The first song I fell in love with
My older sister, Penny, introduced me to Leonard Cohen’s “So Long, Marianne” when I was eight, as if to mark a rite of passage: “Now you’ve heard a true poet.” The track felt like contraband, starkly different from the pop junk that filled my otherwise bland, suburban childhood, and it offered a glimpse of adult romance that a child could scarcely grasp. I adore my sister and wanted to earn her approval.
The first single I bought
As a child I collected WH Smith vouchers, so I eventually spent them. At fifteen I ordered Patti Smith’s “Hey Joe/Radio Ethiopia” by mail and played it as if it were scripture.
The best song to play at a party
“8 Ball” by Underworld never fails to impress. Its sleek, seductive groove draws listeners in.
The song I do at karaoke
I rarely sing at karaoke, but if the machine offered Val Doonican’s “Paddy McGinty’s Goat,” I would step up without hesitation.
The song I no longer listen to
At thirteen I briefly dabbled in glam and adored “Sebastian” by Cockney Rebel. Today it sounds absurd, weighed down by pretentious strings and a nonsensical chorus.
The song I secretly like, but tell everybody I hate
People might not expect Billie Eilish or Beyoncé in my personal canon, yet both are outstanding. I have a soft spot for Vincent van Gogh, so Don McLean’s “Vincent” used to move me to tears.
The best song to have sex to
By eighteen I was making love to Brian Eno’s “Discreet Music,” and I have since linked his ambient pieces with intimacy rather than with new‑age ambience. Its slow pace suits men’s needs and, in my experience, is appreciated by women.
The song that changed my life
I first heard Patti Smith’s “Birdland” on the night I learned my father was likely to die, when I was sixteen. The track showed me that music can act as medicine for suffering. Its lyrics reference the unconventional therapist Wilhelm Reich, a figure I later studied, steering me toward alternative healing practices that have enriched my life.
The song that gets me up in the morning
I cannot listen to music at dawn. As a slow riser, I need a quiet cup of tea to collect my thoughts.
The song that makes me cry
The live rendition of Nina Simone’s “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free” overwhelms me. It carries the weight of Black oppression and her own mental‑health struggles. The YouTube version is striking—she sings on the brink of collapse, a remarkable line for any artist to walk.
The song I’d like played at my funeral
“Upon This Rock” by Jocelyn Pook, the piece James uses as our entrance music before we take the stage.
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