How could you tell if your instincts were just hope in disguise, and if your hope was really desperation parading as possibility?
I never sit down and write. I just sorta let things form in my brain.
All the classic jazz players all sang and a lot of 'em sang blues.
Everybody cryin' mercy When they don't know the meaning of the word.
The things that really matter don't mix with idle chatter.
I don't sit down to write a song; they just come to me from something that somebody says, or something in the news. The punchline comes to me, and I go over it in my head and get the song form. I hadn't been doing that a lot.
I'm playin' music for a certain type of person. Fortunately, there are more and more of us. At least there are more comin' to see me than there were 30 years ago or so.
Nature obliges everything to change about. One thing crumbles and falls in the weakness of age; Another grows in its place from a negligible start. So time alters the whole nature of the world And earth passes from one state to another.
Most of the bands that I really hold in my heart - you don't think about them as bands; they're just the soundtrack of your life.
I wouldn't judge a man by the presuppositions of his life, but only by the fruits of his life. And the fruits - the relevant fruits - are, I'd say, a sense of charity, a sense of proportion, a sense of justice.
After all, we make ourselves according to the ideas we have of our possibilities.