I had a bit of a soft spot for Fountains Of Wayne going into this show. Underneath the glossy power pop sheen lies a knowing everyman appeal and quick lyrics born from a wicked grasp of irony. Parts of 2003's Welcome Interstate Managers in particular demonstrated this perfectly. After all, surely the biggest promoters of the concept of MILF since Finch in American Pie deserve some credit? You might have to burrow through some schmaltz to get there, but it is there… promise.

FOW remain little more than a cult favourite in Europe and the same is largely true elsewhere. Clearly Japanophiles however (three of Welcome Interstate Managers' 16 tracks reference Japan), they have a huge following here and their three-date sell-out stint in Tokyo proves that the rather mediocre Traffic and Weather hasn't done anything to dent their appeal. Good job really, given that their live show leaves them battered, bruised and with more dents than a Smart Car in a demolition derby.

The first thing to note is just how odd they look on stage together. It looks like they've been drafted in at random from the street, and they look like anything but the successful rock band that they are. Lead singer Chris Collingwood, clad in oversized Farmer Giles red-checked shirt, bears more than a passing resemblance to Chester Bennington (with more hair and frosted tips), whilst the bassist could easily have stepped in from the office block round the corner. The drummer looks like he has been drafted in from the Essex branch of River Island and the keyboard player (with neat khaki shirt and jeans – ripped a little at the knee, the little rebel) wouldn't be out of place in Keane. Guitarist Jody Porter is the only one who looks vaguely like he belongs up there, resembling something between Justin Hawkins and Ronny Wood. Perhaps this hodgepodge of an exterior is part of their charm. Or something.

Wardrobe aside, during the first half of the set they look and sound like they are in rehearsals. Few things irk me more than seeing a band simply going through the motions. The cheeky wit and informed irony that sets them apart on record is nowhere to be seen – somehow it just doesn't translate to the stage. You might expect – for example – ‘Hey Julie’'s deft sketch of humdrum working life or even ‘Stacey's Mom’'s nudge nudge, wink wink to be brought to life in glorious 3D, but instead we are simply given a "…and so-and-so is next" greatest hits playback. When two roadies – Dwayne and Neil – are brought in to play the wooden scraper and cabasa respectively on ‘Hey Julie’, I actually start laughing. Both stare earnestly at the floor, head down and nod along. It's all just a bit weird (not in a good/original/quirky way, just weird). If Beavis and Butthead lived…

It's not all bad – a few songs including ‘Someone To Love’ and old favourites ‘Leave The Biker’ and ‘Mexican Wine’ are delivered and received quite well although ‘Traffic and Weather’, ‘Yolanda Hayes’ and ‘Hotel Majestic’ sink back into run-of-the-mill delivery. It should also be noted that the crowd practically wets its collective self when the opening chords of ‘Stacey's Mom’ are struck up.

Forty-five minutes in, they disappear off stage and the customary encore adds little. After another two or three minutes and just as people start to leave and the clapping dies down, a second encore comes as something of a wholly unnecessary surprise, but they carry on regardless.

As a giddy music fan, few things are more disappointing than looking forward to seeing a band only to have expectations dashed. Their records hint at the possibility of a quirky, entertaining show. Instead, all I got was an apathetic humph, and that's just not cool.