THERE WERE no cans or plastic bottles in the river; the turkeys and pheasants in their Thurles Gun Club compound beneath the bridge were undisturbed; it was noon on Friday and Féile had hardly begun.

Still there are the early rituals we've learned to cherish. Like checking out the inevitable bootleg stall that equally inevitably will soon be chucked out of town. Or the early misdirections from security staff who still haven't digested their geography lessons. Or watching the Irish opening act who've earned their freebie spot by winning a "Beat Box" contest.

This year it's The Unbelievable Children who play to barely a thousand early-risers and flummox us with a cover of (deep breath) The Buggles "Video Killed The Radio Star." But we notice no earnest and interminable debates about whether this is a foolhardy move or a smart prediction of imminent return of Trevor Horn and instead note the comment of American rockcrit, Ira Robbins that "time warps are not for amateurs."

We're still taking the measure, getting the range of this latest Féile. Early afternoon, it's still quiet and we seek a sign, some inspiration even from the farming ads on the stands and then canter down to the field where a crane is catering for bunjee jumpers. For a second, we entertain the notion of flailing from a rope like a stuck fish on a wire but not for £25. In this case, we're cheap before we're fools.

Back in the stadium, The Utah Saints are an impressive and invigorating reward for the earlybirds. Dance, they confirm, can translate to stadium surrounds without dilution or loss of dignity and our only regret is they aren't playing later when they really would have churned up the crowd. It almost is what Simple Minds could and should have done next if they'd taken the right left turning sometime about '86, keyboard textures and keyboard velocity, unremitting pop that has all the melody of a John Barry theme for a cybernaut James Bond film without sacrificing any of dance's trademarks. Somehow we don't anticipate The Utah Saints will be consigned to afternoon slots, next year.

Unlike the Manic Street Preachers. One of us thinks they're pointless crap, a band whose early joke has gone stale now they've played often enough to have become, at best, a flatly competent bar band. No future but the fag-end of punk, M.C.P. are the sort of outfit Stiff's Dave Robinson once signed for breakfast, shooed into a studio for a B-side at lunch and then dropped for dinner, a hideous and unwelcome and unnecessary reminder of all those pub-rockers who never got the point in '77.

On the other hand, another of us thinks . . .

The other essential Féile experience is to get lost and wander aimlessly around the place because you, Person A, meant to meet Person B at Point C who've however sloped off to Point D while you're chasing them to E only to be distracted by some serendipitous event at F and so miss Band G at H.

Which is both an apology for and a roundabout explanation for our interrupted experience of Whipping Boy in the Hot Press tent. Granted there's still a few New Order fingerprints on their portfolio but their melodies have a disturbingly addictive emotional power while they're far more mature and secure on stage than twelve months ago. Flipping in and out of the tent, we don't have the time to really concentrate on them but we hear enough to know they'll be essential listening next time they play in our and also your neighbourhood. BG

Teenage Fan Club are firmly entrenched in a time warp, their preferred period being the early '70's when the geetar was still God and good old Big Star and the Velvets were making complete cults of themselves. Their set appears to consist of 'What You Do To Me' played ten times in a row but I could be wrong.

No announcement was made to explain the non-appearance of the Rollins Band which didn't go down too well with the three girls from Sunderland who'd spent fourteen hours and the best part of £300 getting to Thurles only to find that their hero was 5,000 miles away in California. Eleventh hour replacements An Emotional Fish did their best to make up for the disappointment and with Ger Whelan even more demented than usual, nearly pull it off.

A quick sprint to the Hot Press Stage , which even a steroid-enhanced Ben Johnson would have had difficulty keeping pace with, finds Pet Lamb battering a small but enthusiastic crowd into bloody submission. If they were to add a question-mark to their name, these boys could be huge.

Back on the, ahem, World Stage and for a moment I'm convinced that The Memories have dropped by to unveil their new 'Tribute To The Sex Pistols' show. Silly me, it's actually Stiff Little Fingers who can still churn out passable Xeroxes of 'Alternative Ulster' and 'Suspect Device' but look dead silly in matching shirts and trousers.

No one, repeat no one, upstages Iggy Pop but Therapy? give it a spirited crack and are rewarded with a response that has the Order of Malta volunteers down the front working overtime. 'Screamager' is a pure punk pop delight and the version of 'Potato Junkie' that's served up tonight as an encore is as hard hitting as you're going to get without GBH charges being brought. Looking lean and extremely mean, the Igmesister is in sparkling form and proves with a rapid-fire medley of 'The Passenger', 'Lust For Life' and 'The Idiot', that he's still the Guv'nor.

Spiritualized take ten minutes to tune up and then bliss us all out with a set that's mind-expanding without the ingestion of LSD and, as I can personally vouch, a complete head-fuck with it. After this, day two's going to be a cinch . . .SC

Courtesy of a strong-willed, domesticated rooster living just across the road from our Féile headquarters, the Hot Press team were up on Saturday way earlier than anyone attending the festival - let alone hanging out at the VIP bar - wanted to be.

So early in fact, that we were among the handful of people who made it into the stadium in time to see the day's openers Eat. Covered from neck to ankle in a red velvety get-up, the lead singer put in a sprightly performance and the band's heavy indie rock sounded clear as a bell. But there's something not quite right about watching this kind of thing in broad daylight while sipping cappuccino!

While a certain amount of the general lack of atmosphere can be attributed to the poor afternoon turn-out, That Petrol Emotion didmanage to instil an air of excitement into the crowd gathered nearest the stage. Steve Mack - all flailing limbs and energy - worked up more of a sweat than any of the afternoon's performers and benefited from it in crowd response.

It must be said, however, that in no way did the band's mainstage performance compare to an unexpected set they played in the Café Sin-E tent back stage. How wonderful to see a band that should be filling stadiums on their own, perform in such a casual setting! Why they saved 'Big Decision' for this more exclusive setting was a mysterious, if particularly pleasant surprise. TMcC

It hasn't been a year of rejoicing for Engine Alley. In 1992 they seemed primed to ride a wave but now, with the continuing delays in the international release of their album, they're running on the spot on a deserted beach from which the tide has gone out. It would be no crime if they'd curled up and disappointed but, if anything, the experience has toughened them, swept some of the whimsy out of their music and lent an extra emotional depth to their slower stuff. Again and maybe not surprisingly, there's less of the quirky gimmicks and playfulness but somehow they seem a more resolute unit. Engine alley used to smile but now they're starting to show some teeth.

The Fat Lady Sings are another tenacious lot of self-improvers. Nick Kelly strives not to talk too much and be the pundit of his own productions and we get soothed by 'Horsewater Wend' and 'Drunken Logic'. Songs like those have some serious scaffolding and The Fat Ladies now seem to be starting to paint their own sound colours. But could they get trapped in a borderzone between the younger grunge audience and the older, less adventurous Q crowd?

We'd love to write about The Levellers but we meet distractions. Idiot dancers, even idiot dancers on their own chemical cocktail of choice, we can just about tolerate but not the bullock beside us. We don't know everyone who follows The Levellers from Hereford to eternity but this guy's built like a member of the Bath back-row so whenever, which is regularly, he bumps into anyone, there's an instant and lethal domino affect.

The Bath back-row on E - it's not a pretty thought. Still even if we don't think The Leveller's' music merits extravagant ratings, we can't deny the unusual conviction of them and the community to which they're bound. The Levellers genuinely do have an extra-commercial purpose and seethe while others merely scam and invoke the dubious doctrines of post-modernism to mitigate their sins. BG

Inside the Hot Press tent, the sun didn't shine but numerous performers did. Strangely, and annoyingly, the line-up was running about a half hour ahead of time all day. Galway's Judas Diary pulled a line of attentive fans to the front with a powerful trippy retro-Jethro sound and enthusiastic stage presence. Still, somebody should do something about the ridiculous discrepancies between the band and their brass section appendage.

PAMF suffered technical difficulties and after having remained calm and collected for an admirable length of time, eventually lost their cool. ("Could you turn the fucking amps on, would that be a problem?") Strangely, the band seemed to play more A Tribe Called Quest/Beastie Boys material than their own.

While The Revenants and Something Happens turned in sturdy performances, RTE's Pat O'Mahoney swore up and down at night's end that Canada's Bare Naked Ladies were the best band, not only on the Hot Press stage, but of the entire weekend. Who's to argue?!

So as the night wore on, and pints started to go down easily, anticipation over seeing INXS seemed to be growing. The first half hour of the band's set made all the waiting seem pointless, but thankfully Michael Hutchence realised thirty minutes into the gig that he might as well warm up to this welcoming crowd - and that since this was the last gig of the band's world tour, they might as well live it up. Having been briefed by Hot Press earlier on the condom situation, he eventually decided to invite everyone else to live it up (safely) too, by throwing Durex packs out into the crowd.

The result was rather splendid and left everyone on a high when The Shamen took to the stage with what felt like a set-long version of 'Ebeneezer Good'. While the faithful were mesmerised by the show, the floating punter would have found the over the top cockneyisms a bit, well, over the top. But all told, another enjoyable, if neither revelationary nor revolutionary day. TMcC

Sunday morning coming down, and the rooster lodging across the road once again rudely disregarded the fact that most of the sleeping folk within crowing distance had spent the preceding night drinking enough to blot out the previous day's hangovers. At this stage, even the vegetarians among the Hot Press delegation were toying with the idea of turning our neighbour into a tasty brunch dish.

The Indigo Girls need moderately sized clubs and a non-comatose audience to create an impact. They were third offering of the day, but the crowd were still seething with apathy, although some did make the effort to struggle into upright position for the finale, 'Closer To Fine'. Aztec Camera were next, and were superb, wisely choosing to deliver some of their older, spikier songs ('Oblivious', 'The Boy Wonders') along with the super-smooth newer material. More than ten years into his career, Roddy Frame still has the face of a teenager. Luckily, he teams this up with the hands of a guitar genius and the heart of a poet, and Aztec Camera's short set provided some moments to treasure.

By the time The Sultans Of Ping FC swaggered on stage, the crowd had increased substantially, was more or less conscious, and looking to have fun by any means necessary. Ultimately, this involved a brief mass boot-waggling session during 'Turnip Fish'. Whatever The Sultans Of Pings' limitations, they can, gratuitous swipes at journalists notwithstanding, be one of the most invigorating live bands imaginable. Niall's brief coupling with the floor, his invective against Chris de Burgh, his insistence on climbing on and off the stage every thirty seconds just to annoy the bouncers...it was all stupid, hilarious, and everything else they do best.

Squeeze were adequate mid-afternoon fare, the kind of band you could lend half an ear to while sitting in the middle of the pitch tucking into some Japanese noodles (definitely one of the highlights of the weekend). 'Up The Junction' and 'Hourglass' saved them, but only barely. Inner Circle served their purpose admirably; that purpose being to cajole everyone into dancing inanely and adopting Jamaican accents. Luckily their one massive hit has a chorus consisting mainly of the words "la-la-la-la-lang", which was easy to remember even after the seventeenth pint of the day.

Over on the Hot Press stage, Scheer proved to be pretty wonderful, looking syrup sweet while singing songs that had the power to kick you out of the tent. Opinion on the rest of the day's offerings in that venue was split straight down the middle. "The Cranberries/Rollerskate Skinny/Thousand Yard Stare/An Emotional Fish deconstructed pop music and rediscovered form within chaos and were quite brilliant!" gushed Crowd A. "They were all a pile of shite!" bellowed Crowd B. Whatever your viewpoint, the Hot Press stage offered sanctuary from the trad trinity of Mary Black, Christie Hennessy and Paul Brady. Yes, yes, they're all wonderful performers and songwriters, but what's really needed on the last night of the biggest weekend of the year is music to make you feel sixteen again, or failing that, music to make you feel like feeling someone who's sixteen.

Hurrah for Madness, who, despite a torrential downpour that lasted for the duration of their set, offered up all of their glorious hits and made everyone smile even as the water poured down their necks. If it hadn't been raining, it would have been the most wonderful experience of the weekend. As it was, they just had to be content with surpassing every other Sunday act by miles.

We haven't forgotten Chris de Burgh. No-one could forget Chris de Burgh, certainly not with Dustin, that prime piece of poultry, slagging him mercilessly on Féile TV whenever the opportunity arose, and those "Chris de Burgh - Unwanted" flyers doing the rounds. The stadium was naturally packed to capacity, and Chris did, in fairness, fulfil every expectation. Was it really necessary to drag on that stripper, though? Surely credibility doesn't matter that much.

It was all over bar Bjorn Again. At some stage during 'Dancing Queen', when our attempts at a synchronised dance routine ended with self and friend sprawled on the soaking wet pitch, someone decided that it would be a very sensible idea to roll around on the ground kicking her feet up in the air. It might have been me. Féile Sundays can get to a person sometimes. LF

The trip to Dublin is long enough to allow the Féile-sated to reflect. In a year when all major events have stuggled, Feile came good in the end. Thurles was a riot and the madness that prevails in these situations prevailed. Mostly it was thoroughly, enjoyable.

There were two major innovations, and successes. One was - modesty permitting - the Hot Press stage, which provided an opportunity for a whole range of different acts to strut their stuff. And every night, there was the bizarre sight of the extraordinary, Jim Rose Circus Sideshow going through their mind-boggling body-bending flesh piercing routines. In this case, seeing truly is believing.

The other, strictly for the VIPs, unfortunately, was the Sin É Cafe Tent, wherein bands did intimate sets for the assembled media, record company and music biz types. Paul Brady, The Cranberries, That Petrol Emotion and Something Happens - to name but four - were all wonderful in this context. And so were the espressos!

Féile TV was a hit again. It was light, bright, humorous and revealing with Dustin upstaging everyone with a marvellously witty performance. The live coverage of what was going on onstage also added powerfully to the impact - there are those who argue that if it hadn't been for Feile TV, the Chris De Burgh stipper incident would have received scant attention but the close ups of those naked breasts turned a storm out of a bra cup into a national incident.

Frankly, who gives a fuck? It was naff and that's about as much emotion as the episode merits. A lot of stupid finger-wagging has taken place since in the national media - who of course printed the pictures, the better to let their readers know what everyone was getting worked up about. Sad...

The same is true of so much of the sanctimonious shite which has been written about Féile. It was a hugely entertaining three days out. There was much good music, some great, some dreadful. The vast majority of people who turned up had a thoroughly enjoyable, if sometimes over-the-top weekend.

There was a small number of acts of horrible viciousness but if you operated on the basis that every event which carried any potential for GBH should be cancelled, Ireland wouldn't play Northern Ireland in the World Cup in Belfast later this year, and the All-Ireland final would be down for discussion at least...

So forget the miserable outpourings of the anti-happiness League. Féile '93 was one of the Rock 'n' Roll events of the year. It may take a couple of stronger headlining acts to make the final Thurles Féile, in 1994, a rip-roaring success. But it's worth a good shot.

We'll be there. CD