The audience moved like a writhing knot of snakes. Fists punched the air and people made that funky almost-shaka gesture as live music washed over us.

Somewhere near the front, in the mosh pit where young men flung themselves over the crowd, Firstborn daughter had been swallowed whole by the rock concert.

I stood speechless at the far end of the venue, rendered mute by the volume of the music and the gravity of my assignment: chaperone.

We had come with our friend, Dane, and his teenage daughter. They had invited Firstborn and myself to join them for The All American Rejects concert.

Mrs. G. said this would be an opportunity for father and daughter bonding, suggesting I share more with my oldest child than the mindless banter that comes with a morning commute to school.

She won't be a kid for much longer, Mrs. G. told me.

She's not a kid now, I thought outside the Pipeline Cafe, as we got in line for the sold-out show. I was overdressed, under-pierced and a few decades too late to hang with this crowd.

My fears about standing out were reinforced when the bouncer carded my friend Dane, but not me. Apparently, bald trumps gray every time.

Inside, the world seemed even more askew. This was a smoke-filled bar, but a third of the people inside were minors. And many of the good-looking women in the audience were their moms.

Right away, Firstborn headed for the mosh pit. I stood there wishing I had untucked my shirt or brought a ballcap, anything to help me blend in.

The last time I took Firstborn to a concert, it was to see the gang from "Sesame Street." Now, we were watching gangly young men abuse their guitars.

These days, Firstborn doesn't want an Elmo balloon. She wants to jam with the band.

The music came up like an amplified growl. The Rejects bounced across the stage like water drops on a hot skillet.

Immediately, two dozen hands shot into the air, each one holding a cell phone-turned-camera to capture the moment. These are the lighters of the digital age.

I swayed to the music without understanding a single lyric. The clueless old guy alone in a crowd.

Just about then, Firstborn returned from the mosh pit and pulled out her camera. We took photographs ... of Firstborn and her friend, of the Rejects, of ourselves in a smiling father-daughter self-portrait.

It was a fleeting moment, one worth savoring.

And for a short time, I was cool enough to hang with.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com.