After starring in Natural Born Killers, being a pop star must have seemed the easy option to Juliette Lewis.

If, so last night's theory seemed to assume, she sweated a lot, swore a lot, charged around stage, covered the Velvet Underground's Waiting For My Man and wore skin-tight silver trousers, that would be enough.

Alas, just as acting isn't merely reading someone else's words out, being a pop star isn't merely aping Jon Bon Jovi.

Last night's show was filmed so Lewis should have felt at home, but, every pose, every hair flick, every water bottle swig, indeed everything except her ridiculous feathered-headdress (equally offensive to the stylish and the native American; any stylish native Americans present presumably expired on the spot), suggested an audition for the role of pop star.

Moreover, having the Hollywood clout to entice Dave Grohl to produce your album does not make you Foo Fighters, let alone Nirvana.

In fairness, Lewis was game and not merely for hurling herself into the audience during So Amazing.

Her four Licks were suspiciously handsome rockers from central casting (probably literally), who went topless for much of the evening, but who kicked what they doubtless refer to as "ass". Indeed, on Got Love To Kill, the experience genuinely rang true.

The problems were ones that no actress could surmount. Tragically, Lewis's singing voice was a Peggy Mount-style bellow which even fishwives would find hectoring and for the most part, her songs were lumpen clumps of faux-grunge.

Ultimately, she's no pop star.