Avert your eyes Blink fans, this won't be pretty. And before y'all start mashing keyboards with tiny fists of anger in a vast wave of payback hate, please understand that this review is no more than a heartfelt indictment of the bad art that spills like so much backed-up shit from the two aging hacks and the talented but showoff-y drummer who have reunited as Blink-182. Amazingly, an awful lot of people showed up for Tuesday's wretched debacle at GM Place, actually paying to have themselves drenched in the California three-piece's puerile pop-punk spray. And why not? It is a free fucking country, after all, on paper. But those who did pony up might want to rethink what their pennies are supporting.

Which is a cash grab, in a nutshell, from the indifferent musicianship of the 90-minute set to vocalist-guitarist Tom DeLonge's endless “suck my butthole” and “my mom would take a dump on your chest for two Canadian dollars” jokes. Drummer Travis Barker gets something of a break; a wiry and hyperactive rhythm whippet, he reliably added texture to numbers like “Always”. But whether it was the right texture is debatable, since his partners lag so far behind him in both ability and imagination. If the number of times DeLonge gave up a line to mutter “Fuck it” into his mike is any indication, there's also a certain lack of conviction coming from Blink-182's front end. Belching the chorus of “First Date” was a nice touch, mind you, which came after DeLonge—who, keep in mind, is 33 years old—beseeched every guy in the crowd to “grab your girl and kiss her on the fuckin' boobies”.

Hoppus, meanwhile, made it to “Man Overboard” before his weedy voice finally gave out. The bassist seemed generally more interested in clowning, anyway, drawing a huge cheer during “Feeling This” when he balanced his instrument on the palm of his hand. As this is pretty much the most impressive thing he does, the applause was sincere. On the positive side, the goofing around ceased during a simmering “Down”, and things really improved for half a minute when “Not Now” came in on a blast of muscle and groove unlike anything that preceded it. Equally, a cool turnaround from “Reckless Abandon” into “Josie” gave the impression that Blink-182 might actually practise together on occasion, but it too eventually atomized into a pitchy, wet, shapeless buzz that didn't hold together. Barker's metronomic fireworks were all we had.

But the kids sure loved it, right down to the wacky, inflatable dancers that appeared in the encore, making the stage look like a chunk of strip mall. What a horribly appropriate piece of set decoration. The average North American suburbanoid anointed Blink-182 with weenie-pulling megastardom back when Fred Durst was enriching culture with his platinum-selling use of the word nookie. In other words, it was simply a shit time for popular music. It's not the audience's fault, but as of 2009 they actually have the power to make Blink-182 stop. And I wish they would.

Georgia Straight, July 2009