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For most of its career, Superchunk has personified the ’90s indie-rock band in full sprint. Fidgety and frightened, hugely melodic and more about sound than mouthpiece Mac McCaughan might realize, the band’s songs are caffeinated anthems in which post-grad worries take on the weight of the world, and chords and rhythms spar like estranged lovers settling a score in the mosh pit. History may remember the group as representing an era, coining a now-tired term in “Slack Motherfucker,” dropping an “indie” label (Matador) for being too much like a major, excelling at singles more than albums. In reality, Superchunk’s about as traditional a rock band as college rock has to offer. Sure, there have been some great recorded moments (Foolish comes to mind), but mostly the music is part of a formula that allows the show to stay on the road. I love the old stuff, too, but I doubt I’ll be able to tell much difference between the classics and the material from Indoor Living, Superchunk’s latest, when they’re brought to life onstage. And I doubt I’ll care. With Mark Robinson and Beatnik Filmstars at 9 p.m. at the 9:30 Club, 815 V St. NW. $10. (202) 393-0930. (Brett Anderson)