The first Stones show noted here took place in 1990. Mick Jagger was 46, and by the next July he would be 79. Journalists of the era, many born the same year as the band’s first single, had already developed a recurring slogan that would accompany performances from that night onward until the final concert at Wanda Metropolitano. The scenes on stage would pull in several generations, with grandparents and grandchildren sharing the same seats. While the idea also applies to Dylan, Neil Young, or Patti Smith, it has become a familiar refrain for television crews, who tuck away a few seconds to capture what they call a generational link during every show up to today’s venues of the group.
In sports broadcasts, time is precious. The announcer will mention the grandson walking the field hand in hand with his grandfather, a Madrid-Barça showdown, the extra periods and the penalties, yet the music moment on stage sometimes gets a lingering minute of air time. It is as if the trailer for a live orchestra obstructs the core story. Instead of highlighting that Jagger, Richards, and Wood last performed Out of Time after sixty years, the focus often lands on this crossgenerational thread, which adds more texture to the overall narrative. The same tendency appears at summer festivals, where audiences are described as spanning every age, as if fans of a single band were everywhere at once, drinking beer side by side and listening to songs like Just Like Honey while exchanging knowing glances.
The idea of generational crossover at festivals is only partly true, a bit like James Bond’s dry martini — shaken, not stirred. Primavera Sound, Mad Cool, and Benicàssim do attract a broad mix of ages, but the oldest attendees still treat the younger ones with a mix of curiosity and reserve, and the elder generation often reads the young crowd as a vivid, living backdrop. A familiar festival character, especially since the early years, supports this dynamic, while a sense of time and trend keeps shifting the barbershop era from year to year.
Two recent literary works provide a lens to strengthen this point. Joan Vich’s I Lived Here chronicles twenty-five years of behind-the-scenes history at the Benicàssim Festival, while La Enthusiast by Cristina V, known as Gala de Meira, blends fiction with memoir to recount a bands’ journey through Spain’s festival and concert circuit. The narrative captures how audiences aged twenty years younger than earlier fans started to populate venues in 2012 and 2015, altering the dynamic with fresh energy. Vich remarked that the younger listeners brought a new form of intergenerational dialogue, one where the music crosses generations and invites reflection on what it means to share a musical memory.
Meira’s novel adds another layer, charting a young music lover who chased his favorite acts across Spain, slipping into backstage spaces and hotel rooms during a formative period, seeking connection and belonging. The tale follows how those experiences shaped friendships, the sense of belonging, and the reality that fame does not guarantee harmony. It hints at the broader theme that many aspiring artists remain focused on simple joys while navigating the pressures of growing up in a crowded music landscape. The story resonates with readers who recall the thrill of discovery and the responsibility that comes with following a dream. It nods to a time when a band could become a generational anthem and when listeners found meaning in the shared ritual of a live show.
As time passes, those behind the scenes continue to observe how audiences evolve. A mom-to-be might witness a new cycle of concerts and memories, while the generations that grew up with the music carry forward a sense of loyalty to certain scenes. The scene remains dynamic and unpredictable — not a single moment of communion, but a mosaic of memory, nostalgia, and personal meaning. The music travels through ages, forging fresh connections while keeping the core energy intact.