Jonny was shocked. It was almost too good to be true. An intellectual-property dispute between two people who, for decades, everyone assumed were one? A pair of aging pop stars who, in trying to protect their individual legacies, were in fact collaborating in mutual destruction? An ontological treatise on fame and art and authenticity being co-written, spitefully, in real time, on Facebook? It was like Spinal Tap meets Shakespeare meets Cory Arcangel. Or something.

Jonny watched the video again. And then again. And then a few days later, once more. And it gave him this crazy idea. What if he, Jonathan Sutak, acting in a spirit of American interventionism, could reconcile Tom and Stefano—yoke, once again, the voice and the face that together had made such beautiful, meaningful schlock at the peak of their careers; foster, finally, after so many turbulent years, a sense of social harmony and maybe even economic growth? It wouldn't be his sole aim, but it was a good conceit. And anyway, after years of feuding, wasn't it time for the Den Harrow story to close the loop and end in peace? What if he made a documentary about it? And what if the making of that documentary was the thing that reconciled them? Okay, it probably wouldn't work. But maybe it could? And if his exceptionalism proved successful, it would be so worth it! The ultimate act of pop-detritus nation building!

Watch:

Announcing a Whole New Era at GQ

And so Jonny set about on his Marshall Plan-like quest. He cut back on trailer work at what was arguably the peak of his success, moved some money around, bought a camera. He went to Las Vegas and Milan and backwater Germany; he met obsessive fans and nostalgic nightclub owners. It took him years. He hired a cinematographer and filmed the whole thing.

To understand the extent of what he found, you have to start at the beginning of Den Harrow, the creation myth, and the context in which it was hatched. From the outset, the original producers of Italo Disco conceived of the genre as an export good made with import products, namely English-language vocals, whose repetitive lyrics, often accented and malaprop-laden, were set to catchy melodies filigreed with synthesizers. With their kitschy affectations, there's something almost primitively appealing about the best Italo Disco songs, whose supposed antidepressant effects were even the subject of an (inconclusive) psychological study. Decades later, the genre, which is often referred to, pejoratively, as “spaghetti dance,” is looked back on by Italians with a kind of condescending affection. In The History of Italo Disco, the DJ turned music critic Francesco Catalo Verrina wrote that for many years Italians were “almost ashamed to have been part of this movement and to have lived in that environment.” One of the more famous Italo Disco producers once regretfully rued that he had helped to “put the mustache to the Mona Lisa.”

Tom has a loving family, a beautiful home, a creative career, and lots of money. He also has a mortal enemy.

Stefano was discovered in 1983, at the age of 21, by Miki Chieregato, along with the producer Roberto Turatti, who saw him dancing wildly in a nightclub and thought he'd make a charismatic face for a new pop act they were concocting. They brought him into the studio but quickly realized he couldn't sing well with an American accent. He was handsome and naive, though, with a libidinous energy and seemingly zero stage fright. He'd do just fine. They already had a guy who could sing, anyway. His name was Tom Hooker, and he was American. He could actually write pretty good songs, and he didn't seem to hate the idea of another guy mouthing the words to them. For a few years, everything was great. Stefano and Tom weren't friends—they didn't eat dinner together or go to the movies—but they both understood their respective roles and maintained a professional rapport. They did what they were supposed to do. Tom, a Connecticut-born scion of a beverage conglomerate, grew up in Geneva and, pre-Den Harrow, had a solo career of his own, touring mostly through Italian hill towns. For Stefano, though, Den Harrow was everything. He didn't have a globe-trotting past—or a trust fund. And in 1987, when Tom got it in his head that he wanted to perform one of his songs himself—just one!—the producers said no. Are you crazy? they said. And ruin the entire illusion? For what? Because you, Tom, think it would be fun*? No way.*