Musically, I didn't relate to Berlin. There seemed to be a lot of machine music made there - I don't think I saw a stringed instrument in two years.

I think that's more a reflection of the fact I've never been a student of any particular school of writing, or even listening.

I had a guitar leaning against the wall and I'd squint at it. It was almost like a dog that had been kicked - I didn't think I had anything to offer it.

I think I prefer the constant renewal. It's almost like sandpapering down any details or any contour of familiarities.

I guess there are a lot of people out there that think they're supposed to define themselves in isolation, but that's not necessarily the case.

I'm in the countryside outside of Paris, in a beautiful old manor house. The studio is in the basement, but we decided to set everything up in the old parlor and dining-room area so we can look at each other and (at) the sunshine coming through the stained-glass windows. It's pretty idyllic, and I think it's spoiling me. I'll have to go back to regular life after this.

I don't think that village idea of actually knowing what you're contributing to the whole exists anymore.