Ryan Adams, Shephard's Bush Empire, London

A lack of sax appeal

Ryan Adams, the North Carolina songwriter, is probably the youngest person present at his show. His reputation as the new Dylan (yes, another one) precedes him, and legions of the old man's fans have ventured out to draw their own conclusions. Some will probably be disappointed.

Going by tonight's performance, Dylan is just one of the many guises adopted by this most prolific and precocious songwriter. Other ones include Mick Jagger, Gram Parsons, Neil Young and, most visible of all tonight, Bruce Springsteen.

It makes for a peculiar and occasionally disappointing show. Most of the blame can be heaped on Adams's band, the Sweetheart Revolution. Bad hats aside, one of the greatest irritations is the saxophonist, whose cacophonous squealing makes the songs come over more soft rock than classic rock. His desire to take centre stage is such that, when he climbs on to the drum platform, playing his sax with one hand and punching the air with the other, several of us have to suppress the desire to throw our pints at him.

But back to Adams. Looking customarily unkempt with his spiky hair, the former front man of the legendary alt.country outfit Whiskeytown concentrates mostly on songs from his splendid second solo album, Gold, the follow-up to last year's Heartbreaker. Purring his way through the love songs "Somehow, Someday" and "Answering Bell", his prowess as a songwriter comes through.

It's also during those songs that the country leanings of his Whiskeytown days emerge, to universal delight. The gospel-tinged "Rescue Blues" and the bluesy "Oh My Sweet Carolina" are fabulous, while "Touch, Feel & Lose", with its repeated refrain, "Cry, cry, cry", brings a lump to the throat of even the most hardened punters.

But Adams's desire to rock out is never far from the surface. "Street Walkin' Blues", a bold homage to the Rolling Stones, morphs into the Stones's "Midnight Rambler". The nods to his heroes carry on, too. "Nobody Girl" is pure Velvet Underground, while during "New York, New York", – not the show tune – Adams gives us the full rock action. In his checked shirt, the sweat glistening across his face, for a moment he truly is the Boss.

When he's not singing, Adams isn't the most charismatic front man. There are lengthy pauses between songs, during which he smokes scores of cigarettes and mumbles in our general direction. At one stage, he has a discussion with his band about the merits of the word "maritime". Everyone laughs, though no one knows why. There are worse crimes, however, such as his backing band, who continue in their efforts to turn the evening into a stadium rock event c1985. Let's hope that next time, Adams leaves them at home.