I saw the documentary in a spirit of curiosity rather than fandom -- and was won over by the visceral thrill of the band’s sound.

When the pizza arrived mid sex scene, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The pictures make me smile. The people in them seem real and alive.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there's no point in making aspirational resolutions.

A recent London show proved "Brat" is the album of the year, and she is the artist of the moment. Am I too old to join in?

The morning of the US election result I sat down at the piano and tried to play some Beethoven. Bearing in mind that I haven’t played the piano in about.

I’d always shied away from writing sentimental songs about having babies for fear of seeming too soppy.

And I must admit: I envy them for it.

The word is overused. Most of us are minor talents.

It used to be people would respect your personal space -- now, it’s all a bit sinister.

Inside London's Notre Dame de France, I find beautiful murals by Jean Cocteau.

It’s not about wanting to be young again -- it’s about having control.

We long for our artists and leaders to be real people -- and then we punish them for it.

An old album and a Pet Shop Boys gig remind me of music’s power to refresh memories and forge new connections.

Poring over the lyrics to Taylor Swift’s new album, I’m reminded of another tortured muse.

In Amsterdam, in the Van Gogh museum gift shop, I wonder: is this what we call success?

A film about the cult all-night cinema and a memoir by my friend take me back: how motivated we all were, and how much fun we had.

At a magical gig in east London, I feel transported to Greenwich Village in the Sixties.

Standing between the sofa and the bookcase he looked completely wrong and out of place. He knew it too.

Martin Scorsese’s film may be about the Band, but when Joni plays you feel the confidence burning off her like a flame.

A sublime evening of torch songs, and managing not to ruin Maxine Peake’s one-woman show -- that’s my idea of a holiday.

From festival coverage to nature documentaries, TV is so relentlessly cheerful that it brings out my inner curmudgeon.

I am writing this on the day the new Everything But the Girl album is released, our first in 24 years.

The commitment to getting it right verges on cruelty, insisting on take after take -- and all of these vocals happening in a room full of cigarette smoke!

I hear myself giggle on the recording, but I can’t help noticing that I don’t say much. The boys seem to be in charge.

In a documentary on the Air studio, there is an absence of that ineffable vibe that turns some into sites of pilgrimage.

I was primed to dislike the Stones – but eventually I realised it wasn’t them, it was me.

I've been banging the feminist drum for 40 years, but when I reflect on my early song lyrics I realise that I banged it far too subtly.