"We've been playing The Soft Bulletin live, and you have to consider that chain of events where you make a record but then you have to become the people who play it in front of people. When I saw The Who play live in 1977, that was really a moment that changed music for me; it was no longer music, it was like a deeply religious power to me. They were still doing these songs from Tommy, in a sense like they were on Live At Leeds, where it was just utter chaos, [and] utter release. And even though people would say that at the time that I saw them they weren't at the peak of their powers, they were powerful enough on this night. That was a life-changing, fucking devastating couple of hours of music. I walked out there like I'd changed heads. And it's like that on Live At Leeds. They start to discover that psychic energy: they're feeding off each other's energy, looking at each other, listening to each other, letting that be the reason the songs sounded the way they did. And that's hard to do, to be an intuitive musician - you have to surrender and say yeah, it's like this, and that's a motherfucker, what if it sucks? You have to trust that you have it in you. So when I hear Live At Leeds I'm always reminded that these are young guys, they didn't know that they were playing at their peak, they were just playing what they felt like playing. And the way that the volume goes up, and the way they even lose themselves - the playing is so intense that they even lose the tempo - but they leave that in the record and that's what's music's about. It's not just something that's kept in time, it's people making a racket. Fuck, sometimes it's out of control. There's moments like that on 'Magic Bus' or 'My Generation', moments in those jams that I think are some of the greatest moments of that type of rock & roll. There's that invisible energy guiding them through this. In 1970 you probably had not heard music like that ever.]"

"Continuing the otherworldly theme, as we’re looking chronologically at our lives and youth, this is the next song that hit me as a young person, at the age of seven or eight. The reason it hit me so hard, so young, was because it was one of the first songs that I understood was about death. “I grew up in the Catskill Mountains and Grasshopper grew up in Lake Erie, so we were well away from New York, punk rock or anything that was happening in the ‘70s, we were out in the hinterland. All that I could listen to was AM radio and ‘Seasons in the Sun’ was a massive hit, but lyrically its dealing with death, ‘Goodbye to you my trusted friend.’ He’s dying and I’m a young kid thinking ‘Why’s this guy dying on the radio? What’s he dying from?’ It was so much more than the syrupy, ‘I’ve got love in my tummy’ stuff that had come out of the ‘60s. “And this mystery, I was old enough to know what dying meant, but too young to understand that you could sing about it. Yet here was Terry Jacks singing this very sad, almost suicidal song and it hit me like a ton of bricks. now I started not only having to process music that I was deeply in love with, but also processing lyrics at seven or eight. The idea of the mystery within the song, that there were not only unanswered questions, but the biggest question, death. That’s what rang my bell, it was existentialism in a three-and-a-half-minute pop song. “I didn’t have all the tools to process it artistically at my young age but I knew it was deep, it was important and it was really, really sad. It was almost like a traumatic moment in early childhood that you didn’t experience directly, but indirectly it shook your bones, like the death of a relative you’ve barely met. You can tell everyone around you is ringing like a brass bell from it and that was something I got from that song."

"Like with the Slade live album, I'd been to see The Who and it was quite an experience, again at the Orchid Ballroom in Purley. It's one of the most unknown venues in the country, I think, but it was the biggest ballroom in Europe and it used to hold about 5000 people. It was huge, and you wouldn't even know it was there when you drove past; it was just a doorway, in Purley. And I think The Who had just come back from America where they'd been doing Tommy. So it was Townshend in his white boiler suit and nailing Keith Moon's drums down before the set, and The James Gang opening. I'm not sure when Live At Leeds came out, whether it was before or after that, but I just remember how amazing the album was because it had all of those pull-outs and receipts and photographs and things. I was sitting on the train and looking at the record and really hoping that people would think I was in the record business and that I'd received this white label with a load of bills. But again I'd seen them play that sort of show, and I think Live At Leeds really was them at the top of their game. As a live band they'd really pulled together and they'd done their homework. They'd done enough and they'd really nailed how to put it together on stage. For me they didn't do a better live thing. Tommy I liked, but I thought a lot of it was unnecessary and went on a bit, and it was a bit more Who than I wanted, in some cases. The real thing that always stuck with me with this record is where they do the jamming stuff and Townshend takes off on that discordant thing, and the dynamics and atmosphere are liable to go up and down, taking it from this raging onslaught of rock down to this level of almost subtlety, and then to build it up again from that. They're good dynamics, and those are often hard to find. There's something about that sound they got as well: not so much as a band but just the guitar sound. It was very clean and there was a lot of clarity. And the drums: the sound never changes, but the dynamics of what he does have peaks and troughs."

"Bikini Kill was on tour and we went to this club in Brighton under the pier and the fucking coolest looking girls in the whole universe walked in. They were the band, and they just started singing and they were the Headcoatees. They were just the coolest thing and it was one of the best shows I've ever seen. Then I got the record and really liked their version of the song 'When You Stop Loving Me' that's on that album. I always liked garage rock and I felt like they did it so well – it was the kind of music I could listen to all day and be happy. That record is more about personal stuff and I was getting really burnt out. I don't want to just listen to stuff that's about politics all the time. I want to have my guilty pleasures and I'm not feeling guilty about finding them pleasurable. They made me think I want my music to be enjoyable, not just hard all the time. I want there to be moments where it's like: "This is really fun." I always say Bratmobile was a better band than Bikini Kill, partially because I had that anger to propel me forward and also protect me, whereas they have this sort of, "Hey we're at this summer party and we don't care that you don't even know what a summer party is, fuck you." It was like they were having a summer party on stage and I'm invited. They would literally get up, just Molly [Neuman] and Allison [Wolfe] before Erin [Smith] joined the band, and just sing stuff like, "Girl germs, no return", like childhood rhymes. They're doing it in a room full of predominantly men who are, like, Melvins fans and I was just like, "Man, that takes fucking guts." I heard people in the audience say, "I want to do this and this to the singer, we should fucking murder them" and meanwhile I was having my life changed: "This is the most incredible thing I've ever seen." I use that in my performance partially based on them and I definitely saw their vulnerability as a strength instead of a weakness. I wanted to be able to flash between characters that were very traditionally female and have a macho persona as well, so I try to have both and not just be like the Henry Rollins of riot grrrl."