You know, I'm fifty-two now and I call myself a singer. Before I kick it I want to be able to carry a tune in a living room if called upon. Of course, mine come out all dark and twisted and weird.

What do you do with a lifetime of work? Face it in the morning.

What did Christ really do? He hung out with hard-drinking fishermen.

I try to beat back the producers and engineers so they - there's not an excess of stuff used to squeeze my voice to make it artificial. There's a person in there, and people will listen; if they hear another person speak to them, they'll listen because it's lonely out here.

Pussy power's pulling me down, down, down, down. When it's there and I can't have it, I get real real rabid.

They say that death kills you, But death doesn't kill you. Boredom and indifference kill you.

How am I going to listen to that horrible noise I make without a gram of coke and a couple of double Jack Daniels?