I don’t really think about what the subject of my next album will be. I just know that I’m going to make another album.
People think that I work out but it’s all t’ai chi.
I don’t like the word rock opera, but I’m trying to write on that level that’s reserved for plays still, or novels.
You’re a musician: You play. That’s what you do.
But I’m also talented and I know when I created something great and Perfect Night is something great, no doubt, no but.
I don’t think anybody is anybody else’s moral compass. Maybe listening to my music is not the best idea if you live a very constricted life. Or maybe it is.
I wouldn’t want to hear Beethoven without beautiful bass, the cellos, the tuba. It’s very important. Hip-hop has thunderous bass. And so does Beethoven. If you don’t have the bass, it’s like being amputated. It’s like you have no legs.
I always thought martial arts was the most modern choreography we could have right now, and I always wanted to put it to music.
Some even claim that I’m a terror, a dictator and they’re right.
I can concentrate on my art.
I don’t know anyone actually who does care what a critic says.
I don’t know what goes on in the crowd. I’ve had them show up and throw beer cans at me. I caused riots in most of the major cities.
Let’s do what you fear most That from which you recoil But which still makes your eyes moist.
I’m still not sure I didn’t die.
All the people have gone to war leaving no interrogator to mind.
Valium would have helped that bash.
I shot a vein in my neck and coughed up a quaalude.
Over what guilty spirit to not hear the beating, to not hear the beating, but only tears of perfect moan, only tears of perfect moan.
The baby sits in front of MTV watching violent fantasies, while Dad guzzles beer with his favorite sport only to find his heroes all coked up.
As the dead rise to live, the live sink to die, the currents are deep and raging inside.