Oh, Stars, you pretentious bastards, how I love you. You're like that strange 21-century Americano who loves berets and baguettes and spells color colour. Who loves Morrissey to a pathological extent, who says film and never movie. I humored you, Stars, because you could write pop songs that smacked around all indie-pop competitors. But, Stars, what have you done to me in the Year of The Lord 2010? This The Five Ghosts shit? Not cool.
