By ZOË WOLFF

LET’S get a little more enthusiasm, guys,” a young waiter cheered as he took a table’s order at Gyu-Kaku, a Korean barbecue restaurant in Lower Manhattan. It was an odd rallying cry considering it was directed at The Go! Team, a British band whose joyous brand of playground hip-pop and high-octane live shows bear out the exclamation point in its name. This group needs more enthusiasm like Paris Hilton needs more press.

The band’s debut album, “Thunder, Lightning, Strike,” officially landed in the United States this month. But thanks to a 2004 release in Britain and its availability on the Internet, the album has already caught on here, earning this multiracial posse of multi-instrumentalists (think of an indie Benetton ad) comparisons to the Jackson 5 and the “Peanuts” soundtrack, by way of Belle and Sebastian and Sonic Youth.

In all fairness to the waiter, the Team was exhibiting a bottom-of-the-ninth fatigue on this recent rain-soaked night. (The sports analogies will cease here, as the band’s lanky mastermind, Ian Parton, clarified that a Go Team refers to an airplane crash clean-up crew, “the people who clear limbs and stuff.” The exclamation point was his poetic license.)

The six members of the band had been awake for nearly a day, having caught an early morning flight from London to kick off a three-week tour in the United States. And whatever reserves of energy remained they had burned up earlier in the evening at the Roxy, specifically at the club’s weekly roller disco.

“Wicked, authentic, old school,” Sam Dook, who plays guitar, banjo and drums in the band, said as he laced up a pair of well-worn suede rental skates.

Mr. Dook, Mr. Parton and Ninja, the Team’s rapper and M.C., were first to brave the rink, which was ruled by expert skaters practicing “Saturday Night Fever” moves and a crew of Roxy security guards intent on blowing whistles for the slightest transgressions.

“I’m already breaking the rules,” Mr. Parton said with mock boastfulness as he perched on a railing. He hoisted himself back onto the rink, unzipped his tracksuit jacket, did a little boogie with his upper body and took off for a spin.

“I can’t believe that guy bought skates that light up,” Ninja said from the sidelines, motioning toward a man whose wheels flashed several shades of neon. “He’s got to be single,” she concluded.

She removed a Sony camcorder from her Puma bag and aimed it at her mates, giddily making spectacles of themselves, Mr. Dook windmilling his arms to keep from wiping out, Mr. Parton crashing into the rink’s wall. (He couldn’t quite figure out how to stop.) It was prime material for the video diary Ninja plans to keep of the tour.

After a few last laps, the band decamped to the Korean restaurant to refuel. “Tofu doesn’t really taste like much, does it?” Ninja asked, dipping into a tofu salad.

The waiter arrived with platters of raw meat, fish and vegetables, to be cooked on small grills that are built into the table. Mr. Parton took charge of some sea bass. A barbecuing frenzy ensued.

Soon enough the conversation turned to the subject of sleep – or lack thereof. “When you’re up for 24 hours or more, you feel high,” mused Kaori, the band’s most recent addition.

Mr. Parton had a more somber take. He recalled a documentary about a man who forced himself to stay awake for five days. “Eventually, the guy just went mad,” Mr. Parton said.

A cue, it seemed, to hit the hay.

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