has stuck to the facts of a bizarre life and death to produce this fine piece of theatre.

Evidently Moran first heard of Meek by chance - when passing the recording studio that Meek set up above a shop at 304 Holloway Road in north London. In Tim Shortall's design, the two tiny rooms that made up the studio and control room form a brilliantly chaotic set, littered with the chunky microphones and loudspeakers of the period. The director, Paul Jepson, seems almost obsessed with authenticity. He has carefully chosen actors who in body and face resemble the originals.

Even in those days, Meek was unique as a truly independent record producer. Somehow, he communicated his concepts to the musicians, instructing the drummer to go boom titty boom titty boom, and the guitarist to produce twang twang twang. He was of an excitable disposition, to put it mildly, and tyrannised the groups with which he worked.

He treated the Tornados bassist Heinz Burt differently because he was in love with him. He bought him shiny suits and got him to dye his hair platinum blond. With Meek's encouragement, Heinz left the band to pursue a solo career. His first record, "Just Like Eddie", was a hit, but only the besotted composer believed that the blond had what it took. Heinz's career crashed after his mentor's death in 1967.

Despite the hits for which he is remembered, Meek's career stumbled from one disaster to another. He was prosecuted for importuning in a public convenience, and subjected to blackmail and hate mail. He descended into depression, paranoia and drug abuse and met a violent death in his studio. A French composer had sued him for plagiarism over "Telstar", and while the legal case continued Meek was denied access to the vast royalties owed to him from the record. Eventually, the issue was settled in Meek's favour, but by then he was dead. To tell you more might spoil your evening.

The main reason to see the play is an extraordinarily powerful performance by Con O'Neill as Joe. For two hours, he generates a frenetic nervous energy, rushing around the set, persecuting his musicians, pacifying his landlady Violet Shenton (a fine performance by Linda Robson) and lavishing affection on Heinz (Joseph Morgan). Act I has the pace and exuberance of a Whitehall farce. Act II is like a descent into hell.

O'Neill is breathtaking as the joyful vigour of his early days gives way to self-loathing. Terrified that his sexual exploits will be exposed, and embittered by financial fiascos, he turns against his friends. As he moves towards his self-destructive end, he plays the Pathetique symphony on his record player. We are invited to remember the fate of another tormented homosexual composer: Tchaikovsky.

O'Neill has clearly studied the outward symptoms of acute mental illness. His appearance degenerates, his legs writhe involuntarily, his head convulses as he battles the demons in his mind. There is a wonderful moment of theatre when he dashes the few feet from his control room to the studio and holds Heinz's shotgun to the head of the session musician at the drum kit, yelling: "Play it properly or I'll blow your fucking head off." The drummer wets himself with fear.

Heinz is made a ridiculous figure: fantastically stupid, ungainly, talentless and ungrateful. I suspect that this play could not have been staged if he were still alive to challenge that interpretation. The blond singer made his last public appearance in a wheelchair at a Joe Meek appreciation event in 1999, and died of motor neurone disease the following year.

Whether you think of Meek as a record-breaking composer who couldn't carry a tune, or a hectoring foul-mouthed bully, Moran succeeds in making us sympathetic to this tortured visionary, while O'Neill delivers one of the gutsiest theatrical performances of the year.

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