These are the assignments an arts critic dreads.

Why? Because all arts critics are cynical old trolls who deride all youth culture and anything that flies the banner of "positivity," right? Hardly.

It's because a show like this -- Jessica Simpson's Dreamchaser Tour, which opened for business in Tulsa's River Parks on Saturday -- is critic-proof.

When I say something is "critic-proof," I am not implying the common misconception that the job of the arts critic is to attack the art and that such teeny-bop whimsy is invulnerable to the mighty sword of our pen. The critic's job is to discuss the art, to frame it within the context of human culture and creativity, to synthesize its intent and result into a deeper understanding of the human condition.

If that sounds like an absurd and high-falutin' mission to proclaim upon entering the inflatable, commercial wonderland that was the Dreamchaser Tour, you're right. It's preposterous. Nothing that occurred under this show's array of tents or on its stages had anything remotely to do with art or the human condition. It was more about conditioner. It was all about cash; it was the Greenchaser Tour. This was an assignment much better suited to one of our business reporters. The creativity was there -- in the marketing, in the bald-faced bilking -- and certainly not in the karaoke on stage.

The interior of the tour's mobile tent city was a galaxy of corporate logos, chief among them being the hair-care company sponsoring the tour, if not Simpson herself. (Open Simpson's latest CD, "Irresistible," and a small advertisement falls in your lap, a hair-products flier with Jessica of the Golden Mane smiling broadly and assuring us that "great hair isn't hard." A tip: Sony Music subsidiary Columbia Records doesn't exactly need sponsors to fund its recordings.) It was easier to buy something than it was to see the stage, the chief commercial bazaar being separated from the stage area by an inflatable arch that, for some reason, was emblazoned with the words "Con Dios Festival."

Even the water was branded -- and its protection paid for. As I entered the venue, an acquaintance -- one of the show's producers, no less -- was stopped by security and informed that he could not have his bottle of Aquafina water inside the venue. The reason: "This is a Coke-sponsored event, and that's a Pepsi product."

Much of the music that filled the festival's five hours was as manufactured as the two-dollar water bottles. All five acts -- save the Tulsa-based opener, Kim Ray -- lip-synched to karaoke tracks created a long time ago in studios far, far away. It's not that they weren't singing at all, but they clearly weren't singing everything. Youngstown was the most obvious, catching their breath numerous times with the microphone away from their mouths while voices were still coming out of the speakers (dancing vigorously with show-choir canes and singing, ironically, "I'm not a machine"). The mikes were on chiefly to allow every member of every group to, as if from a checklist, shout the words "Tulsa" and/or "Oklahoma" between songs.

But again, this was a show produced for (and, in focus groups at least, by) teens and pre-teens. It's not about the music. No one's vocal performances received direct applause. The girls' squeals went up in response to movement, not music. A dancer kicks high and looks fierce -- eeeee! A cute boy singer approaches the edge of stage-right -- eeeee! The lead singer of Plus One sails through a spine-tingling melisma peaking on a high A -- silence. Well, deep down, at least I went eeeee!

Simpson was the only act of the night with live musicians, though they were largely window dressing. The guitarist's main duty was to solo while Simpson was off changing clothes. Her lavish production, though, made it obvious where the $29 ticket prices were going. Six dancers, three backup singers, the band, stunning costumes, dazzling lights, and an elevator to the stage's second tier, through which Simpson made a grand entrance (an effect unfortunately marred just seconds later when her "Hot Like Fire" flame-stitched topcoat caught on the stairs and she fell on her backside).

She certainly can dance, and, gee, her hair looks terrific, and it's too bad that all the glitz and glamour so effectively distracts from her vocal talents. The super-sexual strutting (the conflict of her alluring secular image and her sub-aura of religious piety is well worth the debate it has received) and the panting innuendos of the songs detract from her real strength: belting ballads. In an interview with the Tulsa World last week, Simpson expressed her desire to write her own material and chart her own course. Here's hoping that happens, because if she seizes on her strengths she could be the Celene Dion of her generation.

For now, though, she's just a grifter of great hair.

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Thomas Conner, World entertainment writer, can be reached at 581-8473 or via e-mail at thomas.conner@tulsaworld.com.