"I’m thinking a lot about both of my parents during this. They were both very ill with Coronavirus, and my dad recently passed away. My parents weren’t really into music, except that everyone bought LPs then because, well, you just did. There was nothing unusual about their taste; The Beatles, Sky and Elkie Brooks for my Dad; Cliff for my mum. A few years back, they wanted to be rid of their records; they had no use for them. “Don't you want them replaced? Get them on CD?” “No, we don't need them.” So now I’m the custodian of all these records. There is nothing wrong with Cliff Richard. Well, he’s a Tory, but apart from that, I will fight you. I’m Nearly Famous kicks off what I like to call ‘The Magnificent Seven’ series of albums that ends with Now You See Me, Now You Don’t. Together these behemoths of art redefine the parameters of music and leave a wake of destruction in their path. He can sing in tune AND in time. He is brilliant. There is something so welcoming about the sound of these records. It’s a period of high-end ‘fabuloso’ production, where everything is exquisite and perfectly placed. These albums sound like Patrick Bateman’s apartment in American Psycho. This album includes ‘Miss You Nights’. There are better songs, but humans haven't heard them."

"Even with a nod to some of Hollywood’s best navel-gazing films, I will make a case that this is the best film ever made about filmmaking—made by one of the most self-referential of all filmmakers. Visually lush to the point of a Powell and Pressburger surfeit, Godard’s film lays bare a marriage in crisis. The long apartment sequence between Bardot and Piccoli is a dystopian analogue to the hotel room playful casualness of Seberg and Belmondo in Breathless. A back-to-back viewing of the two sequences constitutes a minihistory of the French New Wave. Raoul Coutard’s cinematography and Georges Delerue’s score give the Greek myth parallels of the film’s story line (and of the film-within-a-film trope) a sensuous subtext—music and image caressing the body of the star of And God Created Woman. It’s great to see Fritz Lang and Jack Palance, two polar opposite cinematic icons, in a room watching dailies. Below the screen is a running legend that reads, “Cinema is an invention without a future. Louis Lumière.” The film’s opening long shot over verbal titles—as the BNC anamorphic camera approaches the viewer along tracking rails, then pans and tilts so that Coutard’s lens points right at you—is one of those great “gotcha” cinematic moments."