“The last time this show was here, Michael wasn’t in it, and I started crying,” a teenage girl griped Tuesday night as she stood in line outside the Bangor Auditorium, eager for a second chance to see her golden-tressed idol – the Chicago-born, Celtic-inspired Lord of the Dance himself, Michael Flatley.

But just as with the two 1998 Bangor appearances of “Lord of the Dance,” promoted as the “world’s greatest dance show,” Flatley was a no-show Tuesday as well. He stopped performing in the megahit a decade ago, instead producing the show’s two worldwide touring troupes, along with the Las Vegas version, and swelling his bank accounts with proceeds from ticket sales as well as from $25 “Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance” T-shirts and other trinkets sold in auditorium lobbies.

Inside the hall, a receptive crowd of 2,200 stretched almost to the top of the nosebleed section (the depth of the dance stage pre-empted any floor seating). The fans, some armed with minibinoculars, sat raptly through the two-hour show that, for the most part, did not disappoint.

Long on sexy costumes, fancy step dancing and pink lighting, and short on plot (did anyone really come for the story?), the performance was an American-influenced celebration of good vs. evil with eye-popping production values. And the fact that it brought the crowd to its feet numerous times speaks for itself.

Ciaran Connolly, a 25-year-old Flatley protege, held his own in the title role, bursting onto the stage in numerous glittery costumes. The New Zealander’s strutting, preening and tush-shaking showed a performer perhaps overeager to please his audience. Michael Flatley he isn’t, and probably doesn’t want to be. More boy-next-door than the aloof Flatley, Connolly is his own man.

The women in the troupe, blond and brunette, all looking so young, danced their hearts out. There were solo numbers, ensemble numbers and scenes with men in the cast. Steaming up an already hot auditorium, 11 of the women danced in what can only be described as black lingerie, long black stockings and bare midriffs.

But the production was all in good taste. At least no audience members gasped, even when in one scene, a woman dancer dressed in red flirted briefly with a brass pole.

The music, mostly of the canned variety, was played at a tolerable volume through two banks of speakers. Much of it was repetitious and too New Age-sounding to warm a true Celtic heart. Male and female fiddlers appeared onstage from time to time actually playing their instruments but with recorded backgrounds.

The second half of the show was stronger than the first. The dancing was faster and staged with more imagination. The tempo increased measurably until the breathtaking finale that really delivered as 21 dancers lined up across the stage strutting their stuff. Through the magic of electronics, every step was amplified.

Ah, the essence of “Lord of the Dance.” Hoofers in perfect symmetry, not appearing to sweat. How do they do it night after night?