When my marriage dissolved a decade ago, I went to a cognitive therapist to see if I could make sense of it. I sat in a small room with a kindly old lady who was not my mother, but who may as well have been, as we discussed love and sex as best we could. Although delivering my opinion about what had happened out loud without shouting was an enjoyable relief, I can’t say I truly learned much. We decided I wasn’t such a bad person. We decided my ex-wife wasn’t a bad person either. Then I paid my £60 and arranged to return the following week.

Eventually, I stopped making those arrangements to return. What was I learning there, in those meetings, that I hadn’t heard a thousand times already listening to Pain in My Heart by Otis Redding, Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division, or You Can Leave, But it’s Going to Cost You by Marvin Gaye? I hadn’t spent my entire teens in my bedroom with the door closed playing records, to not have those hard-won insights to fall back upon in times of romantic trouble. Therapy helps lift the weight from your chest, which is useful in times of crisis. But music can illuminate the way forward.

Midway through my second month of living in my friend’s spare room in Shepherd’s Bush, I was given Kingdom of Rust by Doves to review. In my heightened state of emotional emergency, I quickly imagined that it was a concept album about the end of a long-term relationship. “My God, it takes an ocean of trust in the kingdom of rust,” ran the chorus of the title track. It was as if it had been written for me. Soon after, I interviewed Doves’ chief songwriter Jimi Goodwin and straightaway told him my theory about his new songs. He was taken aback. I explained my circumstances. “Ah, sorry to hear that,” he replied, “but we’ve all been there. The songs can share the burden.” For the next few weeks, Kingdom of Rust accompanied me everywhere, pointing my gaze towards the horizon in a way that cognitive therapy never quite managed. Cheaper, too.

Noel Gallagher famously sang that listeners of Oasis should not put their life in the hands of a rock’n’roll band. I fundamentally disagree. Everything good in my life has been recommended to me by my musical heroes. My moral compass has been set almost entirely by pop stars. No teacher, no institution, no writer (OK, maybe some writers, actually) has had the same impact upon me as rock stars. Who forged your direction in life? Your parents? School? Your peers? Maybe it was a religious calling, or even a political party. If so, it’s not too late to rethink your choice and invest in musicians instead.

I drew everything I believe in, initially, from Paul Weller, lead singer with the Jam. He changed my life, forever. The London I grew up in the late 1970s was grim: the rubbish piled up, the National Front daubed their initials upon school walls, Thatcher snatched our milk. But Weller rocked up with visions of social utopia attached to the kind of chorus that any idiot 11-year-old could remember. His clothes were fantastic. He was pictured reading Alan Sillitoe and George Orwell. He proclaimed that his fans should investigate an array of soul, reggae, funk and 60s beat records.

He signed off his fan letters with the advice that we should “stay cool, clean and hard”. I soaked it all up and his maxims became the foundations upon which the rest of my life was built. I still dress a bit like he did in 1983.

Other great teachers followed. Kevin Rowland of Dexys Midnight Runners made me seriously consider Irish politics and woolly hats in a way I may not have otherwise. Mark E Smith of the Fall opened my eyes to the power of lateral thinking and the supernatural. Chuck D of Public Enemy highlighted how the lives of Afro-Americans had not, in fact, dramatically improved since the civil rights movements. Siouxsie Sioux lifted up the manicured carpets of suburban homes to show us what scurried beneath. And on and on and on…

All had their own distinct philosophies, experiences and influences, and all were available to download directly into the brain via their music and, especially, their interviews, which I devoured. As a pre-teen, I signed up to music as a way of life with such religious fervour that I determined my love of it, and belief in the teachings of my heroes, would see me through all my life choices. More than that, it would guide them.

I left school at 17 because I believed, without any tangible qualification beyond an O-level in French, that I would one day earn my living writing and that the last place I was going to further that ambition was at school. This clearly idiotic belief was iron-clad, though, and indebted to my bookish, single-minded musical dropout heroes: Mark E Smith, Lawrence from Felt, etc.

In the meantime, I needed to pay the rent, but also to be immersed in music. When I finally managed to secure it, I viewed my full-time job at Our Price Records as the equivalent of entry to one of the best universities. There I was able to spend eight hours a day surrounded by thousands of records I’d never heard, and also order in anything newly released I’d read about in the press. I met like-minds, too, as my colleagues were often similarly adrift in music. We knew the job was finite, but that our loyalty to music and musicians was forever. We were hopeless lifers.

Eventually I had to graduate from Our Price, but where to? With no natural – or unnatural – musical ability of my own, the only place I could really contribute was by documenting the work of musicians: those who can record and tour, those who can’t become music journalists. And so now, as editor of music magazine Q, I am drawn to methods that can deliver the lessons that have been learned by rock stars. A few months ago we started to talk about a book that collated all of the wisdom we’d collected from pop stars down the years. Editing The Ten Commandments: The Rock Star’s Guide to Life was like an intense course in self-help, taught by Iggy Pop, Stevie Nicks, Ice-T and 47 other pop stars.

Yes, there are lots of examples of musicians acting selfishly and stupidly. They can be pompous, greedy, vain hypocrites. But their insights have never let me down in the way that all institutions at some point have, in the way that I have let myself down.

School failed me, marriage failed me – or rather, I failed them – and no job is for life. I am a strong advocate of therapy in moments of crises, but have found it frustratingly opaque as a navigational tool when not negotiating emotional emergency: tell me what to do! The wisdom in song, though, the insights of musicians… that light never goes out. As mind-expanding as books, film and art can be, as tightly as you can hold those to you, they have not shaped my tastes, my politics, my worldview, my wardrobe as consistently as watching the Specials on Top of The Pops in 1979. I remain lost in music, and glad to be in that trap.

The Ten Commandments: the Rock Star’s Guide to Life edited by Ted Kessler is published by Corsair, £9.99. To order a copy for £8.79. go to guardianbookshop.com

Advice for life from rock stars

• Debbie Harry, Blondie Have outside interests. It loosens you up and gives you room for inspiration.

• John Lydon, Sex Pistols Always be honest to your wife. I’ve been married for 40 years. You have to know each other’s thoughts so they become so well aligned that you have respect for each other and there’s no need for lies.

• Ezra Koenig, Vampire Weekend Don’t worry about manners. There can be a fear your manners aren’t up to snuff. But don’t worry about using the wrong fork. Own it!

• Neneh Cherry Embrace the ageing process. I’ve just turned 50. Time freaks me out a bit. It’s fast. Much faster than I am, so that’s slightly disturbing. I can’t change getting older so I just try to embrace it.

• Shirley Manson, Garbage Live in the present. You might die tomorrow. Make now as pleasant as possible.