IN a parallel universe, Gilbert O'Sullivan is probably a songwriter held in the same high esteem as other English lyricists like the Kinks' Ray Davies.

O'Sullivan has relentlessly used everyday life as his inspiration, producing 14 albums or so of very similar, gently humorous takes on the mundane. The slightly upbeat, boyish, scarecrow image also appeals, effortlessly like the sort of icon from yesteryear so beloved by today's rock musicians. And he can sing.

Yet, O'Sullivan has singularly failed to be relevant for almost the duration of his career. Last night proved why. A fistful of repetitive, forgettable tunes, alternatively sour and obvious, and choked by awful arrangements filled with every bland hook you could shudder to recall. Where Davies and others can go beyond their surroundings to tap into something universal, O'Sullivan's material merely sounds like the result of a man determinedly banging away on a piano all day.

Although he was received by the partisan crowd as a songwriter of note, unfortunately there was a dearth of good lyrics (the title of his latest, The Belly Vest, gives a clue to the actual standard) and barely any memorable tunes. The nursery rhyme What's In A Kiss? had period charm, but Clair has not aged well. The mature audience should really know better.

Nevertheless, O'Sullivan should be respected for creating his own style, and his dogged pursuit of his craft. The performance was also good value at over two hours and nearly 40 numbers. For this reviewer that was also enough Gilbert O'Sullivan for all time, in any dimension.

Updated: 11:17 Thursday, November 11, 2004