A massive entertainment package of music and comedy, the Murphy's Red Hot Festival was an ambitious attempt at a one-stop, drive through, popular culture extravaganza.
Getting the obvious observation out of the way first, English retro-heads Ocean Colour Scene were not listed under the comedy section, but rather under the music section.
To many though, they would fare better under the former category, such is their time-warped, 1960s-friendly, past its sell-by date, bog standard rhythm and blues. Despite it all, though, the band are multi-platinum sellers and their basic by-numbers rhythms were warmly welcomed by the thousands who attended their free open-air gig on the Grand Parade on Saturday night.
If Ocean Colour Scene were hardly the most imaginative choice of headlining act, the supporting musical cast erred on the side of commercial caution by offering up so many tribute bands that Jean Baudrillard, if he had been present, would have had to redefine his theory of the simulacrum.
From the Eagles to Thin Lizzy, with all points in between, the tribute bands in some cases turned out to be almost as good as the real thing in that they accentuate almost to the point of parody all the salient characteristics of the original bands.
Whatever your ideology, tribute bands work and continue to work because they distill a musical essence and verse chorus verse their way into the musical version of a wax museum.
Elsewhere, the beats got a good banging around from Messrs Dineen and Scannell; but one of the real highlights was the sinuous Latin rhythms of Cuban band Salsa Brava. Overall though, the music programme could have done with a bit more shake, rattle and roll.
Of the five main headliners on the comedy side of things, Ben Elton disappointed with a tired routine about the fatuous nature of "cool Britannia" and the place of football in popular culture. He is seemingly unable to stoke up his satirical fires to do to Blair what he used to do to Thatcher. And at £16.50 a ticket, this was an overpriced adventure in mediocrity.
Those mineral water-drenched sons of Navan, Dylan Moran and Tommy Tiernan, stole the comedy show with a blitzkrieg gig on Saturday. Moran's verbal gymnastics and potent imagery still impressed as much as ever. Eloquent and fluent, Moran digs deeper than the rest of the pack and unearths gem-like words of wisdom.
Tommy Tiernan performed his Perrier-winning show for the very last time; on the crest of a critical wave, there was a palpable increase in his confidence as he slowly selected his targets, got them in his sights and hit them between the eyes.
Elsewhere, the Guardian columnist Jeremy Hardy (who really should have been in the Opera House and not stuck out in a pub) flexed his considerable comic muscles with well-crafted material which disturbed the prevailing Blairite consensus about politics and society.
Hardy may be somewhat of a veteran in stand-up terms but increasingly he finds himself as a lone voice of dissent in a world populated by trivial gag merchants. At just £3 a ticket, Hardy did more in five minutes than Ben Elton did in an hour.
