The year is 1989, and Shahid is taking up a place at a north London college. “Make sure you wash under your arms,” cries Mum as he departs with all possible speed from his staid suburban home in Kent.

Once in London, the impressionable Shahid is introduced to drugs, and the enthusiastic charms of his feisty lecturer Deedee (Tanya Franks), whose conduct would surely nowadays get her sacked for inappropriate behaviour. But he is soon made aware that there is a contrasting side to life, as he meets fundamentalist Muslim guru Riaz (cool, rather than ranting, Alexander Andreou – pictured, centre).

Hanif Kureishi’s novel The Black Album was published in 1995, then dramatised, by the author, as a National Theatre and Tara Arts co-production last year. With one telling exception, Kureishi has firmly resisted the temptation to look back at 1989 – the year of the fatwa against Salman Rushdie – with the benefit of hindsight.

There is no mention of 9/11 or the London bombings. The result is a curiously gentle first half, with nothing more threatening than the antics of Shahid’s elder brother Chili (Robert Mountford, who reminded me strongly of Trigger in Only Fools and Horses). Chili would like to get rich quick, but has neither the brains nor the cut-throat personality to do so. Only after the interval do things get more antagonistic, with a ceremonial burning of a copy of The Satanic Verses. But not even Riaz is quite sure what a fatwa actually involves.

The air of gentleness is enhanced by Kureishi’s extensive use of affectionately satirical humour: as a debate proceeds about the literary merits or otherwise of The Satanic Verses someone remarks: “D. H. Lawrence wrote a lot about sex”. “So did Barbara Cartland,” comes the immediate reply.

There are some strong performances, particularly from Jonathan Bonnici (on the left of the picture) as the intelligent, thoroughly likeable, Shahid. Glyn Pritchard contributes a memorable cameo as Chili’s punk friend Strapper. The fast moving production (director Jatinder Verma) is given great atmosphere by its video-based set design, which changes from grotty bedsit to graffiti covered wall in an instant. But I did sometimes feel remote from the action: some poor projection from the stage added to the feeling that The Black Album would work better on TV, rather than in a 600-seat theatre. Nothing remote or gentle about the ending though – it provides a very sharp reminder that the events of 20years ago are still highly relevant today.

Until Saturday. Tickets 01865 305305 (www.oxfordplayhouse.com).