It’s party time at the London ICA’s mini Belfast festival. There’s a film to be watched, a band to see and a special guest to look out for. Someone’s even baked a cake for the occasion. However, considering it’s about three foot long, made entirely of chocolate, and shaped like a Kalashnikov, it’s a safe bet to say that it wasn’t Paul Rankin. The readings, debates, exhibitions and gigs that make up this weekend long series of events are all nominally supposed to throw light on the question ‘Belfast: Are We Nearly There?’ and, although it’s tempting to reply very much in the negative when you hear Tom Paulin and Ronan Bennett’s shockingly off-the-pace head-to-head earlier in the evening, by the time the night’s musical contributions have run their course, everyone (especially those well meaning souls that have never been near the place) appears to be bursting with optimism.

Much of this is down to the rare screening of John T Davis’s blistering punk documentary Shellshock Rock. A much neglected work of complete brilliance, it’s also a reminder that, back in the late seventies and early eighties when it came to punk, New York may well have had the haircuts, London the trousers, but Belfast had the motive. Take your pick of classic scenes – roundabout man, Mickey Marley admitting he’d fancy being a punk if he was younger, Terri Hooley evangelising Good Vibe’s roll in challenging corporate fascism, Fergal Sharkey looking about twelve – but, for me, the footage of Rudi, arguably the best (and unluckiest) band ever to come out of the city, blasting through a version of the enormous ‘Big Time’ in an Orange Hall was just electrifying.

That period is now pretty much invisible - the popular perception of it is as some kind of cultural and social tundra, with no intelligent life worth bothering with outside the usual sectarian igloos. But Shellshock Rock explodes, if you like, all that. If Bennett and Paulin had hung around, they’d have seen a portrait of a town struggling for some radicalised normality, and a generation of misfits, delinquents, weirdoes, glue sniffers and geniuses that had more to say and more scavenging enthusiasm than their blank deadhead reputation would suggest. They’d also have heard some belting tunes.

Including that tune – the one that made John Peel weep. The footage of The Undertones (who, of course, as Derry-boys would object to the widespread Belfast namedropping) in all their complexion-challenged, hand-me-down glory is genuinely shocking because it shows how young they were when they first confirmed their complete pop genius. And guess who’s crouched amongst the crowd, laughing his head off when his skinny schoolboy of a younger self comes on the screen? Why, it’s only Damien O’Neill. I wonder why he’s here.

Ash aren’t from Belfast, remember, they’re Downpatrick boys, while Charlotte is very much on home turf tonight, but Tim claims to be into the idea of Belfast, and this show is a way of tipping a nod in its direction. They’re also a brave lot. Not only do they try to follow Shellshock Rock, but they’ve also decided to rope in a string quartet and go acoustic for the night. But, then, maybe it’s not that big a risk. Tim’s done this kind of thing loads of time on his own, and seeing as the band’s material can easily be divvied up between amped-up moshers, and

soppier, doe-eyed ballads, there’s no shortage of songs available for the make-over. What’s surprising is how effortlessly they suit the new format. Old standards like ‘Folk Song’ and

‘Oh Yeah’ are as winsome and

brilliantly throwaway as ever, while, from the new record, ‘Walking Barefoot’ and ‘Shining Light’ sound every bit their equal.

They end the show with, as Wheeler puts it, “the genius, Damien O’Neill” on stage for a good-humoured run-through of ‘Teenage Kicks’. Damien is now signed to Alan McGee’s Poptones. He’s releasing great records that sound completely at home in 2001. Judging by his reaction to Shellshock Rock and the obvious delight he takes with his brother’s best ever tune, he seems completely at ease with his musical past. In these surroundings, where everyone is desperately trying to untangle an optimistic future from the homemade mess of the present, he’s a weirdly reassuring presence. And guess what name he’s going by now? A Quiet Revolution. Perfect.

‘Are We Nearly There?’ Well, seeing as it’s best not trusting anyone who claims to know where we’re going, it’s difficult to say. But, anyway, as long as you have the right tapes in the car, sometimes it can be fun driving around lost.