They toured and pushed the damn thing to death, but Semisonic's second album, Feeling Strangely Fine, has pretty much crested by now. And while the Minneapolis trio is still on the road, the band can take it a little easier now that the specter of mainstream promotion no longer hangs over them. They did it, they have nothing left to prove. But though they didn't have to drive any points home, Semisonic can't be accused of taking it easy. |

Irving Plaza was full of attractive young adults who seemed to truly enjoy the music. As such, they were spared most of the bullshit. A few months ago, lead singer/songwriter Dan Wilson delivered the same requisite explanatory speech before each performance of "Never You Mind," the Star-Trek-referencing Beatlesque tune from the latest record. This time, Wilson left it at "Anyone who knows our new album knows what this is all about." Their first record, 1996's Great Divide, was heavily featured in the set list, and Wilson's typically excessive banter was kept to a modest minimum.

Indeed, music took center stage. They came charging out of the gate with a pair of solid rockers, "F.N.T.," a hook-laden singalong, immediately followed by their latest single, "Singing In My Sleep." The power that this band expresses live is not to be underestimated; Wilson and bass player John Munson deliver a two-fisted attack of volume and aggression, steel-cold guitar noise tempered by a shimmering tunefulness in nearly every song. Drummer Jacob Slichter follows a similar style, powerful yet precise.

The kicker with Semisonic is the keyboard, played by all three of them at one point or another, but mostly by Slichter, whose one-handed parts (most notably the hypnotic recurring figure in "Singing In My Sleep") are colorful without being obtrusive. The band displayed its greatest cohesion during "Down In Flames," the rarely performed standout track from Great Divide, full of lyrical bile and screaming guitar solo testosterone. "What about the plan?" Wilson shouted during a break in the lyrics. "I guess we can forget about the fucking plan."

Lighter numbers like "Delicious" (a silly, sensual singalong) and "Secret Smile" (their soothing Hall and Oates sound-alike) attested to the band's breadth and versatility. "Delicious" featured extensive audience participation, with Wilson coaxing the crowd into the "woo hoo, woo hoo, yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah" refrain while a bubble machine pumped behind him. He posed and preened with an average-guy nonchalance while a thousand women swooned. "That was the best one yet," he said when the song was over. "But don't think you're taking over the show."

Also on the oddball tip were a pair of covers: Prince's "Erotic City" (their old standby) and "I Got You" by Split Enz, which came complete with authentic, feathered-haired, space-age love song synthesizer chords. All the while, Wilson's nice-guy charm gave the band personality and a face, something that doggedly eludes most bands like this. Even the spectacular light show -- white-hot beams during guitar solos, a tongue-in-cheek disco ball ¡- tended to underline, not cover up, the band's razorblade aggression and suitable charisma.

The missteps laid elsewhere: Munson has increased his prominence as a back-up vocalist (and, on a few songs, lead singer), a role to which his dry voice doesn't seem best suited. He cooed through "Erotic City" effectively enough, but it was a good thing that it was Wilson interpreting His Royal Badness' slinky high notes. "If I Run," chugged back and forth from placid to explosive, but the explosive moments often veered out of control; the extended power-chord jam that finished off the song stood on some really shaky legs for a few moments there.

But if anything, these blemishes only stood to reinforce Semisonic's authenticity, the rough-edges that characterize any genuine pub-reared rock band. Too slick, and it's just no fun. And what of "Closing Time," their inescapable mega-hit that has conquered much of the Western world by now? They played it all right, and it was incredible, but somehow it felt like they didn't have to.

NOAH TARNOW(October 19, 1998)