The Virgins
The Virgins
Atlantic Records
Web Site
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.