Ah, the young days of Hanson. Middle of Nowhere had just come out. Everyone was skinny and squeaking up a storm. Taylor was a willowy waif of a boy, continually blushing over one thing or another. His voice was destroyed and you were continually afraid that some of that over-zealous tambourine motion would fracture a wrist bone or two. Ike had braces, and was deep in his curly hair denial phase. He wore pants that were roughly 24 sizes too big with Vans. And we loved him anyway. Zac? Well he was a squirt of a thing with enough energy to power MIR through the end of the millennium- a five-foot tall walking mouth in yellow parachute pants and Dr. Martens. He became the character, the cartoon image of Hanson that was written of in every national newspaper and music rag.

They walked out on stage at Saturday Night Live and they looked different. All of them, Ike included, were decked head to toe in designer clothes. For the first time, they were glammed out, worthy of Rock Star status. DKNY. Crushed velvet. Car wash suits. Leather pants. The message was pretty clear. You’re a pansy act until you dress like Aerosmith. Taylor’s voice had dropped another rung, an event that undoubtedly caused many a frantic memo to be sent at Mercury Records. They looked good at SNL. They showed that they could take the ribbing, that they were aware, to a certain extent anyway, of the way they were being perceived by the populous at the time. It was a marvelous PR move, Zac and Taylor’s head colds not withstanding.

The 1998 Grammy Awards. The single most definitive moment in Hanson’s career. They walked into Radio City that night as a fluffy kiddie pop band and walked out with the respect of the entire industry. Suddenly praises from other musicians, and unlikely ones at that, (Stevie Nicks, Steven Jenkins, Joe Perry) started to pop up in the papers. They had one shot. Four minutes. Ike was petrified. Zac hid effectively behind several locks of hair. And Taylor? He just smiled and sang hard. Sitting in your living room, you could almost feel them gritting their teeth, fighting so hard for the crowd of stoic, seated adults in front of them. Hanson wasn’t exactly in their element. They didn’t win, and who really cared after that performance, which, incidentally, was followed by a none-too-shabby round of applause, even for cynical musician types. In an Mmmbop, Hanson silenced every critic that counts. Without that night, there would be no Jonny Lang or DJ Swamp or John Popper on the new album. Suddenly it gets really difficult to say "Hanson sucks" and walk away when they have clout like that in their corner. We can only hope that the boys will see many more moments like that one.

Hanson emerges after months away making their second studio album. They emerge taller, wider, heavier and considerably prettier any of us could ever have imagined. Almost all marks of awkward little boy-dom have faded, giving way to three gargantuan sets of feet, shorter hair and maybe even, oh the horror, a muscle or two. Ike and Tay look as though they wouldn’t know how to spell ‘awkward stage,’ and if Zac is in the middle of one, I personally wouldn’t tell him because he’s big enough to hurt me. Hopefully the press will take the same cue. Their music is changed, more Hanson and fewer faceless songwriters and studio musicians. From this somewhat obstructed view, they seem confident and older and wiser and ready, whether the new album does well or not. My opinion? This show’s got legs, and it’s not stopping any time soon.