I think singing is one of the most natural things that human beings do, but it's difficult.

When a human being without amplification makes a sound that is high and loud, it is almost unworldly.

Certainly, jazz has become more of a niche, which is surprising, because it's our music. It's the national music of America.

We are unique, each human voice, not because we are completely self-generated, but because of who we choose to assemble the countless factors that made us.

We sing with the entire body. The sounds that we make emanate not just from the head, but from the whole heart and soul, and, most important, the gut.

I don't want to be somebody who stands still and sings pretty. Each song is a world. Each song is a story. I don't achieve nearly what I want.

Everybody's a work in progress. I'm a work in progress. I mean, I've never arrived. I'm still learning all the time.

There's no performance where I never have to think about setting up a phrase or making a technical adjustment while I'm performing.

Someone once said that there are probably seven naturally good singing days in a year-and those are days you won't be booked. What we must learn is how to sing through all the other days.

It is our responsibility to learn how to speak to an audience that is less informed about music, to give it a reason to want to come and see us instead of going to the movies.

I don't want to record anything unless it can be great and genuinely interesting.

There must be logical minds among all species if they hope to survive. Not everyone can be bridled with hope and optimism.

Night is a world lit by itself.

What is more basic than the need to be known? It is the entirety of intimacy, the elixir of love, this knowing.

Just in time for Bob Dylan to recoil from the attention, leave the city for Woodstock, and turn his back on fame.

We are always in our own company.

I'm a progressive who likes to get things done.

Excuse me? You're a lady?" "I bought a title on the Internet. I own one square inch of Scotland. And you're changing the subject.

Why had such a promising world been crucified on the tree of obligation, thorned by duties, hanged by hypocrisy, smothered by customs?

Let go of who's right and focus on what's right

People die when you crowd the streets of New York City with protesters. You can do plenty of protesting on the sidewalk.