AH, the thrill of your first proper rock concert. I can picture myself now in my new drainpipes, walking into a smoky, sweaty Leeds University refectory to see the Stranglers in something like 1978.

The Stranglers, notoriously difficult artistes, were half an hour deciding whether to bother going on stage or not, and I spent the time threading myself delicately through a scary-looking crowd of punks to what I hoped would prove an optimum spot for watching Jean-Jacques Brunel without getting drenched in spit.

A lot of mostly cleaner water has passed under the bridge since then, but I've managed to keep trotting along to the odd gig, so that bands from the Pixies to Radiohead have conspired to bring about my current state of mid-life deafness.

But is there a point in life at which rock concerts should be gracefully dropped?

Put it this way, I have already walked out of a gig because I feared my eardrums might burst.

And any illusions I had that concert-going might make me hip and trendy were ruined at the weekend when me and my Other Half went off to see the people responsible for Our Tune - well, Our Tunes, really.

The Finn Brothers, for those too young to know, are the song-writing brothers behind the Kiwi new wave group Split Enz, and Crowded House, an early 90s band we both loved for their irresistible melodies, passionate lyrics and Beatles-style harmonies.

Crowded House were never exactly cool, but they are very dear to my heart, so it pains me to report what happened.

We arrived to find people politely queuing to get in. In the foyer, couples in ancient Fleetwood Mac tour sweatshirts and slip-on shoes were standing around looking at posters and saying: "Ooh, look, that bloke from Mike and the Mechanics is coming soon."

In the bar, punters were downing real ale or orange juice, and staring resentfully at the three people who'd had the cheek to light up a cigarette.

The occasional young face was apparent among the baldies and fatties. It soon became obvious the youngsters were there because they had somehow been sucked in to their parents' obsession.

Once inside the auditorium, we all dutifully applauded the support act, completely failing to notice that their frontwoman was the Hollywood star Minnie Driver, making her touring debut as a singer. Must've been our failing eyesight.

Then the brothers and their gang were on stage, swigging not from beer or vodka bottles, but from steaming mugs of tea. I think one of them complained that he'd scalded the roof of his mouth.

Neil, the younger one, can still pass for a rock musician, but his grey-haired big brother Tim, sitting at the piano, looked more like Samuel Pepys at a writing-desk.

They started off mainly with tunes from their latest album. They all had good melodies, and yes, you could tell exactly what they were singing.

Between numbers, there was some tentative calling out from the audience. "What's that?" asked Neil.

"Is it all right if we stand up?" asked the people in the front row. Rock'n'roll or what.

But then, just as I was starting to get thoroughly depressed, the Finns struck up the old, familiar songs, we all sang our hearts out together, and I forgot to feel uncool; indeed, forgot everything but the moment.

Which is surely the sign of a damned good concert, whatever age you are.

LAST week I reported on the ups and downs of feline health in my household. I am happy to report that Fergus, my tom cat, is back to murdering wildlife after getting the all-clear from the vet. The Lump was just another battle scar, after all.

Updated: 11:08 Wednesday, October 20, 2004