"It’s one of the great ’50s melodramas, and it’s kind of like a musical without the music, but it has a great score, of course. I saw it in my early- to mid-20s, and it just really affected me. It’s about a guy who goes back to his hometown where his brother is a prominent citizen. He’s a stalled-out, blocked writer, and he’s been a soldier, and a worker, and a would-be novelist, and he’s kind of a gambler and a drinker — this is Sinatra, of course, the conflicted one — and he lives in two worlds. Because he’s a published writer, he has the respect of the local English teacher and her brother — the respectable world of literature — but he really has a soft spot for bars and gambling and floozies and the Shirley MacLaine character. And then you’ve got Gwen French, who’s played by Martha Hyer, who’s the uptight school teacher. So it’s all these opposites colliding — respectability, debauchery… It’s wonderfully melodramatic and beautifully made… It’s about male friendship too. I consider it kind of the first Rat Pack movie, although it’s just Dean and Frank with Shirley around too. It doesn’t have a lot of the other people, but it’s the first one to capture these guys gambling and hanging out and that camaraderie. They become roommates and go on, like, a trip to Terre Haute, IN, to go gambling. It’s just wonderful."

"I love this movie and always have! And now I get to love it more on this far-out DVD package. Until watching the accompanying doc, I had never really thought of the film as a 1970s American Graffiti—for me, the fun of it is in the ensemble cast of young people, many of whom became huge stars later—it reminds me more of Fast Times at Ridgemont High. But also on this doc is an extraordinarily frank look at the difficulties of making this film. People in the movie business—indie or otherwise—are rarely this honest in discussing what it took to get the film you see on the screen. I really appreciated the honesty of Jim Jacks and Richard Linklater, who, uh, shall we say, didn’t always agree on the set. Also, the interviews with the young actors, like Marissa Ribisi, talking about the approach Linklater took with them, were completely enlightening. I plan to steal his entire approach from now on. :) And the packaging is an artifact to have for keeps: the cover artwork by Marc English, based on the Led Zeppelin III album cover, is supremely inspired, and the booklet is a high school notebook. It’s great pop culture folk art! I own a collection of Memoryware folk art that people used to make with all their leftover trinkets and little pieces of their lives: earrings, coins, buttons, etc. They’d take these mementos and put them in plaster on top of an old jug or jar and call them “memory jugs” or “memory jars.” And this is what this DVD is for me—a keepsake. A memory jar of seventies pop culture. No, of 1976. No, of specifically 1976 Austin, Texas. And yet . . . it’s a memory jug of anyone’s last high school rite."

"I'm gonna go for a topical one... Obviously Stuart Adamson came out of The Skids. John Peel called him the Scottish Hendrix, and I loved The Skids. Absolutely loved them. Then he went on to form Big Country. And first of all I had to take a step back from it, but I just loved the way he put myths and folklore - Scottish folklore - into music, but he also linked it up with the modern day era. All those myths and belief systems were very prescient of modern day culture: how people use music to deal with loss, how people use music to deal with lostness in society, with poverty, with trying to strive to remain above the dignity level. And I thought that was quite a noble ambition for a musician, really. Lots of musicians have done that in different guises, but because Big Country was wrapped up in a certain Scottishness in the music, and what some people have called the Celtic mist in their music, they were utterly pilloried in the press. I love the music press and I love music journalism, but sometimes the music press have to be called to account, and they should give the musical kudos and reparations to Big Country and Stuart Adamson, who's sadly not with us. I also used to think, why is it that Billy Bragg's allowed to have a folk edge to him? The Men They Couldn't Hang had a folk edge to them; The Pogues were allowed to have a folklore edge to them, and people find it acceptable with The Pogues because they could get drunk to it. But Big Country were mercilessly slammed for being Scottish, whining, bagpipes… I look back and think it's a music journalism crime, what happened to them, and what happened to Stuart Adamson. You look at the album and you've just got so many songs which just touch upon the post-Thatcher unemployment that was going on in Scotland at the time... And the English-based press just absolutely slammed him for it; they just thought he was a man dealing in myth and outdated folklore and I think it's disgusting. I remember, in the sleevenotes, he said he understood the power of music way before he understood its language, and that's what he was trying to do with Big Country. It was a noble, amazing achievement which was treated with… what would you call it? Just London-dominated disdain. I'd like to redress that just by picking it. A folk influence is very much allowed in English music today, whether it be fucking Frank Bloke or Mumford And Sons with their Cath Kidston version of it. It's allowed through the gate; it's allowed to sell millions; it's allowed to have a voice. So there is a symbolism there. It's enough to make you want to be independent, the way Big Country were treated by the music press!"

"I heard this for the first time at some point in the mid-90s and it had a big impact. For something so old, it sounded more like the future than anything being released then. It was hard to find on LP, but my friend John McKeown had a copy that I would borrow or listen to round at his. Eventually I bought a CD player so I could get it on reissue, as it took me years to find the vinyl. I reckon Eno was frustrated in Roxy Music. There didn't seem to be enough room for his experimentation or ego. You feel that he's running wild with pent up ideas in the way George Harrison did on All Things Must Pass. Although the sound is unconventional and experimental, it doesn't feel over-considered or precious in the way that many contemporary prog LPs do. It's spontaneous and quite thuggish at points. 'Blank Frank' sounds like he's wearing out the strings with a scrubbing brush. It's beautifully constructed as an LP. The songs are distinct and can stand alone, but there are wee passages of sound that link them together and the songs often overlap into each other, moving effortlessly between moods and musical conventions, melody and abstract noise. One moment 'Cindy Tells Me' sounds almost like it could be on the soundtrack of Grease (despite the lyric of rich girls confused by their new freedoms leaving their Hotpoints to rust in their kitchenettes), then you're in the dark, foreboding gloom of 'Driving Me Backwards' - ""kids like me have got to be craaaaaazzzzzyyyyy"" - what he does to his voice at that point will always sends a great shudder through me. I love his vocal delivery. It's very English and of that time - I hear it in Kevin Ayers, Robyn Hitchcock, Bid of The Monochrome Set and Syd Barrett, but none of the English singers around now seem to sing like that. What happened? Did that accent die out? There's a lovely send-up of the other Brian in 'Dead Finks Don't Talk' where he slips into a lecherous deep croon. It's heavily layered throughout, but it sounds like he didn't listen to himself as he double-tracked it. The phrasing and exaggerated vibratos don't often match which adds to the unnerving sense of panic which can suddenly drop to an intimate murmur. Eno has such a huge and recognisable persona, but not as a lyricist. There are some incredible lines on here: ""send for an ambulance or an accident investigator…""; ""Juanita and Juan/ Very clever with maracas…""; ""By this time time I got to looking for a kind of substitute/ I can't tell you quite how, except that it rhymes with dissolute…""; ""Meet my relations/ All of them/ Grinning like facepacks…"" the imagery is vivid, unsettling and direct. That's from a guy who pretty much abandoned writing lyrics shortly afterwards. Like Hunky Dory, this LP bridges two distinct parts of a career. There's still a Roxy flavour (Phil Manzanera is all over it), but songs like 'On Some Faraway Beach' point towards his ambient sound of the later 70s. It's a fleeting moment, never to be repeated. Well, except for on Taking Tiger Mountain. Maybe that's what makes this moment so great. He could have made another fourteen records with this template, all of which I'm sure would have had virtue. But he didn't. When we recorded our first LP, I played it to Tore Johansson [producer] and said I wanted it to sound like this. It didn't turn out that way, but it definitely had an impact on the session. We asked Eno to produce our second LP. He sent us a nice letter saying he couldn't do it, but that his daughter was a big fan of the band... Looking back I realise that it was the Eno who made this LP I was asking to produce. He's a smart guy and probably spotted that straight away."