Pop: I was the victim of Hanson hysteria

Wembley hasn't seen this level of hormone-induced hysteria since the days of Take That. Don't fancy yours much, says Ryan Gilbey

Had I wanted to blend in with the rest of the audience at the first British gig by the spectacularly blond pop trio Hanson, I would have needed to follow a time-honoured code of behaviour established many centuries ago by Zen Buddhist teenyboppers.

One: felt-tip the names "Zac" or "Tay" across my forehead and cheeks (no one goes in for Isaac, the older lad; Zac and Tay resemble the love-children of Jean Shrimpton and Joe Dallesandro, but with Isaac it seems that John Merrick's genes got a look-in as well). Two: spend the entire evening gibbering to the St John's Ambulance stretcher team about how my heart belongs to Zac or Tay (but definitely not Isaac). Three: arrange for my mum and dad to pick me up after the gig. But if I called my parents, they'd just scoff and say "You have your own car, you never come to visit, and what's a 26-year-old doing at a Hanson concert anyway?"

Good question. I was snared by the band's joyous album Middle of Nowhere because there are some moments when only a bubblegum-pop ditty sung by three loveable infant mop-tops (or two, not counting Isaac) will do. Man cannot live on Asian Dub Foundation alone.

I may have been the only disappointed fan at Wembley Arena on Tuesday night. The thousands of youngsters who crowded into the arena had blistered their larynxes hours before the band hit the hospitality suite, let alone the stage. Frankly, the hysteria was rather terrifying, and it struck you that these girls could have cleaned up the Marseilles football violence far more effectively than any riot squad.

The pared-down show suggested that Hanson may be frustrated at having attracted a following which could prove incompatible with their musical aspirations. There were no video-screens, which was perverse given that the band are adored as much for their locks as their licks; the element of perceived intimacy which is crucial to hero-worship is removed if the idols in question are reduced to smudges of light in the distance. When you have less stage presence than your microphone stand, then video screens become a necessary evil.

All the same, admired their pluck. Aside from one arresting visual effect, when Taylor's silhouette loomed on a white curtain which was then dropped to reveal the band, they played it hard and fast. There was a beginner's guide to r'n'b, with "Gimme Some Lovin" and "Shake a Tailfeather", the subtext being "yes, we can play our instruments". After a couple of rabble-rousers, the evening was largely surrendered to sensitive acoustic ballads, which reached its nadir when Isaac took to the keyboard and became Richard Clayderman. You knew that all would be forgiven if Isaac was burnt at the stake, or the band went on to unleash the glorious "MMMBop". Wembley fire regulations left only the latter option.

It's refreshing to find a pop group who have set their sights on something more than just getting their faces on pillow-cases, and it would be nice to see them applying that level of discernment to the venues they play. Arena gigs are rarely jazzed up by anything other than laser shows.

Guest appearances are an option, and Hanson could have chosen from the erstwhile 3-2-1 host Ted Rogers, witnessed parading his tangerine tan in the foyer, or Paul Cook, who was revisiting his years of living dangerously with the Sex Pistols by sampling a beef burger purchased from a forecourt vendor.