"I think that this is one of the best albums of all time. It's hard to talk about. I feel like that album is the Sgt Pepper's of my generation. It's a record that knits together a whole generation of music-lovers. The fact that it's separate and isolated is sort of poetic. My generation wasn't connected by a band; we didn't have a Beatles. We had our own bizarre little pockets of music, our own separate ways of listening and connecting. That record functions in the world unlike any other record. I've never seen anything like it. It is a religious record. People feel so fondly about it, in such a profound way. Beyond time and space, on different continents, at different parties, the name of that band will come up and you and stranger will grab each other's hands. There's not a whole lot of music that can do that. Something about that album and those songs created a deep thread of human connection through a lot of people. I think it's incredibly rare. I think all musicians inherently want to connect, because that's what music is. Music connects you, through this magical medium, to another human being. Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel and looking at the artwork for that record and listening to how it was made, and thinking about the mythology of the Elephant 6 collective, it's like Sgt Pepper's – you imagine that there's this magical world somewhere, with all these crazy musicians, living down the road from each other, banging on pots and pans and playing brass instruments, and you want to be there. You get to soak that magic up just by listening to the record. Brian [Viglione], the drummer in the Dresden Dolls, got to see Neutral Milk Hotel when they were touring that record. He was the one that turned me onto it. In the middle of the night, after our very first band rehearsal, he took me over to his house and said 'I can't believe you've never heard this record. We're not doing anything until we sit in the dark and listen to it from beginning to end.' That record was always really important to us."

"This song is really important. I fell in love with it when it was released about ten years ago and we played it at our wedding. It’s really bittersweet, about wishing someone you’ve left high and dry the best of luck, wondering what went wrong and hoping that wherever they are, they’re going to find a path and be OK. There’s a lot of question marks in the song and it’s absolutely beautiful. I think I heard it on a radio station in Los Angeles, it didn’t get Top 40 radio play but one of the public access stations, KCRW plays a lot of new music. It struck me as a beautifully well-crafted song and again it’s a song I wish I’d written. He hit the nail on the head, there’s a lot of questioning going on, regret and searching within yourself, trying to reconcile what happened and trying to move forward. We did play a few upbeat songs at the wedding post the ceremony itself at the reception, but my wife and I also wanted to play some songs that meant something to us. Some of those songs are dark and sad, but sometimes those kind of songs make me feel good. We played ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ as we came up to the altar, it was in a park, so it wasn’t really an altar, it was a non-religious wedding. We left the spot where we got married and played this as we walked up to the reception, with these outdoor tables for us and our friends to hang out. Some people might have thought it was an odd choice, but I was deeply moved by it and still am when I hear that song. This song moves me to tears every time I hear it, I swear to God. It’s probably in my top ten songs of all time. I have a list on my Mac that I call my ‘bummer songs’, because when I listen to bummer songs they make me feel good for some reason and this is the first song on the list."

"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.]"