A lot of people these days are not music lovers - they just want

Host: The recording studio lay drenched in amber light, cables snaking across the floor like veins. The faint hum of an amplifier filled the air, and the scent of dust, coffee, and faint tobacco smoke lingered like a ghost of the past. Jack sat near the mixing board, his headphones hanging around his neck, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. Jeeny leaned by the soundproof window, watching the city lights flicker beyond the glass, their reflections trembling against the dark.

Outside, thunder rolled distantly. Inside, the only rhythm was the slow crackle of a vinyl record spinning in the corner — an old jazz track, scratched but soulful.

Jeeny: “Shirley Manson once said, ‘A lot of people these days are not music lovers — they just want to be famous, which is a very different thing to what I grew up believing in.’”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it landed like a truth long avoided. Jack’s grey eyes lifted from the mixer — tired, cold, and knowing.

Jack: “She’s right. Fame’s a virus now — it spreads faster than sound. Everyone wants to be seen, not heard.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because being seen feels safer. Music demands honesty. Fame just needs performance.”

Host: Jack snorted, the sound low, almost bitter.

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t sell anymore. Look around — the charts are built on algorithms, not soul. The louder you shout, the higher you climb.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why people like her mattered. They believed music was something sacred — a conversation between heartbeats. Not a commercial.”

Host: The rain began to patter against the window, soft but insistent. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette trembling between his fingers.

Jack: “You still talk like the world listens, Jeeny. It doesn’t. Not anymore. Music used to mean rebellion, or beauty, or pain. Now it’s branding.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that why we make art in the first place? To remind the world what it’s forgotten?”

Host: Jack exhaled smoke, the curl of it glowing faintly in the studio light.

Jack: “You think art can save anything? It’s just noise now. Background sound for people scrolling through their feeds. The same recycled lyrics, polished until they’ve got no blood left in them.”

Jeeny: “That’s not music’s fault. That’s ours — for letting convenience kill devotion.”

Host: Her words hit with quiet precision. Jack turned, his gaze sharp.

Jack: “Devotion doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny. That’s the part no one tells you. You can pour your soul into a song, and someone with a ring light and auto-tune will drown you out in a week.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you still here? Why are you still recording, still producing, still listening?”

Host: A flicker of defiance crossed his face — the faint tremor of truth fighting to be denied.

Jack: “Because I don’t know how to stop. Because when the music starts — real music — I remember why I began. But that’s nostalgia, not faith.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s love. And love doesn’t die, even when the world forgets its tune.”

Host: The record on the turntable popped, the needle catching. Jeeny crossed the room, gently lifted it, and placed it back. The melody resumed — fragile, imperfect, alive.

Jeeny: “Shirley Manson wasn’t condemning the fame-chasers. She was mourning the loss of sincerity. The belief that creation itself is enough.”

Jack: “Creation isn’t enough anymore. It’s not the nineties. People don’t discover music — algorithms feed it to them. Passion’s been replaced by metrics.”

Jeeny: “Metrics don’t make meaning. They only measure noise.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her eyes stayed steady.

Jeeny: “You remember when you played that set in Berlin? The club barely had twenty people in it. But when you finished — the silence after? That was sacred. That’s what she’s talking about. That moment when the art owns the room — not the other way around.”

Host: Jack looked away, his hands tightening around the bottle.

Jack: “Yeah, I remember. But it didn’t pay for the flight home.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still went. That’s what makes you an artist, Jack. Not fame. Not money. The fact that you’d still go, even knowing you’d lose.”

Host: The studio lights flickered, and for a heartbeat the room seemed to vanish into shadow — only their silhouettes remained.

Jack: “You make it sound romantic. But there’s nothing romantic about being forgotten.”

Jeeny: “No, there isn’t. But there’s something holy about still creating when no one’s watching.”

Host: Silence again. Heavy, but not empty. The kind that hums between truth and surrender.

Jack: “You really think music can still matter? When it’s just another product?”

Jeeny: “It matters because it still reaches someone. Even one person. That’s the point. The moment it touches one soul — even quietly — it lives.”

Host: Jack ran his hand through his hair, a low chuckle escaping his throat — a laugh made of disbelief and yearning.

Jack: “You talk like it’s salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. For those who listen. For those who love it, like she said.”

Host: The word “love” hung there, trembling — a word the world had diluted but never truly replaced.

Jack: “So what happens to the rest of us? The ones who keep creating but can’t keep up?”

Jeeny: “You become the resistance. You become the heartbeat behind the noise. The quiet proof that sincerity still breathes.”

Host: Outside, a flash of lightning cut across the skyline, lighting the studio walls. For a moment, Jack’s face looked younger — the boy he once was beneath the cynic he’d become.

Jack: “You really believe that? That music can still be rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every song that’s honest — that refuses to conform — is a rebellion. Every artist who chooses truth over applause keeps the soul of music alive.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking softly. He glanced at the vinyl again, the jazz melody scratching its imperfect rhythm.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I thought fame was proof that you’d made it. That if enough people knew your name, you mattered.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think mattering happens in silence. When a stranger hums your tune without knowing your face. When the music survives you.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — small, sad, real.

Jeeny: “That’s the difference Shirley was talking about. Fame ends at applause. Love lasts in echoes.”

Host: A distant rumble of thunder rolled again, softer this time, as if the sky itself was listening. Jack stood, stretching, and walked to the window. The city looked endless — lights like stars that refused to go out.

Jack: “You think we’re the last ones who still care?”

Jeeny: “No. Just the quiet ones. The ones still making something that means more than attention.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his reflection faint against the glass. His eyes met hers in that thin line of mirror space.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s enough. Maybe loving it — truly loving it — is the only fame that matters.”

Jeeny: “It always was.”

Host: The record reached its final groove, the needle circling endlessly, a faint static filling the room. Jeeny stepped closer, her fingers brushing the turntable, lifting the arm gently. Silence followed — deep, resonant, complete.

Jack: “You know what I miss most? The moments before a song begins. That quiet pulse of anticipation — when anything could happen.”

Jeeny: “That’s still there, Jack. It’s just buried under the noise. But it’s waiting for those who still listen.”

Host: The two stood in the dim studio, surrounded by instruments, empty cups, and unfinished work. The rain began again — steady, rhythmic, almost musical.

And for a moment, the world felt aligned again — art and truth, silence and sound, love and defiance — all breathing in sync.

Because in a world obsessed with fame, they remembered what Shirley Manson had meant:

To love music not for the applause — but for the echo it leaves in the soul.