"To say anything is my favourite album is a bit of a lie because I change my mind from hour to hour, but if I had to choose a desert island album it would be this. I have such a personal sentimental attachment to it because I used to watch that film with my dad, and when he died there was a video cassette left and I watched it a lot. It got me into drawing, and the music is the first musical experience I ever had when I wanted to figure out a song. I was only 6 or 7 but I wanted to figure that music out. I think it made me always prefer minor chords and gloomier sounds. Watching that film, I remember feeling like it was almost magical and also terrifying. It's quite a violent film, and sexual, it was quite overwhelming. I was terrified and excited at the same time. It was the start of a burst of creativity for me, it started me drawing and the first drawings I did were always these alien landscapes – like most young boys. I started drawing and playing music all because of that album. It wasn't until years later that I realised that this amazing score was by this guy Alain Goraguer."

"T. Rex's Marc Bolan was my best mate's hero. I said I didn't like him, not because it was true but because he liked him. Not so long ago he bought me a pristine vinyl copy of Electric Warrior and again I was blown away, the sonic quality, the excitement. I still haven't told my friend that though. I was Pink Floyd, he was T. Rex, I was Simon & Garfunkel he was The Sweet... you see where I'm coming from. It was really sad when Marc Bolan died, who knows what he might have gone on to do. I saw him play in Southend, that was when we were in our teens. We'd go out to gigs, as much as we could afford. I lived in Basildon, and in Southend, which was close to us, there were quite a few good venues to see bands. I'd be surprised at things turning up. I remember seeing Generation X at a hotel ballroom, and that was really exciting, because we were kids and couldn't drink, officially. It was exotic and it was naughty. Southend has quite a musical history, with all the R&B stuff, Canvey Island and places like that, I think some of those clubs still exist, where you can see local bands and shit."

"I emigrated to Canada with my mother the year Mon oncle Antoine debuted, the same time that the U.S. was doing nuclear testing on Amchitka Island, off the coast of British Columbia. The FLQ (Front de libération du Québec) was flourishing. Canadian radio was given a mandate to stop playing American bubblegum round the clock. In this era of radical identity building, along came a candle-lit holiday fable set in an undertaker’s home in rural Quebec. The nephew of Antoine is a young boy coming of age in a world that no one outside his cloistered family could imagine. Mon oncle Antoine is about the sexual, material, and death’s-end taboos in a small village—and the taboo against anyone outside of it ever learning of such things. Some people puzzle over why this film keeps being called Canada’s finest decades after its release, when so many other artists have surpassed its modest ambitions. It is because of this: It was the beginning of saying, “We are not the back forty of the U.S.; we are not a trinket of the queen’s; our land and generations have given us a purchase of our own.” It was the beginning of remarkable Canadian filmmaking."