For some years now fans of that magnificently deranged comic Steve Martin have been wondering whether he will ever recapture the insanity of his earliest films (Woody Allen’s admirers know that feeling). Or will he be content to stick to ill-advised remakes and the lucrative role of all-American dad?

Thankfully, he was in mischievous form in this affectionate ramble through the bluegrass music which is his private passion. Martin and his banjo go back a long way, but this year saw him take the plunge with a largely self-penned album, The Crow, in which he surrounded himself with a group of first-rate players from Earl Scruggs to John McEuen. Dolly Parton dropped by too.

Just as Woody Allen took a band on the road in Europe in order to share his love of New Orleans clarinet, Martin has put together a show which is a winning mixture of droll one-liners and high-spirited jamming. Looking for all the world like the original Man in the Grey Flannel Suit, the Hollywood star set out to turn the Festival Hall into a roadhouse bar, helped by the North Carolina-based Steep Canyon Rangers. At first it seemed as if the programme might lapse into a staid sequence of up-tempo songs and instrumentals more suited to the lobby of the Nashville Hilton. But Martin’s enthusiasm proved infectious.

The evening moved up another gear or two after he briefly left the stage while the Rangers indulged in some convincingly atmospheric gospel a cappella. When he returned, Martin responded by launching into the most joyous routine of the night, a surreal number devoted to the songs of atheists. The kind of thing, in short, that might get him chased out of the Bible Belt. Later, he had fun mocking his own celebrity status, informing us that one of his autobiographical numbers goes by the title of I think my masseuse is too chatty. As for protest songs, he thinks there may be some potential in Let’s Keep the Minimum Wage Right Where She’s At.

Of the original tunes he actually played, only the Sesame Street sentiments of Late for School outstayed their welcome. The solo Clawhammer Medley turned out to be a genuine foot-tapper, while Saga of the Old West detoured into a chord sequence redolent of Seventies Jethro Tull. At the end of a warm-hearted evening Martin rekindled memories of Saturday Night Live with King Tut, his paean to ancient Egypt and the art of crass commercialisation. A precious glimpse of the Steve Martin we used to know and love.

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