I believe it was that great philosopher Willie Dixon who asserted in his carnal blues masterpiece Back Door Man, that "the men don't get it, but the little girls understand." What was true in Willie's day is just as true in the age of the Backstreet Boys. None of the mature musical experts (and I include myself in that category) get it. But judging by the response from some 10,000 Backstreet acolytes on hand last night at the Corel Centre at the start of a two night stand, the little girls understand it all very well. Parents may worry, critics may slag, boyfriends may scoff, but the teens and pre-teen gals will go on loving the Backstreet Boys ... until the next slickly packaged outfit oozes out of the pop chute. But even by the pre-fab standards of teen idolism, this was a predictable spectacle. Before the group took the stage, an announcer told the crowd to toss any presents, stuffed toys and mash notes onstage now, so as not to interfere with every choreographed knee-drop and leg-kick. C'mon guys, live dangerously! Overhead video screens flashed a photo history of each Boy and some grade-B computer graphics showed the band's name exploding into a supernova. And then, at stage rear, there they were, ready to execute some athletic dance moves through a frantically paced opening. We've Got It Goin' On bled seamlessly and generically into the rest of their pneumatic dance numbers. The only thing that distinguishes their music is how undistinguished it is -- warmed-over new-jack soul, repackaged and blanded beyond recognition. The Boys brought it down for a quiet interlude, with each member stepping forward to pledge his platitude ... I mean, gratitude, "to each and every one of you." Then came a brief set of a capella cover songs from the group's pre-fame days -- including a note-perfect version of Boys II Men's End Of The Road. That led to a quick taste of Just To Be Close To You, a snippet of a ballad from the band's next album, and a full-band version of I'll Never Break Your Heart. As unremarkable as the songs might be, at least it gave the five an opportunity to display their enviable talent as ensemble singers. Their shallow songbook meant the band had to dip back into the covers for versions of the Commodores' party-stormer, Brick House, and the soul nugget, Betcha By Golly Wow, recently resurrected by Prince, to much greater effect. Which I guess proves that the Boys have some decent old records in their collection. Hell, their fans probably figure these are new Backstreet originals, anyway. And it gave the parents something to hum along with. Kevin Richardson and fan favorite Nick Carter teamed up for a drums-and-piano duet, but while poor Kev was pouring his heart into a ballad apparently called 10,000 Promises, the audience was more enthralled with cheering every time Carter mugged for the cameras. It all came to a climax with an energetic rendering of Get Down (You're The One For Me) and a Sens-jersey-bedecked encore of Quit Playing Games (With My Heart). Everyone cheered and wagged their fluorescent-tubing along to the music, and there was none of the barrier-crashing, stage-invading nonsense that usually goes down at these types of shows. It's all inoffensive and unimpressive stuff. The troubling question is, why the Backstreet Boys? There's plenty of more talented singers and more engaging performers, singing better songs, in obscurity. The Boys' ace in the hole is packaging. In an age when angry Gen-X thrashers and harsh ghetto prophets dominate the airwaves, the Backstreet Boys are a safe, unthreatening, cuddly alternative. Every costume change and flash of bare chest, every lock-step dance move and beseeching, cliche-riddled ballad begs for the audience's love. And for now, with sophisticated taste and better judgment apparently a few years away, the audience is more than happy to oblige. Francophone rap crew Dubmatique opened the evening with a mercifully brief set of hip-hop that was hindered by muddy sound, deficient charisma and plodding jams. Better luck next time.