Rooster are on a one-band mission to bring stadium rock back to the youth clubs of Britain. You can tell from their hair. They might look shaggily indie on their posters but, up close, the curls of singer Nick Atkinson tell a different story. So recently washed you can almost smell the shampoo, his fluffy locks are just centimetres from going Bon Jovi.

It's an interesting marketing strategy at a time when the charts are dominated by pop and funereal balladry, but on the basis of tonight's performance, they may just pull it off. Their jeans might look perilously baggy, but Rooster are very tight musicians, with guitarist Luke Potashnick and bassist Ben Smyth putting in particularly accomplished performances.

But Atkinson is the star of the show, having clearly spent the 20-odd years of his life prior to appearing on Popworld practising being Mick Jagger. He doesn't do a bad impression, with his rubbery lips and twitching limbs, but it does feel a little choreographed: he grabs his heart as if dying during the slushy Angels Calling and does a sort of Greased Lightning thing with his arms during the boppier Come Get Some. He is so busy clutching his stomach while singing about some girl or other on the forthcoming single Staring at the Sun, you wonder if he's about to have an attack of appendicitis.

The real problem with Rooster is that despite some surprisingly heavy basslines, they are essentially a bit dull - too US radio, too Maroon 5 - and more than a bit cheesy on the slow tunes. OK, so they write their own songs, but do we really need a homegrown Savage Garden?