Cranberries Get Their Kicks : Pop music review: At Irvine Meadows, Dolores O’Riordan sings pure, has fun and steps lively.

It’s about time somebody put the body electric back into the music electric.

In the stagecraft of ‘90s rock, we’ve seen a numbing procession of bodies stationary, plus the occasional body-as-projectile--the unguided missile approach of Eddie Vedder, Trent Reznor, Zack de la Rocha, et al. What we haven’t seen, at least since the late-’80s advent of Terence Trent D’Arby, is a new rock star who can actually put some juice into a show by dancing to the music.

Dolores O’Riordan of the Cranberries probably blew all her alternative-rock credentials Thursday night at Irvine Meadows, setting aside contemporary conventions of cool, and eagerly hoofing it like a trouper in the Joey Heatherton / Ann-Margret tradition--a surprising development given the Irish band’s reputation for shyness. There was nothing shy about the costume changes that left O’Riordan clad in progressively skimpier outfits.

Some of it was contrived, but eventually O’Riordan’s old-fashioned showmanship brought the Cranberries out of a mulchy bog of sound-alike ballads and mid-tempo tunes.

The highlights, all in the last half-hour of the band’s 100-minute, tour-ending concert, came sporadically. But they were truly special peaks powered by the tiny singer’s cavorting--a mixture of joyful release and sly nods to show-biz convention.

O’Riordan, whose guitar and keyboard duties in the four-piece band didn’t always leave her free to skip, twist and cha-cha the night away, began the proceedings as a glamorous figure in a long, white, leather topcoat and black silk gown. In that guise, a lot of her moves seemed repetitive and calculatedly ironic--lots of exaggerated wing flaps and hip shakes out of John Travolta’s “Pulp Fiction” routine.

Things didn’t improve as we met a new, barefoot, Bohemian-chic Dolores at mid-set. She appeared in baggy black slacks and a velvety, leopard-pattern top for the angry ballad “Not Sorry,” which she belabored with a foot-stomping, swivel-in-chair routine that was obvious and forced.

Soon enough, though, O’Riordan was letting go (in a Madonna-esque black satin bra) and putting a palpable charge of energy and a freewheeling sense of fun into numbers such as the new “Salvation Song” and the set-closing “Ridiculous Thoughts” and “Zombie.”

The energy faded with two dull ballads that opened the encore, but the show’s zing returned with “Liar,” “Not Hollywood” (a hard-pounding virtual rewrite of the hit “Zombie”) and “Dreams.” With “Liar,” O’Riordan added a new--or actually, very old--move to her repertoire of shuffle-steps, marching knee-lifts and light-footed skips: She went airborne with a wonderful bit of traditional Irish step-dancing. A collaboration with those Celtic traditionalists the Chieftains can’t be far off.

O’Riordan’s dance know-how and playful approach to showmanship are worth noting at length because they are so rare for her rock generation. But this body electric can sing too. The concert reconfirmed, and even enhanced, O’Riordan’s standing as one of the most striking young vocal talents in rock.

Ending a long touring haul that dates back to the 1994 release of the Cranberries’ quadruple-platinum second album, “No Need to Argue,” O’Riordan couldn’t have been in better voice. Her range is tremendous, from the pure, high notes she hit in “Linger” to the husky, muscular, lowdown drive she brought to “Still Can’t.”

Her favorite colorations were trumpet-like blasts and reedy intonations that evoked the call of traditional Irish pipers. Remarkably, O’Riordan’s across-the-stage frolicking never left her short of breath; her cardiovascular fitness might qualify her for a spot next year on the Irish Olympic team.

With a winning voice and the ability to set off sparks on stage, O’Riordan (whose three band mates, a withdrawn but skillful lot, were especially good on the tense, driving rockers) would seem to have a chance at greatness.

Unfortunately, her lyrics are clumsy and pedestrian. Most Cranberries songs are bland, fragmentary declarations that aim for the wise simplicity of a child but fall into the strained naivete of a grown-up trying to sound childlike.

O’Riordan’s artlessness wasn’t a drawback on the Cranberries’ 1993 debut album, “Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?,” in which songs about young romance and coming-of-age difficulties needed nothing more than lilting melodies and O’Riordan’s youthful charm.

The follow-up has some strong melodies, but the attempts to sound wistful and innocent (or innocent but outraged, as on the politicized “Zombie”) are forced.

At the climax of the band’s current hit about childhood lost, “Ode to My Family,” O’Riordan swells with plaintive feeling on the line “My father, he liked me. Does anyone care?” Until O’Riordan learns to do better than that, it will be difficult to care about what she has to say, and her talent, large as it is, will go unfulfilled.

*

Second-billed Toad the Wet Sprocket played a well-crafted but ultimately disappointing set. The talented Santa Barbara band did a good job of reproducing the music on its albums--which required strong lead and backing vocals and a well-tuned ensemble instrumental effort.

But singer Glen Phillips and company stopped there, failing to add new intensities on stage, despite the dramatic potential of their songs. Because its sound can be awfully reminiscent of R.E.M., Tom Petty and other worthy melodic-rock exponents, Toad is going to have to extend itself more to stay a hop in front of the melodic-rock herd.