The Virgins/ Anya Marina 

8 p.m. Friday, January 30. The Gargoyle, on the campus of Washington University at Forsyth and Skinker boulevards.

You'd be forgiven for feeling stuck in some kind of Lost-worthy time loop when considering New York band the Virgins. It's hard to tell if the quartet is harkening back to the late-'70s glam-punk of Blondie and the Buzzcocks or the early-aughts greasy dance-rock of the Rapture and Hot Hot Heat. Of course, it hardly matters once the groove hits — the quartet's bouncy, disco-pop bass lines and quick-wristed guitar strokes are reliable, and singer Donald Cumming spins out tales of the louche life like a detached wastrel with a deviated septum. Cumming's hangdog charm and his bandmates' fuzzy, easy-to-swallow riffs make lines like "fucked up at the disco/slipping in the k-hole" forgivable. Opener Anya Marina pairs her high, breathy vocals with boho jazz arrangements and, on the lovely "Miss Halfway," even sneaks in a Replacements reference. It's a recipe for a hipster heart-melt.

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