Toward the end of his solo concert last Saturday night at the Music Mill, Robyn Hitchcock invoked Kurt Vonnegut, adding, “All we’re bequeathing our children are our appetites.” The Vonnegut reference was apt, for Hitchcock performed an array of songs whose mordant humor and surreal cosmic intimacy bore what you could call a family resemblance to the master. Like Vonnegut, Hitchcock harkens back to a moment in time when an art project was to add a generous dose of avant-garde sensibility to otherwise popular forms and stir.

Now in his 50s, Hitchcock continues to possess one of the supplest voices around. It’s archetypally English, by turns aggressive and vulnerable, weathered and sweet. At all times consummately literate.

For the lion’s share of his set, Hitchcock accompanied himself in percussive style on a steel-stringed acoustic guitar, spinning visions of balloonmen, standing stones, tarantulas and glass hotels. Eventually he turned electric, picking up a shiny blue Stratocaster to brilliantly psychedelic effect.

In between tunes, Hitchcock let loose with stream-of-consciousness patter, creating a kind of spoken-word sci-fi epic that conflated history, technology and a cracked sense of geography. It was weird, funny and totally deadpan — which made his closing remarks on what we’ve made of the planet particularly cogent.

Sean Nelson opened with a set of original songs and smartly chosen covers. His piano playing was surprisingly sloppy; next to Hitchcock he seemed like a grad student majoring in pop studies. He did, however, redeem himself to some degree by offering up some nicely conceived harmony vocals during the latter half of Hitchcock’s set.  

Although Hitchcock has toured previously to Lafayette, this was apparently his first time in Indianapolis. The Music Mill seemed uncertain about how he’d draw, because there weren’t nearly enough chairs provided for the paying customers. With luck, Hitchcock will be back — and, next time, the Music Mill will be ready.