Regardless of what it might say on the marquee, the Doors are no more.

The reunited "Doors" — guitarist Robby Krieger and keyboardist Ray Manzarek, ex-Police drummer Stewart Copeland, Cult vocalist Ian Astbury and the bassist from Krieger's own, eponymous band — which arrived to decidedly diminished enthusiasm at Barrie's Molson Park on Sunday evening, are no more the Doors than the demi-Who of 2002 is The Who or the embarrassing Axl Rose roadshow currently trying to pass itself as Guns N' Roses is Guns N' Roses.

There's nothing to be said about such deceitful, brand-oriented semantics that hasn't come up every other time some aging rock'n'roll ensemble has given it another go despite the glaring absence of one or more members unwilling or, in the Doors' case, unable to rekindle the old magic, so there's no need to rehash the same arguments here. "Some Doors, one joyriding superstar drummer, the singer from a fitfully decent '80s Goth-metal band and a bassist whose name no one bothers to remark upon or remember" is a bit of a mouthful, after all, and not as surefire a draw as the more concise "Doors." And even minus deceased figurehead Jim Morrison and drummer John Densmore — very much alive, but too severely stricken with tinnitus to perform — the surviving Doors can at least lay far more legitimate claim to the band name than, say, the vultures still putting out records as Thin Lizzy without the participation of a single original member. It's all relative.

There's no crime in musicians wanting to revisit and to share with fans the music they had a hand in creating. That's what musicians do. "Reunions" such as these get a tad irksome, however, when the parties involved keep insisting that what they're doing is no nostalgia trip, that it's all about the here-and-now, while serving up naught but hit after 35-year-old hit when they take the stage.

Manzarek, for his part, has repeatedly made it clear since unveiling the new Doors line-up at a couple of shows in California this summer that this is "no tribute band." But it's rather difficult to see it as anything else.

He and Krieger have recruited one hell of a ringer in Copeland ("the best rock'n'roll drummer in the northern hemisphere," according to Manzarek), true. The Policeman-turned-composer's endlessly inventive fills and complex polyrhythmic backbeats, well up in the mix throughout the performance, were already upstaging the rest of the band's noodly tendencies — lots of guitar soloing and Paul Schaffer-esque keyboard trills — by "Break On Through" and a slightly undisciplined stab at "When The Music's Over."

But while Copeland's skilled playfulness provided a new slant on the material, Astbury — a singer who already shares Morrison's melodramatic baritone and his inclinations towards leather garments, quasi-mystical lyrics, Native American culture and Herculean substance abuse — opted to play Morrison only a hair less straight than Val Kilmer did in Oliver Stone's movie about the band. Reining in his high register and adopting a suitably moody pout, he pulled a more or less bang-on impersonation of Morrison's dazed cabaret crooning on "Alabama Song (Whisky Bar)," worked up a decent howl or two on "Backdoor Man" and "Five To One," and even managed a straight-faced reading of the overlong, overwrought spoken-word piece "Ghost Song" while a couple of dancers in Aboriginal dress frolicked onstage.

During the extended Krieger intro to "Spanish Caravan" that followed, one could sense the already disinterested crowd of around 3,500 — which had barely acknowledged openers Bif Naked and David Usher, both rather odd programming choices for a biker-friendly tour celebrating Harley-Davidson's 100th anniversary, earlier in the day — losing interest. Not good, since there was another hour to go. Astbury had resorted to Morrison-esque cries of "Wake up!" by "L.A. Woman," but even the predictable set closer "Light My Fire" failed to draw more than bemusement and mild toe-tapping appreciation from a handful of well-oiled die-hards.

Perhaps it was the creeping autumn chill ("Summer's Almost Gone" was putting it mildly), but more likely it was the dim energy level generated by perfunctory playing. No matter how professionally and faithfully these Doors delivered the hits, the studious musicianship and Astbury's noble attempts to fill Morrison's larger-than-life shoes betrayed the simple fact that this was not a real band playing songs in which it had a collective, vested interest. This was a tribute band.