"When I discovered them, we went to Australia shortly after and I said 'can we get these guys to open for us?' I was quickly told, 'no, they're way bigger than you in Australia. Don't be silly'. We haven't played together. I got to see them once at the Cake Shop in New York. I don't know what it is but this record kind of reminds me of the sort of rawest parts of AC/DC or the most loose parts of Pink Flag. The singer is pretty unhinged. When I saw them play, it was a thing where you could see the singer looking at Mikey, the main guy and guitar player who I think writes all the music. The singer was watching him to find out when he was meant to sing because he didn't really have that straight. It was kind of a thing where Mikey would nod and the singer would start singing. Sort of a go and stop kind of thing. I don't think anyone particular obsessed over the form and lyrics of these songs. Maybe they did but it doesn't sound like they did and there's something great about that. I think they recorded this record in a day. And it's got that vibe. It's loose and it's powerful and punk rock and totally real. "

"Even with a nod to some of Hollywood’s best navel-gazing films, I will make a case that this is the best film ever made about filmmaking—made by one of the most self-referential of all filmmakers. Visually lush to the point of a Powell and Pressburger surfeit, Godard’s film lays bare a marriage in crisis. The long apartment sequence between Bardot and Piccoli is a dystopian analogue to the hotel room playful casualness of Seberg and Belmondo in Breathless. A back-to-back viewing of the two sequences constitutes a minihistory of the French New Wave. Raoul Coutard’s cinematography and Georges Delerue’s score give the Greek myth parallels of the film’s story line (and of the film-within-a-film trope) a sensuous subtext—music and image caressing the body of the star of And God Created Woman. It’s great to see Fritz Lang and Jack Palance, two polar opposite cinematic icons, in a room watching dailies. Below the screen is a running legend that reads, “Cinema is an invention without a future. Louis Lumière.” The film’s opening long shot over verbal titles—as the BNC anamorphic camera approaches the viewer along tracking rails, then pans and tilts so that Coutard’s lens points right at you—is one of those great “gotcha” cinematic moments."