It's nightfall and one of New York City's newest buzz bands is not, as you might imagine, pre-partying at a Lower East Side dive. Instead, the Virgins sit around a table at the only restaurant near their rehearsal space they aren't sick of -- a T.G.I. Friday's close to Penn Station. The scene inside the deep-fryer-friendly chain -- lots of bloated tourists, a few unshaven drunks -- is a far cry from the quartet's celeb-studded gigs, where Chloë Sevigny and "it" model Agyness Deyn have been spotted shaking their skinny asses.

Raised in New York, 25-year-old singer Donald Cumming left home at 15, dropped out of high school, and then stumbled into acting and modeling. He became a muse of photographer Ryan McGinley -- they met (where else?) at a party -- best known for his shots of carousing, naked twentysomethings. (McGinley's 2003 exhibit at the Whitney Museum included a snap of Cumming's naughty bits.) The Virgins emerged out of pure frustration. "No one would read any of my writing or poetry," Cumming says. "So I figured I could put it to music." After recording a demo, he burned 25 copies for pals, then recruited guitarist Wade Oates, bassist Nick Zarin-Ackerman, and drummer Erik Ratensperger. Atlantic Records signed the band before catching a single performance.

So they're lucky, well connected, and attractive, in that unwashed, just-got-home-at-5 A.M. sort of way. But are they any good? Definitely. The drowsy disco rock of "Rich Girls" and the slow-burning shuffle "Fernando Pando" (from their self-titled 2007 EP) offer vignettes that would make for a perfect Larry Clark movie -- stories of socialites, street urchins, drug binges, and sex romps -- all held together by Cumming's languid drawl. "Their lyrics are really poetic and very much about New York and the life that we live," says McGinley.

Spin Magazine