Attention all teenyboppers: the long lost fourth Hanson brother has been rescued from the icy nether regions of Fargo, North Dakota. His name is Jonny Lang, and he plays a mean guitar.

At the tender young age of 18, Lang has traversed the world with the likes of the Rolling Stones and B.B. King. Not bad for a kid who just picked up the guitar on a whim when he was 13. Cashing in on connections that would make even the Harvard Alumni Association green with envy, Lang cut his first solo record after meeting ex-Prince producer, David Z. The album's debut single and title track, "Lie to Me," saw some heavy rotation on MTV and extended play on VH1. On the video, he was able to capitalize on his all American pre-pubescent mug. Riding the wail of his electric manhood. Lang's acceleration to the top of the charts was fueled by his lanky frame, laid-back cool and thickly applied accolades from every blues brother. He is now being hailed as the musical messiah of the next millennium.

Despite his dubious status as the poster boy of the new generation of mom-approved modern rock, Lang is still a mere pupa in terms of his musical maturation. Case in point: his live show at the Orpheum last Saturday night. From the last row of the balcony, I was not afforded a proper view of the rising star. The best I could make out was a gel-spiked head which bobbed furiously to the beat of the manic drummer. Clad in a black tank top which accentuated his spindly silhouette, Lang affected and effected the look of a rock star, a proto-Mick. He casually sauntered to and fro between lyrics, strumming with the ease of an old pro. But while the classic demeanor has been perfected to a hyperbole, Lang needs much work on marinating his tunes in front of a crowd.

Perhaps it was the poor acoustics of the decrepit walls of the Orpheum in dire need of a makeover, because the experience was like someone Nerf hammering my head and conducting a psychological study on the effect of flashing different colors of light for two hours straight. The only respite from the garish lighting design was the few seconds when a dramatic toplight isolated Lang at center stage. Thanks to Andy Warhol, artsy for artsy's sake is now status quo. On top of that, the non-stop songs pummeled my body with their monotonous cacophony for so long that I was like a disintegrating slug that slipped on a pile of salt. My mind was screaming stop the madness, but those cries were drowned out by Lang's rawhide-cured vocals and even more subsumed by the combination of non-stop drums, three guitars and two keyboards. In a word, it was loud.

Was this mind-numbing noise a result of a boy's attempt at overcompensation for lack of talent? Not exactly. There's no denying the appeal of a phenom who can do no wrong. We all get caught up in the fervor of manufactured girl/boy toys like New Kids on the Block or the Spice Girls, but it would be a shame for Lang to be boxed into that category. He seems to be the real deal, what with his gravely beyond-his-years voice which emotes the sagacity of a down-and-out alcoholic who has been beaten down by society.

What Lang needs to learn is modulation and moderation. Instead of barreling through his songs like there's no tomorrow, he should vary the force with which he punches into each tune. He certainly is capable of variation, as he proves in his first album, where the soulful ballads are balanced by funky tracks and all-out rock grooves. His second effort, Wander this World, is an unsteady foray into the mainstream. Even that word mainstream connotes a Spam product which inevitably sullies the unique with the base. This shift in focus is what was displayed at the live show. Instead of savoring each sound as a true blues musician would, Lang merely paid lip service to whatever ditty was next. It was as if he couldn't wait to be finished with the show. Each song was predictably fronted with Lang's relentlessly shouted, not sung, vocals and backed up by even more earsplitting guitars. The theatricality of it all overshadowed his musicianship; it was all razzle and no dazzle.

By far the best moment of the night was when I was finally able to escape into the quiet streets of Boston to assuage the ringing in my poor assaulted ears. Thanks to a street musician who plucked a bare tune on his banjo and soothed me with his baritone, I was relieved. Jonny Lang is no flash in the pan as a musician, but his flashy presence definitely needs some lubrication.