In a media landscape of wall-to-wall mean, where it is considered normal and proportionate to lose your nut over an imaginary teenager who wants to identify as a cat, or whip yourself into a fury that some stranger, somewhere, doesn’t eat dairy, there is one personal remark that is off-limits: you can’t call anyone too old to do a thing because it’s none of your damn business. Two men in their 70s and 80s, battling it out for the US presidency, one of them potentially from prison? Good on them. Ready to settle down with that one special person (again), at 92? Lovely news. What better time to play Glastonbury than when you’re pushing 80 and your first tour was equidistant, in years, between now and the third battle of Ypres?
It is considered more than rude to mention it – déclassé, suburban. What kind of narrow-minded curtain-twitcher would say anything about Yusuf/Cat Stevens that wasn’t: “Choon!”? The man took a spiritual sabbatical that was way longer than most of the audience has been alive and that’s great. It must have done wonders for his vocal cords, which don’t sound a day older than 52. That’s more than could be said for Axl Rose, whose voice dropped in and out like an apparition. You are allowed to say that, you’re allowed to say maybe it wasn’t his day, but you’re not allowed to say maybe his greatest set is behind him. Maybe step back a bit, give some young bucks a chance. Won’t someone think of the poor 45-year-olds waiting for their big break?
