By Anders Smith Lindall
  'The Osbournes" makes her out to be an impossibly bratty adolescent. Rock-gossip rumor mills buzz with tales of her wild lifestyle. And as the offspring of a nightmarishly domineering mother and a dad best known for eating bats, her pedigree isn't exactly enviable.

It was something of a surprise, then, that Kelly Osbourne's Thursday gig at the Vic was such wholesome family entertainment. There she was, bouncing around cheerily, slapping the hands of her young fans down front and pulling a few onstage to dance. Her most dangerous antic was pouring a bottle of water on her own head.

Oh, she also played some music--sort of. Actually she sang and pogoed while her band--four mail-order mall-punks in jeans, black T-shirts and very purposefully dyed, spiked hair--chugged through the tunes.

Drawn from her one and only album, "Shut Up," Osbourne's 50-minute set ranged from the heavy riff-rock of "Disconnected" to the genial punk-pop of "Coolhead," plus a splash of grunge, a power ballad ("More Than Life Itself") and a couple of old covers (among them Madon-na's "Papa Don't Preach," which last year put Osbourne on the map). Of course, these carefully calibrated genre exercises had about as much in common with real rock 'n' roll as frozen fish sticks do with Chilean sea bass.

But never mind that. And never mind that, in the balcony at least, Osbourne's vocals were almost completely undecipherable, drowned out by the screaming guitars. Taking into account her basic inability to carry a tune in anything but a good-natured growl, what seemed like an unfortunate mix was probably doing everyone a favor.

Give Osbourne this much: Though she's an utterly disposable product of our celebrity-obsessed pop culture, and her music is nothing more than an accessory to the complete Osbourne image, she at least recognizes and accepts those facts--embraces them, really. What the heck, she figures, might as well have fun and make some easy coin while I can. This attitude is a refreshing alternative to, say, Avril Lavigne, who somehow manages to come off as both completely vapid and insufferably self-serious.

That said, the guy who's really giggling all the way to the cash machine is Osbourne's opening act, Har Mar Superstar. The creation and alter ego of Minneapolis indie-rock dork Sean Tillman, Har Mar is a short, pale, tubby dude with a mullet, a tank top and a very bad mustache who dances and sings awful, raunchy R&B songs in a "smoove" croon and helium falsetto. Oh, yeah, and he also strips to his briefs while doing a faithful version of Stevie Wonder's "Sir Duke."

Tillman has parlayed this act into a major-label record deal and tours with the likes of Incubus and Osbourne, whom he also squired to the MTV Awards. When it comes to rock comedians, Jack Black's got nothing on Har Mar--as Tillman himself will certainly tell you. "Give it up for me," he shouted after each song. "I'm the [bleeping] best!"