It's not surprising that the Buzzcocks outlived their punk peers. Anarchy is just for Christmas; love is for life. Pete Shelley and Steve Diggle's band, originally formed for just three weeks in 1978 to support the Sex Pistols, eschewed the radical sloganeering of punk's higher profile protagonists, and married that movement's manic energy to the more prosaic concerns of the listening public: lipstick, falling in love and masturbation (which was as subversive as the Buzzcocks got).

The band split in the early 80s, reassembled a decade later, and have been releasing albums, largely unnoticed, ever since. Their stock having risen thanks to a certain TV pop quiz, last month's offering, Modern, made a bit more of a splash, helped by the greatest-hits resumé. Not that the crowd at the London date of the band's 23-venue nationwide tour needed an introduction to punk. The Astoria was hosting its very own episode of Walking With Dinosaurs, which resurrected - without recourse to digital trickery - the UK Subs T-shirt, the zipper-festooned leather jacket and the mohicaned bonce.

Attending the live performances of a band whose best days are decades behind them can be bleak. The new tunes may be as tough to endure as the crowd's indecent impatience for the old ones. The Buzzcocks come equipped with a built-in remedy to that baleful syndrome: 20 years on, their instincts are enduringly poppy and harmonious, and their songs never overstay their welcome.

Adhering to Roxette's trusty dictum "don't bore us, get to the chorus", even the first two-thirds of the set, largely drawn from the new album, are lively and ennui-free. A remarkably youthful Shelley and Diggle revel in the guitar-mashing antics, and their air of good cheer sits comfortably with some spikily upbeat sounds. Not even the beer-throwing exuberance of the crowd dampens Shelley's fervour: he becalms the punters with a pithy Mancunian put-down.

The pay-off comes at the encore, until which time the band has hoarded its classics. There follows an avalanche of savagely jangly hit singles which, played back to back, last no longer than a mere overture to the type of prog-rock symphony the Buzzcocks were created to eclipse.

This band, like the Orgasm Addict who "beats his meat to a pulp" in their most provocative song, is deliriously hooked on the quick route to pleasure. They demonstrated at the Astoria that, admirably for fading rockers on the wrong side of 40, their pop-punk libido rages undiminished.

***** Unmissable **** Recommended *** Enjoyable
** Mediocre * Terrible