The Graying of Indie Rock: What do you do for an encore after the spark is gone?

WHEN THE guy in Fuck announced his 37th birthday, people thought he was joking. The occasion was too cruddy: the rumpus-room attic of a gross bar near the airport, a crowd of less than two dozen. But so what, they played, had a good time. Only the show's kid organizer was disappointed. From a band called Fuck he'd been expecting something badder. At night's end he ripped up a sign with the band's name, stomped the remains, and shouted, "that wasn't punk – this is punk."