There is something faintly disturbing about Ben Kweller. It could be the ease with which he takes a youthful passion for dirty rock and tempers it with a talent for old-fashioned pop. Or maybe that, despite being all of 21 years old, he looks as if he should be getting ready for the first day back at school. Add the David Cassidy hair and frightening self-confidence and you've got a star. And a major identity crisis.
At 16 years old, Kweller had a band (indie punksters Radish), a record deal and international success. Although precociousness is never attractive, Kweller makes it look fun. As he flings himself into a split-jump, legs outstretched, hands gripping his lead guitar, there is no denying he is living a dream.
What vision he is chasing is another question altogether. Kweller's debut solo album, Sha Sha, has the light touch and introspection of the Lemonheads and the fun-fuelled energy of Blink 182. But it also reveals the extent to which Kweller is wrestling with himself. His ability to produce sentimental pop songs with startling warmth and maturity is at odds with his love of heavy guitars and shouting. He is Andrew Gold when he wants to be Kurt Cobain.
Dressed in regulation black, baggy T-shirt and jeans, Kweller cuts a boyish figure. He plays on his youth, tearing into an acoustic version of Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby, hands strumming his guitar with zest. Kweller obviously has an ironic but genuine affection for rap and indulges himself again to cover an awkward moment when his keyboard breaks down mid-set. "My name is BJ and I got style, so I'm gonna rap for a little while," he says, whipping up some crowd participation as he goes.
But it is his way with a melody that is special. The lovelorn lyrics of Walk On Me are given a new ferocity, though Kweller's voice still weeps with wisdom beyond his years. Wasted and Ready is a frat party anthem in the making, and though he bops up and down excitedly in the loud bits, his all-American vowels roll tenderly when the song falls briefly to a hush. Kweller is similarly winsome for the gentle Lizzy, which shimmers with clever key changes and a timeless quality.
But, however adult his music, his humour is endearingly adolescent. He introduces us to his band, whom he has christened with animal names. "I'm the motherfucking cobra. I was the snake, but we thought cobra sounded more badass," he confides - still trying to be something less sweet than he really is.
