EDMONTON - Nickelback is the most hated rock band in history -- OK, the 2000s -- because every music critic who writes about them says they are. It's as simple as that.

So can 30 million fans be wrong? Of course they can. But we shan't single out any of the 15,000 local hosers, rock chicks, party animals and impressionable children who sold out Rexall Place last night.

These folks obviously came for the sort of big fun only a meatball rock band like Nickelback can deliver, and by the sound of it, they were not disappointed. It was like the Shrine Circus on steroids. Minus Shriners. Plus explosions.

The show literally started with a bang, then several more to scare the living daylights out of the crowd as the lights went down for Burn It to the Ground, accompanied by enough burning gas to lift the arena into the air like a giant party balloon, were Rexall made of nylon instead of concrete.

Then came Flat on the Floor, a song about being, well, flat on the floor.

Opening party tunes slid into an ode to the most important years of your life. You guessed it: "High school!" as Chad Kroeger bellowed proudly. Cue the power ballad Photograph and a slide show of pics from Nickelback past. Big cheer for Oilers logo.

Fond memories out of the way, it was time for a blast of blatant sexism in the form of Shakin' Hands -- as in "she didn't make it this far just shakin' hands" -- and the oral sex anthem Something in Your Mouth. A camera shot of a pair of rock chicks making out with bananas and whipped cream was a nice visual aid.

Then came alcohol, more sex and more rock 'n' roll -- not necessarily in that order -- much of it going with spewing fire and Kroeger's non-stop, expletive-laden barrage of party animal patter between songs.

The singer's filthy jokes were probably the freshest part of the show. Last time through he glorified marijuana. Last night was all booze. A wagon full of cocktails was wheeled out for lucky fans in the front row (who were of legal drinking age, Kroeger insisted -- though I didn't catch the booze roadie checking IDs -- with the singer himself swilling shots of Jagermeister. Maybe it was apple juice, I don't know. But they played bits of Garth Brooks, Bon Jovi and Journey amongst usual decadent Nickelbackian bill o' fare, so I doubt it. These are not the actions of sober men.

Nickelback's songs are so radio-friendly they buy your beer, pay your taxes, mow your lawn and walk your dog. The band uses all the tired rock cliches -- T-shirt cannon, pyro to the max, obligatory drum solo on rising platform and so on -- as if it were as fresh as the day they were contrived.

The i r s ong s g l o r i f y unwholesome habits and are utterly free of political message or deep meaning. At least they don't pretend to be anything else. You have to love them for that.

Nickelback sure gave its fans the old "bang for the buck" in the warm-up band department. There were three openers and not one of them sounded like Nickelback! How refreshing. It all started with Sick Puppies, a trio of U.S.- transplanted Aussies who played the bait and switch for the incoming crowd. The first tune almost came off as heavy metal before they lapsed into surprising pop sensibility, even with the usual topics of loathing for self and others.

Next, Shinedown blew the roof off like they were the headliner in a short, but dramatic set distinguished by the hammy antics of lead singer Brent Smith. This born showman has the magic touch of Wayne Newton about him, just in a hard rock world.

Imagine. High point s included the power ballads The Crow and the Butterfly, Simple Man -- in a touching shout-out to the recently deceased Slipknot bassist Paul Gray -- and the closing big fat hit Second Chance, as in "sometimes goodbye is a second chance." Of course, sometimes it's not, but these are obviously the kind of guys who see the glass as half full.

Breaking Benjamin drew the short straw for the last warm-up position here, and by coincidence was the weakest of all, depressing in more ways than one. Their songs were depressing because of the depressing subject matter and also because all their depressing ideas were rendered in such depressingly generic, hard rock sludge.

Call Nickelback what you want. At least they're not depressing.