A few weeks ago I had an online argument with a rock star. I do not normally do social media spats but my dander was up, it was late and it is possible a glass of red did some of the talking.

I thought I’d just say my piece, let the rock star ignore it, then slope off to bed – but no, he came back at me. So I came back at him. He tried to have the last word. I wouldn’t let him.

Oh, Mike Scott from the Waterboys, how did we get here? Bickering after midnight on X – formerly Twitter – all those years after hits like The Whole of The Moon and Fisherman’s Blues cast you as essential listening and me as dutiful accumulator of your oeuvre.

I cannot say exactly how Mr Scott got to this place. I got here through decades of being rubbed up the wrong way by rock stars telling people what to think.

I don’t mind them telling us what they think. My problem is with the assumption that it carries any more gravitas or relevance than what your next-door neighbour or your taxi driver thinks.

I bristle at the veiled implication that, if they enjoy their music, fans should tailor their world view to their hero’s one.

Just as I prefer taxi drivers to shut up and drive so I cannot help thinking many a music show would be greatly enhanced if the performer would only shut up and sing.

The point of contention between me and the head Waterboy was a series of speeches Bruce Springsteen delivered at recent UK shows on his indignation at the Trump administration.

Now, I am as disappointed as The Boss is about the presence of the current commander in chief in the White House. But what his successful election campaign demonstrated beyond doubt is it doesn’t matter a damn what celebrities have to say about politics.

Springsteen (who freely admits he has never had a job in his life) has for decades been the articulator of American blue collar workers’ emotions. He’s very good at it and, sure, it must be troubling for him that such high numbers of this very demographic backed the ‘wrong’ presidential candidate.

Do you know what I think blue collar workers might be saying to their talismanic troubadour? ‘Sing the songs, Bruce. It’s what you’re good at. It’s why we’re here. Lectures we can live without.’

I was telling Edinburgh-born Mike Scott that conscience artists like Springsteen would be better off reflecting on the reasons America ignored them than sermonising to British audiences who didn’t have a vote in the first place when, in any case, that ship had sailed.

He was telling me: ‘Really? You know what Bruce should be doing better than he does?’

Well, not exactly. But I have been a loyal customer since the 1980s. Am I not as entitled to a view on the Springsteen brand as I am on Marks and Spencer or easyJet or Levis casualwear? Consider it feedback.

My view as a fiftysomething rock fan is that we in the audience grow up. People my age are not looking for musical messiahs. We don’t pay hundreds of pounds – as I did once for Springsteen – to receive political guidance or soak in the wisdom at the feet of some visionary or shaman.

We’re there to hear Born to Run and Dancing in the Dark, to sing along to Hungry Heart, and be enriched by the sights and sounds of thousands of people enjoying a notable talent performing great songs.

Where do they get off with the preaching? And, given that the heroes I speak of are older than I am, isn’t it time they did some growing up too?

Take 79-year-old Neil Young who, for ‘protest’ reasons that I was too weary to fully fathom, first was, then wasn’t, then was playing Glastonbury. Then he was, then wasn’t, then was allowing the BBC to live stream it.

Oh, for pity’s sake, Neil, give over. Either do the flaming gig or don’t. Enough with the endless indulgence and point-scoring and obsessing about making the occasion anything more than climbing onstage and delivering the goods to fans of your music.

Indeed, and it pains me to say it about another hero of mine, but Young should compare and contrast his shambling, sparsely attended turn at Glastonbury with that of a performer a year his senior. Rod Stewart was that rare festival artist who seemed to remember that he was in the entertainment industry.

Interestingly, Sir Rod had let slip in the hours prior to his performance that he was rather a fan of Nigel Farage. The kiss of death, one might assume, for a musician about to face a right-on festival crowd.

Not a bit of it. They sang along to I Don’t Want to Talk About It, boogied to Da Ya Think I’m Sexy and even teared up at the emotional punch of the showstopper, Sailing.

Here is the thing about Sir Rod. He doesn’t give two hoots whether people agree with him about Reform UK or not. These are his politics in 2025. Everyone else is welcome to their own. How refreshing for an artist to laugh off the shackles of self-importance and know that his view matters no more or less than anyone else’s.

And here is the thing about his audience on Sunday. They came for a great time and they got it. The day a singer’s politics matter more than the songs which made us listen to them in the first place is the day the entertainment ends.

It is not simply because I am bored with the preachy tendencies of the music industry that I take issue today with three of my favourite rockers. It’s also because, in acts like Kneecap and Bob Vylan – both of whom performed at Glastonbury – we see the logical extension of the preaching.

We see nonentity extremists spouting hatred from the stage, leading their audience in chants which call for killings. We see men dressed in balaclavas, glorifying a terrorist organisation which brought decades of bloodshed to Northern Ireland and the UK mainland. They even name themselves after an IRA punishment attack.

In decades gone by rock stars agitated for peace. Some used their stage to unite divided peoples. In the 1980s and 1990s they used it to try to end a famine, to end apartheid, to raise money to combat HIV and AIDS.

Worthy causes all. Is the stage now the recruitment centre for radicals and insurgents? Did thousands of flag waving idiots really participate in an anti-Jewish death chant because a lunatic on stage bade them to? That is indeed what the BBC had TV audiences witness.

So I am sorry, Mike – love you and all, but I still respectfully disagree. I think rock stars should remember what put the microphone in their hands in the first place. I think a degree of humility is called for on the extent to which their politics influence society. I say it’s a good thing most audiences know their own minds.

The scenes which unfolded at Glastonbury at the weekend are a chilling glimpse of the flipside.