At first you think: Is this a joke? Literally, a joke. As Brendon the singer ambles on in yellow flares and t-shirt like a demented Playschool hippy and Phil the percussionist with the punk haircut and ability to play every arsehole instrument from the accordion to the banjo leaps around like a refugee from King Kurt, you think it must be comedy. Corky And The Juice Pigs perhaps. Or Kids In The Hall. Someone funny. And Canadian.
That Wheatus hail from New York rather than Toronto is a headf**k right up there with discovering that Brian is the most popular Big Brother inmate rather than public enemy number one. Their most obvious antecedents have all been Canadian: Crash Test Dummies, Barenaked Ladies. And even American kindred spirits like those bastards who did the Friends theme tune or They Might Be Giants have a quirkiness that's 100% Canuck.
In this context, their cover of Erasure's 'A Little Respect' makes sense because, rather than being slack jawed Yankee skaters with no brain and little sensitivity, Wheatus are as gay as Brian. This would usually be a good thing for a post nu-metal joke band, but in fact they're more like Rod, Jane and Freddy from Rainbow with a rhythm section. Let's face it: only a singer on the wrong side of camp would try an opening salvo of "you guys are so nice" without irony.
Much more worrying than all of the above, however is the growing realisation that what Wheatus most resemble are a Christian rock group. Rod, Jane and Brendon play like they're on a break from bible studies summer camp and can't wait to get back into the forest to resume the New Testament frolics. And as the crowd clap and cheer and scream at the top of their voices for what must be the ugliest personalites since Steve Wright was on Radio One, you start to feel like a cult member is any minute going to turn round and say "join us, join the Wheatus clan."
As it turns out, some very nice thirtysomethings behind me strike up a chat and say how much they're enjoying it all, but then "we don't know anything about music". And that's the crux: if you don't care about melodies that touch your soul and just want a few gags and a twat smashing up a banjo, then Wheatus are a top notch turn. 'The Song I Wrote When You Dissed Me' does exactly what it says on the tin and earlier when the band segue into a snatch of Paul Simon's 'Diamonds On The Souls Of Her Shoes', there is no stylistic shift at all.
Of course, getting a load of girls and two guys with no rhythm onstage for 'Teenage Dirtbag' is brilliant and you leave feeling entertained although a little horrified. But even so, it's hard not to feel that the sign declaring there were no age restrictions on the gig had got it slightly wrong. There ought to be an age restriction on going to see a band like Wheatus. Anyone over seven and a half (NUS students and nice thirtysomethings excepted) should be made to wait outside in the car.
