Question: Is it possible for French pop, big beat and thrash to coexist within one band?

Answer: Yes! At least according to Hotel St. George’s MySpace page.

Of course in reality, we all know thrash would swallow (without having to chew, I might add) the other two genres whole. One would willingly and most masochistically surrender, while the other might put up a fight, stalling the inevitable.

So in the end, that really only leaves thrash, which these San Diego rockers most certainly are not. Maybe the casual MySpace user will get the joke, be intrigued and then pleasantly surprised when they discover a well-balanced blend of British-invasion-meets-British-punk. Or, maybe they’ll think, in this exact format, “WTF?” and move on. Ah, the timeless art of self-marketing.

On its debut EP, Yippee!!!, Hotel St. George offer the best a listener can expect from a still-unsigned act: clean production, distinguished vocals and above all, good catchy hooks that will drag you back to the tracks whether you like it or not. (Hopefully, you like it.)

I’ve always found it more difficult to listen to local musicians because all the while I’m thinking, “Would I buy or dig this group if they were signed?” It’s a tough standard, but with all the DIY MySpace groups out there, it’s warranted.

Does this quartet pass the test? The first three out of the five songs—well, six if you count the unlisted acoustic “Beautiful Girl”—are definitely a sign of good things to come. The handclaps on “It’s the Blues,” the hints of ska on “Waiting On a Miracle Ain’t Like Waiting On a Train,” the “yeah yeah yeahs” on the explosive opener … it’s all very familiar, but at the same time, so wonderfully executed that it’d be nice to see what could be accomplished if allotted more studio attention.

It’s obvious after listening to the little recording, these guys know what they’re doing. For the most part, the performance is tight, and they probably deliver a pretty mean live show. Fifteen years ago, they’d have fit nicely on a label like Lookout! Records, but bands like Hotel St. George have more potential now than ever to sign to a major. Yippee for them and us if they do.

Give the Fratellis some credit. After two massive advertising hits last year (“Flathead” for an iTunes commercial, “Chelsea Dagger” for just about everything else), it would’ve been tempting for the Scottish rockers to go forward with Costello Music, Pt. 2. And while their 2007 pin-up-populated debut wasn’t able to impress those poor pretentious putzes over at Pitchfork—what does, right?—it was a breath of fresh air to the rest of us on planet Earth yearning for some catchy, tightly wound, pop-punk goodness.

Little more than one year later, we’re treated to a worthy follow-up. Where Costello Music was largely a guitar-driven riotous affair, Here We Stand incorporates more piano and acoustic guitar. It’s not quite as in-your-face as its predecessor and the beats are more conventional, but thankfully, the infectious hooks are still intact.

OK, so it’s not Revolver. The Fratellis aren’t the Beatles, nor are they trying to be. Judging by “Tell Me a Lie” and the first single, “Mistress Mabel,” they’d rather shoot for Beach Boys status, creating strings of fun, trademark songs that can be thrown on a greatest hits collection—the kinds of cuts a listener doesn’t know or care from which album they came.

Given the uncertain state of the music industry, who can blame them for this approach? They found a formula that works, and what’s more, it’s a formula sorely lacking in the modern-rock mainstream since the once-again demise of punk and the reemergence of indie.

“My Friend John,” the opener, right away sends the message, “We’re here to rock. If you don’t like it, you can piss right off.” Reminiscent of Australian rockabilly-punk-rockers the Living End back in their heyday, the track brings back memories of a scene on the verge of mass expansion. You can see it now. Soon, 13-year-old girls will be painting their nails black, splashing streaks of pink in blonde hair and bastardizing the ultimate punk symbol: the Converse Chuck Taylor. Ah, those were the days—before all that Avril Lavigne crap went down, of course.

But the trio knows how and when to turn down the distortion, most notably on “Babydoll,” an acoustic pop blast of nostalgia you’d swear had to be at least a tad bit inspired by the Stones’ “I Am Waiting.” It’s not blatant, but rather more an exercise of capturing a longing emotion without sacrificing the rock ‘n’ roll thread of the record.

If these guys can somehow manage to offer one of these little gems every year or two—unique enough to earn their own album titles, but never straying too far from the playground—they may help fill the three-to-four-year-gap in between Green Day albums that’s becoming less and less worth the wait.

After two releases, we know where the Fratellis stand. Let’s just hope they stay there.

Maybe the same can be said when it comes to singing. If this is true, Donald Cumming should campaign for full disclosure of all singers faking their personalities.

But a campaign wouldn’t really fit with his character. Plus, he has other plans to attend to. Right now, he’s a man on a mission. But again, “mission” is too dramatic for Cumming’s purposes.

It’s about 4 p.m., and the confused Virgins front man is wandering around downtown Toronto near the Phoenix Concert Theatre searching for a Starbucks. Really? They’re not on every street corner in America Junior’s most American city? “I found coffee and whatnot, but like,” Cumming pauses with a hint of regret. “I’m good.” Adding a few moments later, “I saw somebody with a Starbucks. Like the guy in She Wants Revenge, the lead singer—he had a Starbucks in his hand, but I forgot to ask him where he got it.”

He’ll get over it. One day after his band’s debut album hit stores, coffee will always be coffee from here on out.

The Virgins—somehow managing to effectively mix elements of the Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, Blondie and still be original—are currently on NYLON magazine’s summer music tour with She Wants Revenge, Switches and Be Your Own Pet, and anyone who’s heard the band’s buzz-hit “Rich Girls” or “Fernando Pando” can connect Cumming’s actions and overall demeanor to the way he sings: at times similar to Joe Strummer without the “pop” or sense of urgency. This makes sense, as the Clash front man always seemed to have an itinerary of social issues to tackle. Cumming—he’s more about the experience and less about the philosophy or politics.

“I dunno man,” he says in a throw-his-hands-in-the-air kind of way. “We just make the music that makes sense to us. I don’t think we’re consciously trying to do anything. In particular, we care very much about the songs that we write, and that’s kind of it. And the rest of it, it’s just like—I don’t even know what the rest of it is. We don’t have like a ideology, or a dogma or a mani-fe-sto?”

He says the last word in the form of a question like he knows the dictionary definition, but that it has no meaning whatsoever.

The 26-year-old embodies the awestruck kid in a rock band who’s having the time of his life. He’s laid back, nonchalantly shrugging off issues other musicians get all giddy over. Music and the Internet are having a steamy love affair on his band’s front porch, for instance, but forget it. “I’m technologically indifferent,” he says. “I honestly—like I just don’t care at all. I own a computer, I use it all the time, it breaks all the time, I pay somebody to fix it, I don’t fuckin’ know what goes on inside of it. You know what I mean. I’m just not that guy. I’m not hip to the scene.” That’s somewhat surprising, as the Virgins have become one of those Internet success stories—the kind of band you wonder if 10, even five years ago would have signed to a major label so effortlessly. “Those are the types of things that couldn’t be further from my mind. As a band, we try to live our lives and work on our music and work on our songs and deal with what’s going on directly in front of us as it’s happening.”

Will other unsigned musicians resent the Virgins? Up to this point, some may. The band officially formed in 2006, released an EP, signed to Atlantic Records and released their major label debut earlier this week. Still, that can be more of an inspiration to young musicians. The thing that’ll really kill hardcore prodigies is the fact that Cumming is a self-described “horrible guitar player.” Coincidently, the classic-rock type regularly disregarded fellow-New-Yorker John Cummings, AKA Johnny Ramone.

“I’m getting better at it,” Cumming says. “I’m definitely never going to be virtuosic player. I can’t read music, I don’t know what any of the scales are, I don’t know what the chords are called and I don’t know theory at all. Fortunately, there are other people in my band who can play the songs better than I can. Basically, I just take whatever the simplest part is gonna be in the song. If that means it’s a bass part or a guitar part, like whatever. They just give me the dumb guy part.”

For their third live show, the Virgins opened for punk legend Patti Smith. Then, a handful of songs made it on the teen soap “Gossip Girl.” Currently, the Samsung advertisers are using the song “Radio Christiane” for the Glyde phone TV spots.

Dumb? If he is, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. But even after all the successes, Cumming goes back to the one thing that’ll keep popping up years from now regardless of what happens to the band. “My favorite thing that we’ve gotten to do is make a record,” Cumming says with genuine sincerity. “It’s the truth. That’s the thing you grow up dreaming about as a little kid. We’ve done that now as of yesterday. I’m pretty happy about that.”

This is the first time throughout the conversation Cumming seems to get really serious without sprinkling in colorful, lazy humor. He’s not disingenuous; that’s just who he is. You get the impression listening to the music these guys live fast-paced lives and know how to party hard. But while he’s still serious, let’s try something else, like say, whether true love exists.

“True love. Oh man. Uh,” he trails off, and an incessant beeping takes the place of his voice on the other line. Almost an appropriate end, don’t you think?

A few moments later, we’re reconnected and he spills his guts.

“I have stopped, and I have thought about it. I’ve done both of those things. I think that anything’s possible.”

Even after this profound revelation, I can’t help but feel I still don’t know much about Donald Cumming. I guess I should just go by what I learned in the car that one day: Don’t come to conclusions about people until you’ve seen them drive.

The Virgins are playing the House of Blues Friday, June 6, with She Wants Revenge, Switches and Be Your Own Pet. Tickets are $16 and the doors open at 7 p.m.

I’m not going to pretend I know all about everything that goes into Bitter:Sweet’s follow-up to its critically acclaimed debut, The Mating Game. It’s electronic, yet grand and cinematic, yielding the kind of selections music supervisors salivate over for wide, sweeping shots of bright yellow beaches and crystal blue oceans on a cloudless sunny day. Chill and jazzy, yet sultry and explosive, like watching the onscreen romance of Bogie and Bacall and knowing exactly what they’re thinking without either of them saying a word about it.

I can go on forever about the atmospheric array. The opening surf guitar riff and brass on “Trouble” make it the perfect chase scene song in a James Bond movie. You can’t help but smile when whistling and a light-hearted clarinet take over in “Sugar Mama” while Shana Halligan so sweetly (as always) sings, “Could you open up your wallet? / So I can peak inside / Do you have a car to drive / And a job that pays you right? / Cuz baby, I’m not the sugar mama kind.” It’s a musical-type number that brings to mind Halligan walking through a live-action park with cartoon bluebirds singing and flowers blossoming.

By no coincidence has the duo’s (whose other half is comprised of Kiran Shahani) music appeared on numerous television shows, commercials and movies; it’s almost too easy to imagine the perfect scene while getting lost in the jazz, tango, string arrangements and sugary vocals.

But where the previous album was subtler and in some ways, black and white, Drama bursts into unrestrained, widescreen Technicolor, if you will. “The Bomb,” in all its big-band chorus glory, even became the theme song for “Lipstick Jungle” long before this album was released.

If I can say one thing about Drama, it’s that the music reflects an astonishing maturity its songwriters acquired over the past two years. They looked at what worked on the last one and made it better, while at the same time pushing themselves both musically and vocally. And you know what? The experience is really quite breathtaking. Yeah, you heard me: breathtaking. Make no mistake: The “bitter” in Bitter:Sweet is all show.

Upon first hearing “Rich Girls” by the Virgins, I wanted someone to give me a good beating for liking it so much. It’s not that it’s bad or even a guilty pleasure (quite the contrary), but the funky bass riff really made me wish I could dance. You know, dance—as in meat-market nightclubs where tasty tenderloins sizzle up against meathead jocks. That kind of dance.

Luckily for me or any other white boy who typically won’t let himself be caught in such compromising situations, meat-market DJs—as long as the Pussycat Dolls, Cascada and their ilk are still business—probably aren’t going to be saturating their play lists with music as cool as the Virgins’ anytime soon.

It’s unfair to start talking about the Virgins in this manner without first putting the group in its correct context. Think more along the lines of the Clash, Talking Heads and Blondie and you start to get a feel of where these NYC 20-something-year-olds are coming from.

Borrowing heavily from the late ’70s post-punk era, Cumming’s vocals swing effortlessly from Joe Strummer to Elvis Costello in such cuts as the opener, “She’s Expensive.” Coupled with the thumping bass, the end result is something you could imagine witnessing in CBGB’s in Lower East Side Manhattan with someone like Andy Warhol in attendance.

If the Virgins self-titled album was released in 1977, it would surely have received the “punk rock” stamp from overwhelmed critics who didn’t know what else to do with it. Today, you won’t hear many critics use the term for the same music. But when “punk” bands start sounding more like boy-band metal, is it too much of a stretch to call a record like The Virgins—which thrusts listeners into a New York City fast lane of sex, drugs and parties—one of the most punk rock efforts to hit the mainstream in years? (The songs are catchy, to the point, at times vulgar and yes, they even average a mere three minutes a pop.)

So you might wish you had the perfect film-like moment to dance to the funky, synth-pop “Teen Lovers.” That’s OK. You can’t fault the guys for trapping you in a surreal 30-minute world of intrigue, what-ifs and a little good, old-fashioned snotty swagger.

Even as I write this, I have to keep telling myself, “Don’t be an asshole. Don’t be an asshole.”

You see, I purchased the new Green Day, err, Foxboro Hot Tubs album the other day and had a hell of time figuring out the packaging. No kidding! I actually got into a fight with the CD case. Now, I’m not going to give the disc a lower rating because I had to shelve the cardboard, mock-vinyl-record slipcase and paper sleeve, and in turn use a generic CD jewel case, but it’s just first impressions. The whole time I’m trying to get the disc back in the case, I’m wondering if the music can make up for this travesty.

Let’s start from the beginning, though. Late last year, a mysterious new band called Foxboro Hot Tubs popped up on the Internet and college radio. Immediately, bloggers began speculating that members of Green Day were involved in the project. Sure enough, the reverbed lead vocals unmistakably resembled those of Billie Joe Armstrong.

This music, however, is a noticeable change from the Green Day we know, love, and at times, hate (American Idiot, anyone?). So now, we’re at the point where this album, Stop Drop and Roll!!!, must not only make up for the aforementioned mess, but also the emo-political-bandwagon transformation Green Day took on with the last release.

Quite a task, and we haven’t even gotten to the tunes, which are at times vocally reminiscent of ‘50s rockabilly and almost always recalling the ‘60s British Invasion in one way or another. It’s nearly impossible not to imagine Ray Davies singing, “Girl, you really got me goin’ / You got me so I don’t know what I’m doin’,” whilst listening to Armstrong belt out, “Ya alligator, ya space invader / Ya swamp dweller makin’ your rounds.”

Between the thin cardboard sleeve—which is simply a poorly executed good idea—the disc itself masquerading as a beat-to-shit vinyl record and the short, garage-rock numbers, the whole little 32-minute offering accomplishes its mission: to bring back the good old days of rock ‘n’ roll when recording an LP was less an art and more in-your-face and to the point. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am!

One problem I have yet to get over is the greatness of the album’s single, “Mother Mary.” Why is this a problem, you ask? It’s got a Fratellis thing going on with the catchy hook, bouncy beat and the bah bah bahs … something the 11 other tracks don’t really even come close to revisiting. And trust me, I hate to be that shallow listener who latches on to the single and forgets the rest, but I can’t help but wonder why the rest of the album isn’t nearly as catchy.

There are plenty of aspects to appreciate, like “Red Tide” coming unabashedly close to the Kinks’ “Tired of Waiting For You,” or the perfect-end-credits-song in “Dark Side of Night.”

Strangely enough, for its flaws, Stop Drop and Roll!!! seems like the perfect commentary on today’s music. From the absence of an insert or lyrics sheet, to the one advertised song on the cover (“Contains 12 Hits Including… Mother Mary”), this recalls a time that emphasized the almighty 45 Single, not unlike today with the album-killing Download.

So, if we have a ‘60s comeback band, by my math we should have a new album in what—six months, tops? Don’t count on it…