They also served (a continuing series, unfortunately)

1. Holger Czukay.

So, the first Holger Czukay record I acquired came as an incentive to take out a subscription to Melbourne radio station / institution 3RRR, in what must have been 1984 or 1985. It was "Der Osten Ist Rot". At that point Can were just a name to me, albeit a name that seemed to be a reference point for pretty much all of the music that I liked. My good friend Russell (still miss you, buddy) had a copy of "Ege Bamyasi", which, from the record cover on, I found totally incomprehensible. Czukay, though, I was aware of independently from Can, mainly thanks to the "Snake Charmer" EP (with Jah Wobble and some guy from U2, and which was also, I now know, my first exposure to Arthur Russell) and, more importantly, his work on David Sylvian's early solo records. "Der Osten Ist Rot" was a record that, as with "Ege Bamyasi", was perplexing, but it was also, in its own way, charming.
At some point I found a second-hand copy of "Movies", Czukay's first solo album, from five years earlier. "Movies" made a lot more sense to me. At least, it had a structure: each side featured one shorter, ahem, "accessible" song followed by a lengthy, well, something less accessible but nevertheless fascinating. It probably remains the best way in.
Many years later, Czukay for me has blended into the fabric of a lot of what I listen to. I know Can, not as any kind of expert or afficionado, but I can at least hear why they are so highly regarded. I know where the use of dictaphones and shortwave radios in music comes from. I know that there was a sharp sense of humour behind everything he did, even what sound like the serious bits. I also know he created an entire galaxy of music, only a few of the beautiful stars in which have as yet been visible to me.
Here's a song you might know.

2. Grant Hart.

At some point in 1986, and for the next couple of years, my musical diet shifted, for reasons I couldn't explain then and can't now, except to say that I had no choice, to a steady intake of: Minutemen. Big Black. Butthole Surfers. Feedtime. Dinosaur Jr. Einsturzende Neubauten. Sonic Youth. And, possibly towering above all of the others, Husker Du. (Then, in 1989, in what I now see was frighteningly close succession, but which seemed forever at the time, Adrienne appeared and my father departed, and what I drew from a lot of that music I no longer needed.)
The thing Husker Du had, and which I had perhaps been missing without knowing it, was an overwhelming sense of melody, of how to (de)construct a nice tune. A tune buried under a ton of noise and aggression, admittedly, but a tune nevertheless. There was noise, but there was almost always beauty within the noise. In another universe, Husker Du could have been all over everything.
The other thing about Husker Du, it turns out (you couldn't learn much from either radio or magazines in those days), was that they were a paradigm example of what can happen when two fiercely creative individuals, each with his own outlook, ideas and aspirations, work collectively towards a common end. (See also: The Go-Betweens.) The union might not be pretty; there might be personal damage; the enterprise is more likely to burn out than to rust. The history of Husker Du is of two such people, who climbed up to spectacular heights but destroyed their relationship in the process. The story is, actually, terribly sad. You can't listen to the records now without dwelling on the pain that went into making them. But the music itself somehow remains as uplifting as it ever was, and if anyone is finally able to orchestrate reissue rights for the albums, it might finally sound as it should always have sounded at the extreme volumes it should always be heard at.
Here, again, is a song you might know.

3. Harry Dean Stanton.

Favourite father-and-son moment: when, during "The Avengers", I was able to lean over to Carl and whisper, "Hey, that's Harry Dean Stanton". (To which his response was, "Who?")

Intentionally or not, Stanton had a habit of appearing in movies which, for me, were as much about the music as the film. (I do not include "The Avengers" in this.) Thus I continue to associate him with music that, really, is nothing to do with him. Maybe. Which means that whenever I listen to Ry Cooder's remarkable soundtrack to "Paris, Texas" (which, I have to say, is one of the great films), or to, say, "TV Party" or "When The Shit Hits The Fan" or "Institutionalized" or one of the many other fine and upstanding songs from "Repo Man", or Dylan's "Pat Garrett & Billy The Kid", or Tom Waits and Crystal Gayle's charming "One From The Heart" soundtrack, I am also seeing HDS's gnarled visage.

And so will you, as you close your eyes and listen to this.