"When I was about thirteen an older friend of mine made me a tape of DC hardcore. Making tapes is a lost art and I still do it, but you can get USB’s now that look like tapes. He made me a tape because I only knew Minor Threat and they were like a gateway drug for me. “This was the first song on there, it’s from the split record Void did on Dischord Records with The Faith in 1983. It’s funny, when Freddie was talking about what he liked and didn’t like, when you’re that age you’re constantly navigating through the sea of songs you actually really connect with and the ones you think you should like, because they make sense with the identity you’re trying to cultivate for yourself and I was floored by ‘Who Are You?’ “It’s everything that’s great about Punk Rock and everything that’s great about music when you’re a kid, that rage and that anger and also feeling completely misunderstood by everyone in your house, your family, your school or your hometown. I read that Kurt Cobain put this in his top 50 songs of all time and of course that makes sense, it’s a song about being misunderstood and that’s what Nirvana came to represent for another generation. “It’s Punk Rock at its best and like The Stooges song for Freddie, this really taught me that it’s not what you play it’s how you play it, as long as you’re being authentic, and Punk Rock is just authentic rock isn’t it? I was in a punk band and my first shows were in Southampton above a pub for this DIY collective called ‘STE’ - which stood for ‘Southampton, Totton and Eastleigh punk collective.’ Students got in for a quid and under 16’s got in free. It was great, there weren’t many women, but other than that it was a great way to ply your trade. “I’ll play it to you and when you hear the opening you’ll see what I mean. It’s this intro, this riff, it still excites me now, it’s just so brutal and the song’s a minute long. It’s so direct and to me it’s weirdly poppy as well, maybe I’m alone in thinking that, but it was a song that was really easy to connect with. It’s filled with rage and it’s one of those songs that you want to turn up so your parents can hear who you are and see where you are in your life."

"This was an EP. They're also from Grantham. Actually the the singer Wakey, he came to the Coventry gig on the tour last year. It was fucking incredible, and he was fucking pissed as well. Him and his wife were pissed out their heads. They live on a narrowboat and apparently that night they went home and both of them fell in the river. I want to get him on a record. I meant to but I'm quite selfish and I forget. But I thought he was a great singer. He did this EP and an album, called Attack Of The Porky Men. I bought that on CD and it cost me £30, an import from America, because it's not on CD really, I think someone just burned it. I didn't start listening to English Dogs until about 2006. I liked trawling through old punk stuff on YouTube. Discharge, GBH, Exploited: stuff I wouldn't have listened to as a kid even though I was never an English Dogs fan. And then I came across that EP and I thought it was brilliant. You can tell it's a Grantham accent. That was brilliant, mind blowing almost. And also the lyrics were just crap, ""Psychokiller rah rah rah..."" It's just rubbish. He's got this diluted Lydon-esque approach, but that's what I love about it. A lot of that new wave punk, around the 80s, it's all crap isn't it. It kind of reminds me of Roachee, it's all crap. People like them are similar in my eyes. So it was a really big honour when he came backstage. He was off his nut. He had a can of cider in his pocket and he came in and was talking to me and looking at all the beer on the side. I said he should just take it. He was like, ""You're joking, can I?"" And was putting all this beer in his pockets, him and his missus, ""Right, mate, mate, I'm going alright."" And the thing is, he knows. He knows. He said, ""When you went out there and you just looked at the crowd and went 'FUCK OFF' this is what I'm going doing, you know, don't you, you know."" Even though, on the hierarchy of punk he's like, down here, he believes in it and he can identify that kind of spirit. And I thought that was really quite touching. I've got his number, I should text him."

"This era of the Velvet Underground is possibly, along with Ray Davies, my favourite kind of singing. It’s sort of weedy and again without testosterone and certainly without force, it was just very, very hip and not trying too hard. It’s interesting, because did a band ever sound as hip, not trying, but still delivering? “Velvet Underground were a real staple of my generation, in that a bunch of kids in the mid-70s’ discovered them retrospectively, probably in a way that I’d imagine kids now discover The Smiths. They sounded genuinely subversive without being obscure, they were real, proper songs and there was a great poetry in there. “Often when you talk about songs to people, most people assume you’re talking about the words - to a lot of people that’s what a song is. But because I got so obsessed so young with the mechanics of the music, the production and how things came together, often I wasn’t really too bothered if the words didn’t make much sense. I’ve had amazing experiences with songs that had words that absolutely didn’t make any sense, like ‘Jeepster’. “‘Foggy Notion’ is a really good example of a song that’s just really rocking - the guitar is really hyped up and swings like crazy - that makes you feel really good and absolutely doesn’t need any serious lyrical content. In fact, sometimes - and I suspect it’s the case with ‘Foggy Notion’ because I know it so well - if the lyrics were snagging your attention too much it would distract from what it’s supposed to do. You’ve got to remember it was for young people in the 60s’ to Frug to, doing these dance moves in cool striped-shirts and cool shades and ‘Foggy Notion’ is all about that and the sound of the voice. I think that’s a great thing and something people who think songs are entirely about meaning and words aren’t aware of. “It’s an interesting thing with The Velvet Underground, because if you imagine The Rolling Stones back then, who were supposedly the baddest of the bad boys and The Beatles who were supposed to be the hippest and most worldly, I wonder what they made of The Velvets at the time or if they’d heard them. I know Dylan was aware of them, but writing songs like ‘Heroin’ and ‘The Black Angel's Death Song’, I wonder if you were in The Beatles or The Stones you were just going ‘Oh no, we’re so X-Factor.’"

"I’m very proud of my movie, Nebraska. I don’t really know what a great film is. I don’t know what the ingredients should be. But I certainly think Nebraska is a credit to the industry of filmmaking and it’s done very, very well. And both he [director Alexander Payne] and Quentin [Tarantino, with whom Dern has worked three times] can make a f–king movie, trust me. Alexander said to me the first morning, “Do you see anything here, you’ve never seen before?” I went looking around – we were in Nebraska in some little town in the middle of October, cold, freezing – and I said, “Yes I do.” I said, “It seems like everybody here is putting their oar in before 8am.” And he said, “Well hopefully, that’s because we have 91 crew members here and 78 have worked every day on every film I’ve ever made.” He put his hand on my shoulder and he said, “So you, sir, can go take a risk.” And he said, “This is Phedon Papamichael; he’s your cameraman.” I met him the day before. And he said, “I wonder if you’d do something for Phedon and I, that we’re not sure you ever did in your career.” I said, “Well what’s that?” And he said, “Never show us anything. Let us find it.” And I knew for the first time in my life I had a partner. Al Pacino came up to me — I’d never met him — at a party and said, “You know, I’ve not seen your movie yet, Nebraska. But everybody back at the Actors Studio – ’cause we’re both members – is talking about your performance.” So Brad Grey is at the party, and he ran Paramount then, and I said, “You know, Al Pacino has not got a screener,” ’cause it was Christmas time. So he said, “Tell him he’ll have one tomorrow morning with his newspaper.” At noon the next day my phone rings and I pick it up and he says, “Bruce, Al Pacino.” I said, “Oh wow.” He said nothing for about 10 seconds, and then he said, “How did you do that?” I told him what Alexander told me about “let us find it.” And he said, “I have tears in my eyes, because you knew you had a partner. I’ve never had a partner.” He said, “Bruce, I never ever saw the work. You were just the character.” And that’s the greatest compliment to me I ever had."

"There isn't really one definitive album in that series. We were completely addicted to those Electro albums when they first came out. One of us had one album and we used to trade them between the lot of us. I bought Electro 2 and I was a bit pissed off at the time, but it's one of my favourites now. Electro 5 has got some of the best tunes on it. And Crucial Electro has got 'Clear' by Cybertron, which is amazing. Jerry Calliste, Jr. is a genius I think. He was the man behind 'Al Naafiysh' and High-Fidelity Three's 'B Boys Breakdance'. That's one of my favourite tunes on Electro 5. 'Breaker's Revenge' [by Arthur Baker] is a killer. Beat Street – the film and the soundtrack – was huge for me. I was a terrible breakdancer. Embarrassingly bad. I had a couple of moves and I could barely do those, but I loved the culture of it. UK Electro was also a key record – I found out recently that it's all by one guy. It's perhaps easy to see this in retrospect, but there are lots of parallels between Detroit and Sheffield and Manchester. I can remember looking out at the cooling towers from my bedroom window. They were maybe two miles away. You could see a big urbanised bit to the side of it. It made the landscape magical listening to that music. I think this was probably what Kraftwerk were getting at originally. Talking about it now it seems obvious, but it adds magic to your own mundane landscape. You need that. That's what happened with Detroit techno. You've got this utterly bleak landscape and the only way to make it palatable is to lend it some kind of majesty. I think we were very lucky growing up when we did. We had lots of momentous moments. Things are very fractured now. Back then, everybody had an opinion on something like Star Wars – especially boys, well, men now. We all have this notion that we were privy to something amazing. It's very rare now that something is that omnipresent. The whole thing with the electro scene was that it was a bit left of centre. I got a lot of stick for it at school. I can see why, looking back now. It was such a huge thing. It pushed you in a certain direction. I've grown up a bit now, but it used to be quite extreme. Y'know, like, "If you don't share my taste in music you can fuck off.""

"This is such a glorious and beautiful album. There are not many albums that make me want to cry but I think this is stunningly beautiful and raw and emotive and it contains some of the best and favourite Neil Young lyrics. You know: 'I need a crowd of people/ But I can't face them day to day' - I feel that. I'm interpreting that in a certain way but I'm with him on that. There are so many times that you listen to stuff that you really feel. It feels so real; more than real even. It's a beautiful album. 'Revolution Blues' has got everything; it's got a great sounding band working really well and nailing it and it's got an energy. Nothing's too internal either. I was talking to someone earlier about the lyrics to Matador and I know that there are some really personal lyrics on there but they still have to have a hook; they can't be too internal. I can't internalise too much or else I close myself off to whoever is listening. I don't want to push anyone away by being so morose or depressing. But Neil Young does it so well. Lyrically he's a great inspiration to me. They sometimes feel like throwaway lyrics or he has quite simple couplets that feel very day-to-day, but then equally he can be a lot more abstract and using metaphors as well. I've looked at that quite a lot in terms of creating that balance of metaphors and real day-to-day life. But why not have some anger in there? I hear that a lot in 'Revolution Blues' where he talks about 'killing stars in their cars' and that's great. It's angry; it's like the first line of 'To The Wire'. The first line of the song is, 'I want to cut myself' but the second line is: 'I want to cut myself down.' You know, it's where I want to cut myself free of all the pressures. I remember when I played it to people and they were like, 'Gaz! What was that?' and I was like, 'No, no, no, it's part of a couplet. The pay-off is line two.' You know, I'm not into self-harm or anything but I like the fact that some days I might feel like I'm really completely fucked and that I might hate myself and do some damage but I won't. I question it. And like I say, Neil Young does that really well."

"I love her words, I love her guitar playing and the tunings, and it’s just constant inspiration for me, especially in that very, very personal ‘writing about your own life as subject matter’ stuff. She’s the queen of it in a way. I’ve been talking a lot about that first record that some people call Song To A Seagull and the songs are beautiful on it, but it’s also got this great over-riding concept, there’s a side about the country and a side about the city. You could say Joni is this folk singer but at the beginning she had this whole conceptual side and her early records are very conceptual. Ladies of the Canyon I’ve just started listening to again recently. I feel like besides Blue it’s just one of those ones that’s so classic and overheard you just stop listening to it because you’ve heard it so many times. I listened to it again and realised it’s also this concept album about this place she lived at the time and it’s got all these great, heavy songs on it including ‘Circle Game’ and ‘Woodstock’ and its an amazing record. It defines this Topanga Canyon era as much as Neil Young’s After The Gold Rush does – it was one of those places in time like Athens, Georgia when REM was starting or Seattle when Mudhoney and Nirvana were coming up, it was a really special place with a really tight knit musical community and a lot of people sharing ideas and songs and lovers, whatever it was, and I think that record really defines it in such an amazing way. I’m kind of obsessed with this song on that record called ‘Conversation’ which is about a secret love affair. The way she tells her stories are so amazing, and on that record the guitar playing is exquisite and the way she uses these women’s’ choruses behind her sounds almost like it could be off a Meredith Monk record or something like that, so I’m always bouncing around her early records. Everybody always picks Blue as the classic and I fucking love that record so much, but I really love all of those early records, up through Court & Spark she could do no wrong. You could almost pick any one of them, and I felt like I’d been neglecting Ladies of the Canyon recently so it’s been on a lot in the last week or so. Every time I hear it I feel like it tells me new things about my life as well."

"I was only about 13 when I heard it and it was another one that I played a lot in my bedroom. There was a trilogy of females, which was Joni Mitchell's Blue, Kate Bush's Hounds Of Love and Bjork's Debut that I discovered when I was 12 and obviously had a huge impact on me. But Joni Mitchell, for me, her voice is like an instrument, the same as Bjork's - I just loved hearing a woman's voice that sounded so free and was doing weird things to my brain, pulling it around. How do you even talk about something like this? You just end up saying a load of cliches! There's songs like 'River' and 'Blue' and I didn't know anything really as a 13-year-old about California and Laurel Canyon and the psychedelic 60s and what had happened to everybody, the disenchantment they maybe felt later on. I didn't really understand the background of that, yet there was this woman coming out of my speaker, her feminine energy and her freedom, her expression, her unapologetic rawness, again, and the beauty and competence, and weird tunings, it all completely made sense to me. It all sounded like this amazing place that smelt like pine trees and had golden, yellow sunshine and long hair and tapestries and curtains and cats and guitars. I thought: "What is this place that this woman is talking about?" Actually it's just this universe inside of her, she's like this amazing building full of beautiful things, so complex and so deep and intellectual. I just think she's fully competent on so many levels! I was listening to Carole King, Tapestry, at the time, and that's another beautiful record, but Joni Mitchell's is just emotionally more complex. It was meandering and had movements and parts to it and her voice would soar. There's that bit where she's saying, "hell's the hippest way to go, I don't think so but I'm going to take a look around it": there's that onset of disenchantment, where she's sick of this bullshit, and Joni Mitchell's so good at seeing through the bullshit - it's not this throwaway, idealistic, hippy kind of thing, she's always burrowing a little bit under the surface. As a young girl, hearing women talk about travelling, going on an aeroplane, missing California, being in Paris, seeing some guy playing guitar and writing a love note on a napkin to her. It's like good life experience, listening to that through someone else."