The most important thing is that I can really enjoy listening to the album, which wasn't always the case with previous recordings. Unlike its predecessors, the record is not an attempt to achieve something, or prove something, or compete with other musicians. Every part of the creative process is imperfect, fragmentary and sketchy: the use of the microphones, the mixing and overdubbing, even the cover artwork. The photographer, Stefan Sappert, only took one picture, and although it's brilliant, it does have some "faults". I'm a perfectionist, and this deliberate imperfection had an incredibly exciting and liberating effect on me: it brought out an energy I didn't know I had. The album is not a traditional collection of songs, it's a document about feelings. It's a naïve and innocent expression of my soul, which is the soul of a six-year-old. Basically, it's a very private document. It invites listeners to look through the keyhole as I make music; it gives you a glimpse of a private, sacred, unadorned space that actually is not meant for public access, and some listeners will probably be ashamed by seeing it. A work of art is created in two phases: a "childish phase", in which an idea comes from somewhere deep inside you, and an "adult phase" in which this chaotic, impulsive idea is moulded into shape. Unlike my previous albums, I deliberately left the adult phase out of the new record. To that extent, the new recordings are nursery rhymes. The songs were recorded as soon as they were created, so the feelings I talk about in each one are exactly the ones I felt when I recorded it, and the stories they tell are the things that were happening to me at the time. "Glaslights", for example, is about the woman in "Blue Soldier Night", and I improvised it during the recording, the day after we spent the night together. I describe the album as a "gift to myself", because it expresses the sound of my soul, and that sound is just as real and vibrant, and has just as many faults and rough edges as my soul. The album's title derives from the stream-of-consciousness lyrics of the album opening track "Blue Soldier Night". That night, I felt I was abandoning the cosy middle-class society represented by my parents. The lyrics are about sophisticated Berlin nightlife, lack of sleep and an intimate encounter with an exotic artist who is a couple of years older than me and very "un-middle-class". I saw all this as a kind of rebellion against the civil society that impedes spontaneity, against inhibiting structures, and during the "Blue Soldier Night" my ego structure just dissolved. I was overwhelmed with intense feelings – which is quite an experience for me, because I find feelings very difficult in my everyday life – feelings of bliss and at the same time the fear of death. Freed from my super-ego, I was able to look into my soul and see bliss and pain as united; there was no more ambivalence (in my eyes, perceiving ambivalence is just one particular kind of rational thought). As all these feelings flooded through me, I felt I no longer had a body ("no human being") and to be "nothing but emotion". I also felt that my union with this woman was an initiation ceremony that liberated me from being my parents' son ("no son, never again son"), and by joining with someone who appeared as the very opposite of my mother, I executed some kind of virtual "mother-exorcism". I actually lost my voice during the recordings of "One Day", and I no longer felt I could express anything with it. I had big expectations of the 2008 Asian tour, musically and spiritually. I was bitterly disappointed in every respect: no vibes on the stage, no vibes in my heart. Also, I'd lost money because of the recession at that time, so I had money worries. Everything was up shit creek, and I was in despair, but when I spontaneously went on the road to busk, just as I had done ten years ago, everything suddenly had a purpose again. I got my voice back, and the vibes. It felt like a miracle. I realised that I'd lost my "outer glamour", but in return, I gained an "inner glamour". Outside I'd "decompose", but inside I was flourishing. I stopped being narcissistic and deliberately flouted all the expectations that people traditionally have of you as a showbiz artist, I rejected everything that was distracting me from myself and distorting my self-perception, and all these actions and changes allowed me to see and ultimately find myself. Once I'd realised this, I decided to record my new songs at home, in a totally unprofessional environment that didn't enhance them in any way. I deliberately left the windows open, I often only used a single room microphone, and I sang through my guitar amplifier like I do when I'm rehearsing or composing. I didn't want to change anything about my everyday musical setup which could put its authenticity at risk, or use anything bearing even the slightest resemblance to a studio. The "new Hecker" is the same person, but he's had the courage to break free. From a purely financial point of view, it might seem self-destructive to ignore all the often superficial things people expect you to do in showbiz – like glossy studio productions, artists that are easy on the eye, entertaining, well organised gigs and form that reflects content – and swim completely against the tide. But it would have been even more self-destructive if I'd gone on denying my fears and weaknesses and playing the role of a functioning, romantic bard and heartthrob. I've found it incredibly liberating to tell the truth and show my vulnerability. If I show myself to be open, vulnerable and naked – on the current album, at gigs, in interviews, intimate relationships and other social situations – all the narcissistic ballast drops away. If I put all my cards on the table, I hope that my audience or whoever I'm with will put theirs on the table too and, by that, will avoid all danger that might have lurked in the future contact and will bring an end to all the power games.