Those generational clusters-the baby boomers, Generation X, the millenials and so on-never seem like appropriate groupings until you get a bunch of them together in a single room.

Such was the case on Thursday as legendary Los Angeles punk band X torched Harlow’s and lit a fire under a bunch of middle-aged ex-punks.

To a guy who wasn’t even born until the end of the band’s heyday, the scene struck as slightly remarkable, an observable instance of all archetypes noted in any account of the era. Name the persona and it was represented: The fat, drunk flannel-wearing party punk. Lilith-inspired heifers. The black-clad loners leaning against load-bearing columns. The skinheads, rockabillies and wiry hipsters, all transmogrified into greying, bespectacled versions of their younger selves. Reunion tours bring ’em out in force, I guess.

For X though, the “reunion” in “reunion tour” is suspect. The band’s original lineup reunited back in 1998-following a whole two years of retirement-and has sporadically performed across the states to an eager fanbase.

X has also hesitated to record new material. As a result, they’ve kept their legacy intact (and avoided the dreaded “legacy act” tag) in the same way they earned acclaim in their early career, with a visceral live show that could peel the paint off chrome.

That’s not to say nostalgia didn’t play as a draw for some.

“I saw you back in 1983!” one lady shouted to the band, who responded with complete indifference before lambasting the crowd with another fevered tune.

Aloof as they sometimes appeared, the band was more than willing to embrace the nostalgia, though on their own terms. Scorching through the classics from their first three albums, the band rarely ventured far from the works recorded at the peak of their powers.

The band delivered trademark songs like “Los Angeles,” “In This House That I Call Home,” and “The Hungry Wolf” at a blistering pace, sending the crowd into pogo-thrash frenzies. Lead singers John Doe and Exene Cervenka traded vocals from song to song, employing the caustic harmonizing that defined the band’s sound. Cervenka’s songs were particularly gripping, as she howled out nihilistic hymnals that played against her marmish appearance perfectly.

The dual caterwauling of Doe and Cervenka competed with Billy Zoom’s frantic guitar figures, those torrid roots rock licks that would make Duane Eddy proud. Zoom, without a doubt, stood out as the focal point of the band’s stage presence. A gimcrack of a guitarist, he posed in black leather and stared down the crowd with his pale-eyed gaze. He leaned out into the crowd, let fans touch his guitar and kissed the girls in the front row. It was like watching a bizarre collision of Christopher Walken’s genteel intensity mixed with a dash of early Elvis for good measure.

But the defining force of the evening was the crowd itself who, if only for a brief moment, became ageless, a surging mosh of flesh returned to form, throbbing and jumping, ignoring the frustrations of the few less-than-devote, who probably paid $30 for a couple beers and a nice show.

No matter what the year, I’d imagine “nice” isn’t the proper adjective for an X show. Suffice to say, a few middle-management state workers probably woke up the next morning with stiff backs.

Paul Rios can be reached at [email protected].