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They were somewhere outside of Baltimore, on the edge of the fells point, when the drugs began to take hold. Or so the story goes. And so I listened to what their music said, and quickly leapt immersing myself into their bath of oblivion. Really, when i listened further, I just wanted to get in their car and go to the moment with them. I wanted to light up cigarettes and pull hard from a bottle with the windows rolled down at 90 mph. I wanted a girl in summer dress to sit there beside me, hold my hand and whisper their lyrics in my ear. Maybe they’re all too rough for me, but today– no way, not in that car. Today, their dirt-grit blues is cooked sweet to eat and it’s now being served with countless beers and broads in untold barrooms in remote, western towns across a late-night spaghetti western on AMC. And their slow-roasted, drug-addled sonic slinking is now making me long for the robust roundness of a late-60’s Raquel Welsh. And she’s there, here with me now–and we’re both listening. Because it’s a day with Jack Starr and maybe even more, if I can hang cigarettes, fistfuls of cold beers, warm whisky and the fantastical blues-laden thump of Ms. Welsh grinding hard on some forgotten outback trail: Ahh. This is good living. Ahh this is Jack Starr.