How seriously should we take Joe Dolan? How seriously does he expect us to take him? A recent tilt to the pop mainstream suggested an old bruiser malingering in the margins, an unwilling kitsch touch-stone seeking to reclaim his swagger.

Incongruously, a brace of handsomely received cover albums - which paid ironic homage to unreprochable Gen-X totems, including Radiohead and REM - nudged and winked at the audience, inviting us to share a chortle at Dolan's apparent quest for relevancy.

Headlining an inaugural charity concert in aid of Leinster autism charity PACT at the NCH this week, Dolan lustily snubbed the smirkers and, delivering a truncated greatest hits set, brimming with throaty brio. It would be stretching the point to describe his performance as blistering. Nevertheless, it was heartening to see a war-horse so publicly rekindle his appetite for the fray.

Earlier, Canadian folk-rocker Tim Lawson deflected my suspicions that his solidly good humoured repertoire amounts to scarcely more than syrupy new age proselytising, disguised as up-tempo roots revivalism.

Yet Martin's unwavering levity frayed the nerves, exacerbated by a multitudinous backing band that wore a vast collective smirk throughout.

A recent signing to EMI Records, Cork balladeer John Spillane, has penned songs for Christy Moore and Sinead Lohan. Spillane shares Moore's transcendental qualities. His spry folk ditties are stoutly parochial, but possess a universal effervescence. It's a rare gift, starkly showcased on Don't go to Ballincollig, a home-spun diatribe that sprouts wings.

Joyously out of the step with the rest of the evening's fare, Juliet Turner confirmed her progression from minor key folkie to quirky acoustic-pop contender. How long before she breaks out of this parish and conquers overseas? An evening steeped in unabashed nostalgia then, lifted out of the everyday by Spillane's glacial, quietly wondering melancholia.