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During my Lee Harvey Oswald Years (my weirdo twenties), I liked an unknown, irrelevant rock band called Star Star. They weren't unknown in a hep way. They were unknown because they weren't good, and they didn't have anything to do with anything. (This was the early '90s, and they were New York Dolls revivalists.)
I guess I didn't have anything to do with anything either: In my Lee Harvey Oswald bedroom, in my drab Massachusetts Ave apt., I played Star Star's "The Love Drag Years" cassette over and over. I knew their songwriting was pedestrian and that their glitter-trash schtick wasn't original, but that didn't stop me from playing the tape constantly.
Then, during one of my sloppy moves to another apt. or city, I lost the cassette. And as I got older, I ended up romanticizing Star Star—mainly because I couldn't find a trace of them anywhere. Not online. Not in the used bins.
With no recollection of how their songs actually went, I had make believe versions in my head.
Their disappearance. My imaginary versions of their songs. And the romantic murkiness of my twenties, turned Star Star into my secret. I was the only one with the root connection to their mysterious set list.
But as the Internet continues to collate the entire space-time continuum, it looks like Star Star has finally been reinstated into official world history. I actually found them online last week. And I downloaded the whole "The Love Drag Years" album.
I was singing them full blast everyday as I biked downtown in the morning.
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