"When you listen to a song a lot, it becomes more and more difficult for it to surprise you. But this song is perfectly structured in a way where it overtakes itself. It’s from Roxy Music’s self-titled album from 1972, and it starts out almost hokey, like it’s giving a nod to honky-tonk music. Then the guitar line comes in, and it’s like a fuck-you to the rest of the song. And then Bryan Ferry’s vocals completely change. It becomes so plaintive and emotional. It’s about this intrusion upon one’s own story, which I love. When the song inserts a new sonic quality upon itself, it jars me from whatever I’m doing. I spend so much time trying to remind myself to be present, and this song acts as an aural reminder to do that. I use it almost as a form of meditation. And it’s what I want from music to begin with: It renders me stupid and rudderless, and then it rebuilds an anchor out of notes and melody. It’s like a continual reminder to do that in my life. When I’m busy, listening to the same songs and artists over and over is a way of simplifying my life. I tend to wear the same clothing, everything becomes ritualized. Obviously there are so many new musicians that we can tune in to every day, but I also love finding a new appreciation for those who already exist. Because that’s what our world is: We build upon what’s already there. And I like unearthing as much as I like moving forward."