There's something duly exciting about elder statesmen. I take personal comfort knowing that there are those who haven't retreated into preening, or faded into the dubious pages of the canon. Having never given Ralph Stanley a first thought - let alone second - I bought his 2002 LP upon hearing the man on live radio turning the ethereal "Lift Him Up, That's All" into an earthen monument. At Emo's last night, the between-set discs alternated between the Fall and Wire, those perennial post-punk comeback kings.

Joe Carducci has a theory (or had, at any rate) about each generation of African-American musicians overthrowing the music of their fathers. I used to see Eric B. and Rakim videos on "106 and Park," now it's called the Flashback Joint and today it was Beyoncé and Jay-Z. So maybe there's something to that. I tend to have the opposite problem. I'm often too busy building a canon that stops about five years before the present, flitting between styles and cities and connections, building a ragged spiderweb out of the used bin.

Anyway, I got to have it both ways last night. 'Twas the 13th anniversary of Emo's in Austin, and we were feted by Sally Crewe and the Sudden Moves, I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness, and Mission of Burma.

There was an apathetic response to the Moves, but I don't really care. They knocked out what seemed like fifteen two-minute power pop songs, like the Attractions - if a meth addiction had stolen their hooks. The occasional breakdown of electric piano was welcome. They had two songs to play but the tattoo'd black-socked venue stereotype had other plans. A serviceable opener.

Chosen Darkness brought their smart blend of malaise-rock to the stage. Once in a while, a bright chord change or a keyboard hook stirred things up, but for the most part we got four-on-the-floor Interpol yearn - a lot less intriguing live than their records would indicate. I nicked the setlist for research purposes, so I could report that either "Hot Summer" or "Never Leave" was a nice ascending barrage of hi-hat 'n' synthwash.

Then the main event. Burma set up, turned on the BlueBlowers, and pulled out "That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate". It was if the OFF had never been. Diehards and blowhards alike crowded the stage; as by and large we were weenies, moshing was minimal. A few new songs dotted the landscape, and as much as I want to gush, I was left cold by most of 'em. The one exception was a raver that dropped a couple f-bombs and wrapped things up with a nifty hardcore chant. Between two sets and an encore (dedicated to Michael of Silkworm, who had just been killed in a car accident), all the bullet points got hit: "Trem Two," "The Enthusiast," "Johnny Burma," "Dirt," "Academy Fight Song," "The Setup," "This Is Not a Photograph," "That's When I Reach For My Revolver". Drummer Peter Prescott tore through a textual overhaul of "Learn How"; his yelps and bellows punctuated the set with a manic glee. Plus, he had on a shooting range shirt, in a nod to guitarist Roger Miller's tinnitus. In lieu of an MoB shirt, I have to get me one of those.

Oh, and Martin Swope's replacement on the live tapedeck, Shellac's Bob Weston, did a superb job of integrating on-the-fly snips and warps of atonal solos and phrases into the set. Four men staring down their latter years with a sense of humor and determination. I came to worship; instead, I caught a really tight rock show.