Scott Weiland of Velvet Revolver gets his message across during last night’s concert at Rexall Place. (ROBERT TAYLOR, SUN MEDIA)

EDMONTON - Stop calling Velvet Revolver a "supergroup."

You'll bring down the curse of high expectations upon their heads. As it is, people grumble, "Aw, they're OK, but they ain't no Guns N' Roses," perhaps noticing that even the name is similar: something soft paired with a firearm.

No, Velvet Revolver is what you might call a "Frankenband," stitched together from parts of dead bands whose legacies are far greater than the new creation, at least by press time.

In this case, in case you don't know, it was three-fifths of Guns N' Roses - Slash, Duff McKagan, Matt Sorum - one quarter of Stone Temple Pilots, singer Scott Weiland, plus guitarist David Kushner, who used to play with the punk band Wasted Youth (whoever they were) who collectively rocked a half-empty Rexall Place last night. Maybe you'd prefer to say it was half-full, though 5,000 people isn't quite half capacity here. It certainly wasn't a "super" turnout.

But we made it super, didn't we? It felt like more than 5,000 and the band didn't seem put off in the slightest by the low turnout. This was, they said, the last show on this tour. Why does Edmonton always seem to be the last stop on a rock band's tour? Because while we're not the end of the Earth, you can see it from here, that's why.

Anyway, these guys are no fools. They know on which side their bread is buttered, are aware of the hands that fed them, are fully cognizant of why they were here. For proof, consider that the songs that went over the best weren't necessarily the Velvet Revolver originals, all two albums worth, but the "covers" of Guns N' Roses and Stone Temple Pilots tunes.

Later on, the big ballad Fall to Pieces was well-received, but perhaps that's because it sounds like a long lost G N' R song. You could accuse Slash of ripping off himself, or if you're feeling charitable, say that he just has a very distinctive playing style.

Also, it must be said that it takes a real rock star to wear leather pants past the age of 40. His trademark top hat was a nice touch, too. Sartorially, the show was unusual in that four of the five band members wore hats. Weiland favored the policeman's cap, while McKagan and Kushner went with the ubiquitous punk-rock ball caps. Only Duff went hatless.

I digress.

STP's Vasoline heralded a quasi-sort-of-unplugged set where they sat on stools and rocked in softer manner than before. The goodies included Interstate Love Song - another STP classic, the one that brought about all those Pearl Jam comparisons - and one of the biggest crowd-pleasers of the evening, G N' R's Patience, where in the last verse Weiland sang an octave higher than usual in what could've been a homage to Axl Rose.

This is unlikely, though. Apparently, the two singers have exchanged harsh words. We won't get into that here.

While there were several moments last night that lived up to the frontman's promise that "we play motherf---ing rock 'n' roll!" there was something about the concert that was strangely subdued. Maybe it was weaker originals that seemed to take the wind out of their sails. Maybe it was knowing that for all that work, people still loved the old songs best. Maybe it was the stools. Hard to know.

Ask yourself this: How can musicians born, bred and steeped in a climate of inspired excess and substance abuse possibly keep their former attitudes while sober? They can't. They must change. The alternative is death, of course, so we won't get into that here, either.

The opener, too, was comprised of personnel from a dead band. Sparta is one of two groups formed "from the ashes of" At the Drive In (the phrase "from the ashes of" used with permission from VH1's Behind the Music) the other being the Mars Volta. Where the latter could be accused of going too far into left field, Sparta doesn't go far enough.

That's the problem.

The black-clad, Radioheadian quartet has the strange time signatures, the head-scratching lyrics like "tomorrow is today with a death in the family," the passionate lead singer going full bore in his narrow range and a particularly good drummer, but most of the songs were woefully unmemorable, despite obvious attempts at pop sensibility that were actually jarring.

Dudes, make up your minds. If you want hits on the radio, write better songs. If you want to be weird, then you'd better go all the way.

The only thing worse than being held up against your dead former band is being compared to your former bandmates who formed a better band.