A lot of people influenced me as I was learning, but probably

Host: The evening air carried the scent of pinewood and distant snow, the kind that tastes faintly of nostalgia before it falls. Inside the small record store, time moved slower — every turntable, every vinyl sleeve, every dusty album cover seemed to hum with a quiet kind of memory. A single yellow lamp hung above the counter, casting a soft halo over stacks of forgotten music.

Jack stood by the listening booth, his coat draped over one arm, eyes wandering across the rows of old records. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the wooden floor near him, tracing the edge of a Bing Crosby album with her fingers. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, whispering faintly of the holidays.

Jeeny: “Gordon Lightfoot once said, ‘A lot of people influenced me as I was learning, but probably Bing Crosby was the most influential because I would hear his Christmas albums, which my parents played a lot.’”

Jack: (smirks) “Ah. Nostalgia wrapped in vinyl. You can almost hear the crackle before the music starts.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jack: “Not bad. Just... sentimental. People always cling to the past when the present feels too empty.”

Host: The record player on the counter began to spin, the needle dropping with a soft, electric sigh. Bing Crosby’s smooth baritone filled the room — warm, deep, timeless. The sound seemed to bend the air, pulling even the dust into rhythm.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Nostalgia fills the empty space. Those old voices — they remind us of who we were before the world hardened us.”

Jack: “Or they keep us trapped there. Living inside someone else’s melody because facing silence is too real.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in influence?”

Jack: “I believe in imitation. Influence just sounds more romantic.”

Host: Jeeny looked up at him, her eyes shining with the dim light. She wasn’t angry — just intrigued, the way she always was when Jack reduced something sacred to logic.

Jeeny: “You think Lightfoot was just imitating Crosby?”

Jack: “Everyone imitates someone, Jeeny. It’s how art survives — not through originality, but repetition. Influence is just memory turned creative.”

Jeeny: “That’s a bleak way of describing inspiration.”

Jack: “It’s honest. You can’t escape the voices that shape you — you can only remix them.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what being human is? Carrying echoes? You call it remixing — I call it remembering.”

Host: The music swelled — Bing’s voice crooning “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…” as if the walls themselves were remembering something tender. Jack’s eyes softened slightly, a hint of distant thought flickering behind their steel-grey calm.

Jack: “You know, my parents used to play this too. Every December. My old man would hum along out of tune. My mother would laugh. I haven’t thought about that in years.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “And yet, here it is — still living inside you.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the song doing what it does best — pretending to bring people back.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Music doesn’t pretend. We do. Music remembers even when we don’t.”

Host: The light above them flickered, the faint hum of electricity blending with the warmth of Bing’s voice. The store owner, an old man with silver hair, glanced at them from behind the counter, smiling softly — as if he had heard a hundred such conversations in his life.

Jeeny: “Think about it — Lightfoot didn’t just copy Crosby. He absorbed him. That’s what influence does. It plants a seed. You water it with your own life until something new grows.”

Jack: “Seeds still carry the DNA of what came before.”

Jeeny: “But the flower’s never the same.”

Jack: (half-laughs) “You always have a poetic way of disagreeing.”

Jeeny: “And you have a logical way of missing the point.”

Host: A brief pause hung between them, gentle and alive. The record crackled faintly, the voice of Bing fading into the soft instrumental hum of violins and bells. Outside, the snow began to fall — slow, lazy flakes that clung to the window like notes on an invisible staff.

Jack: “You ever think about how strange it is? A voice from seventy years ago still echoing in our lives?”

Jeeny: “Strange? No. Beautiful, yes. Because it means time isn’t linear — it loops through sound, memory, and feeling. That’s why songs never really end.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but scientifically, it’s just data preservation.”

Jeeny: (grins) “And emotionally, it’s immortality.”

Host: Jack picked up the record sleeve, running his thumb across Bing’s smiling face, the worn edges soft from years of touch. For a moment, he looked like a man seeing an old friend across a long bridge of time.

Jack: “You know, I think Lightfoot meant something simpler. Not philosophy. Just that when we’re young, we inherit soundtracks before we even understand them. Our parents choose the first music we ever love. It seeps in. Stays.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Influence isn’t chosen. It’s inherited. Like a heartbeat passed through generations.”

Jack: “But what happens when the world changes — when the songs don’t fit the new rhythm?”

Jeeny: “Then we sing them differently.”

Host: The record ended, the needle clicking against silence. The room seemed to exhale. Jeeny stood and walked to the player, gently lifting the needle, her fingers careful, reverent.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Lightfoot was saying. That influence isn’t about copying — it’s about carrying the torch. You take what was, and you make it yours. Every artist, every person, does that.”

Jack: “And what about those who never had anyone to influence them?”

Jeeny: “Everyone has someone. Even silence is a kind of teacher.”

Host: The clock on the wall struck six. The light turned amber, spreading warmth across the tiny shop. The world outside blurred behind a thin film of snow, while inside, everything felt timeless — suspended between memory and meaning.

Jack: (softly) “When my father played this song, I didn’t understand why he loved it so much. Now I think… it wasn’t the song. It was the moment it created.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The laughter, the togetherness, the warmth. That’s the real music. That’s what we inherit.”

Jack: “Then maybe influence isn’t about sound at all. Maybe it’s about feeling. What we felt when someone gave us their world for a moment.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yes. Every song is someone’s memory turned gift.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, swirling in soft spirals under the glow of the streetlights. Jeeny put the record back in its sleeve, sliding it carefully into its place. Jack stood beside her, both of them quiet, both listening to a silence that still hummed with melody.

Jack: “Strange, isn’t it? We come to remember the songs, but end up remembering the people.”

Jeeny: “That’s what influence really is — the people behind the music, not the notes themselves.”

Host: The store lights dimmed as the old owner turned the sign to Closed. The world outside glowed white and gold. Jack helped Jeeny with her coat, and for a brief second, the faint echo of Bing Crosby drifted again — soft, ghostlike, eternal.

As they stepped into the cold, the city seemed to breathe in rhythm with the music still lingering in their heads.

And though neither said a word, both felt the same quiet truth — that influence was not just sound or song, but the invisible thread that connects every heart across time.

The snowflakes fell heavier now, each one a note descending into stillness, as the night — like a record — kept spinning.