“If you’re working at the factory and you’re cursing every day that you get up, at all costs get out of it. You’ll just make yourself ill.”

I have a voracious appetite for all things, worldly and unworldly.

Just because you play bass, doesn’t mean you have no presence.

I really wasn’t needed. Just straightening up riffs, that’s all. Just two guitarists doing it instead of one.

You can’t overthink the music. Mood and intensity can’t be manufactured. The blues isn’t about structure; it’s what you bring to it. The spontaneity of capturing a specific moment is what drives it.

I’m still searching for an angel with a broken wing. It’s not very easy to find them these days.

I can communicate far better on a guitar than I can through my mouth.

I may not believe in myself, but I believe in what I’m doing.

I’m very fortunate because I love what I’m doing.

You can’t just find yourself doing something and not happy doing it.

I’ve never regretted anything I’ve ever done.

I always thought the good thing about the guitar was that they didn’t teach it in school.

I will still carry on changing all the time.

You don’t find geniuses in street musicians, but that doesn’t mean to say you can’t be really good.

A lot of people can’t be on their own. They get frightened. Isolation doesn’t bother me at all. It gives me a sense of security.

I always felt if we were going in to do an album, there should already be a lot of structure already made up so we could get on with that and see what else happened.

I know where I’m going musically. I can see my pattern and I’m going much slower than I thought I’d be going.

Even when the blood in my veins is the same as them, every cell in my body is against becoming like them. What a curse it is to hate the very thing that birth you.

You’re always cursing, you’re always praying and you’re always making love. It ain’t do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.

She spends an eternity as shelter for men who curse her when the storm passes.

What a blessing to be hurt yet see the good, what a curse to always understand and never be understood.

We let our blessings get mouldy, and then call them curses.

This is the curse of our age, even the strangest aberrations are no cure for boredom.

I think cursing is a bunch of malarkey.

Is it a blessing or is it a curse, to feel everything so deeply.