I am not a redhead. I have never been and am still not. Well, just a little… but I was blond as a kid and then mousy brown. As I got older… it came up. I’ve got a lot of red in my hair, but I’m not a ginge.
I don’t quite think I’m big enough to deserve an orchestra.
My brother and I played music together, and we all liked to show off. But I wasn’t a particularly musical kid. I did piano lessons and quit. I got kicked out of the choir.
I think there’s something fundamentally wrong with thinking that there’s a God who looks after you but kills everyone else. There’s something, if not immoral, then gross, about it.
I’ve always been aware that probably writing songs – stupid songs or, at least, theatrical songs – is, I dunno, I certainly don’t think about that, about my persona on stage. In fact, I work really hard not to address it too much in my head.
The point of privilege and the notion of mansplaining is that sometimes I definitely feel like I should shut up. That’s it functioning. That’s the notion of privilege functioning.
I don’t think you should bring up your kids with no wallowing. Somewhere in there is an area where you make sure your kids are all right, but they can also cry. Just maybe not every morning.
That’s the great part about arts – someone taking your work and making it something else; it’s becomes a true collaboration.
Most of the best songwriters that ever lived couldn’t read music.
I was lucky enough to grow up in Western Australia and know that the Australian Outback is vast and spell-binding and heart-stoppingly beautiful, and the characters that inhabit it are unique and hilarious and tough and cheeky.
I wake up in the morning quite excited by the notion that I get to immediately have a meal. That’s the thing that gets me out of bed – just the thought of having a poached egg, or even some granola.
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