The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

It could have been Jonathan Richman or Joe Strummer prancing at the edge of the 7th Street Entry stage. And the band could have been the New York Dolls or any gang of musically inclined kids crawling out of the 1970's New York City gutters. But it wasn't, of course. It was The Virgins-- the latest band to rocket out of the Big Apple with eyes fixated on record sales and calloused hands thumbing through the rock ‘n' roll history books.

It's obvious front man Donald Cumming has studied his rock star dance moves. With fist firmly planted on hip and butt wagging wildly in the air, Cumming brings to mind iconic Mick Jagger imagery. This he adds to his Jonathan Richman-style, no-nonsense swagger. But where Richman and The Modern Lovers sang their anti-drug anthem "I'm Straight," Cumming prefers to croon about cocaine and k-holes. And the entire band looks like American Apparel's version of The Clash.

Just because The Virgins are derivative and prefer to wear their influences on their sleeves doesn't mean music snobs should glance past them. The group's simply partaking in this generational penchant to revisit past trends, streamline them, and slap mp3 tags at the end. It's not so much that today's 20-somethings have run out of new ideas. And maybe it's not even meant as a "fuck you" to rock's forefathers. It's more of an "if it ain't broke" mentality. And for The Virgins, it works. This is the same thinking that made The Strokes into the kings of international hipsterdom. But with The Virgins, unlike The Strokes, it feels more about music and less about haircuts-even though it should be noted that Strokes singer Julian Casablancas does have the coolest hair of all indie rock. The dude earns some major panty-creaming points for that shaggy do.

The Virgins have pumped out some of the best pop rock this year. Case in point: "One Week of Danger." The delectable seediness of the tune nearly strangles. Cumming practically froths at the lips when he whispers, "I want her legs, her body and her cash." Backed by punchy guitars and just enough high hat, the song lends itself to intermittent hip shaking that lasts until the band drops their next single. Best when bass-heavy, The Virgins' "Rich Girls" is equally addictive. In its three minutes and 45 seconds, the band sums up the trials of finding love and sex in the New York club circuit: the vicious scenester circles, the drugs, the "who's been wearing what with who?" It's practically begging constant plays in Studio B's bathroom stalls.

The Virgins completely blew away the night's main act, Jacksonville's Black Kids. They're the kind of band that thinks "Black Kids" is a viable band name. The audience seemed to dig it though, as evidenced by the constant throbbing on the dance floor. Black Kids play the soulless, uninspired synth pop that has been slowly hemorrhaging to death since the novelty of The Faint's first album wore off and those god-awful footless leggings hit department stores across the nation. The band couples singer Reggie Youngblood's yelping tenor with the keyboardist's dual "Go! Team"-ish shouting, to create a truly nauseating cacophony that would sound most appropriate at a junior high cheerleading practice. In their live show, this all takes place in front of a background of neon lights so bright optometrists might issue warnings about burning retinas. Seriously. Screw that. Let the music die, Black Kids, let it die.