That lady has a piano.It’s nice, but it’s not the running of riversOr the murmuring trees make ..Who needs a piano?It’s better to have earsAnd love Nature.

For the record, folks; I never took a shit on stage and the closest I ever came to eating shit anywhere was at a Holiday Inn buffet in Fayetteville, North Carolina, in 1973.

Music may be the activity that prepared our pre-human ancestors for speech communication and for the very cognitive, representational flexibility necessary to become humans.

If heartache was a physical pain I could face, I could faceBut your hurting me from inside of my headAnd I can't take it, I can't take itI'm going to lose my mind

Your iPod is whispering in your ear. It was keeping you company, but now it's like a good friend turned bad [...] It is turning your life into a dark, looping rock opera.

If you feel so emptySo used up, so let downIf you feel so angrySo ripped off so stepped onYou're not the only oneRefusing to back downYou're not the only oneSo get up

Music? Music is life! It’s physical emotion - you can touch it! It’s neon ecto-energy sucked out of spirits and switched into sound waves for your ears to swallow.

I tried to look at writing a song almost like solving a mystery. The song was there, buried somewhere in my brain. All I had to do was follow the clues until I figured it out.

Shhh, it's okay Cait, Daddy will be back. I am going to take care of you, just like Uncle Drake takes care of Mommy. Shhh honey, you don't need to cry,"Jaks whispered.

I asked myself one day, 'Would it be humane of me to completely destroy my mind and soul for the music?' I knew immediately that the answer was no, so I knew I had to.

I asked myself one day, 'Would it be humane of me to completely destroy my mind and soul for the music?' I knew immediately that the answer was no, so I knew I had to.

Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire.

But the point is this Monsieur...the reason why Madame complains of you is not because of the immorality in itself; but because, so she tells me, you make immorality delicious.

It might seem that the empirical philosopher is the slave of his material, but that the pure mathematician, like the musician, is a free creator of his world of ordered beauty.

If we can feel that it is not our voice, not our fingers, but some reality deep inside our heart which is expressing itself, then we will know that it is the soul’s music.