"Next would be Kitty Foyle, which is the movie that Ginger Rogers won her Oscar for. She is obviously mostly remembered for a singing and dancing star from the Astaire and Rogers musicals, but this is a melodrama – there was no singing or dancing. It basically tells the story of a girl who grows up on the wrong side of the tracks and falls in love with a wealthy heir to a big Philadelphia fortune, and has to navigate romance and class and all of these different issues. It’s a very conservative film and it’s very didactic. It’s extremely problematic in a lot of ways, but I find it fascinating. The performance that she gives, though… I think a lot of times, some of these great stars, they win an Oscar for a movie that’s not their best work, or it’s sort of given as a consolation prize for them not winning for something that is a classic. I think people think that about Kitty Foyle because nobody watches it any more, and people only remember Ginger Rogers as a dancer, but her performance in this movie is stunning. The character she’s playing has to sort of take on different personas over the course of her life and with different people in her life. The way that Ginger Rogers performs those unique and distinct versions of the same person is just really incredible. Obviously, there’s a huge degree of difficulty to a career based on singing and dancing. I wrote about this in my book, but there’s that old line about Ginger Rogers that “She had to do everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in heels.” The whole idea of her stardom is about how much harder it is for a woman to do the same things that a man does. But all of that said, I think there’s a degree of difficulty to this performance that is the kind of thing that is really, true great acting and great stardom, but it’s the kind of thing where the labor doesn’t show, and so people don’t talk about it in that way."

"I go by my original story – greatest album ever made. It’s incredible, beautiful. ‘Killing Moon’ is genius – the best song ever written. It was the first song we recorded before we went to Paris to do the full album, and the chorus came to me. I woke up one morning and I know it was sunny, and I sat upright with words that God had given to me in my sleep. It wasn’t like a dream, I just woke up with the words, and that has never happened before or since. I legged it to find a guitar to get the chords down, and obviously to write the words down. Divine inspiration, and that was it. I haven’t really credited Our Lord with the lyrics before. Would I change anything about the album? I like my voice better now, but having said that, most people would disagree, so no, not really. I think it’s a complete thing. ‘The Yo-Yo Man’ is not my favourite, but it sets it up right for that album. I always used to do the first track and last tracks of the two sides as the core songs. People were familiar with ‘Killing Moon’ by then anyway, but imagine if they’d got to the album without hearing it – it would have been like, “Whoa, what the fuck?” And then ‘Ocean Rain’ - the closer of closers. All in under 40 minutes – it’s like a Sixties record. It wasn’t the easiest album to sell to America, but it certainly inspired other people in bands in America to go on and reap more rewards than we did. I’m surprised that Warners didn’t press the button [and promote it properly in the US]. In those days you’d hire a plugger. Wayne Coyne thinks it’s the best album ever, but it just didn’t have the exposure. And we weren’t really a band that toured for long periods - I’d miss Liverpool too much. More European influences I suppose. But then we were the best band in the world and we’d just created that… and you’re not going to bribe people?"

"Then I got into film school at the age of 17. Because I was young, the day I turned 18 my mother wanted me to see [Pier Paolo] Pasolini’s Salò. She said now you are old enough to see a precise portrayal of human cruelty. Maybe because my parents escaped Argentina during the dictatorship to avoid ending up in a torture camp like their friends ended up, she had a particular concern about the portrayal of human cruelty and torture. So she said, “You want to know how bad life can turn? Come with me and see this film.” And I saw it. And I know that movie stuck to my mind for, like, 12 years in a very precise, shocking way. And I never felt, for 12 years, the need to re-watch it. I said it was great to see it, but I was not ready to admit the perception of how bad people can be. It’s those very hot and cold — how do you say the people who study insects? -– entomologists. Sometimes you feel almost like an entomologist describing the life of ants. But the vision is sharp. The lesson is sharp. And also what I like about the movie is that, although the movie is about masters and victims, Pasolini — he’s not on the side of any. He’s just — like a dark situation, sharing the pain of one, or the dark joy, or the dirty joy, I don’t know. It’s almost like they’re above the character that they’re describing and they don’t identify with any particular one. You can also have that in The Battle of Algiers. But in any case, at 18, that’s a very major movie. I think nowadays that’s one of the very major movies in the future of cinema. It’s something strong that has not been copied in any way since. And that’s why, in my movie, I wanted to put Pasolini’s Salò poster above the bed, just to remind me that whatever I will do, my movie cannot shock, because of some people before us who made these extremely daring movies that really shocked their time. When people tell me I’m provocative I know that I’m not at all, compared to these masters of cinema."

"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.]"

"He’s one of those people, once you get into it, it’s very hard to listen to anything else for a while. I used to hear the name, and people would recommend him but once I got into him it was like finding a treasure trove with all these amazing albums. Retriever’s probably my favourite, his lyrics are so conversational, they reflect everyday life, the difficulty of navigating it, so perfectly. We met a few years ago, he’s real hero of mine but I think he’s quite used to lots of people, way more successful and lauded than I will ever be, people like Macca, Chris Martin, Elvis Costello, coming up and praising him. He is a bit of an artists’ artist in a way. So I got the sense that he thought, “Oh great, another person in a band that likes me but why doesn’t the public-at-large like me!”. I just don’t understand it, myself. Maybe this is the problem, he’s got a straight, almost pub rock sound to what he does, maybe that puts people off, but it’s much more layered and intricate. That, for me, is often the mark of a great songwriter where you’re lulled into thinking the songs are simple or superficial but when you really listen to them, you realise it’s articulating something way more profound. in fact that reminds me, when I finally got into him, it’s because I went to Glastonbury five or six years ago as a punter. I’d had a really shit time, it was a bit of a complicated time in my life, I kept having to go to the American embassy to do all these blood tests and piss tests to try and get into America, because things had got out in the press that I’d had a few issues with alcohol and drugs and the American embassy had said, “You’re not coming in”. I remember feeling so fucking miserable and then I turned up at Glastonbury and I just walked into this tent and he played a song called 'All In Good Time', it’s all about how what you consider to be a big deal is insignificant when you look back at it with hindsight. I heard this song for the first time and it was so resonant and potent in that specific moment, it was like, “Wow, this is exactly where I’m at”. It was like he was telling me, “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright!”."