How was I to know that the earth was gonna break?

My cradle to grave music tour last week began with the unthinkable:

A Katy Perry concert.

No joke.

It was a free ticket at a conference I was attending in Indianapolis (with free food and free transportation to boot). Those conditions were the only way and reason I could ever find my way there.

The location: Conseco Field House, home of the Pacers. A large room that reeked of cotton candy and puberty.
The scene: Many, many young girls, too often dressed liked sluts-in-training, and some with moms in matching outfits. (Note to self, keep a close eye on Ruby for the next 15 or so-odd years). It was disheartening to see, on several levels. The looks reflected Perry's image and music, both of which are far too suggestive for young girls.
The music: Not terrible, but far from memorable: heavy bass, some distorted guitar with some saccharine hooks and an insistent deadening beat.
The performance: Lots of heavily choreographed dancers (I knew Deney Terio's "Dance Fever" would lead to no good from the moment I first saw it in the late 70s.), video screens, and a stage filled with lollipops and a "Katy in Wonderland" theme. It got a bit more surreal when she pretended to take a bite of a pot brownie and got a bit loopy, the perfect image and scene for the mass of 12-year-old girls (and a few boys).

I only lasted several songs. I've already had enough cotton candy in my life.

The week ended in a beautiful old theater full of geezers at an Ian Hunter show. This room smelled like cigarette smoke and Icy Hot.

I'm kidding. A little.

Seventy-two years old, with songwriting chops (still) the envy of those a third of his age, Hunter led a tight band through Mott the Hoople and solo classics for more than two hours.

It was, quite literally, all the old dudes. And it was glorious.

Not a huge fan of "glam rock," even back in the day, Mott the Hoople really resonated with me because their music was deeply rooted in Chuck Berry and the 50s masters, with touches of heavy metal and a Dylan-like sensibility and sneer. Oh, and Hunter's marvelous songwriting, which alternated between rousing anthems and longing, aching despair. And with a poignancy few bands could match, then or now.

Hunter has always had an old soul; he was grasping for the big picture while other bands of that ilk were grasping for groins. Hooks were plentiful and melodies were lasting; Mott the Hoople remains the great lost 70s band.

"All the Young Dudes" and "Mott" were seminal albums for me; I spent hours in my bedroom listening to them, dreaming of a search for things I hoped I would someday find. And even if I didn't find what I was looking for, or was simply unable to hold on to found dreams, Ian Hunter continues to remind me of the rewards and lessons learned during the journey.

Funny how the "young" concert made feel ancient, while the elder statesman took me back nearly 40 years (!) to a youthful and seemingly limitless world.