Counting Crows are the Starbucks of rock. Whatever album you skip through, or gig you catch, you're always guaranteed the same bland concoction of bittersweet, introspective sentiments and frothy melodies. Easily palatable, they sell big - their debut album, August and Everything After, shifted six million copies in 1993. But it's never clear who actually likes them.

There's a Robbie Williams-like mix of ages at this, the first of four consecutive dates in London. Everyone is word perfect, throwing a clenched fist in the air to the slightly folky, San Francisco-honed MOR rhythms, greeting every utterance from the confessional, profane lips of singer Adam Duritz with cheers. Despite Duritz's claim that they're "a big rock band", watching them is like drowning in a tall latte.

Perhaps lavishing adulation on a band whose biggest hit, Mr Jones, was over a decade ago, is an act of rebellion in itself. But Duritz wants to be relevant. After charming the crowd with recollections of love gone wrong, he gets political. There's an anti-Bush joke and gleeful comments about the Dixie Chicks' fall from grace. Then Duritz attacks. "I hear that Ralph Nader is running for president again. What a fucking dick." But then, Duritz isn't a wholesome Texan trio. He's a burly, dreadlocked singer who dances like a puppet whose strings have been cut, while promoting a greatest hits CD.

When Duritz concentrates on the music, Counting Crows are entertaining enough. Their all-American songs are pleasant. Mr Jones is a high point, Duritz's Michael Stipe-like voice full of fluttering high notes, while Anna Begins is a slightly tortured argument with himself. Though the cover of Big Yellow Taxi has little sentiment, the self-loathing, slacker mentality of Hanginaround sparks an enthusiastic singalong. And as Duritz stands on the edge of the stage, reluctant to leave, that even seems enough for him.

· Until Friday. Box office: 0870 606 3585. Then at Glasgow Academy (0870 771 2000) on March 6 and 7.