Semisonic

Semisonic were just another Midwest power-pop outfit scraping by on a knack for sun-kissed harmonies when, in 1999, they scored an improbable hit with Secret Smile. Middling success sparked a sharp quality slump; last year's All About Chemistry was a mishmash of clunky choruses and gauche, punter-friendly guitar licks.

But critical disdain probably holds little sway with the Minneapolis trio. After all, they've shipped more records than former bedfellows Weezer, Apples in Stereo and Olivia Tremor Control combined. Underground kudos? discs?

In concert, Semisonic come across as fey indie musos who struck lucky and got hooked on the adulation. A smattering of songs culled from an acclaimed debut LP, Great Divide from 1996, were breezy and joyous, kaleidoscopic summer anthems redolent of Holland-era Beach Boys.

More recent material seemed florid and over-embellished: the fretwork of frontman Dan Wilson was pure soft-metal pantomime. Their reluctance to challenge the audience or themselves rankled, because in throwaway moments Semisonic exhibited a swooning pop sensibility. Chemistry soared and dived. Act Naturally segued into a blistering slide-guitar fade-out. A taut, edgy California and a towering Across The Great Divide hinted at unfulfilled potential.

Inevitably, sloppy-smiled crowd pleasers such as Secret Smile and She's Got My Number raised the biggest cheers. Clearly more comfortable dispensing mawkish froth than making shiny happy rock music, Semisonic emerged as steely careerists who couldn't care a fig for artistic "credibility". Expect a Ronan Keating duet any month now.