O.C. POP MUSIC REVIEW : It’s Funky Enough in Clinton’s World : Irvine crowd is given a fairly inclusive tour of the universe created by the man now esteemed as a hip-hop nation patriarch.

“Welcome to the world of Parliament-Funkadelic,” an announcer intoned as George Clinton and the P-Funk All-Stars launched their marathon proceedings Friday night at UC Irvine’s Bren Events Center.

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It is no hollow boast, calling Clinton’s musical oeuvre a world. Since 1970, the man now esteemed as a patriarch by the hip-hop nation has created his own parallel universe, with its own mythology, its own large constellation of expert players fusing a multitude of styles, and its own distinctive blend of costume-party silliness, dance-floor celebration and biting social commentary.

It is doubtful that any other sector of the pop universe contains a major figure who, having just released an album perceived as an important comeback bid, would give a concert lasting nearly 3 1/2 hours and perform just one song from it.

In addition to his vehement brag-rap “Rhythm and Rhyme,” which was performed twice, Clinton could have presented such appealing new-album tracks as “Martial Law,” “Way Up” and “Hollywood.” He certainly wasn’t pressed for time in a show that had room for such filler as the indulgent, seemingly everlasting noise-guitar solo that DeWayne (Blackbird) McKnight played in a shapeless, post-Hendrix style.

Still, there is a sense of timeless continuity in the world Clinton has created--for example, characters and concepts he introduced in the 1970s reappear on the new release, “Hey Man . . . Smell My Finger” (a contender for all-time worst album title). So despite the dearth of new-album material, this young, college gig crowd (a marked contrast to the even mix of old fans and newcomers who saw P-Funk’s marvelous, and even longer, show at the Coach House last year) was given a fairly inclusive tour of Clinton’s world.

It wasn’t quite the grand tour--P-Funk’s performance didn’t live up to its pledge to “tear the roof off the sucker” (it was disappointing that Clinton didn’t make room in his spacious show for “Give Up the Funk,” the signature song in which that pledge is made). But the performance was tireless, varied and funky enough, judging from the arena floor full of fans shuffling nonstop to the beat.

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Clinton played no instrument, and his contributions as singer, rapper and reciter were sparing. Instead, he served as job foreman on this funk-construction site. Carrying his large frame in a loping, floating gait, he roamed the stage in his sorcerer’s robes and feathered, ribboned headdress, making sure his blueprints were taking shape.

With an ensemble of more than 20 singers and players flitting in and out of the mix, the band achieved the pleasurable overload, the mixture of precision dancing with chaos that is a P-Funk trademark.

It’s a wonder that they don’t stumble over each other physically, let alone musically, but the crew members managed to establish a good level of clarity and coherence considering the echoing, basketball-arena setting. Such illustrious Clinton collaborators as bassist Bootsy Collins, keyboards ace Bernie Worrell, and horn players Maceo Parker and Fred Wesley were not in this lineup, but their backups would be front-liners on many another musical team.

McKnight’s formless solo spot aside, segments of the show proved that within the P-Funk horde is contained one of the better small-unit hard-rock bands around.

The concert began with just five players, led by McKnight, grinding out a tough, grungy, power-rock instrumental. In a mid-show high point, McKnight stepped back to a quieter, deftly executed supporting role while his guitar counterpart, Michael Hampton, took the soaring, Hendrix-inspired lead on “Maggot Brain.”

The song, dating from 1971, with the original guitar part created by the late Eddie Hazel, is one of the most moving instrumental dirges in rock. Perhaps Metallica or some other ambitious metal band will want to test itself against this classic and give “Maggot Brain” the exposure it deserves.

P-Funk was at its most effective during two other songs that show Clinton’s recognition that life isn’t strictly a party.

In “Cosmic Slop,” blazing guitar passages framed an urgent, pleading soul-vocal turn by Ray Davis, who was a member of Clinton’s doo-wop-influenced ‘60s group, the Parliaments. The song came early in the set but reached a level of intensity that bands typically achieve only when they are peaking near the end of a concert.

Clinton and company did have such a late-show peak in reserve: “Mothership Connection.” The song’s yearning refrain--”swing low, sweet chariot, stop and let me ride”--was delivered by raspy-voiced Belita Woods and a large chorus moaning in groaning, aching harmony. With it, Clinton tied his futuristic mythology, in which deliverance for the oppressed comes from the stars, to the real-world of troubles expressed in black spirituals. The effect was almost liturgical, as if the song were the climax of a solemn ceremony.

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While these emotive moments proved most memorable, the show’s mood was primarily lighthearted--something to be expected from a band that included a large fellow in a white bridal gown, a plump, purple-robed sheik, and Clinton’s right-hand man, Garry Shider, who ran about in nothing but his trademark white terry cloth diaper.

Conga player Michael Payne used an effective array of cackles, shrieks and nasal falsetto to give manic cartoonish voice to such characters as Sir Nose D’VoidofFunk, the villain of the Clintonian galaxy. Sir Nose hates to dance and tries to impose a static, Orwellian order in opposition to the colorful, unpredictable swirl of body-celebrating, boundary-breaking expressive freedom that Clinton succinctly labels “the Funk.”

Shider spent part of the show sparring playfully with a dandified, coolly detached actor who represented Sir Nose (so designated by the large, hollow Pinocchio cones or rubber elephant’s trunk strapped to his face). During “Flash Light,” Shider liberated Sir Nose from his nose, freeing him to dance at last.

For anyone who thinks the Red Hot Chili Peppers are the last word in funk-meets-rock, this band is a must.