"Do you remember the story Bill Withers tells on this record about 'Grandma's Hands'? When he was a kid, he was really close to his grandma. He talks about one of those churches she used to attend and this was a proper happy church where his grandma used to smack everything with a tambourine! Singing something that you really believe is incredible. Not everyone in a gospel choir has that faith – I don't have that faith in the way they do. I have faith in something – not sure what it is – but being around a few gospel choirs, there's a joy in it! And because of this belief. I did a couple of tunes with a choir on it – one of which was 'Cry For Help' in 1991. We recorded it in LA with what was the best gospel choir in the world at the time and hearing them sing the words made me believe them more even though I wrote the bloody words. But listening to Bill Withers talk about being a kid and going to those churches as a kid…[shakes head in disbelief] - he's a good storyteller and it's a great record. I find it a bit odd that if Bill Withers walked down any main street in the world, I would challenge anyone to recognise him. If you sang anyone of his songs to anybody from a group of teenagers up to a grandma, they would know it instantly. Can I hold a note as well as Bill Withers? No one can do that! It's physically impossible. He must have been drinking something very special at that time in his life. There's a bunch of songs that he wrote and he nailed a lot of emotion in those songs. 'Lean On Me' is often the first song people play on the piano when they start – it's all really gifted song writing, distilling things down to a simple thing. 
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"Well, I think one thing is I love seeing the 15th century in black and white, in the 20th century. The physical imagery… that scene in the balloon at the beginning of the movie, the way that it’s cut together and the way that it functions and what he’s looking at. The sound, the music. Tarkovsky is one of my favorite directors and I think there’s just a great abstract quality in his films, where you see something and, as you’re looking at it, it transforms in front of your eyes. Things happen that you can’t believe you’re looking at — a horse falling down a flight of stairs; all of a sudden there’s a moment where you’ve got Christ, in the snow, carrying his cross up a hill. The kind of subliminal violence that occurs — when this guy gouges the eyes out of one of those journeymen, artisans that are leaving the reconstruction of a church; the apathy in the violence reminds me of the W.H. Auden poem, “Musee des Beaux Arts.” The old masters, they really knew about human suffering. And I guess in that particular film, what I’m thinking about is the length of the takes, and the surprise of what you actually see being filmed. The way slow motion is used in that movie also; the way that movies are not like that anymore. The scale and the depth of field of what you’re seeing is vast. So there’s a poetic quality to that. I’d have to mention The Passenger also, because there’s a moment when Antonioni has Jack Nicholson sticking his arms outside of a cable car, and for that moment you just have this sense of observing observation — that’s a big part of moviemaking to me, or painting. That kind of filmmaking, where the camera is still but everything around it is moving, and moving at different speeds, is something that I’m attracted to."