Bad Religion performs at the Concord Pavilion in Concord on Oct. 29, 2017. Alessio Neri/STAFF.

Last night my 21-year-old daughter and I were planning to go see Bad Religion.

Rendering: Adam Pardee/STAFF.

There’s a very old going-to-church joke just sitting there, waiting to be launched. Please note my restraint.

Anyway, I’m not writing about the show on purpose (as opposed to accidentally not reviewing a show, which has actually happened to me). I wanted to enjoy it without rushing home and trying to stay awake while deciphering my worse-than-your-doctor’s handwriting 11 hours after my bedtime to meet a deadline. Just leaving the house is tiring enough, and God knows who I may need to Tase on BART on the way home.

Once in a while, you just have to enjoy a show without looking at it critically.

Anyway, I just wanted to watch without taking notes, lurking by the entrance during the encore to beat the crowd and worrying about getting home with enough energy to write for 90 minutes after midnight.

Midnight at my house is also known as PP50, the Phantom Post-50 hour, when getting up to pee is the only legally allowed reason to get out of bed until sunrise, unless the place catches fire. I can’t imagine why I can’t get dates anymore.

I just moved, an experience I was going to detail in this column until I realized it’s way too soon to relive the terror, even in summary. And in all honesty, the Beatles getting back together at the neighbor’s house – you know, if they were all still alive – probably wouldn’t be enough to get me up and moving to a show right now.

But my kid is 21 and doesn’t know she’s supposed to be tired and hate everything that involves physical effort. She’s actually stoked to go, and I bought the tickets months ago, so why not?

My daughter, whom I’ll refer to as Olivia (because that’s her name), accompanying me willingly is the result of a carefully crafted scheme of mind control enacted many years ago, when I decided the girl needed indoctrination to good music at an impressionable age, before she realized how embarrassing her father was.

My own parent tried the same thing during the 1970s, which is why I still wake up in the middle of the night, confused and screaming the lyrics to Barry Manilow’s “Daybreak.” Honestly, I know the words to “Mandy” better than the Pledge of Allegiance.

But I purposely fed my kid good music (that’s what we all say). She was particularly attracted to Bad Religion, Wilco, AFI and Van Halen – all bands I played frequently in the car back in the aughts. And all of whom I’ve heard her play on her own, which makes me feel like I did something right.

She was the only kid in her elementary school who wanted to sing a Bad Religion song in her talent show. You have to admit that’s pretty damn cute. Or it was, until an “adult” talked her out of it. I don’t want to come out and say it was her mother, so I won’t.

There’s a weird line when parents go to concerts with kids who are in their teens or early 20s. I don’t say grown kids, because they’re not. But at 21, they may just be leaving the embarrassed-to-be-seen-at-the-grocery-store-with-you phase, but they still are terribly judgmental and believe your idea of entertainment will get a public response not unlike what happened with Elaine’s dancing on Seinfeld.

I used to cringe a bit when I’d see parents dragging kids to shows. Especially little kids. Because, first of all, it’s a Tuesday night and does your child really need to be exposed to Slayer at 6 years old?

I played my music and tried not to force it down my kids’ throats. I mean, at least respect your kids’ intelligence and be subtle about your brainwashing.

It’s actually kind of nice to share music with your kid. As long as you aren’t going overboard and putting your ears where they don’t belong and trying to hard to be your child’s BFF. As long as everyone chooses to be there of their free will, it sounds like a great idea. As long as I’m asleep by 12.

Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.