"I picked this album up shortly after it came out, and at the time I was in a teenage band, who were awful, and I wanted to scream and I wanted to sing but I didn't know how to do both, and I heard this record and I just kinda gave up on the idea. I remember thinking 'Brody Dalle's doing this better than I ever will, and it's a girl,' and immediately I just loved everything about it. When you're a young teenage boy in the suburbs at some point you've got to get by on testosterone alone just to survive in that field of football games you don't want to play in. I just loved Brody fiercely, unapologetically being herself, and it just sounded like a glass of fucking acid in your face. I really like every record they've made, but Coral Fang specifically is as close to acid in the face as music gets. Every now and then you'll get a band that works purely on chemistry, and then sometimes there's a person in the band that's just magnetic, and for whatever reason you just can't get away from them. I think it's got a lot to do with that open sense of self and the confidence that comes from knowing who you are as an artist. It doesn't really matter if you've got no idea who you are as a person – I've just become a dad and that's turned everything I thought I knew about myself on my head – and she's definitely a role model in that respect, in regards to just unashamedly being herself. She sings and there's a sound, it's like an extra instrument. It's rare you can have someone who can put so much style into every word."

"He's a Swedish multi-disciplinary artist. I chose that to represent all of my friends, composers and people that I know who make extraordinary experimental work. On one hand it is a drone, and it's a really fantastic drone. It's a copper pipe on a pillar driven by it's own amplification - it's a fantastic sound. The other part is a reading of an autopsy of a Dutch queen when she dies. It's an old autopsy so it's got this great formality: it talks about the 'colouration' of the skin. The poetry is in the age of the language. It's something that's absolutely fascinating but it also has no relevance, all it is is about it. It's a composition, it's a piece of imagination. One could mention 'The Gift' by The Velvet Underground. I remember the first time hearing that and it was split in stereo and thinking: 'God that's extraordinary'. Why do I not always sing my own lyrics? It seems to fit better to me. It's the proof that sometimes it's a good idea not to think about things too carefully. The way things roll is sometimes good. It's a funny thing to Wire, it's not what we thought about, it was a practical solution to a time when we were in need of writing material. I never learned to play the guitar, and it turned out to be an incredible device, this distancing, which threw it into interesting spaces. It gives it a theatrical quality that's not drama theatrical, but theatrical in the same way as you'd have with someone like Pinter, where you'd have very normal speech but because of the context that you put things into, suddenly you have something that's quite peculiar."

"It's really weird: I kind of had a bit of a problem with The Teardrop Explodes. I really didn't like them as a group, and it's very strange because our recording desk in Cardiff… I think Kilimanjaro was recorded on it. But as soon as Julian Cope left Teardrop Explodes I just completely turned onto him, and especially this record, because it's brilliant. There's some benchmark songs on here, which are hard for anybody to top. There's one called 'Bill Drummond Said' which is just fucking brilliant, and there's a song called 'Reynard The Fox', which is just… he does such a brilliant job of having a narrative of why he disagrees with something but pitching it in such a beautiful way. And there's 'The Bloody Assizes'; Julian Cope, now, has this afterlife of being this writer who seems to mix the high-rise block of ideas in his head with reality. It's really amazing. And he's become some sort of historian about myth and Krautrock, and I loved one of his quotes when he did an interview for this book: "I only look like this because I feel like such a cunt when I'm crying inside all the time." This record shows why he's such a brilliant solo artist. It's got a lovely, bucolic flintiness to it. There's something about it; you realise he's detached himself from his previous life and The Teardrop Explodes, and he's just out there in the woods doing something. And you cannot like a record which has a cover of the artist's… you know. Naked inside a big turtle shell on the cover. I remember it got really mixed reviews, but I think a lot of people do consider it a classic. I do; he's done other good stuff, but it's his best record."

"I had an instant soft spot for Ari Aster when he treated anaphylaxis (in “Hereditary”) as the terror that it really is, whilst some other contemporary directors sadly still think someone’s face swelling up is hilarious. “Midsommar” really goes to places untraveled. I heard a lot about its folk-horror roots along with similarities to “The Wicker Man,” but I keyed much more into its cathartic wail borne out of grief. I remember seeing a video of the performance artist and musician, John Duncan lying naked on the floor and letting out an extraordinarily protracted primal scream and the dark heart of “Midsommar” lies somewhere within that realm for me. The film is brimming with the explosive power of grief and it’s one of the starkest examples I can think of in modern cinema. My first reaction when seeing all that verdant grass was the almost invisible menace of ticks — an anxiety that Aster quickly acknowledges. The fear of tick-borne encephalitis is not unusual in both Sweden and Hungary where the film was shot and in some askew and unintentional way, I could imagine seeing the film alternately as a fever dream of someone who had been afflicted by the disease during a meadow ritual. Of course, the front of house is hallucinogenic folk horror, but maybe I bypassed that due to my lack of knowledge, which led to a more primal and simplistic interpretation. I was also blown away by the presence of Björn Andrésen, whom I remember from Visconti’s “Death in Venice.” Aster’s film buff credentials are really to the fore here even though I’m aware that nobody sadly uses the term “film buff” anymore. The ghosts of Bergman, Jancsó and Paradjanov circle the film."

"This was a bit later in my life, around 2000. This signals the end of me having hang-ups really. I remember when 'Re-Rewind' by Artful Dodger came out, and I thought, ""This is fucking cool!"" So much about it confused me. It didn't have chords or a bassline really, it was made of odd sounds like breaking glass that didn't really fit. And then it had this guy on top of it singing this really pleasing, really hooky, catchy little melody. It was the furthest thing away from me at the time. I was into crashing drums and cymbals, but I knew there was something in there that really turned me on musically. When I admitted that I liked that to myself, it really opened up a lot of doors to me, into R&B and Destiny's Child and R. Kelly, lots of stuff that would have been previously out of my usual sphere of influence. I embraced it, and there were things I really liked. With people like R. Kelly, I spend 50 per cent of the time laughing at him and the rest thinking, this is actually good. A huge influence on my music is the singing quickly, and the singing something absurd, and then something serious, hooky, melodic, quick and light. Craig David did that brilliantly. The singles on that album are fucking amazing! He kind of lost his way after that, but I wanted to show that that whole world is very much embraced by me, and to show that we shouldn't be snobby, that it doesn't matter whether the influence is The Cheeky Girls or Pink Floyd, it just doesn't matter where it comes from. If it's good, I embrace it, and I think Craig David is a perfect example of someone who is laughably bad but secretly a pretty good artist."