Claire Kilroyon re-entering the moshpit

I don't know, I've watched the gigs and music festivals come and go these past few years, but I haven't bought the tickets. Pangs of regret inevitably follow. Seems like I'm watching my youth trickle away.

I've wanted to go, but lack the nerve. I attend more live music events now than I ever did, but they're a different type of event, requiring a different level of commitment from the audience. The distinction, as I see it, is that some acts expect you to show up and listen, but other acts require you to join in. You're not going to get away with just sitting there. A round of applause, no matter how enthusiastic, isn't going to cut it.

I came out at the interval during a performance in the National Concert Hall last May, and there was the lead singer from Republic Of Loose, leaning against the interval drinks cabinet in a territorial fashion. They were playing the Trinity Ball that night. As I drove home later past the reams of students queuing at Front Gate, I thought: What a way for a performer to prepare for a performance, catching some Shostakovich beforehand. The usual pang of regret followed, that bit more acute than usual.

So, next time Republic Of Loose were playing, I took my knuckles out of my mouth and booked a ticket. Seated or standing? I chose to stand, then fretted that I'd made a terrible mistake. I would be jumped on, so I wore old boots. Beer would be poured on me - I left my good coat at home. The toilets would be rank - I arrived with an empty bladder. There wouldn't be a cloakroom - I brought a huge bag for my stuff. I held onto the crowd barrier and waited. God, I was nervous.

The minute the band came on, everything was okay. Right from the outset, the music was irresistible, vital, and important. Michael Pyro's vocal range extends from the dirty via the funky to the intimate and fleetingly sublime. I'm not sure if this is an experience common to my peers, but most of the bands making the sound to which I directly respond were recording and touring while I was learning to walk. I should've come of age in the 1970s.

But when Republic Of Loose came onstage, they were so attuned to what I wanted to hear that I actually, for the duration of the performance, felt euphoric. For once, I was on the right bus.

Was I the oldest person there? Nearly. The small people held their phones in the air, using them as periscopes, watching the band on phone video.

By the time the dreaded audience-participation bit came around, I was well on for it. We outdid the rookies in the seats overhead, who were scundered out of it from the stage ("Get off of yizzer fucking holes" etc). I hadn't felt part of something since, well, can't remember that far back.

Republic Of Loose are playing the Village tonight and tomorrow night. One of the gigs is for "all ages". For a minute, I thought "all ages" didn't mean the tweenies, but referred to the likes of me.

• Claire Kilroy's second novel, Tenderwire, about a violinist, is shortlisted for the 2007 Kerry Group Fiction Award