An hour into Cold Chisel’s concert in Ballarat last weekend, there was a sweet spot. Flame Trees followed by Khe Sanh, then Bow River. Yep, I’d been on the Canadian Clubs, but that aside it still felt like more than just songs playing.

It was a vocalised piece of Australia’s psyche, bringing randoms together in a shared, spoken understanding. Every word was sung by 37,000 people, arms draped around each other, women perched on shoulders, like we were all part of an impromptu choir shouting “and it’s only other vets could understand” at each other.

Anyone who’s seen Chisel before (or on this 50th anniversary tour), or just listened to the radio since the 1970s, will know what I’m on about. We all know the songs. And we know there’s something about this band and what they represent that maybe feels more Australian than any other single thing.

Six of us made the roadie to The Rat, dropped bags at a motel, stood through sets by Birds of Tokyo (are they the Wiggles for adults?) and The Cruel Sea (Tex looking banger with his Just For Men quality hair). The crowd was half oldies like us, the rest looked like the ink wasn’t dry on their tradies certificates.

And that was the fabulous part. Once Chisel kicked off – Mossy the MVP in a sleeveless puffa over an old Tarocash shirt – the younger generations were word-perfect.

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Peter, a young bloke from Melbourne, latched onto our posse when his own wasn’t game to push close to the stage, his yachting cap and Tommy Hilfiger polo belied his innate Barnesy. All night, he held his fist up like a microphone to anyone he trusted not to muff the choruses.

Everywhere, there was a sense of connection, as if everyone was tuning into the same frequency of emotion with a dash of rebellion. Especially the kids.

Driving back to the motel via Dominos, that’s what we talked about: how is it that Chisel songs became a cultural shorthand, and that kids know the lyrics of a 50-year-old band?