How ironic that a week of music by Irish artists should be opened by a man from Canada, a country that produces jaded melodic pop like a cloud produces rain. Nevertheless, Ron Sexsmith served up an appealing cameo of lilting guitars and croaky love songs.

There was, in contrast, something faintly ridiculous about Sinead O'Connor. The current Sinead, a cross between a cartoon bear and a pre-Raphaelite maiden, seems to have abandoned her desire to be an opera singer and traded it for a folksy drawl that becomes slightly grating.

There is plenty of nice harmony and classy touches but too many songs, Thank You For Hearing Me being a prime example, follow the same route: Sinead murmurs over hushed keyboards, to be joined gradually by drums and guitar, then given the full-on gospel choir treatment and built up to a crescendo, topped off by a big empty guitar or cello solo.

There are a few good ideas, but nothing really comes off. The Thief Of Your Heart is spoiled by superfluous instrumentation, and Fire On Baby- lon is diverting, but nothing Bjork wouldn't do a hundred times better.

The confused antics may have been replaced by a squeaky calm, but Sinead remains the same: a great mediocrity.