"Ladies and Gentlemen, the performance will begin in five minutes"

Time for someone to fold away the Guardian, tricky crossword, pity, nearly done, but it can be finished off on the train later. Another leans over to refill a wine glass. Further along the row, the last minute call to the child minder is coming to an end: " yes, not too late...that's fine... are they asleep yet?...oh good". Someone slips a choc-ice wrapper under the seat. Blackberries turned off, skirts smoothed, hair flicked back, throats cleared.

The lights fade. To a rising murmur of excitement, the entertainers slip out from the wings, striding to their positions; one hurries to the front of the stage, and with a certain aplomb, takes the microphone, pauses for a moment to savour the tangible apprehension, and then welcomes the audience:

"WAKE UP, MOTHERFUCKERS, WE'RE THE STOOGES, GET UP AND FUCKING DANCE !!!!"

Maybe most of the audience were middle class, united by grey hair (or no hair), mortgages, child raising, organic food, carbon footprint conundrums and sensible shoes, but you can't bury the punk sensibility, close the door, it squeezes underneath, bar the gate, it'll try another part of the fence. And was it out last night, full force collective. Even if it was hard to reconcile the image of portly, wattle necked spectators as the grooving, full-blooded, full on new wavers we all tried so hard to be twenty, thirty years ago.

Iggy Pop and the Stooges seared the walls of the Royal Festival Hall. My ears still humming as I write, not the constant peal of bells it was earlier today. Now it's more what I imagine someone in a decompression chamber might experience, burping, popping, like the dimples on a ping-pong ball being pushed out.

We were right at the back. Good thing in a way. Iggy invited the mosh pit up on to the stage. Blokes in suits dancing, women in frocks, people headbanging, or doing the grandparents at a wedding reception dance.

Great gig. I need my ears back in some sort of working order however.